Quietly, to avoid detection, the men gathered all they could find, tearing open bags of garbage and scraping bits of food from discarded cans. It was unlikely that anyone else would be out in the heat, but they could not take chances.
Suddenly, the unexpected snarl of a gasoline engine broke the silence. An instant later, the night evaporated as a ten thousand candlepower light ignited the sky, revealing a tableau of a score of men seemingly frozen by the light. None of them bore the lesions or the mark.
"Police!" came an amplified voice.
Instantly men and mice scattered, but for the men, their attempts at escape were futile. They were entirely surrounded. One by one they were captured, handcuffed, and put in a truck for transport. It took only minutes for the police to finish their work and then they were gone, leaving the dump silent and dark, restored to its previous occupants.
Soon the rats were out of hiding again, foraging for whatever they could find. One of the rats, had he the intelligence to reflect on what he saw as he emerged from under a pile of rags, would have considered this his lucky night, for there before him lay a hill, ten times his size and weight, of the choicest garbage he had ever seen. The humans were good gatherers, there was no doubt about that. Instinctively he sniffed the air for danger as he approached. The strong scent of man still lingered, but this was no time for timidity: soon a dozen other rats would be here, after his spoils.
Running to the heap of victuals, he began to eat as quickly as he could. But no sooner had he taken his second bite of baked apple than, without warning, he was heaved upward by the garbage beneath his feet. Tumbling over, he scurried for cover back under the mound of rags. Turning to see what had happened, he saw a man emerging from beneath the garbage.
Jason Baker shook the filth from off his clothes and out of his hair and beard and looked around, hoping that he had not been the only one to escape. Softly, he called out to his comrades but there was no answer. He called again, a little louder, but with the same result. The only thing to do was to gather up as much food as he could carry in his pack and head back.
Ten minutes later, he stepped through the hole they had cut in the fence around the dump and headed for the abandoned farm where the others, including his parents and wife, waited. It was a long walk — he guessed about seven miles. He prayed that some of the other men had escaped, and he struggled with each step to try to find the words he would need to tell the others that their husbands and fathers and brothers had been captured. In his despair, he hardly noticed the heat. Maybe he would catch up with some of them on the way, or maybe they would catch up with him. Maybe one of the other men would get to the farm before him and the responsibility for sharing the bad news would not fall to him alone.
It was two and a half torturous hours of walking, sweating, and panting in the heat before he reached the farm. The clouds had finally lifted, giving way to a beautiful starry night. Without the starlight, he might have missed the farm completely. Soon he would wish he had.
There was no sign of life at the farm, but that was exactly as it should be. Except for his band of friends, no one had lived here since the Disaster — twenty-three years before — and now forest, thicket, and weeds encircled and hid the small sanctuary from any who did not know it was there. Altogether there were nearly a hundred in the camp. For the most part they lived on wild berries, roots, vegetables, fruit from a nearby orchard, trapped game, and a few items they had purchased before they lost the right to buy and sell. They had a few shotguns, but did not dare use them for fear of alerting someone to their presence.
With the heat, the game had disappeared and the berries quickly shriveled, leaving only a few wild beets and onions for food. That was why the men had decided to risk going closer to town to try to find food.
Quietly Jason Baker approached the enclave and the old barn where many of his number slept. They would not be asleep tonight, though. They would all be awake, waiting for the men to return. As he approached, he listened closely, still hoping that one of the other men had gotten there before him. He heard nothing.
He dared come no farther without announcing his arrival with the appropriate password, lest they think he was an intruder. "He will return," he said clearly but not loudly.
With this the encampment came visibly, but barely audibly, to life.
"Who is it?" a single voice called out in a loud whisper.
"It's Jason," he answered.
"How'd you make out?" said a man in his sixties as he emerged from the shadow.
This was the logical first question but not the one Jason Baker had expected and he did not have an immediate answer. Obviously they did not suspect the gravity of the news that he brought.
"Thank God, you're okay," Baker's wife said as she ran to him.
"Are the others behind you?" another woman asked expectantly, as now nearly the whole camp came to meet him. His silence revealed the weight that was on his heart.
"The police," he managed. "I don't know how many others got away."
Even in the dark he could see the distress on everyone's faces. In all his life, Jason Baker could not remember anything more difficult than having to deliver this news.
Then something even worse happened. It was imperceptible at first, but the sound grew quickly as a multitude of armed state police came from nowhere and encircled the camp.
Jason Baker suddenly realized that his escape had not been by providence at all, but was a cold and calculated maneuver to find the encampment.
2:21 p.m., Wednesday, July 1, 4 N.A. (2026 A.D.) — Derwood, Maryland
It was 137 degrees outside and not much less than that inside. Decker lay naked, flat on his back, panting for breath and dripping with sweat, drawing every bit of relief he could from the comparative coolness of the bare cement floor. The power had been off for six hours. This time it was no rolling blackout; it was a full-fledged power failure. No one was sure how long it would last.
Decker longed for the next plague, which ironically, offered hope of relief from the current one. He had read what was coming and he knew that with the next plague would come the end of this accursed heat. In fact, after the heat, the next two events described in Revelation seemed rather innocuous by comparison. Decker considered the words he had read:
The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and his kingdom was plunged into darkness. Men gnawed their tongues in agony and cursed the God of heaven because of their pains and their sores, but they refused to repent of what they had done. The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up to prepare the way for the kings from the East.
Right now darkness sounded like soothing balm to relieve the heat. After all, how much harm could be done by darkness? While it might be considered a curse in a few primitive countries, in most of the world it would be a mere inconvenience. Even if the electricity didn't come back on, most people would be able to make do. And Decker was ready for it: he didn't have the sores, so he didn't have to worry about 'gnawing his tongue in agony because of the pain of the sores.' And as for the darkness, that was why he had Bert Tolinson buy the lanterns and extra batteries. Of course he didn't tell Tolinson about that at the time. It was one thing to know about one plague before it happened. It would be quite another to know about the next two, as well. Compared to all the other plagues, the sixth one about the Euphrates River drying up sounded like a joke. At most it would harm the crops in the region (if any crops remained after this heat) and it would halt shipping in and out of Babylon, but so far each of the plagues except the sores had lasted only six days, so it hardly seemed very significant if the river dried up for a week or so.
Decker turned on the television for some distraction from the heat. It provided none. It was not that there was nothing else on, but Decker was drawn by the habits of a lifetime to turn to the news channels where the stories all centered on the current adversity.
He came to rest on a 'talking heads' program
— a format where a handful of reporters sit around a table and talk about the news and predict how current events will play themselves out in the short and long term. In his work as Director of Public Affairs for the United Nations, Decker had found these programs a convenient window into the mind of the media. In many ways the programs served as the fountainhead of self-fulfilling prophecy: a reporter who opined that a recent event would have a particular impact could be counted upon to be watching very closely for that impact to occur, thus validating his prognosticating abilities. Part of Decker's job had always been a mix of communicating the news and of shaping how the news was reported. Monitoring these programs and knowing what the press expected to happen sometimes gave Decker a real advantage. Decker had found that the quickest way to win a reporter's favor was to call him on the phone and tell him that he had seen the reporter on a program and agreed with his comments and, what's more, had an exclusive tip for the reporter that proved the point. It was not unusual for Decker to orchestrate events on occasion or modify the words of a speech to fit a reporter's expectations in order to get favorable coverage. On the other hand, if Decker felt a reporter's interpretations of an event or a policy needed 'adjustment,' he or someone from his office might call and offer to discuss the matter with the reporter over lunch. The methodology wasn't foolproof by any means, but it sometimes made a world of difference.
As it was everywhere else, the discussion on the current program centered on the heat. There was a new twist, however: something that caught Decker by surprise.
The host began, speaking in sentence fragments — a style that, strangely, had endured for decades in this genre of program: "The American president, Jane Todd-Sinclair: quoted by sources inside the White House as complaining about Christopher Goodman's handling of the current crises. Comments."
"She hasn't denied it," responded one of the reporters.
"I don't think she's alone," said another. "From what I hear, President Todd-Sinclair was simply saying out loud what a lot of other world leaders have been thinking since this recent set of plagues began."
"I think we all believed that after Goodman's resurrection and the declaration of the New Age, that the hard times were past. Certainly I don't think anyone expected anything like what has been happening over the past four weeks."
"Exactly," the first reporter said.
"Something I think we all need to think about," another
reporter suggested, "is how much did Secretary Goodman
know beforehand about what was going to happen before he
took the United Nations and the world in the direction he has?"
Decker shook his head. This did not bode well. These
reporters were not traditional antagonists of Christopher. All of
them bore the mark and the sores. He had known all of them
professionally and personally for years. Instinctively he began
considering strategies to deal with the situation.
"More importantly," another reporter said, "is what can he, and what does he plan to do to deal with the problem?"
"My sources say that is the real question. Since the leak from President Todd-Sinclair's office, there are rumors that a number of governments are beginning to question Secretary Goodman's tactics to end these plagues. I think they're growing impatient with Goodman's persistent attempts to persuade the fundamentalists and KDT. They feel the United Nations should be responding more forcefully. While Goodman is holding out the olive branch of peace, the fundamentalists and KDT are offering back poison ivy and cattle prods."
"A colorful way of putting it," laughed the host.
"Well, that's why you keep inviting me back," the reporter answered.
"And Robert Milner?" the host asked.
"He'll make another dramatic appearance somewhere on Friday, I suppose — I hope! — and end the heat. But I don't think anyone is convinced that will be the end of it. If the pattern continues, we'll have a couple days' respite and then some other damn plague will hit us on Sunday."
"Not to mention these infernal lesions," added the host.
Decker had to do something. For the moment it seemed that all his apprehensions about Christopher took a back seat to his instinct to defend him to the media. He would at least call one of the people from the program after it was over and try to ... well, he'd play it by ear. Then an idea hit him. He could say that although other plagues might follow, he was certain that they had seen the worst of it and that Christopher's policies would be proven effective because any future plagues would be very minor by comparison. His explanation fit perfectly with what he knew the next plagues would be, and the reporter would just assume that he had been given the information from Christopher. He grinned in a sort of self congratulatory way for his quick thinking despite the heat. For a moment, he forgot about everything else; his purpose was clear and for just a moment it seemed that life was back to the way it had been before Petra.
When the program ended, Decker waited a few minutes for the host to get back to his dressing room. As he reached for the phone, he watched a report on the arrest of a group of fundamentalists on a farm in a southern state of the U.S. Halfway through dialing, a recorded female voice came on: "Due to noncompliance with United Nations regulations, long distance services have been disconnected for the number from which you are calling. If you need assistance, please hang up and dial the operator."
Decker's position at the U.N. had thus far kept the police from his door, but it had failed to impress his long distance service provider's computer.
11:57 p.m., Thursday, July 2, 4 N.A. (2026 A.D.) — Petra, Jordan
"Chaim, come to bed," Rose Levin, wife of Israel's High Priest, pleaded with her husband.
"Soon," Chaim Levin answered.
"When?" his wife pressed.
"Soon," he answered again.
The weather was warm but not at all like the unbearable heat that scorched the rest of the earth. A soft breeze wafted the canvas sides of the tent that had been the Levin's home for the past three years. It was one of the largest tents in Petra, as befitted his position, but even here a raised voice would be heard clearly by neighbors, so Rose spoke firmly but softly. "You shouldn't be watching that," she said, referring to the executions her husband had been watching for more than an hour on television. Rose could not look at the set herself; she had no stomach for executions.
"Have you seen how they die?"
"What?" she asked, surprised by the question.
"... how they die?" he repeated.
A sickened look came across her face.
"No," he said, realizing that she misunderstood the intent of his question. "I do not mean how they are killed. I mean the way they die — with confidence. I have been watching for hours and I have not seen a coward among them."
Rose Levin did not answer. After 47 years of marriage to the scrawny Jewish kid from Brooklyn, she knew when he really wanted an answer and when he was just making an observation.
"Even the children seem at peace," he added.
"It's not healthy to watch so much of that," she said.
"It's not healthy to watch any of it," he corrected.
"So why don't you turn it off and save your batteries?" she urged. "You know how hard it is to get batteries."
"For this television?" he asked rhetorically. "It's impossible. I know. I've tried to get some for when these wear out. Nobody has them."
"Well, that's all the more reason to turn it off and come to bed."
"Do you know how long these batteries have been in this television set?" he asked.
Rose Levin was beginning to regret bringing up the subject.
"More than three years," he said, not waiting for her response. "I put them in before we left Jerusalem. I've never had the batteries in this set last for more than a few months . . . but these are still like brand new." His attention, never entirely off the picture on the television as he talked with his wife, was now drawn back by the frighte
ned but determined expression on the face of a young girl. Her time had come and she was next in line for execution.
7:10 p.m., Friday, July 3, 4 N.A. (2026 A.D.) — Vilcas Plateau, Peru
There was the distinct feeling that this should have been getting monotonous. It was the third time — a time between piqued interest and repetitious boredom when, according to international traditions in comic timing, the punch line should have been delivered. Still, with the extreme unlikelihood that anyone would ever see humor in what had been suffered in recent weeks, this replay of Robert Milner taking on and exorcising the latest vexation of Yahweh should have been received more with tedium than with any sense of engrossed enthusiasm. And yet, with a flair for the theatrical that overwhelmed any feeling of ennui, the television cameras and all eyes of the world watched with intemperate passion as the solitary figure of Robert Milner, dripping with sweat and dressed again in his long, white linen robe,, climbed the jagged Peruvian mountain to the Viscos-Huoman, the ancient temple of the sun from which the Incan man-god Sinchi Rocca had presided over countless human sacrifices.
Milner's arrival here was no surprise to the news media: an official press notice had been issued the day before. Television crews had positioned remote cameras along the path and at the mountain's summit the night before to capture the event. That Milner would be doing something like this somewhere was not only expected — in an unspoken yet nonetheless real way, it was demanded by a world wearied to indignation by the physical manifestations of the spiritual battle in which it was now engaged.
Reaching the plateau 11,000 feet above sea level which overlooks the Vischongo River, Milner came at last to the stone entryway and climbed the thirty-three steps to the truncated apex of the pyramid-style temple. Dropping to his knees he prostrated himself in the direction of the setting sun. There were no eager crowds looking on. Only a few photographers willing to brave the heat for the sake of the story had been dropped on the plateau by helicopters and now climbed the stone steps to capture Milner's words and actions for the anxious audience.
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