2013: Beyond Armageddon

by Robert Ryan

  “Sounds like we’ve got a full-blown situation on our hands.”

  “We do indeed.”

  “I’ll hold the fort, then, while you make a supply run.”

  “You’re the prettiest fort holder I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m a mess.”

  “But you’re my mess and I love you.” He kissed her gently. “Listen, since I’m going to be out, I should swing by Mr. Roth’s office for a few minutes.” He saw that the name didn’t ring a bell. “He’s my family’s lawyer. I think I mentioned him before.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

  “He’s handled my father’s business affairs forever. Now he’s handling the estate. I told him I’d stop by when I was up to it. I’m won’t get into a long, drawn-out thing, just see if there’s anything pressing I should know about. We can go over the fine details later.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  He held her face in his hands. “Pick us out a love story to watch tonight. Nothing sad, though.”

  They kissed lightly, and Zeke left to take the next step in getting them re-connected to the human race.

  CHAPTER 25

  Zeke drove away from the lawyer’s office overwhelmed by what he’d just learned about his inheritance. It had the capacity to change everything. Now that he and Leah were ready to start planning the rest of their lives, it had to be factored in. He needed a little time alone to sort out his thoughts, and his house was not conducive to that. Too much sorrow still hung in the air.

  He called Leah to tell her he’d be a little while longer, then headed up North Capitol Street to the place where he’d done his best thinking over the years.

  The largest Catholic church in the western hemisphere, he remembered as he approached the front steps of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Sunlight reflecting off the golden dome brightened his spirits.

  He’d first started coming here in high school. The Metro bus from Archbishop Carroll went right by, and he’d often stop in, wanting to deepen his understanding of what it meant to be Catholic. After quarterbacking Carroll to a championship his senior year, Zeke had given up football to study theology at Catholic University while considering the priesthood. That dream had died when he’d discovered sex and partying. He’d ended up getting a degree in business with the vague idea of one day taking over his father’s growing chain of video stores. Hank Sloan’s love of movies had rubbed off on his son, but when they’d seriously discussed grooming him to run the business, Zeke had to admit his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to do something to help society, not work in a store. Finally he’d decided to go into the Army—partly as a way of making a contribution, but also to develop some discipline and focus in his life. It was also a way of honoring the commitment and sacrifice his father had made in Vietnam.

  Years later, in the aftermath of the horror in the jungle, he’d re-enrolled at Catholic University and gotten master’s degrees in Theology and Philosophy in a futile search to understand what had happened that night. A search for answers to what he came to call The Great Unanswerables: Why is there evil? Is there a God? Is there a Satan? Since CU was next to the Shrine, he’d often come here after class to reflect on the day’s discussions.

  Zeke paused at the front of the massive church, opening himself to any influences that might help him make a decision about the dig. Statues of key religious figures stood in niches all around the entrance, their names carved into the stone beneath them. Zeke stood in front of the statue of Ezechiel for a moment. Knowing it was hokey, he nevertheless hoped for something dramatic to happen, something that would help him make up his mind. A sign.

  The bearded stone face of Ezechiel did not suddenly look down at him.

  No surprise there, Zeke thought, smiling. I’m named after a football player, not a prophet.

  His gaze traveled to one of numerous inscriptions near the arch over the main entrance: THOU SHALT BE HIS WITNESS TO ALL MEN. On the opposite side of the arch was the famous statement Jesus made to Peter: ON THIS ROCK I WILL BUILD MY CHURCH. Farther to the right he read I KNOW THAT THE MESSIAS COMETH.

  Inspirational words, but far from enough.

  He went through the tall wooden doors and down the nave of the Upper Church. Critics had called the Shrine a tacky imitation of the much older cathedrals of Europe, but to Zeke it was a blessed retreat, a womb of reverent silence that was an antidote to the spiritual poison outside. He had that feeling now as the sounds of traffic disappeared.

  A scattered handful of visitors knelt or sat in pews, absorbed in contemplation. One woman knelt off to herself, dressed in tattered jeans, a large tattoo on the back of her neck. Her hands covered her face as she prayed and quietly wept. In the transept near the front railing, a docent lectured a small group of tourists. A few families and couples wandered around, looking at statues and inscriptions. Clusters of votive candles flickered at various points all around. Zeke went into the front pew and knelt.

  He closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him, visualizing storm clouds inside his head dissipating as he summoned all his mental energy to consider a dig for Hell.

  Despite all the practical hurdles, he knew a dig could always be launched. The only real question was if the dig would lead to Hell and Satan. No matter how much research anyone did, no one could answer that question. No human, anyway. The belief that they even existed boiled down to faith. Faith in a man-made theological construct to explain evil.

  Faith. Whatever fragile faith Zeke possessed had been shattered in the restaurant. Still, to mount this dig meant a belief in Satan. Which meant he had to believe in God.

  He opened his eyes and looked heavenward as he folded his hands in prayer.

  “Dear God, it’s time for us to talk. I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve lost my faith. You know why. You know about the scrolls and what has happened since I got them. Father Connolly tried to convince me that you’ve chosen me to find Hell and defeat Satan. Something about me being the messenger to pave the way.

  “Okay, fine. But before I jeopardize my life, and Leah’s, and who knows how many others, I need to believe. I need to know that you are up there, and that my effort would mean something. If Dr. Connolly is right about the scrolls, there is a Satan, and you are up there waiting for someone to blaze the trail so you can defeat him. But—I gotta tell ya—I see no signs of it down here. All I see is hate and killing and evil taking over the world. I’m sure you know where I’m going with all this, so I’ll cut to the chase.

  “I need something to make me believe, Lord. You don’t have to show up in my living room, but something. No disrespect, but your boy Lucifer is doing everything but showing up on the six o’clock news, while all you give us is a stain on an office building window.

  “I don’t think so. If you want me to step up to the plate, then you have to, too. You need to make your presence known. And when you do, you also need to make it clear exactly what’s supposed to happen. Which—again, please, no disrespect—you have done a colossally bad job of so far.

  “First you tell the Jews they’re the chosen people. Then along comes your Son—a Jew—who complicates matters with a little thing called Christianity. But instead of Him coming right out and telling us who He is, and what He’s up to, He talks in parables, and leaves everybody guessing: ‘Is He the Messiah, or just some crazy Jew starting trouble?’

  “Then, you come along six centuries later and tell Muhammad he’s the one, that the whole Jesus thing was not the real deal. Now you’re telling me I’m supposed to be the guy?

  “Uh-uh. Ain’t gonna get it. Again, no disrespect, but this is the moment of truth. The Crucifixion was a fiasco. It did not deliver us from evil. Evil has been ripping us to shreds ever since. I’m all for doing what I can to stop it, but before I go marching into the enemy camp with The Message, there needs to be a plan. A very specific plan. In plain English. No parables, no cryptograms we spend the next two thousand years slaughtering each other over, tryin
g to figure out what they mean—who’s Chosen, who’s not.

  “You need to brief me, Lord. Break it down real simple for us humans. We’re not that smart.”

  Zeke looked off to the side and saw Jesus nailed to a small crucifix. He spoke to it. “I know all about ‘you have suffered,’ but you know what? So have I. So have a lot of people. Billions since the Crucifixion. So now you’re finally going to put a stop to it?

  “Fine. It’s about time. But if you want me to be your guy, before I put my life on the line, you are going to have to make me believe.

  “No disrespect.

  “Amen.”

  Too many horror movies made Zeke feel silly as he waited for whatever would happen next. In those movies a statue would start bleeding right about now. He went to the white marble railing at the foot of the altar and looked toward the distant back wall, at the largest mosaic of Jesus in the world. Christ in Majesty. If blood was trickling from his wounds, it was too far away to see. Even as Zeke chided himself for making light of the situation, he looked around for anything unusual.

  The flickering votive candles did not suddenly go out. No shaft of light or gust of wind came down from the dome far overhead to envelop him. He made a derisive grunt, left the pew, and began walking up the west aisle toward the mosaic of Jesus.

  Zeke reached the far wall and looked up at the mosaic from a familiar vantage point, the center of a sunburst pattern on the marble floor directly beneath it. The accusatory face of a disapproving Jesus bore into him from directly overhead, triggering a memory of the mosaic’s nickname: Scary Jesus. The name fit.

  No blood trickled from his wounds.

  Zeke’s gaze drifted to the inscription beneath the mosaic:

  I WILL SEND THE ADVOCATE.

  The term referred to Christ, but could there be another…?

  No. These inscriptions had always been here, for everyone to see. They hadn’t suddenly taken on new meanings, just because they happened to catch Zeke’s eye. He took a last look into the glowering eyes of Jesus and walked away to continue his search for divine inspiration. Just before he re-entered the west aisle, he looked back at the face of Scary Jesus.

  It was looking straight at him. That was odd. When he was standing directly beneath the face, it had been looking straight down at him. Now, twenty yards away and on a forty-five degree angle, it still stared directly at him. He’d looked at this mosaic many times and never noticed that, but he hadn’t really been looking for it. Knowing that paintings often had eyes claiming to follow you everywhere, he went and looked at the face from the same vantage point on the opposite side of the Shrine.

  The face looked directly at him.

  The eyes weren’t moving, and the head wasn’t swiveling, but there was no mistaking it. Zeke finally shrugged it off as a trick of perspective and went back to the entrance to the west aisle. Again he looked up.

  The face glowered directly at him.

  He forced himself to head back down the ornate corridor. Thousands must have had experienced this same quirk, but it was still disturbing to think that the intense eyes were following him. He did not look back.

  Just ahead, the same lively and enthusiastic docent, probably in his seventies, was telling a couple the significance of one of the statues. Zeke stopped and waited for a break in his dissertation.

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt, but if you don’t mind I’d like to ask a quick question about that mural of Jesus.”

  The docent smiled a knowing smile. “His eyes were following you.”

  “I knew it must be an illusion, but I had to ask.”

  The docent nodded. “I knew the artist. De Rosen. He made the eyes convex. That’s what creates the illusion. Very powerful, isn’t it?”

  “Very. He looks almost mean.”

  “He does. He’s been given the nickname Scary Jesus. We certainly don’t call Him that, but I can’t argue with it. I asked De Rosen why he’d made Him so intimidating. He told me, ‘Who would you rather have fighting the battle He has to fight for us? Somebody tough or a wimp?’”

  “Makes sense when you put it like that. Thanks.”

  Zeke continued to the rear of the church, evaluating what he’d seen, knowing he’d only focused on things that seemed relevant to his situation. Whatever their significance, they weren’t the unmistakable sign he needed to become God’s warrior against Satan. Not even close.

  He was right back where he started.

  He stood hesitating in the narthex, just inside the tall wooden doors that would take him back outside and into the harsh reality of his life. He almost ached to get back to Leah, to get on with their life together, but he wanted to make sure he’d given this visit every chance. So far there had been no epiphany, but the extreme holiness of the place, and the thought of the millions of believers who had been in here, fueled a glimmer of hope.

  But the mission he was contemplating required much more than hope. It had to be driven by an unshakable faith, and at this moment he had none.

  If he went through those doors now, with his prayers unanswered and his faith unrestored, this visit would have been a failure. He would have kept his promise to follow up on the scrolls, but, barring some miracle, this would be the end of it.

  Determined to go the extra mile, he found himself walking down the stairs that led to his favorite retreat at the Shrine.

  CHAPTER 26

  Zeke was glad to find only a few people in the Crypt Church. It made it feel like his own private sanctuary. He stood in the nave, remembering all the times he’d come here after his discharge from the Army, looking for healing. For answers.

  All these years later and I’m still looking. With everything that had happened since he got the scrolls, he was more lost now than he had been then.

  Muted blue light filtered through the small stained glass windows near the ceiling. Dozens of votive candles flickered in stands along the edges of the room. Their light darkened his mood instead of brightening it.

  He sought inspiration from the lovingly crafted images of saints and apostles that were everywhere. Though long dead, the power of their teachings still brought billions of people around the world to church each week. Millions had come to this very spot since the Shrine’s opening. Zeke walked down the nave to the railing and looked at the Mary altar just beyond.

  Thousands of priests had been ordained at that altar. When he’d re-enrolled at CU after his discharge, Zeke had stood here many times, again considering the priesthood, wondering if that would be a way to atone for the jungle, always waiting for a sign that never came. Standing there now, surrounded by granite and marble and onyx, ceramic tile depictions of scenes from the Bible, he wanted desperately to believe in all this imagery and symbolism, to be shown the way. He went to the first pew and sat, trying to open his heart to whatever belief might find its way there.

  Mixed in with various publications in the holder in front of him were several Bibles. He opened one to the place marked with the red satin ribbon: chapter five in the Gospel of John. The entire page to the end of the chapter was printed in red to indicate the words of Jesus. Zeke scanned the red passage until he came to verse thirty. From there he read the rest of the chapter, certain passages leaping out at him:

  I can of mine own self do nothing…if I bear witness of myself, my witness is not true…

  There is another that beareth witness of me; and I know that the witness which he witnesseth of me is true…

  Zeke read on, but kept being drawn back to verse forty-three. He read it over and over:

  I am come in my Father’s name, and ye receive me not…if another shall come in his own name, him ye will receive.

  This section of the gospel was a famous one, the notion that God needs witness to confirm his existence. Zeke tried to apply the idea to his current situation.

  If God went into Hell alone and defeated Satan, without a witness no one would know. But if a human were to go, and lived to tell the tale, there could be no
doubt. God needed someone to bear witness. An Advocate.

  The chestnut from philosophy came to mind: if a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, did it make a sound?

  Zeke closed the Bible and put it away. The passage was interesting, but not exactly the heavenly ray he was looking for. The marker had probably been left at that passage because it had been the topic of the last sermon. All the Bibles were probably marked at the same spot.

  He opened another to the saved page. John again, his first epistle:

  Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.

  Zeke got another Bible and read the bookmarked passage, from the second epistle of John:

  For many deceivers are entered into the world, who confess not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh. This is a deceiver and an antichrist.

  Zeke wondered what the Sappersteins, dear Jewish friends of his parents, would think of that passage. Still, the coincidence of verses was becoming more intriguing. He was not surprised to find that the next Bible was marked at John’s third and final epistle:

  I trust I shall shortly see thee, and we shall speak face to face.

  Interesting to be coming upon them in order like this. When he opened the next Bible to the saved page, he couldn’t resist a smile. Of course. Revelation. The Apocalypse. Also written by John, although which John there was no universal agreement:

  I Jesus have sent mine angel to testify unto you these things…

  Enoch had been sent by God and left his scroll as testimony. Intrigued but unconvinced, Zeke put the Bible away and went back to the railing. He stared up at the crucifix sitting atop the Mary altar.

  No blood flowed from his wounds. Nothing had changed. What he had just read was tantalizing, but the books of John were some of the most popular in the Bible. Zeke needed more, and he told God so.

  A priest bustled by on his way to the altar.

  “Excuse me, Father,” Zeke called.