Behind the little neighborhood of boxcars, several large tractors sat as though guarding huge mounds of freshly turned soil.
The car stopped just outside the settlement of box cars.
I wonder why we are stopping here, Becky thought.
The two men opened the car doors and jumped down from their seats, slamming their doors behind them.
The slender man walked around the SUV and opened the rear door. “Get out!” His voice was raised.
Becky hesitated. Her arms and legs became as heavy as lead. She did not want to get out. She was afraid for what they had in store for her. They were probably going to rape her then kill her, she imagined. Then they would somehow dispose of her body in the hills.
She reluctantly slid across the back seat and over to the door. She dropped down, her bare feet hitting the cold hard ground. The chilled morning wind slapped her, sending goose bumps all over her body.
“Come with me,” the slender man ordered, trying to make his voice appear deep. His hand flew up to his head as another gust of wind tried to pry the black beret from his fingers.
She followed him to the side of one of the boxcars, her arms crossed over her chest to block the cold while the pudgy man walked close behind.
Metal ground against metal as the slender man reached up and pulled hard on the lever, sliding back the heavy rusty door of the enclosed freight container.
Becky kept her eyes on the men as if they were vicious dogs who could pounce on her at any second. She felt her muscles tighten, and she grabbed the top of her nightgown and pulled it tight around her neck.
“Get in!” said the slender man in a high-pitched voice, pointing his long narrow finger toward the open door.
Becky hesitated then dragged her feet to the entrance of the boxcar. It was dark inside.
She put her hand over her nose to try to block the rancid smell. As she stood there looking inside, her eyes began to focus on the shiny metal shackles attached to the wall and floor of the boxcar. She felt her stomach turn over and fluid rise to the back of her throat as the odor of feces and urine permeated her mouth and nostrils. Her stomach heaved violently, and she crumpled over. Clear mucus ejected from her mouth. Coughing, then spitting, she wiped off her face with the sleeve of her nightgown.
The guards’ faces contorted in disgust. “Now get in there!” said the pudgy man pushing her forward. “We don’t have all day!”
She couldn’t bear the thought of going into that awful smelly container. She didn’t want to be there. She wanted to go home to her nice comfortable bed. Fear clung to her bones. She knew deep down in the recesses of her soul that somehow she had to get away, before it was too late. . . .
Through the corner of her eyes she scanned the landscape littered with dirt mounds and massive oak trees. She clutched her thin, pink cotton nightgown.
RUN! a voice screamed inside her head. She stepped away from the boxcar.
Both men looked at her quizzically expecting her to throw up again.
She ducked low as she sprinted past the two men.
“Stupid brat!” yelled one of the men from behind her with anger in his voice.
Becky heard nothing but her own panicked breath as the cold air slapped against her ears. She ran as fast as she could, aimlessly through the field dodging sharp rocks and sagebrush. Her uncombed hair whipped in the wind as the muscles in her legs began to burn. Her body heated up as she willed herself ahead. Brush cut into her legs, and razor sharp rocks punctured the bottom of her bare feet.
Her gaze was drawn to a giant yellow bulldozer, its broad blade resting on the ground. Her tired legs carried her over to the corroded metal mass. Her heart was racing, and it felt like it was going to explode in her chest. She leaned over and braced her palms against the worn tracks and inhaled large gulps of crisp air.
Trying to ignore the searing pain in her feet she spotted a large pile of dirt near the trees, with small rocks protruding out of the top of it.
Becky limped to the mound and clamored up the side. As she crested the top her nose wrinkled and her eyebrows furrowed together. “UGH! What is that awful smell?” She gagged at an odor fouler than what she had smelled in the box car.
Her eyes gazed into a deep, dark pit stretching out beneath her.
Small rocks and dirt clung to her nightgown as she slid down the side of the steep embankment toward the middle of the pit.
The smell was unbearable. She felt the urge, but her body was too weak to throw up again.
The sound of screaming sirens off in the distance pierced the morning air. Becky clutched her knees tight to her chest and hunkered down low, trying to make herself invisible, then waited quietly, motionless, hoping they wouldn’t find her hiding there.
Something jabbed Becky’s thigh.
“Ouch! Stupid rock!”
She shifted her body upward and slid her hand beneath herself and grabbed the annoying object and carefully studied it.
She shrieked in sheer horror as she flung the thing in her hand to the ground. Her skin crawled like spiders running up and down her arms as she realized the object was a human finger. It took all her courage not to collapse in a paroxysm of fright.
Becky bolted to her feet and stared at the bottom of the pit. She suddenly realized hidden in the shadows were the skeletal remains of an arm protruding out of the ground and all around her were more bodies, half buried in the loose soil.
Her worst nightmare was suddenly realized. They are killing people and dumping their bodies in these holes—and they are planning to kill me. . . .
Panic-stricken she made a desperate attempt to crawl back out of the hole. Loose soil and rocks tumbled down the walls of the pit as she made her way out of the ghastly grave of decomposing bodies.
Out of the pit she crouched down low and scanned her surroundings. She picked up her feet and ran hard past the tractor toward the hills. She ignored the pain in her feet and kept running farther and farther from the sirens. A startled covey of California quail flushed out of the brush, their black-feathered plumes bobbing as they flew for cover.
She reached a grove of oak trees, their massive branches stretched high up to heaven.
Small beads of sweat ran down her back under her nightgown as she slowed down to catch her breath. Her eyes suddenly lit up with hope as the chain-link fence swayed in the distance.
She ran up to the wire enclosure and dropped to her hands and knees. She hastily clawed at the dirt. The ground was rock solid.
She stood up and studied the top of the fence. She stuck her fingers into the row of holes in the chain fence and began climbing the cold wire.
As she neared the top, a feeling of hopelessness overcame her when she realized the fence was pointed inward to keep people in, not out. She would certainly get tangled in the razor sharp barbs if she tried to crawl over.
Frustrated, she dropped back down to the ground.
“Hold it right there, young lady!” a deep male voice barked. She slowly turned around.
The young, square-jawed guard stood before her. His coal-black eyes shimmered with rage. He aimed his M16 at her. “Put your hands up!”
His tight crew cut peeked out from under the helmet strapped securely under his chin. His neatly pressed uniform looked as if he had never seen combat, and his stiff, polished black boots looked as if he hadn’t walked one mile in them.
Becky looked around. She quickly realized escape was impossible. She knew she had to resort to the fact that she was defeated. She knew she couldn’t outrun this young muscular man, and besides he had a gun. Becky slowly lifted her hands. With a wave of the gun barrel the guard motioned her to move in the direction of the boxcars.
Becky’s bare feet throbbed as they walked quickly through the trees. Occasionally her captor nudged her in the back with the butt of his gun prodding her to move faster.
Annoyed by the visitors stomping through their territory, brown ground squirrels screamed to each other and scampered up and down
the giant trees while angry Blue Jays squawked at the passersby.
As they neared the boxcar, the pudgy man stood tall, his arms crossed firmly over his heavy chest. His nostrils flared, and his eyes glared at Becky. He lifted his chubby finger and pointed to the boxcar. “Get in—now!”
Becky leaned over and hoisted her legs up on the cold floor and crawled into the disgusting container. The smell of feces and urine was less intense now. The heavy metal door scraped as it closed behind her.
Becky looked around her prison. It was dark except for a small area where sunlight spilled through a hole in the ceiling made by a pipe, jutted through.
Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and the rows of chains bolted to the floors and walls came into clear view.
Startled, she noticed a figure cowering toward the back of the dark boxcar. She moved closer. It was a man. His khaki shorts revealed a deep tan on his legs, and his dark-blue collared polo shirt was ripped on the shoulder. His hands and feet were shackled together. Slowly he lifted his head revealing unshaved stubble on his chin. His eyes were deeply swollen, and purple bruises covered his face.
Becky covered her nose with her right hand as she carefully stepped across the sticky metal floor toward the man.
“Hi!” she muttered softly.
“Hel-lo.” The shadowy figure flinched, forcing a painful smile.
“Hey—are you okay?” She squatted down close to the man hoping to get a better look.
“Yeah. . .I’m okay,” he replied, straightening himself up. “I just got knocked around a bit.”
Becky searched his face: well-cut features, sun-bleached hair, a fine muscled physique.
He looked familiar. “Oh, my gosh!” She suddenly recognized him. “Aren’t you Brock Summers from the channel 13 news?”
“Yeah. . .that’s me all right,” he answered with a painful groan.
On the news he was a strapping handsome reporter. Now he looked like a dirty old bum. She caught herself blushing as she recalled how handsome he was on TV.
“What’s your name, missy?” he asked. “And what is your crime?” He tried to ignore the burning pain throbbing over his left eye.
Becky settled down on the floor next to him and leaned back against the metal wall.
“My name is Becky, and I’m not sure why they picked me up. Could be for a number of things. Why are you here?” she asked in return.
Forgetting his pain, Brock reached his shackled hand up and scratched his head as he thought.
“Well, for one thing, I’m a Christian, and I believe that Maitreyas is the Antichrist—”
“Oh, my gosh!” Becky blurted out, interrupting Brock. “Me too!” She couldn’t believe her ears. Finally another Christian!
“Wow! I would never have suspected you were a Christian! I thought all the media was biased and under Maitreyas’s control.” She looked into his bruised eyes and asked, “When did you become a Christian?”
“Well, I’ll try to make a long story short!” He smiled, a twinkle in his eye.
He didn’t grimace much anymore; he seemed to be a little more relaxed.
“Let’s see.” He gazed into the darkness of the boxcar. “Sometime after my mother died, me and my little sister, Sarah, went to live with my aunt Millie, my mother’s sister, in California. Aunt Millie took Sarah and me to church with her every week. It was there that we learned about the Bible and Jesus.
“After I graduated from high school I went to college and then took a job with a news station. I was so busy with my career and life that I never gave God or church much thought.
“When Maitreyas was revealed on the Day of
Pentecost, it was as though Pastor James’s sermons had come to life! I remembered as a teen I was totally intrigued by his sermons about the coming Antichrist, 666 and the mark of the beast.”
Becky sat silently and listened.
“Me being the investigative reporter that I am,” he said, chuckling, “I decided to do some research. I miraculously located my Bible that my aunt Millie had given me for my fourteenth birthday, and I read through it several times. I soon realized that Maitreyas was the first beast described in Revelation 13 and that Peter Roma, the so-called ‘Master Jesus,’ was the second beast also described in
Revelation. I needed confirmation.” Brock’s mouth turned to a smile. “A good reporter needs factual evidence to back his story!
“According to Revelation 13,” Brock said, quoting from memory, “‘And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666.’
“I knew the Antichrist’s name had to equal 666, so by using the Gematria system, my beliefs were confirmed. M-A-I-T-R-E-Y-A-S equaled 666 in Greek.
“WOW!” Becky’s mouth gaped wide. “I knew
Maitreyas was the Antichrist, and now you have confirmed it!”
“Yes, Maitreyas fit every description for the man of sin, the son of perdition. I couldn’t believe it either. I wanted to expose the truth so I started an underground newspaper called Wake Up, America!”
He continued. “I’ve been secretly distributing the newspaper, and apparently the World Union got a hold of it and somehow traced it back to me. They came for me in the middle of the night—you know, a couple of guys all decked out in black—just like the guys who brought you here.
“Anyway, I knew why they were there so I put up a fight. I must have made them pretty mad because they beat me up pretty bad. And, well. . .that’s how I ended up here.”
Becky studied her new friend thoughtfully. “I’m so sorry they caught you and hurt you. Those thugs also picked up my father and little brother. They came in the middle of the night when I was spending the night at my best friend’s house. They trashed our house and took my Bible—”
“You had a Bible?” Brock interrupted.
“Yeah.”
“Where on earth did you find a Bible? I thought they were all destroyed.”
“I bought it on the internet—before the law went into effect. I really missed my Bible, especially when Maitreyas was killed. I was so confused. I had thought he was supposed to enter into the temple and claim to be God. I had so many questions and needed my Bible for answers, and then—Maitreyas resurrected!”
“Yeah, that was something when he resurrected. Well, I don’t think he really resurrected.”
“You don’t? But I saw Maitreyas,” Becky replied with passionate seriousness. “I saw him with my very own eyes on TV. That’s why Momma and I were always fighting. She was so convinced that Maitreyas was the Christ.”
“Well, I believe the first guy Maitreyas was really a man. Maybe from Satan’s seed? I’m not sure. Revelation 13 says the dragon, Satan, will give the beast his authority and power. After Maitreyas was shot in the head and died, I believe it was the devil himself who assumed the image of the body or even possessed the body and pretended to be Maitreyas—then everybody would really believe he was the Christ and worship him. Isn’t that what Satan always wanted? To be worshipped as God? And all those who oppose him will be put to death.
“I think a lot of people weren’t really sure about Maitreyas until he pulled the wool over their eyes by suddenly resurrecting. Then Peter Roma convinced the world that Maitreyas was the Christ they were all preparing for.”
Becky spoke up. “And that’s why the real Jesus of Nazareth warned his disciples, ‘False Christs and false prophets will show great signs and wonders that if it were possible they shall deceive even the very elect.’” She brushed back the lock of hair behind her ear that had fallen over her eyes. “So who do you think Peter Roma is?”
“I think Peter Roma is another fallen angel. Who would know Jesus better than the angels who lived with him in heav
en before the fall? And they were there when Jesus walked the earth and was crucified.
“And I believe all of Maitreyas’s other disciples whom they call the ‘ascended masters’ are angels too. They are ascended all right—from the bottomless pit! They are all a part of Satan’s plan to deceive the world with their lies and trickery.”
Becky’s mind bubbled up like a sponge as it soaked up all the information Brock was sharing with her.
“What do you think they are going to do with us?”
“They will probably send us to a prison where we will await our trial. We will be found guilty as charged, and then we will be executed.”
“WHAT?” Becky held her breath. “You mean they are going to kill us?”
Anxiety filled her body, starting from her chest then spreading out through her limbs. She searched Brock’s dark bloodshot eyes for salvation. “Is there any way out?”
“Your only pardon would be to bow down and worship Maitreyas and to take his mark,” Brock declared. “Consider yourself lucky—at least we get a trial. That’s more time. The poor fellas before us, they got no trial.”
Becky leaned forward with increasing uneasiness.
Brock let out a low groan as he shifted and tried to stretch out his legs. “Thousands of people, Christians, Jews and even Patriots—the government put their names on these lists. After martial law went into effect they were secretly rounded up and put onto trains that headed to camps, just like this one, and were gassed to death.”
Becky’s voice was weak. “Yeah. . .when I tried to escape earlier I found some dead bodies in the bottom of a pit.”
“There are hundreds of these secret camps all over the North American Union. I was doing a story on them and was about to expose the death camps when the World Union suddenly closed them. I think to avoid public outcry they decided to at least put on a show trial. If a person is found guilty they would then be put to death.”
Becky stared at the floor as she brought her knees to her chest. She fought back the tears that were building in her eyes.
Scars Page 12
