Last Days (Last Days Trilogy #1)

by Jacqueline Druga

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that, sir. We had to arrest the flight attendant.”

  Marcus stopped walking. “Janine?”

  “Actually, Janine wasn’t a ‘Janine’. She was a he, and he had enough firepower on him to do some real damage.”

  “No kidding?” Marcus said, and started to walk again. “They uh... did they get someone else to serve lunch?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Good.” Marcus sighed, as he stepped up the stairs to the plane. “It’s a long flight, you know.” He paused to look back before entering, giving London a farewell glance, feeling excited about getting back home.

  Los Angeles, CA

  Rev. Bailey examined himself in a hardwood-encased mirror, puffing out his cheeks as he turned his head from left to right. “Now, darlin’, you make my cheeks a bit rosier. I haven’t had time for the sun bed lately.”

  The make-up woman smiled, then grabbed her blush and walked around to face him.

  He peeked around her to check on her work, watching her efforts closely, keeping in mind that the last time she worked on him, he looked like Santa Claus.

  Taylor Dougherty walked into the dressing room. Taylor, Christian Central Network’s GM, had never made a personal appearance on a Sunday morning, but Rev. Bailey had a feeling that he would be by. “Well, well. Lookie here. How are you this morning, Mr. Dougherty?”

  Taylor was a young executive, too young to have earned the General Manager position, but his father owned half the network. “I’m uh… concerned, Reverend.”

  “About what?” Rev. Bailey smiled at Taylor’s discomfort, then re-checked his make-up. “That looks good, darlin’. Now would you give me and Mr. Dougherty a few moments before you finish?”

  “Yes sir.” She set down the make-up tray and left, closing the door behind her.

  “Have a seat.” Rev. Bailey instructed. “What’s on your mind, son?”

  “I heard a rumor,” Taylor said.

  “Rumors are a nasty business, you know. Gossip is the work of the devil.”

  “Well, I’m hoping the devil is at work here.”

  “What?” Rev. Bailey asked, chuckling.

  “I heard, Reverend that you plan to announce your support for this cloning of Christ.”

  “I plan to do no such thing,” Rev. Bailey said. “I do not support the cloning. Nor do I plan on saying anything like that on my show.”

  “Thank you.” Taylor said, relieved.

  “I do, however...” Rev. Bailey watched Taylor in the mirror. “…plan on denouncing the violent protest against it.”

  “Then you support the cloning.”

  “I didn’t say that,” the Reverend responded. “I plan on denouncing the violence. My Goodness, son, the Lord hates those who love violence. Psalms, eleven, five.”

  “It’s not the violence I agree with,” countered Taylor. “It’s what’s causing it that the network cannot support. Christians everywhere are outraged. You have a scientific institute resurrecting Christ.” Taylor’s voice grew angry as Reverend Bailey smiled. “Why are you smiling?” Taylor demanded.

  “Resurrecting Christ? Listen to you. They’re doing no such thing. People need to know that resurrecting Christ, re-birthing him, is not what’s going on here. They are conducting an experiment. That’s it and that’s all.” Rev. Bailey swiveled his chair to face Taylor. “I spoke with the top scientists in the world before I came to this conclusion. I asked Mr. Westing himself. How many shots do they have at trying to make this clone? You know what they told me? One hundred and twenty-two.”

  “That’s a lot.” Taylor said resolutely.

  “It’s nominal horseshit,” Rev. Bailey countered. “Do you remember the sheep that was cloned? It took them over three hundred tries to get it right. Three hundred. The last time Westing tried to clone, it took two hundred and eighteen times. And that was to clone a mouse. Do you get where I’m going with this?” Rev. Bailey smiled. “There is no way they are going to do this in one hundred and twenty-two attempts. They’ll fail. And if by some chance they don’t, if by some chance the cloning process succeeds...” Rev. Bailey tossed his hands up. “Well, it won’t be because of some scientist, it’ll be because the Lord wants it to happen.”

  “So what exactly do you plan on preaching?” Taylor asked.

  “I’m going to tell my followers to have faith… to have faith that what should happen will happen, and that the failure of this project shouldn’t be tied to violence, but rather on our Lord’s will to see it fail. I’m hoping that I can get other ministries to heed my advice. Too many lives have been lost already. This thing has a million-to-one shot of coming off.”

  Taylor shook his head in disgust. “Do you think you can stop the violence?”

  “I don’t know. But, as a man of God, it is my duty to try.”

  Taylor rose from his seat. “What happens, Reverend, if the cloning is successful? What will you preach then?”

  “If they succeed, then we should examine why that is. Is there a reason? The Lord promised his son would return. Maybe He is testing us. Remember, we, as a people, didn’t believe in Him the last time He came.”

  “He wasn’t delivered in a test tube.” Taylor protested. “That’s kind of a farfetched way for God to send his son.”

  “Well, the last time, He arrived via an angel through a woman who knew no man.” Rev. Bailey winked. “That’s kind of farfetched, too. But it happened.”

  “I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Taylor shrugged, and headed for the door, stopping at the threshold. “Oh, incidentally, how much does the station get out of this?”

  “Fifteen percent, as usual.”

  Taylor bobbed his head judiciously. “Works for me. Have a good day.”

  “You too, son.” Returning to the mirror, Rev. Bailey watched Taylor leave, then touched his cheek and frowned. “Melanie,” he called. “I’m lopsided here, darlin’, come and finish. I have a show to do.”

  Chicago, IL

  Marcus searched for hidden meaning as he slumbered, half asleep, half awake, almost like being in two places at once. His dreams had always been vivid, but this one was extraordinary.

  Hard raindrops pelted his face, blinding him to everything more than a foot away. He was walking down an unknown city street, most of the surrounding buildings reduced to rubble. Those still standing were on fire. Bodies were everywhere, and the rats were feeding.

  Bonfires burned in the park and beer cans were scattered on the ground. Men ran about making oddly muted sounds.

  Marcus’ foot hit an empty Pepsi can, causing it to scrape loudly against the concrete. He was drawn to voices cheering in the distance. The voices grew louder. He turned into a dark alley no more than twelve feet across.

  Toward the end, the alley opened up to a fenced park. Marcus walked toward the park but was almost immediately cast down as a motorcycle roared past his left shoulder. The driver skidded to a stop, turned toward Marcus and smiled, his hair long and black, his face dirty. “Welcome,” he said. With a deep laugh, he drove off.

  As the bike vanished, Marcus heard sobbing, familiar, but still distant. A woman knelt at the top of a small hill, hunched forward, sobbing uncontrollably into her hands.

  Marcus walked toward the woman, her cries growing louder as he approached.

  “Hello,” Marcus spoke, and then crouched down next to her. He bent his head as if in prayer, his eyes catching sight of a diluted blood-red stream, flowing down the gentle incline that separated them.

  Marcus dipped his finger into the stream, amazed to find that it was, in fact, blood.

  He lifted his eyes to the source of the stream. He saw male legs crossed at the ankles, an iron spike driven through the feet, pinning them to a wooden cross.

  Marcus tried to make out the man’s face, but the rain was too heavy. The man’s features appeared as though part of an oblique sculpture; nothing definite, nothing certain.

  Perhaps the woman would stop
crying, Marcus thought, if she knew this was all a dream. He placed his hand on her bent back. “Stop crying. It’s all right. None of this is really happening.”

  “No.” She shook her head, “it is.” Slowly, she lifted her face, pulling aside her baby-blue veil. She looked directly at Marcus.

  The blueness of her eyes took a hold of Marcus. Only one woman had eyes that blue. “Reg?” Marcus asked, astonished.

  “Save him, Marcus. Save him,” she cried.

  “Who?” Marcus asked.

  “He is our only hope.”

  Confused, Marcus wiped the rain from his face. He looked ahead, but the ankle-spiked man was gone, replaced by a pair of demonic green and yellow eyes on the horizontal cross bar. A beastly baritone voice accompanied the eyes and instructed him, “Leave!”

  Marcus forced himself awake. “Shit!” he muttered, as he opened his eyes.

  After realizing he was still on the airplane, he closed his eyes for a second and tried to slow his heartbeat. But the taste of blood in his mouth recaptured his focus.

  Marcus jerked to a sitting position as a beam of light lit him from his left.

  “Are you all right, sir?” a man asked, holding a flashlight.

  “John?” Marcus blinked his eyes.

  “Yes, sir. It’s me, sir. Are you okay?” John responded.

  “Yeah. Wow, what a dream,” Marcus said. He straightened himself in the row of the chairs, only then realizing that he was at least fifteen feet from where he’d originally fallen asleep.

  “Sir?” John looked at him oddly. “The plane crashed, sir. The right engine exploded on descent and we had to make an emergency landing. The pilot lost control at the end of the runway.”

  “We crashed?” Marcus asked, eyes wide open. “Tell me no one was killed.”

  “Fortunately, only injuries so far, but there are some really bad ones, sir.”

  Marcus exhaled slowly, and then panicked. He checked his wrist and saw that the case was still attached. He then checked the vials. They were still intact.

  “Let me help you off the plane, sir.” John held out his hand.

  Marcus stood up, and looked around the plane. Windows were displaced; debris was everywhere. He was amazed and grateful that he slept through it all.

  Inching his way through the crooked seats, Marcus gazed around the plane in a daze, subconsciously dreaming of Reggie and wondering why.

  “I heard your plane crashed,” Rose commented as they walked down a corridor at the Chicago Institute.

  “Yeah. How do you like that? And I slept through it.” He pointed to the top of his head. “Three stitches.”

  “You big baby.”

  They rounded yet another bend, and Marcus looked back. “I’m going to get lost. I’ve never been in this wing.”

  “They just redid it. Also just for you, they added an escape route.”

  “Are you serious?” Marcus asked.

  “Yep,” Rose replied.

  Rose showed her identification to one of two guards standing at the end of the hallway. After examining it, the guard stretched a key from the coil around his belt and inserted it into a small hole in the wall.

  “Better check to see if you’re in there,” Rose admonished jokingly.

  “I’d better be.” Marcus placed his palm flat on the tray. A sequence of small lights flashed on and off. Marcus heard a buzz. The door behind the guards opened.

  “We’re home.” Rose stepped through. “You’re the first door. You got the big office.” She inserted a card key into the door.

  “Big enough for company?” Marcus asked, stepping through the threshold.

  “Who are you planning on moving in? Wife number five?”

  “Maybe.” Marcus smiled. “Not bad,” he said. The quarters were spacious, living room with kitchen attached to the back wall. “Home for nine months.”

  “Bathroom to your left. Bedroom to your right,” said Rose. “One large closet.” She slid open the double doors next to the bedroom door. “But you don’t have too many clothes, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.” Marcus walked up to Rose and closed the closet. “They’re just mostly the same.”

  Rose raised her eyebrows and grinned. “Here’s your card key.” She handed it to Marcus.

  “Thanks.” Marcus watched Rose turn and leave with her right hand raised in goodbye. He walked to his bedroom. It was tiny; there was barely enough room for a bed and a dresser. His bags lay at the foot of the bed. Unpacking would have to wait, Marcus thought. He’d only needed a change of clothes for home. And after a shower, home was where he was headed.

  Seville, Ohio

  “Reg. Hurry up,” Kyle called from the living room. He sat on the couch trying to comb Seth’s hair. No matter how much he wet it down, the boy’s hair just popped back up. “What in the world is wrong with your hair?”

  “Pap, I can do it,” Seth said assuredly, his face crinkled with conviction. “Ow! Pap, that hurts.”

  “Here. I give up.” Kyle handed Seth the comb. “Reg!”

  “I’m hurrying,” Reggie yelled from the other room.

  “What’s taking you so long? We’re only going to visit Eliza and George,” Kyle yelled back.

  The local news came on the television. The front entrance to the Westing Biogenetic Institute appeared on the screen. Kyle grabbed the remote control and turned up the volume.

  A reporter stood outside in a light drizzle, holding a microphone, commenting on the large number of protestors assembled behind him. The camera scanned the crowd. There were mobs of people, some toting signs, some jumping up and down, and waving their arms.

  “...and within the turmoil, another group of signs appeared.” the reporter said. “These signs did not spell hatred, nor condemnation, but peace.” The male reporter moved to a rain-soaked old woman who held a sign saying, “Support the Lord’s Work, Not the Violence.”

  “Is it true, ma’am, you came all the way from Indiana this morning?”

  “Yes sir. I came up right away,” she nodded. “Got a call from Rev. Bailey. He wants us to let these people do their work in peace… to stop the violence. We say that if the good Lord wants to send His Son in the form of a clone, then we should embrace Him for the miracle He is.”

  “Idiots.” Kyle shut off the set. “They’d believe anything that quack tells them. Seth, get your coat. We have...”

  “I’m ready,” Reggie proclaimed, making her entrance.

  Kyle jumped. “You scared me.” He stood and whistled. “Look at you. Is that lipstick you’re wearing? What’s the occasion?”

  “Marcus is coming home.” Reggie smiled.

  “Marcus has come home before. You never got dolled up then.” Kyle grabbed his coat.

  “I’m just trying to look nice.”

  “Right,” Kyle said slyly. “Let’s go, Seth. In the truck I’m going to tell you about a new man in your mom’s life. His name... is Herbie.”

  Reggie snickered and shook her head as she grabbed her jacket and followed.

  <><><><>

  “Ow.” Marcus snatched his hand from the curtain following his mother’s hard smack.

  “Marcus James Leon,” Eliza scolded. “Wrinkle my curtains and I will wrinkle your hide.”

  “Where is she?” Marcus asked with a grin, looking out the window. “Does she know I landed on time?”

  “She knows. I talked with her. But she’s not gonna rush right over to see you, Marcus. It hasn’t been that long.”

  “That doesn’t matter… a lot has happened since then.”

  “Not that much.” Eliza headed to the kitchen to tend to dinner. “George, make sure that boy doesn’t touch my curtains.”

  Without looking up from his paper, Marcus’ father grumbled, “Uh huh.” Then his ears perked. “Rounding the bend now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They just hit the dirt road.” George said in his deep voice. “I can hear them. Count to ten and look.”

  “I’m not f
alling for that, Dad.” Marcus smiled. “You used to tell me that all the time when I was a kid...”

  “Three, two....” George said.

  “I’m not...” Marcus peeked. He could see the dust behind Kyle’s pickup as it approached the house. With a wide grin and a look at his father, Marcus leapt toward the front door.

  The dirt road led to a driveway that stopped a good distance before the Leon home. Reggie leaned toward the windshield and smiled as the truck slowed down and she saw Marcus step onto the porch. “Son of a...” She reached for the door handle.

  “Reg,” Kyle said. “Let me stop...” Reggie was out the door before Kyle finished the sentence. He turned to Seth and said, “Don’t worry… Herbie will settle her down.”

  Reggie raced across the front lawn, heart pounding. She had missed him so much that she didn’t even pause to look at him, just jumped at him, clinging to him with a shriek.

  Marcus laughed as Reggie pummeled him. Her enthusiastic embrace knocked him off his feet and onto the damp grass.

  “Miss me?” Reggie smiled nearly laying on top of him. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “Actually, I was hoping to see Belinda Gold step from that truck.”

  With a playful smack to his chest, Reggie rolled and sat alongside him. “What happened to your head?”

  “My plane crashed.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. I slept through it.”

  “Figures.” Reggie shifted her eyes when she saw her father’s legs.

  “Reggie,” Kyle spoke. “Tell me I’m not seeing you roll around with that heathen boy.”

  “Hey, Mr. Stevens.” Marcus smiled and reached up his hand.

  Kyle shook it and helped Marcus to his feet. “Nice to have you home.”

  “Thanks.” Marcus dusted himself off then helped Reggie up. “We should go inside.”

  Kyle nodded. “Good thing I covered Seth’s eyes.” Kyle started walking toward the house “He didn’t need to see that ‘Splendor in the Grass’ stuff. He might spill his guts to Herbie. Then you’d be in big trouble, Reg. There goes that spring wedding.”