Scars

by Patience Prence

  SCARS

  by

  Patience Prence

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Spring Harvest on Smashwords

  Scars:

  An Amazing End-Times Prophecy Novel

  Copyright © 2010 by Patience Prence

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  ISBN 978-0-9826336-0-1

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  For Yeshua

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  And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.

  Acts 2:17

  Table of Contents

  1. The Dream

  2. The Day of Pentecost

  3. The Hollywood Quake

  4. The Visitors

  5. Betrayed

  6. The Death Camp

  7. The Trial

  8. The Execution

  Acknowledgements

  How to Order Online

  Author

  1

  THE DREAM

  The primeval recesses of her soul clinch with terror.

  Instinct screams at her, pushes her to get away, to survive before it is too late.

  Becky’s innocent gaze darts across the landscape. All she sees are the dark outline of mounds of dirt and massive oak trees in the distance.

  Her small white hands clutch at her pink-flowered nightgown.

  RUN! her mind screams over and over again.

  She slowly inhales a trembling breath and wills her legs to move forward. She darts out of the line of prisoners that has just descended from the train. She sprints past the rusty boxcars and the three soldiers clad in black, grasping machine guns.

  A whistle screeches, and large circles of bright lights dance with the shadows around the expansive train yard.

  Cold air stings her lungs as they pump her panicked breath past her chapped lips. Her racing blood echoes in her ears. Beyond a final set of iron tracks, a dark field stretches out before her.

  Her muscles burn as she pushes her legs to move faster and harder toward the safety of the trees on the other side of the field. Cold wind whips at her flushed face.

  RUN! her mind screams as she obeys its command.

  Sagebrush cuts into her legs. Jagged rocks puncture her bare feet. Her heart wants to explode in her chest.

  A mustard-colored bulldozer with its broad hydraulic blade sits like a sleeping dinosaur in the darkness ahead.

  She runs to the far side of the metal heap and braces her palms against the worn rusty tracks. The bloody soles of her feet throb with pain. Her legs tremble uncontrollably. She tries to quiet her stinging breath.

  The glint of a flashlight beam ricochets against the cold, yellow steel of the bulldozer. Her eyes widen at the sound of heavy footsteps.

  She buries her pain and hurries into the shadows.

  Her ankle twists under her weight, and she falls on her hands and knees. A hill of fresh dirt looms before her. Impetuously she crawls to the mound.

  A putrid stench rises from a large dark pit next to the mound. “UGH!” Her nose wrinkles in disgust.

  Sharp gravel tears at her flimsy nightgown as she rolls down the side into the pit. Her body becomes light as it falls into the darkness below. Her back slams hard against the moist ground, knocking the wind out of her. Dazed, she stares up at the cold night sky blanketed with stars.

  Loud sirens puncture the chill of the night air. Clutching her knees tight to her chest, she folds herself into the blackest corner of the pit trying to make herself invisible.

  Long minutes pass as she strains to make sense of the noises above her. Deep, male voices call out to each other across the crisp sky; boots fall heavily against gravel; gun metal rattles sharply.

  Without warning a diesel engine roars to life, smothering all the other sounds.

  She feels a grip of fear in the core of her stomach.

  All around her the ground begins to vibrate. The heavy machine groans and lumbers toward the pit. Small rocks and soil cascade from the stars above.

  “OH, NO!” Becky screams under her breath as the wailing of the bulldozer grows louder and louder.

  I’ve got to get out of here—or I’ll be buried alive! Her fingernails claw at the steep earthen walls of the pit as she tries to exit her hiding place. The metal beast roars and shakes the ground. The walls of the pit crumble in. Becky falls backward as an ocean of dirt and rocks crashes on top of her. The weight of the rubble presses hard against her small chest.

  Dirt fills her mouth and her eyes.

  HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME! she wants to scream at the top of her lungs, but only mud sputters from her mouth. Her arms flail against the raining debris.

  I can’t see. . .I can’t breathe. . . .

  Her fingers brush the familiar shape of a human hand. Her heart speeds as she grabs hold like a drowning girl grasping for a life preserver. Through the suffocating grime and darkness she searches for the face belonging to the hand that would rescue her and pull her from the choking bowels of the earth.

  The bulldozer growls again. The walls of the pit melt inward. The earth holds Becky’s weak body in a paralyzing grip. She helplessly stops fighting against it and holds onto the hand with all her remaining strength. As the walls of the pit collapse, they release the body of a young man from his grave. He rolls with the heaving ground and settles next to Becky like a limp rag doll. His black, hollow eyes stare back at her.

  Becky’s eyelids fling open as she springs awake with a jolt.

  The weight of the earth still presses down on her chest. She hears the pounding of her heart in her ears. She sits up and wipes the perspiration off her forehead with her clammy hands. Her blanket is damp with sweat. She realizes she has just had another horrible nightmare about that awful prison death camp.

  Scarlet moonlight casts an eerie glow through the barred window.

  “I wonder what time it is,” she whispers under her breath.

  No one answers.

  A dry breeze moves the tree outside her window. Its shadow revolves along the bare walls.

  Becky lays her head back down on her flat, soiled pillow. She visualizes the trains rolling by. She can see the faces, gaunt with hunger and fear, looking out at her from the boxcars. Even in the waking world those despondent eyes still plead with her.

  The images move across her mind over and over like a movie she cannot turn off. She doesn’t want to turn it off. Someone has to remember what the World Union has done to them.

  The trains roll by again, slowly, one after another; their heavy loads creak against the steel tracks: click, clack, click, clack. Ashen, scared faces peer down at her as they pass by, one after another.

  She hears Peter Roma’s frantic voice boom from the loudspeakers and reverberate off the marble walls of Saint Peter’s Square in Rome. “These resisters and intolerant fundamentalists are the cause of all the death and destruction of the earth, and because of their disobedience to the Christ they all must be eliminated. . . .”

  In the back of her mind she agonizes over one inescapable question: When will they take me to my death?1

>   She fills the long, hot days with memories. Memories are all that are left to her.

  The cell walls illuminate shades of gold and red as the morning sun peeks from the east.

  Becky leans back on her pillow and closes her eyes. “Thank You, Lord Jesus,” she whispers quietly. “Thank You for another day. I’m so happy to know You--the real Jesus! Amen.”

  Soon the guard will bring me my breakfast. Becky’s empty stomach growls at the thought of food.

  She flings back the cover and sits up. The cot squeaks loudly as she rolls off the lumpy mattress and plants both feet on the hard bare floor.

  Her thin hands flatten the wrinkled, baggy shirt that hangs on her like a dress.

  When she arrived here she traded in her pink-flowered nightgown for the bright orange shirt and pants of a prisoner. The pants are too big, intended for a male, so she wears only the shirt.

  The dirty floor thumps as she crosses the room to the small tiled bathroom.

  The girl staring back at her from the large mirror over the sink looks so much older than sixteen. Dark circles lie under her baby-blue eyes. They’re her mother’s eyes. Looking into the reflection, she easily conjures the image of her mother. She can clearly see Momma walking through the front door of their home, returning from work, her purple scrubs clinging to her fake breasts and her long blond hair falling neatly in a French braid down the middle of her back. The thought of Momma pierces Becky’s heart.

  Men always liked Momma. She carried herself with confidence on a tall Nordic frame. Her dazzling blue eyes could smolder or tease at her will. Despite the wedding ring on her finger, men often hit up on her. The doctors at Orange Valley Community Hospital where she worked as a licensed vocational nurse were no exception.

  “You are such a pretty girl,” Momma would whisper in the quiet evenings as they sat on the edge of Becky’s bed. Momma would run a round nylon brush down the length of her shiny blond hair.

  “Oh, Momma.” Becky would shake her head. “I’m not pretty! My nose is too big, and besides. . .you’re just saying that because I’m your daughter!”

  “Okay, Rebekah. . .then how did you become a cheerleader?” Momma asked. “Cheerleaders aren’t ugly!”

  Becky leans over, cups her hands and fills them with the warm, rusty liquid that streams from the faucet. She then splashes her face and rubs her teeth with her fingers to clean them.

  She remembers standing before the panel of judges while nervously performing the routine she had practiced for weeks.

  Her nose had almost kept her from trying out for the cheerleading squad. But, for as long as she could remember, when she imagined her future, she saw herself on the sidelines at the Lotus Bowl: kicking, smiling and dancing alongside the other beautiful cheerleaders, wearing the same sexy uniforms, knowing the whole union watched and admired her beauty and style. And that one guy in particular, Blake Collins, would not only admire her, but he would love her.

  If her dreams of the future had any chance of coming true, she would have to take the first step of joining the cheerleading squad at Valley High School.

  T.J. helped her practice. Every day after school she coached Becky through her routines. “Kick high! Come on, Becky—you own it, girlfriend! You are going to kick butt!”

  Even with her mother’s assurances that she was pretty and her best friend’s encouragement, Becky still thought she was clumsy and awkward as she performed her routine in front of five of her teachers who made up the panel of judges at the tryouts.

  When she found her name on the list posted on the gym door, she was elated. That was one of her happiest memories. T.J. squealed and jumped up and down and gave Becky a big bear hug. When Becky told Momma she had made the squad, Momma kissed her cheek and said, “I knew you could do it! I am so proud of you, Rebekah!”

  Becky reaches up and touches her nose.

  “You got your nose from your grandma Silver. You should be very proud. She was a good strong woman, and she gave you a good strong nose.” The memory of her father’s voice was so intense she could almost feel him standing next to her. A smile creeps across her face.

  “What girl wants to look like her grandma?” she had said with a pout.

  “Now, Princess.” His lips curled up to form a smile. “Beauty’s only skin deep; love is to the bone. Beauty gradually fades away, but ugly holds its own!”

  Becky can feel the aching void in her chest as she remembers her dad’s silly sayings. Oh! How I miss

  Daddy. . . .

  When Daddy stood next to Momma they made the oddest couple. Momma was so tall and slender with a gorgeous figure and a very classy lady.

  Daddy, he was short and stout. His big heart shone through his laughing brown eyes. His skin was dark from long, hard hours laboring in the sun as a building contractor. His T-shirt always needed pressing, and his tummy usually hung over his worn blue jeans concealing the top button that was always undone!

  Becky’s mind momentarily returns to her cell. As she stands in front of the mirror, she notices the contented smile on her reflection. She runs her fingers through her tangled hair. Despite her efforts at grooming, her long blond hair is still mussed and tangled.

  She can hear her mom’s soft voice. “Rebekah, you are so lucky to have such beautiful, long, blond hair. Other women pay a fortune to have their hair colored like yours!”

  If Momma could only see it now, all matted and full of knots! I swear if I had scissors I would cut it all off!

  Her smile fades as she yanks at the knots. She runs her fingers through her hair one last time. She grabs the drawstring from the orange pants she had left on the counter the night before and ties her hair back into a ponytail.

  Somewhat satisfied with her look, she creeps back to her cot and eagerly waits for breakfast. Her meals are the only thing she looks forward to.

  Soon the large metal door clangs, signaling the arrival of breakfast and the beginning of another daily cycle.

  Outside her cell stands a guard at least six-foot tall. A white band with “W.U.” in blue letters is wrapped around his bulging bicep on the arm of his khaki uniform.

  Becky moves out of her cot and hurries toward the door. She notices a neatly wrapped white gauze bandage covers his right hand as he pushes the tray of food under the barred door.

  “Thank you,” she says, wondering if he understands English. She pitches her ponytail over her shoulder and reaches for the tray sitting on the floor.

  The guard’s light-blue beret bobs up and down as he acknowledges her with a silent nod and disappears down the dark, narrow hallway.

  She crams a dry piece of burnt toast into her mouth and hurries back to her bed with the plastic yellow tray.

  “Dear Jesus,” she prays, eager for another bite of toast, “thanks again for another meal. Please bless this food, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  She consciously chews the black bread over and over again until it disappears in her mouth. She savors each and every bite of the bland, stale meal. She crunches down on the dry cereal and washes every last morsel down with a cup of watery orange juice.

  She tries not to focus on the fact that her stomach is far from full as she shoves the empty, plastic tray back under the door. The guard will be back later to pick it up.

  Following her routine, she returns to her cot and rests her head against her pillow. The sunlight bounces off the ground outside the window and plays on the water-stained, cottage-cheese ceiling of the small room.

  The silence is unavoidable. Her mind works overtime to try to fill the emptiness.

  She whispers prayers of hope that Jesus will return soon and destroy that imposter Peter Roma.

  She recites Bible verses over and over in her mind as the sunlight moves steadily across the ceiling, marking minutes then hours. She finds comfort in the Scriptures and yet so many questions. How could millions of others not see the truth she had found in the Bible?2 Why couldn’t they see that Peter Roma was not Jesus of Nazareth and that the Bible
warned of the coming false prophet?3

  She was not so different from those who believed Peter Roma. She wasn’t raised to be religious, and she hadn’t known much about the rapture or Jesus of

  Nazareth.

  Her parents were polar opposites even in their religious backgrounds. Her father, Joseph, was raised in a Jewish home, and her mother, Kirsten, was raised Catholic. But in their adulthood neither rigorously practiced their faith. A couple of times a year her father would take the family to synagogue services, and every year they celebrated the Passover. Whenever she heard a tragic story or passed a graveyard, her mother would make the sign of the cross. Her habit was so automatic that to Becky it resembled the practice of knocking on wood to ward off bad luck.

  “We all worship the same God,” her mother would explain whenever Becky questioned the difference in her parents’ religions. “Some of us call him God4; others call him Allah or Buddha. Knowing his name isn’t as important as knowing he wants you to be a good little girl,” she would say with a wry wink.

  The shadows slowly move across the walls. Her isolation is punctuated by the absence of sound. The only noises to penetrate her being are the incessant wind moving outside her window and the low whispers of her desperate prayers. She squeezes her eyes shut as the dusty light streams through the bars of her window. Her memories take her back to a place that changed her life forever. . . .

  * * * * *

  It was a sunny, warm afternoon. Becky descended from the school bus and started walking the half block to her home. The wide, tree-lined streets of her Southern

  California suburb were unusually empty and quiet. The familiar sounds of the neighbor boys’ skateboards rolling on the rough asphalt and clacking against every curb and low concrete wall were noticeably absent. So, too, were the occasional minivan and hybrid cars that reluctantly slowed and swerved to avoid hitting the skateboarders. A leaf blower and lawn mower stood abandoned in her neighbor’s meticulously manicured front yard. She noticed the three Mexican gardeners gathered in the driveway around their old pickup truck. She waved to them, but they did not notice her. They were intently focused on the frantic voice speaking through the Spanish language radio station.