by Mark Kraver
She thought more about what her alien friends might do at the UN once they got there and wondered yet again why was she with them. Why would a superior being need her, of all people, to go with them? And how did they read her thoughts so easily?
Hell, they’re probably listening to me right now, she thought. Kinda like watching an ant in an ant farm. The two aliens had been preoccupied with something for the past few hours. Were they communicating with each other? Was Yahweh downloading the thousands of years of history stored in Numen’s memory banks, or was he hitting the highlights? Why did they choose to alert humankind of their existence now, instead of decades earlier when we landed men on the moon? Then she laughed, how simplistic that must appear to them.
“Please don’t worry yourself, my child,” she heard inside her head.
“Please, don’t do this to me,” she whispered, distressed that she had not taken her medication all day. She didn’t want the world to see her natural psychotic state, not during the most important event in the history of humankind. She could see the headlines now: Crazy SETI Scientist Crashes First Contact.
As her mind began to swim with the thought of her schizophrenia expressing itself at the worst moment, a warm, gentle hand touched her shoulder. She jerked around to see Yahweh staring at her with compassion. Then she heard inside her head, “You are not sick. You have never been sick. You are with us for logical reasons. You need to know more about the origin of your species and your destiny. Numen chose you because you are one of the most genetically superior specimens of your species.”
“Chose me? He doesn’t even know me. How can I be superior with a mental illness that—”
“Makes you hear voices inside your head?” Yahweh finished.
“Yes. Sometimes it drives me crazy.” She began to cry.
“Crazy enough to talk the space administration of your country into launching a satellite to detect extraterrestrial intelligence?” Yahweh asked, his voice unmistakably clear inside her head. “Maybe they weren’t hallucinations.”
She paused, looked at the crowded beach below, squinted and said, “So you’re saying the voices weren’t in my head? It was you?”
“Not me, I have been hibernating. Numen has been speaking to you. In fact, not only Numen, but also his entourage of cherubim and even members of your own species. There are others who, like you, carry the telepathy gene inside their DNA.”
“Cherubim? And others? What do you mean? I have a disease, don’t I?”
“All that you see around you is coming to an endpoint in its development; all of this started a very long time ago. You are the product of trillions of quadrillions of manipulations. People such as you, who can hear voices in their heads, are closest to being the final product of all the billions of people alive today.”
He paused and smiled gently at the stunned look on Logan’s face. “Imagine the stir you would cause if you were born with partially developed wings on your back,” he continued. “You would be called a freak of nature, and your parents would demand the medical practitioners remove them after your birth. Years would go by, and you and someone else who had had his wings removed at birth might have offspring. Would it not be logical to assume that the offspring would have a good chance of being born with wings, as well? Perhaps better developed wings than either parent?”
“Yes, yes, selective breeding. We do it all the time with cats and dogs. What’s your point?”
“My point is that within the chemical structures of your genetic makeup, you have a predilection towards hearing other people’s thoughts. You are a primitive telepath, picking up the stray emotional signals of those around you.”
“My schizophrenia is telepathy? That’s absurd.” She laughed until the expression drained from Yahweh’s face, and he turned to focus on the crowds of onlookers below.
Telepathy? That would explain many things that had bothered her throughout her life. She asked him, “So you are saying that humankind will develop telepathy and lose its ability to speak to one another?”
Yahweh acted as though he had not heard her. Noticing his body language, she felt a cold cramp deep inside her stomach. “Oh shit,” she thought. “I wonder what I said to piss him off? Has he realized I’m not the right human to represent the Earth? What is he going to do with me? Worse yet, what will he have Numen do with me?” She cringed to think of all the creepy things a robot could do. No, she thought, he’s keeping me here.
She felt her uncertainty turn into resentment. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He kidnapped her. How could he hold a grudge? She shook her head in disbelief.
“I wanted you to use your mind and not your mouth,” Yahweh said suddenly inside her head. And then, he spoke aloud: “You will always retain your ability to speak. You will just not use it as much in the presence of the Elohim.” His syntax and grammar were perfect, though he had a slight accent that she couldn’t quite place.
He had been telling her the truth about herself. Logan acknowledged to herself that he always told the truth, though many of his truths were very hard to swallow. A curious thought came to mind: “Elohim?”
“You will know soon enough about that,” Yahweh said, telepathically. She felt a warm satisfaction, pulled her hooded sweater on tight over her head and felt herself growing sleepy. She sensed Yahweh answering her unasked question as she settled onto the soft misty bubble, curled into a fetal position and let stage one sleep blink at her consciousness.
“I wonder what Vince is doing?” she said, fading off to sleep.
Chapter 37
Superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy, the mad daughters of a wise mother.
These daughters have too long dominated the earth.
Voltaire, 1694-1778, Earth
Library of Souls
Heaven or Hell
They were two and a half hours into a taxi ride to heaven or hell, depending on where you sat in the cab. For the first half, as the meter clicked off at an even pace, Conrad had to contend with nonstop, off-key, energetic gospel songs. Now things had quieted down in the backseat, with each of the girls checking their text messages and FaceBook pages. Conrad was convinced that if this were Jesus Christ coming for Judgement Day, at any second the cab would be empty. Like in that religious book Left Behind, everyone would disappear except for him and the cab driver, who had already showed off his right bicep tattoo of a bloody dagger stuck through the eye socket of a screaming skull.
Then I’d be stuck with the whole cab fare, Conrad thought. But at least then he could crawl into the backseat, stretch out, and fall asleep. A good night’s sleep might alleviate some of the dull pain he felt in his gut. Cancer’s a bitch dominated his thoughts.
“I know the Northeast stays open twenty-four hours a day, but this is ridiculous,” he said to the sleepy cab driver, who was fiddling with his radio, trying to stay awake.
The traffic slowed, and then came to a complete stop.
“You think it’s a wreck?” Freckles asked, with a perky voice from the backseat. Her three friends were starting to fall asleep. She was awake and had switched from social media to reading her New Testament by the backseat overhead light.
“Nah, a traffic jam. My dispatch said the interstate is packed from here all the way to Brooklyn and beyond.”
“Turn the radio up,” Conrad said. The news at the top of the hour was starting.
“The eyes of the world have turned to the unusual weather phenomenon traveling up the eastern coast of the US in what has been dubbed the ‘Cloud of Christ.’ Beaches are crowded, and roads are at a standstill, as people race for a front-row seat to the biggest show on Earth. Airports reported a five hundred percent increase in people trying to book flights into New York City and surrounding airports. An unknown source at the Jet Propulsion Laboratories in Pasadena indicated that the cloud is traveling to a press conference at the United Nations later today. It is expected to arrive at about two o’clock PM, Eastern Standard Time.
&nbs
p; “Shots were fired into the cloud a few hours ago along a remote beach in the Cumberland Island National Seashore, in southeastern Georgia, killing ten bystanders and wounding twelve more. There are no reports of gunfire hitting either of the religious icons. The cloud is currently traveling over the resort town of Jekyll Island. Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary are still visible and appear unharmed.
“In contrast to the rioting and looting experienced here on the East Coast, peace has enveloped the rest of the world as every eye has turned to follow this miraculous event. Dignitaries are scrambling to get to the UN from all around the world to view this phenomenon for themselves. New York City Port Authority said if you are not already inside the city, your chances of getting to the UN are next to zero.
“There has been no change in the progress of the ongoing blackout in the southern hemisphere. There are confirmed reports of similar events in Australia and South Africa.”
“What do you think that blackout is?” Conrad asked. The cabbie shrugged his shoulders, still fiddling with his dispatch radio.
“The US Fifth Fleet is now escorting traffic through the Straits of Hormuz and has met with no resistance from the damaged Iranian navy or air force. This is Teresa Green, NPR.”
“I’ll never get to that press conference,” Conrad moaned.
“Press conference?” Freckles giggled. “Vince, why do you want to go to the press conference?” She yawned and rolled onto her side.
He didn’t answer her. He wasn’t completely sure himself.
That was all the excitement the backseat could take for one night. He heard the steady drone of breathy snores, agitating him almost as much as the traffic jam, and that infernal click of the taxi’s meter.
“Where are we?” he asked, with a big yawn that turned into a cough. “What is that smell?”
“It’s Staten Island. We passed Bulls Head about a mile ago, give or take. They had an oil tanker spill last month on the beach, followed by a big fish kill, and the island has stunk ever since,” said the cabbie. “The traffic might break up in a few, or it might not. This might be as close to the beach as you’re gonna get tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s right over there somewhere. Not too far.” The cabbie jerked his head to the right.
“Really? How much do I owe you?” he asked, leaning down and clutching his bag.
“Make it an even three hundred,” the driver said, with a wink and nod to the backseat implying that he would stiff the girls for the rest.
Three hundred dollars? What a rip-off. Even with the price of gas sky high, Conrad thought. The fifteen hundred dollars he had to shell out for the one-way flight here from LAX was a bargain in comparison. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three C-notes. “Here, and make sure the girls get to heaven on time,” he said, stuffing the bills into the cabbie’s grubby hand. The word ‘DEATH’ was tattooed across his knuckles.
“You bet. We’ll see you there,” the cabbie said, chuckling.
Conrad was about to open the door when he noticed the outline of a man in the stalled traffic ahead of them, illuminated by headlights. He was about two cars ahead of them and had a gun in his hand. Conrad and the cabbie sat still and silent. The man opened the door of a car, punched the driver in the face and yanked him out by the collar, making him fall to the ground.
“What the hell? He’s got a gun,” the cabbie said, shutting off the taxi’s ignition and using his keys to unlock the glovebox.
“He’s got a gun,” Conrad said, his eyes wide as the cabbie pulled a short-barreled handgun from the glovebox. “Is that loaded?” He instinctively pressed himself against his own door, recoiling from the sight of the weapon.
The cabbie gave him the look like, ‘Are you stupid?’
The gunman began kicking and yelling at the man on the ground until the distressed man rolled into the other lane, got up and began limping through the thick of strangers’ cars to get away from his own. The gunman settled in the driver’s seat, and Conrad watched as paper cups and books got thrown out the door. The man then crawled into the backseat, doing the same thing and leaving belongings and trash strewn on the road. After a few moments of this, he got out of the car, stuffing his pockets full of whatever he found in his search, and looked at the next car—the car in front of Conrad’s taxi. The cabbie said, “Stay calm.”
The gunman pointed his weapon at the car’s driver and walked to the window.
Pow, pow, pow!
The sound scared the shit out of Conrad; he stared, horrified and confused. The gunman fell straight back onto the ground in the middle of the road and didn’t move.
“Geez, what the hell happened?” Conrad shouted.
The cabbie looked at him again as if he was stupid. The girls in the backseat were sound asleep and hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Time to go,” Conrad said. He grabbed his bag and stepped out the door, closing it softly so he wouldn’t wake the backseat crew. He walked tentatively through the headlights of his cab and surrounding cars, toting his carryon on his shoulder, toward the driver’s side window of the car in front. As he approached, he held his hands high in the air. He could see the driver still sitting with his gun aimed at the gunman lying in a pool of dark blood and bleeding out of his face.
“Hey, man. You okay?” Conrad asked the driver. Even as the words came out of his mouth, he noticed the crazed look in the driver’s face.
Pow, pow, pow, click, click, click exploded in Conrad’s ears as the driver emptied his gun into Conrad’s head.
Conrad’s body contorted with pain and his hands flung involuntarily up into the air as he fell backwards onto the pavement. In that instant, he saw his life flash before his eyes and laughed to himself. He had thought he was to die of agonizing cancer, not from a quick gunshot wound to the face. He lay without moving for several seconds feeling his aching body begin to throb.
“Hey Vince, you okay?” he heard a familiar voice ask. He opened his eyes, looked at the demonic cab driver, and wondered if he was in hell?
“Are you all right?” the cabbie asked, stooped next to him with his gun trained on the guy inside the car crying. “I don’t see any blood. Did he shoot you too? Looks like he missed.”
Conrad didn’t know how to answer. He couldn’t imagine how the guy could have missed. He saw the gun fire, he felt the searing sounds in his ears and—and then there was this blur.
“Come on buddy, get up, and see if you can stand.”
They looked at each other, both a little stunned, and laughed.
“Wow, you’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch. Way luckier than that poor bastard,” the cabbie said, indicating the dead thug on the ground next to them with money hanging out of his pockets. They looked at the driver who was still in shock. “Hey, we saw the whole thing,” the cabbie said. “You did the right thing. If you didn’t do it, I’m sure we would’a done it.” He said waving his pistol and then tucking it into his belt. The cabbie looked at Conrad, “If you’re still headed to the beach, it’s that-a-way.”
Conrad blinked, regaining his composure. He looked up and down the Expressway’s standstill traffic and knew he couldn’t stay with that cab.
“Thanks,” was all he could muster before picking up his knapsack and walking in the direction all the cars were pointed.
The bright lights blinked as he walked between cars, shielding his eyes with his trembling hand. Conrad didn’t want to get wrapped up in a murder investigation in the middle of nowhere, so he lowered his head and weaved his way out of the headlights and toward the shoulder of the crowded road. Walking as fast as he could, he saw cars beginning to pull off to the side of the road to possibly camp out overnight, probably waiting for morning to hike the rest of the way to either the bridge or the beach.
In the distance he could make out an off-ramp toll station and an overpass that bent eastward and disappeared behind the tree line. Whether that led to a beachside town where he could watch for the cloud with his
own eyes or just a truck stop with some coffee and a television, Conrad knew he had to get there. He needed to feel more connected to whatever was happening with Kit—he was desperate to see something, anything about that damn cloud.
He walked fast without breaking into a trot and avoided looking into the stopped cars with slogans such as ‘Judgement Day Band Wagon’ and ‘Jesus or bust’ written on their widows in white paint. He was relieved to be out of that grimy cab and away from those overzealous Jesus freaks, but most of all he was happy to be alive. Now he was on his own, the way he liked it.
When the toll station was about five hundred yards ahead, he considered the line of cars on the off-ramp, and wondered if he could shorten his trek by cutting through the nearby trees.
“Hey, Vince,” he heard just as he was walking off the road. He recognized the voice and turned.
“Freckles?” he shouted. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve been following you since you left the cab. Where are you going?” she asked.
“You have to go back,” he insisted. “I don’t want you following me. I must get to the UN. I don’t even know how I’ll do that, and I can’t take you with me.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be responsible for you. I’ll be moving fast, and I don’t want you to slow me down.”
“Oh,” she said, looking back at the standstill traffic on the expressway and squinting against the glare of the headlights.
Conrad saw his chance and ran for the trees.
“Stop,” she screamed.
“Crap,” he muttered.
Freckles was on the side of the road, crying “stop, stop, stop” over and over. He looked at her for almost ten seconds before he realized she was genuinely scared and alone. Down the expressway, car after car were jumping the median to turn and head in the other direction. Chances weren’t good she would ever find that cab driver again, and he could not abandon anyone, even the freckle-faced Jesus freak, along a highway to hell—especially after the craziness he’d witnessed.
