CHAPTER 21
Chang took an unusual risk and surreptitiously followed the missile-for-water effort from his desk at work. He listened through headphones but kept an eye out for anyone walking by.
Nicolae swore. “What did that little project cost, Suhail?”
“It wasn’t cheap, Excellency, but let’s not assume failure just yet.”
“Assume? The Lance we sent to Petra immediately produced a gusher that flows to this day! This is a disaster plain as day!”
“You may be right.”
“I am always right! Face it. You are going to have to attack this water thing another way.”
Chang heard a knock and Krystall’s voice. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we are getting strange reports.”
“What kind of reports?”
“Some kind of a heat wave. The lines are jammed. People are—”
Chang heard shouting and realized it came from his office and not from the surveillance. He quickly exed out and removed his earphones. He followed his coworkers to the windows, where they crowded to look outside.
“Get back!” Mr. Figueroa screamed as he burst from his office. “Get away from the windows!”
But like toddlers, these people wanted to do whatever they were told not to, and anyway, they were curious. What was causing all the explosions outside? Fortunately for the crowd around the window Chang peered out from, it wasn’t the first to go. But two of their coworkers—the cocky, condescending Lars and a young woman—were impaled with shards of glass when the window before them gave way.
As they lay writhing, pale and panicked, the steamy desert air blew in. The first woman who knelt to aid the injured immediately reddened from the heat, and as she surrendered and tried to evade it, her hair curled, produced sparks, burst into flames, and was singed off.
Others tried to drag the first two to safety, but they too had to scamper from the heat.
“What is this?” someone shrieked. “What’s happening?”
Those in front of Chang quickly backed away from the window, and he saw what was going on below. Car tires exploded. People leaped from their cars, then tried to get back in, burning their hands on the door handles. Windshields melted, greenery turned brown, withered, then became torches. A dog yanked loose from its leash, raced in circles, then dropped, panting, before being incinerated.
“To the basement!” Figueroa shouted, and to people who seemed reluctant to leave the fallen injured, “It’s too late to help them!”
People watched over their shoulders as they hurried away, and by the time they reached the door, they saw Lars and the young woman flailing at flames that would soon consume them.
Chang was one of the last out of the room, because he was only faking the effects of the heat. He saw the results, but aside from being aware that the temperature outside seemed higher than normal, he was impervious to the killing force.
He was glad to reach the elevator just as the doors were closing. “I’ll catch the next one,” he said and ran to his quarters instead.
At midnight in San Diego, Rayford was awakened by insistent tones from his computer. He dragged himself out of bed and turned on the monitor. Tsion was informing his cyberaudience around the world that the terrible fourth Bowl Judgment had struck, as prophesied in the Bible, and would affect every time zone on the earth as the sun rose. “Here in Petra,” he wrote, “by ten in the morning, people out in the sun without the seal of God were burned alive. This may seem an unparalleled opportunity to plead once again for the souls of men and women, because millions will lose loved ones. But the Scriptures also indicate that this may come so late in the hearts of the undecided that they will have already been hardened.
“Revelation 16:8-9 says, ‘Then the fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and power was given to him to scorch men with fire. And men were scorched with great heat, and they blasphemed the name of God who has power over these plagues; and they did not repent and give Him glory.’”
Rayford keyed in a request to interact privately with Tsion or Chaim; he did not care which. “I know both of you will be terribly busy just now, but if either can spare a moment for the sake of the Tribulation Force, I would appreciate it.”
Three Quonset huts away, Ming Toy had been awakened by a call from Ree Woo. Ree had promised to look up her mother, so maybe this was his update, but Ming was alarmed at the hour. She rested in the promise Christopher had given about her and her mother surviving until the Glorious Appearing, but that—she knew—was no guarantee that her mother might not live out her days imprisoned.
“Is everyone all right?” she said.
“Better than all right,” Ree said. “Although I was not so sure when I arrived. I was warned to stay away from the underground shelter, because rumor had it that the GC had found them out and were planning a raid. The believers were busy packing and were going to sneak away in the night. They were praying the GC would raid them later—as is the custom—when they were supposed to be sleeping.
“But as the sun rose, they realized they heard very little noise from the street. Some ventured out and saw the damage from the sun. Everything is scorched, dried up, burned, melted, wasted. No one was on the street, though charred remains were scattered. The believers are protected, but the GC and the Carpathian loyalists cannot face the sun. The underground moved by the light of day, and if the GC come for them in the night, they will be disappointed. The believers did not move far away, but it is a better hiding place.
“Something they saw along the way would have been amusing, had it not been so sad. A small faction of GC had apparently tried to use fireproof suits and boots and helmets to protect themselves from the enormous heat. They lasted long enough to travel about a hundred yards; then they split up as their suits caught fire. Piles of burning material are dotted here and there in the streets.”
“Will you hurry back, Ree? I miss you terribly.”
“I miss you too, Ming, and I love you. This will allow me to leave during the daytime, so I should be back early.”
“Be safe, love,” she said.
Rayford sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, enveloped in the unmatched darkness provided by an underground shelter. Rayford was tired and knew he should get more sleep. But he would not sleep. This plague, perhaps unlike any leading to it, might provide unique opportunities for him and his team.
Finally the signal came, and Tsion was on the other end of the private messaging system. “Forgive me for not turning on the video,” Rayford said, “but it’s the middle of our night here.”
“Quite all right, Captain. Let me ask, need this be a private conversation? I am in the tech center and others may overhear.”
“No problem, Tsion. Is everyone all right there?”
“We are fine. We feel some extra warmth and some are fatigued, but we are apparently protected against the real effects of this plague.”
“I know you’re busy, but I need confirmation. Do you believe those of us with the mark of the seal of God are immune to the heat?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see what this could mean for the Tribulation Force, Tsion? We could do what we wanted during the daylight hours. As long as we are hidden again by the time the heat of the day subsides and the GC venture out again, they would be powerless to interfere.”
“I see. I would caution that God has never been predictable with these things. We know the sequence, and we used to think that one plague began and ended before another started. But the curse on the oceans lasted well past when the same curse hit the lakes and rivers, and the oceans turned back not too long before this one hit. I would not want to see you some bright day when the curse ends. You would be most vulnerable.”
“Point taken. I’d like to think this would last long enough to allow us some elbow room. I’ve never seen the world in worse shape or more people in need of help.”
“Oh, Rayford, the world is a spent cartridge. Even before God unleashed this curse, the globe was in the worst condition imaginable. It makes me wonder how the Lord can tarry until the end of the seven years. Really, what will be left? Poverty is rampant. Law and order are relics. Even Global Community loyalists have lost faith in their government and their Peacekeepers. The Morale Monitors are all on the take, it seems. The people who are to be out and about do not even dare venture into the streets without being armed.
“Cameron tells me he does not know one common citizen who does not own and carry a weapon. I hardly hear from countries where there are not marauding bands of thieves and rapists, not to mention vandals and terrorists. The best things we have out there are the 144,000 evangelists and the increase in angelic activity the Lord has so graciously allowed.
“Remember, Rayford, we are down to three kinds of people now: those of us with the mark of God, those who bear the mark of Antichrist, and the undecided. There are fewer and fewer of these, but they are the ones we must reach out to. They are suffering now, but oh, how they will suffer as the sun rises each day. Imagine the turmoil, the devastation. Power shortages, air conditioning overloads, breakdowns. And all this coming with half the population already gone.
“We are not far from anarchy, my friend. The GC does not care to crack down because they benefit. I am amazed there remain any loyal to Carpathia. Look what he has wrought.”
“Dr. Ben-Judah, how does this square with your contention that these judgments are as much about God’s mercy and compassion as they are about his wrath? The angel that announced the rivers and lakes turning to blood said it was to avenge the blood of the prophets.”
“God is just and God is holy, Rayford, but I do not believe he would send any more judgments on the world now if he weren’t still jealous that some repent. No doubt some will. I know the majority will not, because of what the Scripture says about their blaspheming the name of God. Obviously, by now everyone knows these judgments are from God, yet many refuse to repent of their sins.”
“I agree with you, Tsion. No one could possibly argue that God doesn’t exist. There’s overwhelming evidence of his presence and power—yet most still reject him. Why?”
“Captain Steele, that is the question of the ages. You remember the Old Testament story of when Moses grew up and refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter, even though he could have? The Bible says he chose ‘rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season.’
“Well, these people certainly are not Moses. They will suffer torment and lose their souls, all to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season—and what a short season. I applaud your thinking that this may be the time for the Tribulation Force to step up its efforts, to help struggling believers, to find the remaining undecided and help the evangelists and the angels bring them in before it is too late. I wish you Godspeed with whatever you decide.”
Buck hurried to George Sebastian’s underground quarters, where George’s wife played on the floor with their child.
“I’ve got to get out and see this,” Buck said.
“Got to be careful of radar,” Sebastian said. “The GC would be astounded to see anybody in the air during the day.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Chopper.”
“You up for it, George?”
“You don’t have to ask twice.”
Buck had seen vapor appear above the water inlets on cool mornings, but he had never seen the Pacific emit steam as far as the eye could see. “Do you believe this?” he said.
“I’ll believe anything now,” George said.
Buck was reduced to silence as fires broke out all over what was left of San Diego. The closer it got to midday, the brighter the sky became. Houses and buildings no longer began smoking and smoldering and finally kindling. Now they shimmered and shook, windows bursting, roofs curling, then whole structures exploding and sending flames and sparks showering about.
George cruised back over the ocean, where Buck saw the sand change colors before creeping carpets of flame began dancing about. The waves brought the bubbling water in, and it hissed and boiled as it touched the blistering shore. Without warning, the entire ocean reached the boiling point and became a roiling cistern of giant bubbles, sending a fog of steam that blocked Buck’s view of the sky and sun. The chopper was engulfed in white so pure and thick that Buck feared Sebastian would lose control.
“Totally on instruments now, friend,” George said.
The helicopter bounced and shook in the soup as they thwock-thwock-thwocked toward the shore. Sebastian was half a mile inland before they escaped the steam cloud and peered down on the burning grasses and neighborhoods.
“What’s the boiling temperature of blood?” Buck asked.
“Not a clue,” George said, but he immediately banked and headed toward the San Diego River.
“Whatever it is,” Buck said, “we’ve reached it.” He gawked at the huge crimson bubbles that formed and burst, emitting a fine spray that rose with the steam. “Agh!” he said, grimacing and holding his nose. “Let’s get out of here.”
The Tribulation Force was free to come and go, as long as they were careful to plan their travel into time zones that kept them in daylight as long as possible. The only relief for the Global Community forces and citizens with the mark of loyalty was to stay inside below ground level and invent ways to take the edge off the suffocating heat. Even then, hundreds of thousands died when their dwellings burned and fell in on them. Homes and buildings were largely allowed to burn themselves out, as firefighters could not venture out until well after dark.
Gardens, crops, grasses died. The polar ice caps melted faster than at any other time in history, and tsunamis threatened every port city. Shores and coastlines were buried under floods, and the dump of dead sea creatures washed miles onto land. Had it not been for people having moved inland to avoid the stench and bacteria in the first place, more lives would have been lost.
In the midst of such turmoil and grief, Rayford and Chloe worked harder than ever to rearrange their storehouses of goods and products traded through the International Commodity Co-op. Knowing their time was limited, they took advantage of everyone’s obsession with finding shelter and relief from the sun. They strategized with Chang to move equipment and aircraft around and created new warehousing and distribution centers, preparing for the last year of existence on a wounded planet.
In New Babylon, Carpathia himself insisted the heat did not bother him. Chang overheard people in maintenance repeatedly ask whether he wanted draperies over the second story of his penthouse office. Even the ceiling was transparent. The sun was magnified through the glass and roasted his office for hours every day, making the entire rest of the floor uninhabitable. Krystall was relocated deep in the bowels under Building D and had to communicate with him via intercom all day. No meetings could be held in his conference room or office, but he spent most of the day there, ordering people about via telephone or intercom.
Executives on lower floors had their windows replaced, then taped and coated and even painted black, and most other employee offices were moved to the basement of the vast complex. Chang’s department worked only at night, so he was often able to listen in as Nicolae hummed or sang softly as he worked in his office all day.
“I will sunbathe in the courtyard while the mortals eat,” he told Krystall one day at noon. Chang snuck to a corner window where he scraped a hole in the coating. He was appalled to see the potentate strip to his trousers and undershirt and lie on a concrete bench, hands behind his head, soaking in the killer rays.
After an hour, as flames licked at the concrete, Carpathia seemed to think of something and pulled his phone from his pocket. Chang sprinted back to his quarters and listened in as Nicolae told Leon he was on his way to Fortunato’s temporary underground shelter.
Later, Chang recorded Leon’s call to Suhail.
“I’m telling you, the man is inhuman! He had been outside, sunbathing!”
“Leon . . .”
“It’s true! He was so hot I could not stand within twenty feet of him! The soles of his shoes were smoking! I saw sparks in his hair, which was bleached white—even his eyebrows. His shirt collar and cuffs and tie had been singed as if the dry cleaner had over-ironed them, and the buttons on his suit and shirt had melted.
“The man is a god, impervious to pain. It’s as if he prefers being outside in this!”
One day Chang overheard Carpathia call Technical Services. “I would like a telescope set up that would point directly at the sun at noonday.”
“I can do that, Your Highness,” a man said. “But of course I would have to do it after dark.”
“And might it have recording capability?”
“Of course, sir. What would you like to record?”
“Whether the sun has grown and if bursts of flame from its surface would be visible.”
The instrument was set up and calibrated that night, and Chang watched the next day as Carpathia hurried outside at noon. He actually peered at the sun through the lens for several minutes. An hour later the lens had melted, and the entire telescope stood warped and sagging in the heat.
The technician called Carpathia that evening to report that the recording disc had also melted.
“That is all right. I saw what I wanted to see.”
“Sir?”
“That was a very nice piece of equipment. It provided me a crystal-clear image of the noonday sun, and indeed, I could see the flares dancing from the surface.”
The techie laughed.
“You find that humorous?” Carpathia said.
“Well, you’re joking, of course.”
“I am not.”
“Sir, forgive me, but your eyeball would be gone. In fact, your brain would have been fried.”
“Do you realize to whom you are speaking?”
Chang was chilled at his tone.
“Yes, sir, Potentate,” the techie said, his voice shaky.
“The sun, moon, and stars bow to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you doubt my account?”
“No, sir. Forgive me.”
Seventeen Weeks Later
Chang was idly monitoring various levels and temperature records at his desk one evening when he realized that the third Bowl Judgment had been lifted. He called Figueroa. “You’ll want to see this,” he said.
Aurelio hurried from his office and stood behind Chang. “Look at this reading.”
“‘Boiling water overflowing the Chicago River,’” his boss read quietly. “‘Overheated and radiation contaminated.’ Nothing new, is it?”
“You missed it, Chief.”
“Tell me.”
“It doesn’t say blood. It says water.”
Figueroa was trembling as he used Chang’s phone to call Akbar. “Guess what I just discovered?” he said.
“The waterways will now heal themselves over time,” Chang heard Suhail Akbar tell Carpathia the next day.
Maybe, Chang thought, if there were decades left.
It seemed to Chang that Carpathia was less concerned about water and heat because neither plague had affected him personally. What occupied most of his time was the failure, particularly in Israel, of his master plan for taking care of the Jewish “problem.” In many other countries, the persecutions had had relative success. But of the 144,000 evangelists, those assigned to the Holy Land had had tremendous success seeing the undecided become believers. And then, for some reason, they had been able to evade detection. Just when Carpathia and Akbar thought they had devised a sweep to rid the area of Messianic Jews, the sun plague had hit and the GC were incapacitated.
Now, though Carpathia rarely saw Suhail Akbar face-to-face during the day, they were constantly in touch. Chang was amazed at how much firepower was still available to Global Community forces after all they had lost and had wasted in many skirmishes with the protected Judah-ites.
The United African States threatened secession because of what Carpathia had done to their ruling elite, while a rebel group there was secretly scheming with the palace about taking over for the disenfranchised government.
“Suhail,” Chang recorded one day from Carpathia’s phone, “these plagues have always had their seasons. This one has to end sometime. And when it does, that may be the time for us to pull out the half of our munitions and equipment that we have in reserve. Would you estimate that the confidentiality level on that stockpile remains secure?”
“To the best of my knowledge, Excellency.”
“When the sun curse lifts, Director, when you can stand being out in the light of day again, let us be ready to mount the most massive offensive in the history of mankind. I have not yet conceded even Petra, but I want the Jews wherever they are. I want them from Israel, particularly Jerusalem. And I will not be distracted or dissuaded by our whining friends in northern Africa. Suhail, if you have ever wanted to please me, ever wanted to impress me, ever wanted to make yourself indispensable to me, give yourself to this task. The planning, the strategy, the use of resources should make every other war strategist in history hang his head in shame. I want you to knock me out, Suhail, and I am telling you that resources—monetary and military—are limitless.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Did you get that, Suhail? Lim-it-less.”
Six Years into the Tribulation
Chang arose at dawn, as usual, but he realized immediately that things had changed. He had not been vulnerable to the damage of the sun, but he had been aware of the difference in temperature and humidity. This morning, the air felt different.
He hurried to his computer and checked the weather. Uh-oh. Show’s over. The temperature in New Babylon was normal.
Chang ate, showered, dressed, and hurried out. The palace was abuzz. Windows were open. People streamed in and out. He even saw smiles, though most of the depleted employee population was overworked, undernourished, and looked pale and sickly.
The brass announced that the noonday meal would be served picnic-style, outside. Little was accomplished that morning as everyone anticipated lunchtime. Then the mood was festive and the food plentiful. Many got a peek at Carpathia, striding purposefully about as if he had a new lease on life.
Chang hurried back to his quarters after work that day, eager to check on the rest of the world. The Tribulation Force had trimmed its sails and pulled in its cannons. They were back in hiding, picking their spots, strategizing for returning to an after-dark schedule.
Carpathia remained tireless and expected the same of others. He held another high-level meeting with the brass that had spent much of the day moving back to his floor. Even Viv Ivins was invited, and from what Chang could hear, all had been forgiven.
“For the first time in a long time,” Nicolae said, “we play on an even field. The waterways are healing themselves, and we have rebuilding to do in the infrastructure. Let us work at getting all our loyal citizens back onto the same page with us. Director Akbar and I have some special surprises in store for dissidents on various levels. We are back in business, people. It is time to recoup our losses and start delivering a few.”
The new mood lasted three days. Then the lights went out. Literally. Everything went dark. Not just the sun, but the moon also, the stars, streetlamps, electric lights, car lights. Anything anywhere that ever emitted light was now dark. No keypads on telephones, no flashlights, nothing iridescent, nothing glow-in-the-dark. Emergency lights, exit signs, fire signs, alarm signs—everything. Pitch-black.
The cliché of not being able to see one’s hand in front of one’s face? Now true. It mattered not what time of day it was; people could see nothing. Not their clocks, watches, not even fire, matches, gas grills, electric grills. It was as if the light had done worse than go out; any vestige of it had been sucked from the universe.
People screamed in terror, finding this the worst nightmare of their lives—and they had many to choose from. They were blind—completely, utterly, totally, wholly unable to see anything but blackness twenty-four hours a day.
They felt their way around the palace; they pushed their way outdoors. They tried every light and every switch they could remember. They called out to each other to see if it was just them, or if everyone had the same problem. Find a candle! Rub two sticks together! Shuffle on the carpet and create static electricity. Do anything. Anything! Something to allow some vestige of a shadow, a hint, a sliver.
All to no avail.
Chang wanted to laugh. He wanted to howl from his gut. He wished he could tell everyone everywhere that once again God had meted out a curse, a judgment upon the earth that affected only those who bore the mark of the beast. Chang could see. It was different. He didn’t see lights either. He simply saw everything in sepia tone, as if someone had turned down the wattage on a chandelier.
He saw whatever he needed to, including his computer and screen and watch and quarters. His food, his sink, his stove—everything. Best of all, he could tiptoe around the palace in his rubber-soled shoes, weaving between his coworkers as they felt their way along.
Within hours, though, something even stranger happened. People were not starving or dying of thirst. They were able to feel their way to food and drink. But they could not work. There was nothing to discuss, nothing to talk about but the cursed darkness. And for some reason, they also began to feel pain.
They itched and so they scratched. They ached and so they rubbed. They cried out and scratched and rubbed some more. For many the pain grew so intense that all they could do was bend down and feel the ground to make sure there was no hole or stairwell to fall into and then collapse in a heap, writhing, scratching, seeking relief.
The longer it went, the worse it got, and now people swore and cursed God and chewed their tongues. They crawled about the corridors, looking for weapons, pleading with friends or even strangers to kill them. Many killed themselves. The entire complex became an asylum of screams and moans and guttural wails, as these people became convinced that this, finally, was it—the end of the world.
But no such luck. Unless they had the wherewithal, the guts, to do themselves in, they merely suffered. Worse by the hour. Increasingly bad by the day. This went on and on and on. And in the middle of it, Chang came up with the most brilliant idea of his life.
If ever there was a perfect time for him to escape, it was now. He would contact Rayford or Mac, anyone willing and able and available to come and get him. It had to be that the rest of the Tribulation Force—in fact, all of the sealed and marked believers in the world—had the same benefit he did.
Someone would be able to fly a jet and land it right there in New Babylon, and GC personnel would have to run for cover, having no idea who could do such a thing in the utter darkness. As long as no one spoke, they could not be identified. The Force could commandeer planes and weapons, whatever they wanted.
If anyone accosted them or challenged them, what better advantage could the Trib Force have than that they could see? They would have the drop on everyone and everybody. With but a year to go until the Glorious Appearing, Chang thought, the good guys finally had even a better deal than they had when the daylight hours belonged solely to them.
Now, for as long as God tarried, for as long as he saw fit to keep the shades pulled down and the lights off, everything was in the believers’ favor.
“God,” Chang said, “just give me a couple more days of this.”