by P. J. Day
“Who’s they?” she asked loudly, as cheers and applause erupted around them. “Don’t be silly, no one’s kidnapping you. Who’s gonna kidnap someone as powerful as you?”
“I’m not that powerful,” Logan said, as he smiled and waved at the thousands gathered to see him. “I’ve never felt worse.” He then waved at the sky, grinning at the multiple cameras that hung underneath the swarm of news helicopters, knowing full well that his image lacked the ability to be transmitted. He even smirked at the police in riot gear. Many of them tipping their helmets and lifting their clear shields at the charismatic demigod.
“Things are so unfair,” he said. “How can perfection be demanded from beings that are inherently imperfect?”
“What do you mean?”
He then bellowed at the crowd, raising his arms in the air, animated. “How can perfection be demanded from beings that are inherently imperfect?”
The assembly of Angelinos roared back with approval and cheers.
Logan fed off the energy of the diverse crowd and paced the lawn like a four-star general. “An overwhelming majority of you love your families, you do what’s best for them, you take care of them, and you love them. Yet, the majority of you aren’t worth saving?” Logan’s voice projected, his vocal chords amplified through divine means. “That’s right. The powers-that-be, whether those who rule you, on Earth or from the heavens, think that’s not enough. Surrender unto me, they say. You live for them, to satiate their power. Sure, they highlight those who do their bidding by giving them the keys to everlasting salvation or the keys to a wonderfully materialistic life on Earth, but only a selected few, the sycophants, those who sacrifice their own identity for their own selfish means know how to play the game or are allowed to play the game. What’s gonna happen to those of you who still do the right thing by looking your children in the eye before bedtime and remining them how much you love them, but will be judged in death because you profess a different faith from the one that worships the dominant God? Or have lied for survival, or have thieved because you’re hungry, or have cursed a wretched set of abusive parents? The expectations are unreasonable, you should not be punished, you should be heard.”
Logan’s enthusiasm and the vibrating crescendo in his speech escalated feelings of empowerment for everyone who came to see the young man who had bucked the structure of power. “You work 50, 60, 70 hours a week, yet you can’t feed your family. You’re called freeloaders, unskilled. That’s right, unskilled. The new word for ‘slave.’ An economic unit, not worthy of a voice or decency. The hypocrisy in the message is deafening, isn’t it? Work hard they say and you will be rewarded, pray hard they say, and you will be rewarded with eternal salvation, yet there is limited space. Resources, people. Whether on Earth or in the heavens...resources are what determines who lives and who dies, who succeeds and who fails, who gets absorbed and who receives the gift of eternity. Nothing else, nothing more.”
Fisker’s face contorted with agitation. “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” His wings pulsed against the back of his suit, as he was tempted to swoop down and silence Logan, but the Prophecy was near its culmination, and if humans witnessed Logan getting thrashed by an angel, the demigod’s plan for disruption could come to fruition. Fisker snapped at one of the snipers, “How come you haven’t taken a shot?”
“The girl...she’s in the way...I can’t, sir.”
“Who cares about the girl?”
“We’re already getting shit for taking out civilians in these types of situations. I don’t want the headache and I don’t want the paperwork. I’m not trying to be disrespectful, sir, but you should know better.”
Everyone’s eyes and ears were dialed in on Logan Drake. People who were working in the nearby office towers stepped out onto the rooftops to listen. The rooftop crowds gave Fisker pause. “Wonderful,” he said, with sarcasm. “Everyone’s gonna be wondering about our little party.”
The wind howled like a beast in agony. “Look,” yelled a child in the crowd, pointing toward the sky behind him. The low-hanging dual layer of clouds, one darker than the one below, spawned a collection of distended whirling funnels. They tapped the tops of the buildings with a delicate grace, sending some of the spectators running back inside their buildings. The clouds from which the funnels descended, looked angry and hateful. Everyone gawked and gasped, as the small funnels converged, creating a powerful tornado which began ripping at the satellite dishes and antennas that lined the rooftops of the skyline overlooking the park. The twister grew exponentially. First, as wide as an entire 20-story building, then as wide as two. It touched ground just north of the park and kicked up the vehicles from the street as if they were made of Styrofoam. Eighteen-wheelers still attached to their containers were thrown against the sides of buildings. Terrified pedestrians who were downwind of the tornado ran toward the gathering. The sounds of twisting metal and the crunching of concrete filled the ears of everyone who came to hear Logan speak, as panic replaced inspiration.
“Listen,” Logan said, his voice louder than before, thundering across the sea of panicked clamor. “We can still overcome this. It doesn’t have to end.”
The large twister made it way down one of the narrow streets, the crowd began scattering away from Logan and the oncoming twister.
“Wait,” Logan pleaded loudly.
The frenzied swarm fled as some got trampled, others stopped to help those who were getting knocked and pushed to the ground. Amidst the fearful chatter, cackles and chuckles rang from the center of the pandemonium. Even though they weren’t supernaturally loud, the sounds were out of place and caught Logan’s attention as well as those who were around the hyenic outbursts. In the middle of the sea of humanity, stood Paolo dancing and prancing in a pink tutu, with a multi-colored parasol, and Cindy, following suit, holding a pair of cymbals in her hands, which she bashed together with comic vigor, while wearing a red felt fez on her head. Their actions caught the attention of a young boy who first flashed a smile, then laughed, but the adults didn’t stop and yanked the boy by the arm. Logan noticed what they were doing and recognized their actions immediately. A feeling of joviality overtook him. Warmth overwhelmed him. Mother. “Everyone stop,” Logan boomed. “Tell jokes, make the person next to you laugh.”
Mirabel was very loyal to Logan, even staying at his side during the impending doom that swirled before them. She was confused at first, but if Logan Drake asked them to be humorous in the middle of a crisis, who was she to question it? She tucked in her arms and pinched her hands close to her chest and hopped around like a bunny, compelling a group of little girls with long, silky-straight, black hair to giggle nonstop. A sweaty and tired Keelen Grant joined in on the hopping and wiggled her nose as if she smelled around for a delectable patch of fresh grass. As expected, the children, who had an amazing ability to disregard the most heinous of events to appreciate a moment of slapstick, burst into laughter.
“What are you doing?” Mirabel asked Keelen.
“Hopping around like a bunny.”
“I’m a T-Rex, not a bunny. Didn’t you hear the growl?”
“I thought that was the sound bunnies make,” Keelen said, eyeing the oncoming twister.
“Rabbits don’t make sounds, do they?”
A clear, glass dome burst from within the crowd’s center, next to where a wildly dressed
Paolo and Cindy danced like fools. Thalia grew powerful as she absorbed the laughter, particularly the sincere and pure glee that came from the children. The dome reverberated outward and did not cease its growth until it shielded everyone who stood at the outer edges of the park. People who scrambled away and spilled out onto the surrounding streets, made their way back and squeezed themselves inside the protective bubble. As the twister approached, all eyes stared in fright as the dome shielded them from airborne tires, shards of glass as long as spears, and pieces of indistinct metal.
Fisker told his men to stay put. “Stand firm,” he said. “T
he tornado is heading away from us.”
“What is going on down there?” asked one of the shooters, as the wind drowned out the consonants in his words.
“Focus,” Fisker yelled. “Keep your eye on Logan.”
By news estimates, there were over 100,000 people gathered at McArthur Park, every one of them now under the protection of Thalia’s shield. Logan ran toward the wondrous woman who glowed as if she were powered by the city’s power grid. Keelen, not long behind, did her best to remain calm and collected, as she witnessed an incomprehensible miracle. She neared the motley crew at the center of the dry lake and then made eye contact with the petite girl dressed in the silly attire who held the cymbals at her side. “Cindy?” she asked loudly. Everyone around her parted, letting her reach her friend unobstructed.
“Keelen?” Cindy replied, with elation. She dropped the cymbals from her hands and rushed Keelen with open arms. They connected in the middle of the dry lake like two long-lost sisters who hadn’t seen each other since the beginning of some decade-long war, even though it had only been two days since they’d last talked.
Keelen smothered Cindy’s cheeks with both hands. “I thought I lost you.”
“Me, too. You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Cindy said, as tears cascaded down her grimed cheeks. “I told you what I found in Raffi’s shop would lead to something. I told you. This is all fate, Keelen. You and I, Logan, Thalia...this was all pre-planned.”
Keelen shook her head. “Everything is falling apart though. Logan is something bigger than we thought, but he can’t stop the tornadoes and the earthquakes,” Keelen said, excitedly pointing toward the sky. “Look...look at the clouds...the redness between the clouds...something big is happening. I am so scared.”
“Don’t be...we’re winning, Keelen,” Cindy said with a grin that exuded cultish charm. “Look what Thalia is doing.”
Logan jogged past Keelen and Cindy, and approached Paolo. “Where’d you find her?”
“She was in Shia Labeouf’s house in Beverly Hills.”
“The actor? He was the Kronotos?”
Paolo nodded.
Thalia kneeled on the ground, hands on her thighs, head pointing toward the sky. She concentrated deeply, using all her energy to uphold the protective ethereal dome. She knew deep inside that this was her last stand. The pure laughter of the young was the last shot of consecrated adrenaline that she could gather and harness. Now, it was a race between her life force and the monstrous tornado that was still whirling with devilish force right above everyone’s heads.
“Mother?” cried Logan. “It’s me, your son.”
She did not reply.
“Let her focus, Logan,” said Paolo.
Cindy walked up to Logan and placed her hand on his shoulder. “She needs more. This dome won’t hold up much longer.”
Logan flashed Cindy a look of agreement. He stood up and hurriedly sidestepped in circles, drawing everyone’s attention. “Make each other laugh. Now,” he said, loudly. “I know it’s hard to do in a time of crisis, but trust me, do what it takes to make the person next to you chuckle, laugh or giggle.”
A mass of jokes commenced. Punchlines flew through the air—some in Spanish and some in Korean. Some bawdy, some racist, others as clean and corny as the ones you find etched at the end of Popsicle sticks. Others resorted to slapstick in their routines. Pratfalls, silly sounds, and feigning punches. Some laughed, others tried to, as they remained terrified by the happenings outside the dome. But it was enough. Thalia spurted out another glow. The last glow. The one that was able to hold onto what was left of the large tornado, which managed to sprout through divine intervention but ultimately was no match for the cool ocean current that streamed in from Alaska, and which usually kept Los Angeles twister-free, year-round.
Thalia’s body limped flatly to the ground and began to convulse. The blue gleam in her eyes dissipated. The white in her eyes was then covered by a black deadness that had spread from the center of her pupils. Logan lowered himself over his mother and held her against his chest. “Mother...I thought...please, stay with me...” he said, in a panic, with the gut-wrenching realization that she was somehow still alive but dying in front of his eyes.
She gasped for air but was able to express a measure of coherence. “Son...I see you...you’re beautiful.”
“Mother, stay with me. I need you.”
“They took my gifts, Theolodus.”
“I know. Mother, please. We need your protection. I need more time. We all need more time.”
“I can’t, son. My death is destiny, but you are Prophecy...fulfill, as I am now fulfilled.”
Cindy kneeled down and held Thalia’s hand. She turned to Logan. “Logan, let everyone know. Empower them.”
Logan scowled up at Fisker before opening his dry lips. While on his knees, he held his dying mother in his arms and began to glow—a pleasant byproduct of two supernatural creatures connecting on the physical but subservient plane. “Listen to me,” he implored the audience. “You can reject your own destruction, but you need to dive deeply into your guts, not just you, but everyone. It is as simple as love for all mankind. I know it sounds cliché, but Adonai, who is the most powerful god overseeing our dimension, is dependent on division, lust, envy, greed. Adonai used my mother to gain access to entertainment, the arts, film, music, Hollywood, so he could influence you with decadence, all the while telling you to follow rules that are damn near impossible to follow because you are flawed creatures. So, you must reject classism, racism, no more of this 1% or 99%. Forgive your enemies, even the ones who have done you wrong. Love them. Care for them. Don’t be tempted by this divine lottery. Who among you is ready to reject the love for your children, your parents, your friends, and your families for a remote chance at everlasting life? This is the truth, there is a dimension between Earth and the heavens, what many of you call purgatory. Your loved ones are waiting for you there, but this is what Adonai is fighting to get access to. They, the ones in the heavens, need your souls to continue their existence. You are ripe for absorption. Think about what I just revealed to you.”
Logan’s words carried up toward Fisker. In frustration, he turned around and bent down and attempted to snatch the sniper rifle from the prone agent. The rifleman tucked the gun underneath his chest. He peered into Fisker’s eyes and said, “Hey, is what this guy saying true?”
After witnessing the paranormal pyrotechnics below and hearing Logan’s earth-shattering words, the other agents accosted Fisker. “Who is this guy? Why are we trying to assassinate him?”
“It doesn’t matter, you need to follow through with your orders,” Fisker yelled. “Now hand me the rifle.”
“I don’t want to be absorbed...I want to continue seeing my wife,” said the rifleman, as he stood up firmly grasping his rifle and stepping away from Fisker. “I got kids, man.”
“Well, if you listened to what your clergyman, priest, rabbi has been saying and following, then the fear of separation from your families shouldn’t be a concern,” said Fisker.
“But what they say is all different,” said the sniper. “They all contradict each other.”
“Last time I ask,” threatened Fisker. “Give me the rifle.”
“No,” said the sniper. The other agents surrounded Fisker and rigidly stood their ground.
While Fisker confronted his new found trouble, below, Logan stood up and stared intensely into Cindy’s eyes. “Comfort my mother,” he said. “Look after her. Be at her side, please.”
Confused, Cindy responded, “Wait, where are you going?”
Logan placed Thalia on the ground. There was a hypnotized look on his face as he walked away from the group.
Up on the rooftop, Fisker backpedaled toward the ledge as the agents encroached upon him in defiance. He barked, “I’m your superior in more ways than one. If you wish to live your last days in peace and see your families one last time, I advise you stand down.”
“Who are you?
” asked one of the agents. “Why do you want us to kill that young man? Just where are the orders coming from?”
Fisker sensed the precipice behind him. He never felt threatened, but it was his duty to lead these men, but protecting the Prophecy took precedence over everything. Logan had to be silenced. For the sake of Caeli’s survivability, the demigod’s revelation had to be squashed. If hardened men, who were loyal to the department, loyal to his leadership, were converted by Logan’s message, the threat to subvert the Prophecy was now reality. Fisker revealed his majestic and feathered wings to the agents. The men staggered backward to the ground. “Hand me the rifle,” Fisker demanded.
“No,” yelled the sniper. “I don’t know what you are. This isn’t right.”
Fisker snarled, “I gave you fair warning.” He stretched out his arm and the Remington rifle pulled away from the sniper’s arm and floated toward his hand. The men’s eyes popped with terror. Collectively, the group’s instincts for survival overcame them and they rushed the revealed angel. Fisker pulled his arms and shoulders back and then threw his chest and wings forward with insurmountable strength and power. The manufactured gale-force wind picked the men up off their feet, hurled them through the air, and finally plunged them toward their deaths, 18 stories below. Fisker lifted the sniper rifle off the ground and faced the gathering below. He peered through the scope, and with a trembling hand, did his best to adjust the aim.
“Keelen?” Logan called, calmly waving his hand toward her.
She approached him and offered her hand and felt the coldness of his touch. He gripped them tightly and peered into her eyes with tranquility and strength. Eyes narrowed and without motion, Logan said, “I love you, Keelen Grant. I always have and always will.”
“What? Why are you saying this to me now?”
Fisker placed the crosshairs squarely on the back of Keelen’s head. The bullet could pass through her skull and penetrate Logan’s forehead after it passed through hers. It was just a matter of timing and dependent on the synchronicity of breath and a lull in the wind, he thought.
