A Premature Apocalypse

by Dan Sofer

  Natural disasters will rend the Holy City asunder, Rabbi Emden had said. Precious stones will fill the streets.

  Had the Messianic Era truly arrived? Was his life in danger?

  But the list was not complete. Elijah had not returned, nor had the Third Temple of Fire descended from the Heavens. Leviathans did not swarm the oceans. And, as far as he was aware, human life still ended in death.

  Did this disaster even qualify? Earthquakes were a natural phenomenon. The timing was remarkable, but Israel did lie along the Dead Sea Transform, a well-known fault system. Tremors shook the Holy Land every couple of decades. The Galilee earthquake of 1837 had almost leveled the cities of Safed and Tiberius. This was just the worst tectonic event in recent history.

  A golden crown lay amid the rubble. Yosef picked it up, the thin plastic crown of a child’s Purim costume. The Kings of Old, Sivan had said.

  “Mr. Vice Prime Minister!” said a voice in English. The soldier who approached him had the same southern drawl as Reverend Adams, his uniform the patchy earth colors of digital camouflage. “We’ve secured the site.”

  “Excuse me!” said a soldier with a thick Russian accent. He wore a different patchwork uniform and a green beret. “He means that we secured the site!”

  Moshe had called in both the Americans and the Russians. Both armies had aircraft carriers stationed off Israeli waters and had airlifted the commandos to Jerusalem within an hour.

  Now Yosef stood between the fighters of rival superpowers in the heart of a torn and bleeding Jerusalem. Rabbi Emden’s voice whispered in his ears again. The mighty armies of Gog and Magog will amass in Jerusalem.

  “Both of you,” Yosef said. “Together!”

  The soldiers scowled at each other, then backed down. For the moment, Yosef had averted World War Three. His small country had enough troubles.

  Yosef continued his survey. A fleet of ambulances with the Red Star of David insignia carried off the remaining injured, and extraction teams rappelled into the crevasse to search for the missing.

  “Rabbi!” A soldier ran over to him. An American. What new disaster had the day brought?

  The soldier dropped to his knees at his feet. “This is the End, isn’t it?” The soldier grabbed the string tassels that stuck out from Yosef’s belt. “Teach me, Rabbi!” Tears flooded his eyes. “Teach us your Torah. Save us!”

  Yosef moved his mouth but failed to find the right words in English or any other language. The nations of the world will grasp the tassels of our clothes in their thirst to learn our Torah.

  While Yosef blinked in amazement, two of the soldier’s compatriots walked over, patted the teary soldier on the back, and hauled him away.

  Another sign. Another portent. Yosef’s fateful death drew one step nearer.

  The ground shook again. Yosef crouched down, steadying himself with his hands on the broken cobblestones. Metal groaned as a street lamp collapsed and shattered.

  When the tremor subsided Yosef got to his feet. An eerie sound made him turn around. A throaty groan, not quite human. The jungle nightmare whimper of suffering. The noise had emanated from the steaming chasm.

  Yosef inched closer to the broken edge. Then a large, grimy hand clamped onto the lip of the crevasse, and Yosef jumped. A second hand joined the first.

  A survivor! A survivor with thick, rough fingers. Yosef took another step forward when a large shaggy head poked above the surface. Large unseeing eyes stared right through him and curdled his blood.

  Yosef stumbled backward. He had seen no one like him. The survivor’s brow ridge protruded over his eyes. He had a broad, projecting nose and a small chin. Was this an earthquake survivor, or something very different?

  With a grunt of effort, the man leaped over the edge and stood erect on solid ground. Well, almost erect. Thick swirls of hair coated his body, but not one scrap of clothing.

  A second manlike creature climbed out behind him. And a third. Within seconds, two dozen hairy hominids—the females only slightly less hairy—stooped over the trembling rabbi, who had just noticed another key detail. Hairy or not, none of them had navels!

  The creatures shook their heads like wet dogs, blinked their eyes, and took in the street scene with visible curiosity.

  The leader of the pack considered Yosef, cocked his head to one side, and said, “Ook?”

  Chapter 41

  Isaac Gurion staggered down Shamai Street, his suit trousers torn and flapping at his shins. His ribs hurt, the side of his head was damp and sticky, his ears rang, and dust coated his entire body. He didn’t care about any of that, only the anger that raged within. He tried to kill me. The bastard tried to kill me!

  He pulled his iPhone from his breast pocket of his jacket. The screen was a web of shattered glass. He tossed the lifeless device into the gutter, pushed through the doors of the Dublin Irish Pub, and climbed onto a stool at the bar.

  He tossed a crumpled fifty onto the grimy wood.

  “Whisky,” he said, his voice like a croak.

  The bartender delivered a glass tumbler with two fingers of golden liquid. Gurion knocked it back, and the alcohol stung the bite marks on his tongue. The ground still shook beneath his feet, but the liquids in the bottles behind the bar didn’t.

  “More!”

  The bartender complied.

  The ringing in his ears subsided to a low hum, and the chatter of a television screen made him turn. A newscaster babbled away, and a photo of Moshe Karlin appeared on the screen.

  “In the wake of today’s catastrophe and despite recent corruption charges, Prime Minister Karlin’s approval ratings are higher than ever.”

  “You’ll pay for this!” Isaac growled at the screen. The couple at the corner table eyed him. “What are you looking at?” he yelled. They turned away. Bloody cowards.

  He dropped another crumpled note on the counter. “Turn that crap off.”

  Again, the bartender complied.

  Gurion sipped his drink and closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye, the dais lurched sideways. He dived off the platform, and seconds later, the ground swallowed it up.

  Demons, Avi Segal had called them. Unnatural and undead. Hyperbole, Gurion had thought. Election propaganda. Now he understood. Karlin wielded supernatural forces. He raised the dead and conjured earthquakes to smite his rivals. He had no limits and zero inhibitions. How could a mortal man, as powerful or rich as he may be, contend with an enemy like that?

  He slurped his drink and savored the pain of his open wounds. He’d find a way. If he had to sell his soul to the Devil, he’d take Karlin down.

  “Unfair, isn’t it,” said a sonorous voice beside him.

  On the next stool sat a black trench coat. A bald head rose above the lapels.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Your protest was going so well. Even I wanted to believe in the Kings of Old. You could almost smell the desire and the fear.”

  Irritation smoldered inside. The stranger knew more than he should, and Gurion did not enjoy being on the uninformed side of a conversation.

  “What do you want?”

  “To help a friend in need.”

  The trench coat turned, and Gurion came face-to-face with an immense beak nose and large, sensitive eyes. The man smiled. His poise and measured speech spoke of patient plans and an iron will. A man with no limits and zero inhibitions.

  Gurion patted his comb-over, located the greasy strings of hair at his ear, and pasted them into position.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “You deserve better, Mr. Gurion. Much better. Pick a card.”

  A deck of cards fanned out in the man’s hands, face down. Gurion had no patience for parlor tricks, but he humored him and selected a card.

  “Hello, King of Diamonds,” the man said.

  Gurion turned the card over. He was right.

  His new friend gave him a toothy smile. “One king alone may sit the throne. Don’t you agree?”

  Chapter 42<
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  Eli woke up with a start. Bright light shuttered his eyes. He made to cover his face with his hands, but his arms wouldn’t budge. Thick straps held them at the wrists. His ankles too. He tried to sit up, and another hard restraint pressed into his neck. He writhed on the hard, flat surface at his back to the hum of fluorescent lights. The place smelled of formaldehyde. Where am I?

  He craned his neck to turn his face away from the harsh light. The ceiling sagged and curved inward, the inside of a tent. A metal trolley stood beside the hard metal bed and contained medical implements: scalpels, hypodermic syringes, and sterile cotton swabs.

  Then it came to him—the earthquake at Zion Square. Noga reaching for his hand. Him clutching her fingers, heaving upward. They were safe, on solid ground. Then they fell.

  A hospital. Of course. A field hospital! That would explain the tent, if not the silence. But what kind of hospital kept patients strapped to metal tables?

  The light swung away and a man in a blue surgical mask and cap stood over him. Blue penetrating eyes evaluated him through rimless spectacles.

  “Welcome, Mr. Eli Katz.” The mask muffled the voice, but Eli still made the connection.

  “Dr. Stern?” Eli’s muscles relaxed, and he fell limp against the cold metal slab. He was back at the neurology ward of the Shaare Zedek Medical Center. But the hospital had looked very different. “Thank God it’s you. Can you help me with the straps? Where are we?”

  “Somewhere safe. You were lucky I found you. The hospitals are very crowded.”

  Eli’s muscles tensed again. They were not at the hospital.

  “Where’s Noga?”

  “Don’t worry about her. For now, you just need to relax. You’ll need your strength.”

  “Have you seen her? We were together when… when…”

  “Hush now.” The doctor made no move to undo the straps. Instead, he stabbed a large syringe through the lid of a sealed vial and pulled back on the plunger.

  “What is that?”

  “This will help you relax.”

  “I don’t want to relax. I have to find Noga.” Dr. Stern extracted the syringe, pushed the plunger, and a jet of liquid sprayed into the air. “No, Doctor, please.” This wasn’t real, this was a nightmare. “Help!” he shouted. “Somebody, help me! Help!”

  The doctor maintained an eerie calm. “Save your strength. Nobody can hear you here. And besides, the city is in chaos. You’re just one more missing person.” He swabbed Eli’s shoulder with an alcohol pad.

  “You can’t do this. Let me go!”

  The doctor’s cold blue eyes locked on his. “You were right, you know.”

  The needle pricked Eli’s skin. “Ouch! Right about what?”

  “When you emerged from your coma at Shaare Zedek, you claimed to be Elijah the Prophet and over three thousand years old. You said you had to fulfill your destiny and anoint the Messiah. I didn’t believe you then, but I do now.” The doctor lowered the surgical mask and smiled. “But you got one thing wrong.”

  The doctor’s face swam in circles. “Oh, yeah? And what was that?”

  “Your destiny wasn’t to anoint the Messiah.” His words echoed as the room spun and faded. “Oh no. Your destiny was to meet me.”

  Chapter 43

  Ahmed stepped up to the podium, his fingers trembling on his cue cards. Below the stage, three hundred faces stared at him in silence. Cold sweat trickled down his temple. His lips quivered. The audience this morning was much larger than that of the event hall in Bethlehem—and an impressive display of popular support for the Mahdi, considering the havoc of yesterday’s earthquake. But the size of the turnout had not caused his nerves.

  Black flags lined the expansive courtyard between the faculty buildings of Al-Quds University in East Jerusalem. The flags honored Hamas and Islamic Jihad, and although the terrorist organizations would have applauded Ahmed the suicide bomber, they would not like the words he had decided to say today.

  A man cleared his throat. And another. Why was the Mahdi silent? From the front row, Hasan gave him a plastic smile, his eyes widening with a silent demand: Get on with it! Sitting there among the dignitaries in his fancy clothes, his cousin had forgotten their argument earlier that morning. The sight of him hardened Ahmed’s resolve.

  He leaned into the microphone. “Yesterday’s earthquake was a sign,” he said, his voice loud, echoing off the facades of white Jerusalem stone. Not his voice; the Mahdi’s.

  “A sign of a new era ahead,” he continued. “A time when we will stop talking about struggle, because victory will already be ours. The End Times.”

  Heads nodded in the crowd, like so many sheep. They bleated their agreement.

  The shepherd is not their friend, Samira had said.

  Ahmed turned to the next cue card. The words spoke of God smiting the Jews in downtown Jerusalem. They called for a Final Intifada, in which the entire Arab world would unite to wipe the Jewish Stain from the Middle East.

  He looked up, away from the cards, at the blue heavens.

  “A time,” he continued, in his own words, “of forgiveness and reconciliation. An end to the hatred in our hearts and the lies in our ears.”

  Murmurs of confusion circulated among the herd, unaccustomed to a message of peace from their leaders.

  He skipped to the final card. “Tomorrow,” he said, raising his voice to counter the rising hubbub, “meet me at Al Aqsa. Bring your sons and fathers, daughters and mothers. Each has a part to play in the final chapter of our story. Only together, as one, our hearts filled with unwavering belief, will we succeed where others have failed.”

  He turned from the podium and hurried to the stairs, ready to flee. A tight throng of men blocked his path to the base of the platform. Not masked men in black with knives and Kalashnikovs, but elders with kaffiyehs and ingratiating smiles, each eager to shake hands with the promised Mahdi. He shook their hands. In their eyes, he found not anger but gratitude.

  “Shukran!” Hassan shouted. Thank you! He pushed between the well-wishers and their Mahdi. “So much to plan! So much to do!” He grabbed Ahmed by the arm and marched him away.

  “What the hell do you think you were doing there?” he hissed when they reached the cover of an arched passageway. “Your instructions were very specific. Are you trying to get us both killed?”

  Ahmed clenched his jaw. His gamble had worked, and he would not throw away his winnings. “I want to see the Shepherd.”

  Samira’s words had loomed in his mind ever since their short reunion. She was right—he had no idea who was behind Hasan’s actions. If Ahmed was being led to another slaughterhouse, he had better find out soon, and the only way to know for sure was to hear it from the Shepherd himself.

  Hasan ran his hands through his hair. “I told you, that’s impossible.”

  “Then get ready for more surprises. Next time, at Al Aqsa.” Hasan had paraded Ahmed before the world as the Mahdi; he couldn’t touch him. And he knew it.

  Hasan punched the air and cried out, “Fine! I’ll take you to the Shepherd. But from now on you do exactly as I say.”

  Ahmed tried not to smile like an idiot. For once, he had outsmarted his cousin; he would meet the Great Imam himself.

  “Promise me!”

  “OK, I promise. I’ll do exactly what you say.” Once he had met the Shepherd, why shouldn’t he?

  “Good. You’ll see your precious Shepherd. But trust me, you’ll regret it.”

  Chapter 44

  Irina burst out of her corner office at the Dry Bones Society. With their recent activity in the south, thanks to the Sixth Aliyah, the Jerusalem office had grown quiet. Deceptively quiet. Then, yesterday, all hell had broken loose. She was going out of her mind.

  Manic hominids ran around the Call Center, grunting and whooping, while frantic society members tried to catch up.

  “Get down from there!” she cried.

  One of the new arrivals had climbed out of the third-floor window of the Call Center
and strolled along the outer ledge above Jaffa Street.

  “Get back in here, right now!”

  Like most of the new arrivals, the hairy imbecile could not wrap his head around the idea of clothing, and now he pressed against the window, giving her an uncomfortable close-up of his nether regions. She groaned.

  “Do something!” she yelled, her gaze falling on the nearest bystander, Ben, a lean twenty-something and one of the non-resurrected volunteers.

  “They don’t listen,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “They don’t even understand what we’re saying.”

  He was right, of course. The cave dwellers also had no clue about private property or personal hygiene, and the dormitory upstairs smelled like a zoo.

  “Where’s the professor?” Irina said over the ruckus. “Professor!”

  Professor Grommet shuddered at the sound of his name, as he nursed a paper cup of coffee to calm his nerves. The academic had doctorates in linguistics and anthropology and had helped them communicate with resurrected men and women in Assyrian, Babylonian, and even Sumerian.

  Irina raced in his direction, dodging a pair of thick-browed children as they played catch with the swivel chairs.

  “Help us!”

  “It’s no use,” the professor said. “Their language is too primitive—mere grunts and gestures. We could try sign language.”

  “Sign language—are you kidding me?”

  “Chimps can learn sign language, and these, ah, members, are far more advanced. Neanderthals, I assume, or Homo erectus.”

  Irina didn’t know what he was talking about, and she didn’t care. She had hundreds of semi-humans in her care, and the kitchen had run out of bananas. And today she’d seen more of their “members” than she could stomach.

  She made for the front door. Samira needed backup in the Absorption Center. She had worked overnight to get the generator running, and the water had returned that morning, but the new residents were not making life easy. If she didn’t make progress soon, she had half a mind to call pest control.

  At the door, she collided with Alex. His eyes wandered to the charging hominids. “Not a good time?”