The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Duncan was silent, remembering the day.

  “You know, as I watched your tirade that day, I couldn’t help but think about the Romans putting the Christians in with the lions, unless they denied their faith.”

  Duncan, still not speaking, lowered his eyes to the top of the desk.

  “You weren’t happy until she took off the medal and threw it away. Dammit, Dunc, you brought her to tears. God, I was pissed at you that day. I came back to the lab that night and dug it out of the trash. When she finished her thesis…the day she was leaving…I gave it back to her.”

  Ki paused, easing off the intensity in his voice. “That’s been your problem, Dunc. For all of your bombastic and overbearing posturing on the imbecility of religion and the loftiness of science, you couldn’t allow your own mind to remain open…open to a possibility that has never been disproved. How scientific is that?”

  Not lifting his gaze, Duncan asked, “Why did you stay?”

  “I already told you. You’re the best. This was the best department in the world for the work. I also wanted to be here…right at your side…the day you were proved wrong just so I could see the look on your face.”

  “So…what now? Do we spend the rest of our lives pursuing our research so we can keep saying, ‘Oh, wow, look at how God did this’?” Duncan slapped his hands against his cheeks in mock surprise.

  Shaking his head disgustedly, Ki answered, “Have you read the Elohim transcripts? They’re on the net.”

  Duncan shook his head.

  “You should. He goes off into some of our areas…answers a couple of questions…but mainly insists that He has kept His hands off the process…unless He needed to step in to either move the Earth on to the next phase or save our species from extinction. You know, the kind of stuff that a scientist does when he’s managing an experiment.”

  “You’re saying that God is a scientist?” Randolph asked, astounded.

  “Yes, I am. And I have no problem working on that basis. You know why?”

  “No, Ki, tell me,” Duncan said sarcastically.

  “Because I’ve been doing it for years.”

  “You mean doing his work?”

  “No…actually, I meant doing yours.”

  Duncan had no response, and Ki had nothing more to say, so he stood and extended his hand to his longtime mentor. Duncan grasped it in a handshake, then turned it over to see the young postdoc’s palm. It was bare.

  Surprised, Duncan said, “You didn’t get your ticket out of here.”

  Still standing, Ki answered, “No…I didn’t,” his gaze rock steady.

  “Why not?”

  “Did you ever see the old movie Imitation of Life?”

  “Wasn’t that the movie about the black girl trying to pass as white?”

  “Yeah. I cried my ass off at the ending – when her mother died and it was too late for Sara Jane to tell her that she was sorry for pretending she wasn’t her daughter. There was a scene earlier in the movie where Sara Jane was with her white friends, and they were making fun of a black. Instead of defending the black, or at least shutting up, she joined in, wanting to be a part of the crowd. I didn’t realize until today why I related so much to that movie.

  “As you said a minute ago…you always thought I was ‘on board.’ I always made sure you thought that. Every time you ridiculed a Christian, I was right there with my own clever little snipes…just like Sara Jane. I even helped you with your book on religion as a mental disease.

  “Sara Jane’s sin was that she wanted to be accepted…accepted by the group she craved…even if it meant denying who she was. I’m not sure why I’m not going to Heaven. But I guess He expected a little more out of me than just a 4.0 GPA and getting published.”

  א

  Reese, having finished brushing his teeth, crawled into bed next to Claire. He was reaching for the lamp, when Claire said, “Leave it on, honey.”

  “Suddenly afraid of the dark?” Reese kidded.

  “Just not ready to go to sleep.”

  Reese let his head sink into the softness of the hotel pillow, his eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. He slid his hand under the covers and found Claire’s. The moment they touched, she grabbed his hand firmly, squeezing hard.

  “What’s wrong?” he tried again.

  “I don’t know…I guess I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “This is going to sound silly, but I’m afraid of going to Heaven.”

  He rolled to his side, facing her. She was on her back with her head turned, looking back at him. Her eyes were slightly misty.

  “You’re afraid of change,” Reese said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “I guess I am. I’ve been so happy with you and the kids. We have such a good life.”

  “You didn’t think so when I was unemployed a few months ago.”

  Rolling toward him, she put her arm over his shoulder, kissing him. Reese recognized it. Only those in love know this kiss. It is pure affection, pure love without the lust that accompanies the typical kisses of youth. The kiss ended, and Claire only backed slightly away, their faces mere inches apart.

  “I never worried for a moment. I never have worried when I’m with you.”

  “You’ll still be with me in six days.”

  “So He says.”

  “You doubt Him?”

  “No…I don’t. As you said, it’s just change. What we have here is a known, and where we’re going seems so different…so alien. I feel like one of those wives married to a man who comes home one day and tells her that they’re moving to a new city, one she has never seen. It might be great…but she has had no input into the decision, doesn’t have any say in whether they even go, and hasn’t been there to scope it out first.”

  “Well, that’s probably one of the reasons He gives us a choice. We don’t have to go, you know.”

  “I’ve thought about that. It just seems nuts to turn it down.”

  Reese knew, from years of being with Claire, when to be quiet. She was arguing in her own head and did not need a third voice in the discussion.

  After a few more minutes of silence, she decided to invite him back to the party. “What do you think it’ll be like?”

  “Well, you heard His descriptions. It sounds as if everything will be the way we want it…however we want it, with none of the negatives.”

  “Do you think that just…I don’t know…visualizing a home and having it appear will be the same as…you know…earning one?”

  “I’ve thought about that. It’s human nature to devalue anything that’s too easy to get. Maybe I’ll get a chance to ask Him in the next few days. But, you know, on the other hand, I don’t think those things will matter as much. I mean, if you can materialize a cozy Cape Cod bungalow or Aaron Spelling’s mansion, and either is just as easy, you’ll probably just materialize what you need to be comfortable. A lot of the motives, conscious and subconscious, for having big houses and fancy cars…will be gone. Maybe we’ll all just focus on different things…better things. I think we will.”

  Claire chuckled softly and said, “You’re thinking that we’re all going to be living this idyllic, philosophic life, and I’m focusing on things like going out to dinner and not hearing any screaming babies at other tables while we’re trying to have a nice meal.”

  Reese laughed. “That’s a big part of it, baby. I’m not saying that happiness is just the absence of all of the crap in life…but it surely is necessary. I mean, look at how miserable it was at my old office. Someone was always complaining about the temperature. There wasn’t a setting that made anyone happy because even if you were comfortable, you had to listen to the others complain constantly.”

  This time Claire laughed. “So, in Heaven, we’ll all have our own thermostats.”

  “Couldn’t be Heaven without it,” answered Reese, also laughing. “And our own remote controls for the TV.”

  Fighting back a laugh and trying to look serious, she asked, “Wil
l you still snore in Heaven?”

  “Of course…you keep telling me that I must enjoy it. If I’m going to be happy there, I’ll probably snore even louder.”

  “That’s it! I’m not going. Heaven won’t be any fun if I’m sleep-deprived.”

  They both laughed, releasing much of the tension of the last few days. Finally, calming down, she kissed him again. This time it was the other kind of kiss, and it was urgent and intense. When they finally separated, both breathing hard, Claire stroked her husband’s face and whispered, “Thank you, baby.” He smiled and, rather than answering, kissed her again.

  א

  Clayton Dean felt the warm water rush against his tight back muscles, slowly unknotting them. It was late, and he craved sleep yet could not break the habit of the nightly shower before bed. Turning, he twisted the outer ring of the shower head to the pulse setting, turning back and shifting until the alternating blast centered on the bad spot between his shoulder blades.

  “Clay!”

  He could see nothing through the fog on the shower glass but recognized his wife’s voice. “Yeah?”

  “It’s the White House on the phone.”

  “Crap!”

  It was after 11:00 p.m., and he was exhausted.

  “Tell them I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay.”

  Cindy could not be happy about the interruption, either. She had already gone to sleep before he arrived home. Turning off the water, Dean stepped out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around him, not bothering to dry off. He flipped down the lid on the toilet and sat down, grabbing the extension mounted to the wall, only to hear a dial tone. A slight jolt of adrenaline hit him as he realized the call must have come in on the secure line the NSA had installed in his study. Rubbing his body down quickly, he slipped on the white, terry-cloth robe that was hanging on the hook and hurried out of the bathroom.

  “This is Clayton Dean.” The formality of this specific phrase was required to facilitate running the voice-recognition hardware. After a series of clicks, the connection was verified, and he heard, “Please hold for the President.”

  ‘The President!’ he thought. ‘What could be the matter now?’ The delay was less than a minute.

  “Clay, sorry to disturb you.” Dean heard a tension and concern in the President’s voice.

  “Not a problem, sir. What’s up?”

  “We’re getting fragmented reports from Europe…mostly from France…quite a bit from the UK, though…and we haven’t nailed down who’s doing it yet…but people with Elohim’s mark are being targeted.”

  “Targeted?”

  “They are being killed.”

  “That’s horrible, sir…but isn’t this a police issue?”

  The President’s voice rose a half octave higher. “Clay, I’m not talking about individuals. Hundreds have been hit so far, maybe more. Automatic weapons, RPGs, bombs…heavy-duty, military style hardware is being used. Places they are congregating are being hit to maximize the kill count. Margo’s on her way in now. She’s worried about our side of the pond. The FBI has been intercepting some back-channel chatter…plots for tomorrow…to happen here.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Rather than responding, the President broke the connection.

  א

  Clayton rode in the back of the black Expedition, closing the window separating himself from the driver. He speed-dialed Preston Bennett’s home number and listened to three rings before he heard a sleepy, female voice answer.

  “Debbie, this is Clay. Is Preston there?” The question sounded foolish to him at this hour.

  “Hi, Clay. Yeah. Just a second.”

  The phone clattered as she dropped it. There were more muffled sounds before he heard Bennett’s voice. “Hi, Clay.”

  “Preston, get dressed and get to the White House. I’ll fill you in when you get there.”

  Dean ended the connection before he could answer.

  א

  When Margo Jackson arrived at the Situation Room, she saw that the National Security Advisor, Dick Williams, was present as was the Director of the CIA, George Collins. The two men were huddled with the President, standing at the status map, a large table with an LCD screen as the surface. The techs could send any image to this device, including maps, “recon” photos, even video feeds for their superiors to view.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  The three turned and greeted Margo, and she joined them at the table, snagging a cup from the service tray next to the table and pouring herself some coffee.

  “Anything changed?” she asked.

  Williams answered her, “Nothing major. It’s six hours later in Paris, so that would be about 5:30 in the morning, and it’s a little more quiet now.”

  “Do we have any idea who’s doing this?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” replied Collins. “We’re still in catch-up mode. The kids at Fort Detrick are back-checking the traffic from earlier this evening, running algorithms for key phrases, now that we know what the targets were. We should have a report shortly.”

  Clayton Dean arrived, joining them at the table. “Good evening, everyone.”

  The President spoke first. “George, I didn’t tell Clay much over the phone. Why don’t you bring him up to speed.”

  “Clay, from what we can tell, several people with Elohim’s mark decided they’d like to meet one another…you know…before the trip.”

  The President expressed his disapproval at the comment by clearing his throat softly.

  “To get to know one another over the…uh…next five days. Anyway, it started on the Internet. Blogs immediately appeared with people announcing that they had the mark and inviting others to post if they had it. Somebody suggested they get together. One of the people mentioned that he owned a restaurant…uh, this was in Paris…and the others should come there. They started coming and kept coming all evening. By midnight, there were about four hundred gathered. The best we can tell at this point…since there are conflicting versions from eyewitnesses, and we don’t have much in the way of forensics yet…two vans drove up in front of the restaurant. Three men with rocket-propelled grenade launchers got out of the back of the vans and fired into the restaurant. Between the explosions, the fire, and the collapsing roof from the detonations, nearly all four hundred died.

  “Pretty much the same story in Marseilles. It was a public park, almost three hundred people. They used AK-47s on them…just mowed them down and then walked among the bodies and finished off the ones who were still breathing. It happened within about two minutes of the Paris incident. At the same time in London, they took out more than five hundred who had gathered at a cricket field.

  “Smaller, as far as number of casualties, in Spain and Germany. No idea, at this point, about who’s responsible. No one has claimed credit.”

  “Margo?” the President said.

  “As far as actual attacks on our soil, they’ve been minor by comparison. Since the European incidents, we’ve been trolling all the sources and actively contacting major police departments around the country. It’s sick…people without the mark, at least I’m assuming that’s the case in most incidents, are feeling free to punch, knife, and shoot anyone who has it. Just to give all of you a snapshot of the mentality…NYPD picked up a guy who went on a rampage in Manhattan this evening…thirty-one years old, lawyer, wife and kids. It started late in the day with a client he was defending. The client came by his office at the end of the day, told the lawyer he wouldn’t be needing him anymore for the case that was pending, said he’d be leaving soon, and showed him the mark. The lawyer just snapped…beat the stuffing out of the client…left him lying dead on the floor in his lobby. Then he went outside and just started grabbing strangers by the wrist, looking for the mark and not finding any. I guess Wall Street wasn’t the best neighborhood for that group. So he went to St. Patrick’s on 5th Avenue which turned out to be a better hunting spot. Grabbing them as they left, he beat two mo
re people to death before the police caught him. When they asked why he was doing it, he said, ‘What’s the big deal? They’re going to Heaven anyway!’”

  Everyone around the table looked stunned upon hearing the story. Margo continued, “What worries me is that we’ve been picking up some chatter. Right now it’s all really vague, but it has a lot of the regular key words…like bomb, target…you know. Also, some new words are added…Elohim…mark…groups. All the conversations are happening on throwaway cell phones – one conversation per phone number, each conversation lasting no more than forty to fifty seconds. We’re also getting a lot of blogs trying to organize events here…in D.C., New York, Atlanta…really all over the country, trying to set something up for tomorrow” – she paused and glanced at her watch – “or, actually, this morning. It’s the same deal…people with the mark, wanting to congregate and get to know each other now.”