Soul Harvest

by Tim LaHaye

  Rayford signaled him, and the young man approached. His nameplate read David Hassid.

  “May I see your mark?” Hassid whispered. Rayford put his face near the screen and pulled his hair back. “Like the young Americans say, that is so cool.”

  Rayford said, “You were looking for me?”

  “I just wanted to meet you,” Hassid said. “By the way, I work here in communications.” Rayford nodded. “Though we don’t have phones in our rooms, we do have wireless.”

  “I don’t. I looked.”

  “They are covered with stainless steel plates.”

  “I did see that,” Rayford said.

  “So you don’t need to risk getting caught out here, Captain Steele.”

  “That’s good to know. It wouldn’t surprise me if they could tell where I’ve been on the Web through here.”

  “They could. They can trace it through the lines in your room, too, but what will they find?”

  “I’m just trying to find out what my friend, Tsion Ben-Judah, is saying these days.”

  “I could tell you by heart,” Hassid said. “He is my spiritual father.”

  “Mine too.”

  “He led you to Christ?”

  “Well, no,” Rayford admitted. “That was his predecessor. But I still see the rabbi as my pastor and mentor.”

  “Let me write down for you the address of the central bulletin board where I found his message for today. It’s a long one, but it’s so good. He and a brother of his discovered their marks yesterday too. It’s so exciting. Do you know that I am probably one of the 144,000 witnesses?”

  “Well, that would be right, wouldn’t it?” Rayford said.

  “I can’t wait to find out my assignment. I feel so new to this, so ignorant of the truth. I know the gospel, but it seems I need to know so much more if I’m going to be a bold evangelist, preaching like the apostle Paul.”

  “We’re all new at this, David, if you think about it.”

  “But I’m newer than most. Wait till you see all the messages on the bulletin board. Thousands and thousands of believers have already responded. I don’t know how Dr. Ben-Judah will have time to read them all. They’re pleading with him to come to their countries and to teach them and train them face-to-face. I would give everything I owned for that privilege.”

  “You know, of course, that Dr. Ben-Judah is a fugitive.”

  “Yes, but he believes he is one of the 144,000 as well. He’s teaching that we are sealed, at least for a time, and that the forces of evil cannot come against us.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. That protection is not for everyone who has the mark, apparently. But it is for the converted Jewish evangelists.”

  “In other words, I could be in danger, but you couldn’t, at least for a while.”

  “That seems to be what he’s teaching. I’ll be eager to hear your response.”

  “I can’t wait to plug in.”

  Rayford unplugged his machine and the two strolled down the corridor, whispering. Rayford discovered Hassid was just twenty-two years old, a college graduate who had aspired to military service in Poland. “But I was so enamored of Carpathia, I immediately applied for service to the Global Community. It wasn’t long before I discovered the truth on the Internet. Now I am enlisted behind enemy lines, but I didn’t plan it that way.”

  Rayford advised the young man that he was wise in not declaring himself until the time was right. “It will be dangerous enough for you to be a believer, but you’ll be of greater help to the cause right now if you remain silent about it, as Officer McCullum is doing.”

  At Rayford’s door, Hassid gripped his hand fiercely and squeezed hard. “It is so good to know I am not alone,” he said. “Did you want to see my mark?”

  Rayford smiled. “Sure.”

  Still shaking Rayford’s hand, Hassid reached with his free hand and pulled his hair out of the way.

  “Sure enough,” Rayford said. “Welcome to the family.”

  Buck found parking at the hospital similar to what it had been at the airport. The original pavement had sunk, and a turnaround had been scraped from the dirt at the front. But people had created their own parking places, and the only spot Buck could find was several hundred yards from the entrance. He dropped Ken off in front with his bag and told him to wait.

  “If you promise not to smack me in the head again,” Ken said. “Man, gettin’ out of this car is like being born.”

  Buck parked in a haphazard line of other vehicles and grabbed a few toiletries from his own bag. As he headed toward the hospital, he tucked in his shirt, brushed himself down, combed his hair, and applied a few sprays of deodorant. When he got near the entrance he saw Ken on the ground, using his bag as a pillow. He wondered if pressing him into service had been a good idea. A few people stared at him. Ken appeared comatose. Oh no! Buck thought.

  He knelt by Ken. “Are you all right?” he whispered. “Let me get you up.”

  Ken spoke without opening his eyes. “Oh, man! Buck, I did something royally stupid.”

  “What?”

  “‘Member when you got me my medicine?” Ken’s words were slurred. “I popped ’em in my mouth without water, right?”

  “I offered to get you something to drink.”

  “That’s not the point. I was s’posed to take one from one bottle and three from the other, every four hours. I missed my last dose, so I took two of one and six of the other.”

  “Yeah?”

  “But I mixed up the bottles.”

  “What are they?”

  Ritz shrugged and his breathing became deep and regular.

  “Don’t fall asleep on me, Ken. I’ve got to get you inside.”

  Buck pawed through Ken’s bag and found the bottles. The larger recommended dose was for local pain. The smaller appeared to be a combination of morphine, Demerol, and Prozac. “You took six of these?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Come on, Ken. Get up. Right now.”

  “Oh, Buck. Let me sleep.”

  “No way. Right now, we have to go.”

  Buck didn’t think Ken was in danger or had to have his stomach pumped, but if he didn’t get him inside, he’d be a dead weight and worthless. Worse, he would probably be hauled away.

  Buck lifted one of Ken’s hands and stuck his own head under Ken’s arm. When he tried to straighten, Ken was no help and too heavy. “Come on, man. You’ve got to help me.”

  Ken just mumbled.

  Buck held Ken’s head gently and pulled the bag out from under him. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

  “You mm-hmm.”

  Buck feared Ken’s head was the only place still sensitive, and that might be dulled soon too. Rather than risk contaminating the wound, Buck looked for inflammation other than at the opening. Below where Ken had been gouged the hairline was fiery red. Buck spread his feet and braced himself, then pressed directly on the spot. Ritz leaped to his feet as if he’d been shot from a gun. He swung at Buck, who ducked, wrapped one arm around Ken’s back, scooped up the bag with the other, and marched him to the entrance.

  Ken looked and sounded like the deliriously injured man that he was. People moved out of the way.

  Inside the hospital, things were worse. It was all Buck could do to hold Ken up. The lines at the front desk were five deep. Buck dragged Ken to the waiting area, where every chair was filled and several people were standing. Buck looked for someone who might give up his seat, and finally a stocky middle-aged woman stood. Buck thanked her and lowered Ken into the chair. Ken curled sideways, lifted his knees, drew his hands to his cheek, and rested on the shoulder of an old man next to him. The man caught sight of the wound, recoiled, then apparently resigned himself to serving as Ken’s pillow.

  Buck stuffed Ken’s bag under his chair, apologized to the old man, and promised to be back as soon as he could. When he tried to move to the front at the receptionist’s desk, people in two lines rebuffed him. He called out, “I’m sorry,
but I have an emergency here!”

  “We all do!” one shouted back.

  He stood in line for several minutes, worrying more about Chloe than Ken. Ken would sleep this off. The only problem was, Buck was still stuck. Unless . . .

  Buck stepped out of line and hurried into a public washroom. He washed his face, watered down and slicked back his hair, and made sure his clothes were as neat as possible. He pulled his identification card from his pocket and clipped it to his shirt, turning it around so his picture and name were hidden.

  He popped the remaining lens out of his broken sunglasses, but the frames looked so phony that he pulled them up into his hair. He looked in the mirror and affected a grim expression, telling himself, “You are a doctor. A no-nonsense, big ego, all-action doctor.”

  He burst from the bathroom as if he knew where he was going. He needed a pigeon. The first two doctors he passed looked too old and mature for his ruse. But here came a thin, young doctor looking wide-eyed and out of place. Buck stepped in front of him.

  “Doctor, did I not tell you to check on that trauma in emergency two?”

  The young physician was speechless.

  “Well?” Buck demanded.

  “No! No, Doctor. That must have been someone else.”

  “All right, then! Listen! I need a stethoscope—a sterile one this time!—a large, freshly laundered smock, and the chart on Mother Doe. You got that?”

  The intern closed his eyes and repeated, “Stethoscope, smock, chart.”

  Buck continued barking. “Sterile, big, Mother Doe.”

  “Right away, Doctor.”

  “I’ll be at the elevators.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The intern turned and walked away. Buck called after him, “Sometime today, Doctor!” The intern ran.

  Now Buck had to find the elevators. He slipped back into the reception area to find Ken still snoozing in the same position, the old man next to him looking as intimidated as ever. He asked a Hispanic woman if she knew where the elevators were. She pointed down the hall. As he hurried that way, he saw his intern behind the counter, hassling the receptionists. “Just do it!” he was saying.

  A few minutes later the young doctor rushed to him with everything he had asked for. He held the smock open and Buck hastily slipped into it, draped the stethoscope around his neck, and grabbed the chart.

  “Thank you, Doctor. Where are you from?”

  “Right here!” the intern said. “This hospital.”

  “Oh, well then, good. Very good. I’m from . . .” Buck hesitated a second. “Young Memorial. Thanks for your help.”

  The intern looked puzzled, as if trying to think where Young Memorial was. “Any time,” he said.

  Buck left the elevators and hurried to the washroom. He locked himself in a stall and flipped open Chloe’s chart. The photographs made him burst into tears. Buck set the clipboard on the floor and doubled over. “God,” he prayed silently, “how could you have let this happen?”

  He clenched his teeth and shuddered, willing himself to calm down. He didn’t want to be heard. After about a minute, he opened the chart again. Staring at him from the photographs was the almost unrecognizable face of his young wife. Had she looked that swollen when she was brought to Kenosha, no doctor would have recognized her from Buck’s picture.

  As the doctor in Kenosha had told him, the right side of her body had apparently been slammed full force by a section of roofing. Her normally smooth, pale skin was now blotched red and yellow and invaded by pitch, tar, and bits of shingling. Worse, her right foot looked as if someone had tried to fold it. A bone protruded from her shin. Bruising began on the outside of her knee and ran to the kneecap, which looked severely damaged. From the position of her body, it appeared her right hip had been knocked out of joint. Bruises and bumps in her midsection evidenced broken ribs. Her elbow had been laid open, and her right shoulder appeared dislocated. Her right collarbone pressed against the skin. The right side of her face appeared flatter, and there was damage to her jaw, teeth, cheekbone, and eye. Her face was so misshapen that Buck could hardly bear to look. The eye was swollen huge and shut. The only abrasion on her left side was a raspberry near her hip, so the doctor had probably correctly deduced that she had been knocked off her feet by a blow to her right side.

  Buck determined he would not recoil when he saw her in person. Of course, he wanted her to survive. But was that best for her? Could she communicate? Would she recognize him? He flipped through the rest of the chart, trying to interpret the notations. It appeared she had escaped injury to her internal organs. She suffered several fractures, including three in her foot, one in her ankle, her kneecap, her elbow, and two ribs. She had dislocated both hip and shoulder. She had also sustained fractures of the jaw, cheekbone, and cranium.

  Buck scanned the rest quickly, looking for a key word. There it was. Fetal heartbeat detected. Oh, God! Save them both!

  Buck didn’t know medicine, but her vital signs looked good for someone who had suffered such a trauma. Though she had not regained consciousness at the time of the report, her pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and even brain waves were normal.

  Buck looked at his watch. The GC contingent should arrive soon. He needed time to think and to collect himself. He would be no good to Chloe if he went off half-cocked. He memorized as much of the chart as he could, noted that she was in room 335A, and tucked the clipboard under his arm. He left the restroom with rubbery knees, but he affected a purposeful stride once he was in the corridor. While he pondered his options, he moved back into the reception area. The old man was gone. Ken Ritz no longer leaned on anyone, but his gigantic frame was curled in a fetal position like an overgrown child, the healthy part of his head resting on the back of the chair. He looked as if he could sleep for a week.

  Buck took the elevator to the third floor to get the lay of the land. As the doors opened, however, something struck him. He whipped open the chart. “335A.” She was in a double room. What if he was the doctor for the other patient? Even if he wasn’t on a security list, they’d have to let him in, wouldn’t they? He might have to bluster, but he would get in.

  Two uniformed GC guards stood on either side of the 335 doorway. One was a young man, the other a slightly older woman. Two strips of white adhesive tape were attached to the door, both written on in black marker. The top said, “A: Mother Doe, No Visitors.” The other read, “B: A. Ashton.”

  Buck was weak with longing to check on Chloe. With the clock working against him, he wanted to get in there before GC officials did. He passed the room, and at the end of the hall turned and walked directly back to 335.

  Rayford had not been prepared for what he found on the Internet. Tsion had outdone himself. As David Hassid had said, thousands upon thousands had already responded. Many put messages on the bulletin board identifying themselves as members of the 144,000. Rayford scrolled through the messages for more than an hour, still not coming to the end. Hundreds testified that they had received Christ after reading Tsion’s message and the verses from Romans that showed their need of God.

  It was late, and Rayford was bleary-eyed. He had intended to spend not more than an hour on the Net, but he had spent that and more merely working through Tsion’s message. “The Coming Soul Harvest” was a fascinating study of biblical prophecy. Tsion made himself so understandable and personable that it did not surprise Rayford that thousands considered themselves his protégés, though they had never met him. From the looks of the bulletin board, however, that would have to change. They clamored for him to come where they could meet him and sit under his tutelage.

  Tsion responded to the requests by telling his own story, how as a biblical scholar he had been commissioned by the State of Israel to study the claims of the coming Messiah. He explained that by the time of the rapture of the church, he had come to the conclusion that Jesus of Nazareth fulfilled every qualification of the Messiah prophesied in the Old Testament. But he did not receive Christ as hi
s own savior until the Rapture convinced him.

  He kept his belief to himself until he was asked to go on international television to reveal the results of his lengthy study. He was astounded that the Jews still refused to believe that Jesus was who the Bible claimed he was. Tsion revealed his finding at the very end of the program, causing tremendous outcry, especially among the orthodox. His wife and two teenage children were later slaughtered, and he barely escaped. He told his Internet audience he was now in hiding but that he would “continue to teach and to proclaim that Jesus Christ is the only name under heaven given among men through whom one can be saved.”

  Rayford forced himself to stay awake, poring over Tsion’s teachings. A meter on his screen showed the number of responses as they were added to the central bulletin board. He believed the meter was malfunctioning. It raced so fast he could not even see the individual numerals. He sampled a few of the responses. Not only were many converted Jews claiming to be among the 144,000 witnesses, but Jews and Gentiles were also trusting Christ. Thousands more encouraged each other to petition the Global Community for protection and asylum for this great scholar.

  Rayford felt a tingle behind his knees that shot to his head. One bit of leverage with Nicolae Carpathia was the court of public opinion. It wasn’t beyond him to have Tsion Ben-Judah assassinated or “accidentally” killed and make it appear other forces were at work. But with thousands all over the globe appealing to Nicolae on Tsion’s behalf, he would be forced to prove he could deliver. Rayford wished there was some way to make him do the right thing by Hattie Durham as well.

  Tsion’s main message for the day was based on Revelation 8 and 9. Those chapters supported his contention that the earthquake, the foretold wrath of the Lamb, ushered in the second twenty-one months of the Tribulation.

  There are seven years, or eighty-four months, in all. So, my dear friends, you can see that we are now one quarter of the way through. Unfortunately, as bad as things have been, they get progressively worse as we race headlong toward the end, the glorious appearing of Christ.