Take the Long Way Home (12 page)

“And here you are,” I finished for him.

“Yes, indeed. Here I am. Left behind. God help me—help us all.”

“We’ll survive,” I said. “We’ll pick up the pieces, dust ourselves off and move on. We always do. Look at everything the human race has been through. We always bounce back.”

He shook his head. “Not this time. The next seven years will quite literally be hell on earth. War. Famine. Earthquakes. Disease. Total chaos.”

“Don’t we have that now?”

“No, Steve. This is just the beginning. We have those things now, but they pale in comparison to what’s coming. This will be a tough time for the tribulation saints.”

I gasped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I—something you said just made me think. I heard something similar earlier today.”

“How so?”

I told him about all that had transpired. Even with the disappearances, I didn’t expect him to believe me when I got to Gabriel and the skinheads turning into salt. But when I’d finished, he simply nodded his head.

“You’ve been chosen.”

I snorted, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Chosen for what?”

“Don’t scoff. A dynamic new leader is about to arise. People will see him as a great man. He will fix everything, stop the lawlessness and chaos and usher in an era of peace.”

“But you said it would be Hell on earth. Wars and famine and all that.”

“It’s a false peace, and he’s anything but a great man. The Bible calls this man Antichrist. He’s a descendent of those who destroyed the temple in Jerusalem in 70 A.D. But who he really is, is Satan. The Antichrist will enjoy worldwide popularity. People will love him like no other world leader they’ve ever known.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He has yet to reveal himself. But I’m sure he’s already active. We’ve probably watched him in action for years, and loved him without knowing his true identity. Soon, most likely within a few weeks, he will set up a new one-world government in response to today’s events. He’ll even bring peace to Israel with the signing of a seven-year agreement.”

“Never happen,” I said. “There will never be peace in Israel, especially now. And what does this have to do with me anyway? You said I was chosen.”

“The signing of the agreement kicks off a seven-year period called the tribulation, and those who receive Jesus as their Lord and Savior after the Rapture are called tribulation saints. Many of them will be Jews, just like you. Revelation talks about the 144,000 Jewish witnesses. These witnesses, the tribulation saints, will be protected supernaturally from the horrors to come. Much like you were today, with your guardian. What did you say his name was?”

“Gabriel,” I whispered. He’d mentioned something about the 144,000 as well, when Al the skinhead held me at knifepoint.

“Gabriel the Protector. You do know Gabriel was an angel of the Lord?”

“No,” I said. “But I do now.”

I tried to get my head around it. I was chosen simply for being Jewish? I didn’t even practice my own faith, let alone know the Christian Bible. It all seemed unfair. If this were true, and I was beginning to believe it was, why should I get special protection while others suffered?

We passed the exit for Parkton, and I thought of Charlie. What had he done to deserve all that had happened tonight? He was just trying to get home—same with Frank and Hector and everyone else.

“Why?” I asked. “Why would God do this? He’s supposed to be a loving God.”

“Yes,” Brady said, “and He is a loving God. But he is also a just God. A comedian who I enjoy once said that the God of the Bible had a split personality. In the New Testament, He is a God of love, promising forgiveness to everyone; but in the Old Testament, He is a God of wrath, demanding sacrifices and punishing those who displease him. People often forget that he is both.”

I considered telling the preacher just what I thought of that, what I thought of his God—of any deity that would do this to its people. But I kept my mouth shut and watched the mile markers rush by. This man could deliver me almost to my doorstep, so the last thing I wanted to do was offend him. If I did, I’d find myself walking again.

We passed the weigh station at Exit 36, and crossed over the state line. There were three small crosses off the shoulder, set up in remembrance of three teenagers who’d died there months ago in a drunken driving accident. Looking at them, I shivered.

“Pennsylvania.” Reverend Brady smiled. “Won’t be long now.”

I looked up at the road sign.

YOU ARE NOW LEAVING MARYLAND.

WE ENJOYED YOUR VISIT.

PLEASE COME AGAIN.

Please come again . . .

It was a fitting epitaph for the world.

We drove on in silence, past the deserted Pennsylvania Welcome Center and a few more scattered car wrecks. I watched the sights flick past, numb to the horrors. A farmhouse burned; no firefighters were on site. A decapitated head lay on the median. A teenage graffiti artist had tagged a billboard without fear of retribution or arrest, because the cops were all busy elsewhere. A large, black crow feasted on a dead dog.

The headlights flashed off a road sign:
Shrewsbury—One Mile
.

“You can just drop me off at the exit ramp,” I said.

Reverend Brady looked surprised. “Are you sure? It’s not a problem to take you to your front door.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m sure you’ve got people to get home to as well.”

He slowed down as we approached the exit and stopped at the top of the ramp. He checked the rearview mirror to make sure there was no traffic behind us. There wasn’t. The highway was a ghost.

I opened the door, and then offered him my hand. “Look. I don’t know how to thank you. Are you sure I can’t give you some gas money or something?”

“You can thank me by thinking about what I said.” He squeezed my hand. “I hope you find what you’re looking for when you get home, Steve.”

“I appreciate that. Goodbye, Reverend, and good luck.”

10

“I’ll pray for you, and for your wife.”

“Thanks.”

I started to turn away, but then he called out.

“Steve? Don’t lose faith. The journey will be hard, but something wonderful is waiting for you at the end.”

I nodded, afraid to speak. Despite the kindness he’d shown me, I felt like screaming at him. The car’s window slid closed, and Reverend Brady drove away. I stood there and watched him go until his taillights vanished.

“Gabriel?” I said out loud as I walked down the exit ramp. “You still with me?”

There was no answer, but I wasn’t really expecting one. If anything, Gabriel had proven himself to be pretty non-communicative.

“So if the preacher was right, if you’re some sort of guardian angel sent to watch over me, then I hope you watched over Terri as well.”

In the darkness, a whippoorwill sang out. The grass along the roadside rustled softly in the breeze.

“If not,” I said, “there’ll be hell to pay.”

Then I went home.

They were looting the Wal-Mart as I walked past. Surprisingly, the whole thing seemed pretty civil. Locals, people I knew and faces I recognized, filed out of the store carrying everything from food to televisions. They pushed shopping carts filled to overflowing with goods. There was no fighting or shoving. It was eerily calm. Neighbors greeted each other, and helped each other load up their cars and trucks. I heard laughter, saw lovers holding hands, children smiling. The scene was polite and friendly, almost festive. A carnival atmosphere where all that was missing was a Ferris wheel and a few cotton candy vendors. Maybe a trained elephant doing tricks for the kids, as well.

Charlie had been right. We should have taken the abandoned Cadillac when we came across it. Everybody else was doing it, and the Caddy’s owner doubtlessly wouldn’t have needed it again. Had we commandeered the car, I’d have been home already. We’d all be home. If I’d said yes, Charlie and Frank would still be alive.

There weren’t many abandoned cars in town, but there were a lot of dark houses. I wondered how many of their occupants had actually disappeared and how many more were simply hiding inside, hunkered down behind the windowsill, clutching a shotgun in the darkness and waiting for the hordes invading the Wal-Mart to attack.

On one block where the homes were close to one another, a fire had gutted four buildings, stretching from Merle Laughman’s antique shop down to Dale Haubner’s house. The sidewalks and street were wet and water dripped from the fire hydrant. I assumed that the firefighters here in our community had been less busy than elsewhere. Or maybe they’d just gotten to this one early. Whatever had occurred, they’d managed to save the rest of the block.

11

The pain in my legs and feet had dissipated during the car ride, and now I had my second wind. The fatigue lessened with each step, and I quickened my pace.

“I’m almost there, Terri. Almost home.”

The traffic light blinked yellow at the intersection across from my block. Shattered glass indicated a wreck, but there were no cars in sight. I crossed Main Street, turned right, and walked another few yards.

Then I stood in front of our house. I took a deep breath. The lights were on and I saw the flickering blue glow of the television from the living room window.

“She’s here!”

I ran up the stairs of the front porch and my hands shook as I fumbled for my keys. I unlocked the door and barged into the living room. A frazzled-looking newscaster was on television, reporting on what I already knew. The volume was turned up loud.

Terri’s spot on the couch was empty, but the cushion where she sat every evening still held her imprint.

“Terri? Honey? I’m home!”

I turned off the television.

“Terri?”

Silence. I was home, but my wife wasn’t. I searched the house, hoping against hope, but I knew what I would find. Or wouldn’t find.

Terri was missing.

After twenty minutes, I collapsed onto the bed and cried into her pillow. It smelled like Terri, and I breathed in her fading scent. Soon it would be gone, just like her imprint on the sofa cushion. And then there’d be no trace left.

I prayed. I asked for it to be taken back, that the day be rewound and erased. Prayed for a second chance. I prayed for Charlie and Frank and Craig and Hector and all the others. More than anything, I asked for my wife to be returned to me, or to be allowed to go where she was, and again there was no answer. God was deaf, dumb and blind. I pleaded with Gabriel to show himself, but he didn’t. The silence was a solid thing. Downstairs, our grandfather clock ticked off the seconds and each one was excruciating.

I lay there all night and continued to pray. My parents would have been so proud of me. Terri and her parents would have been proud, too, because I finally believed in something. Believed in a force beyond Judaism or Christianity or dogma or faith. Believed in something concrete.

Something real.

I prayed as only a God-fearing man can—because God exists. I know that now. God exists, and I fear Him.

I am afraid.

So I pray. I pray every day now, even as things get worse. The preacher was right. The Rapture was just the beginning. And still I pray. I pray for mercy. Pray for forgiveness.

Pray to go home.

It’s such a long way and there are many miles left to go.

AFTERWORD

Take The Long Way Home
was originally written for an anthology called
On A Pale Horse
. The premise of the anthology was four religious themed, end-of-the-world novellas by four different horror writers—myself, Tim Lebbon, Michael Laimo, and Gord Rollo. Each of us began work on our novellas, and everybody agreed that I should write about the Rapture. Why? At the time, there was a very popular Christian horror series written by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins called
Left Behind
. The series spanned twelve-books and a subsequent young adult series before giving birth to its first prequel. That prequel, amusingly enough, was called
The Rising
. My own book,
The Rising
, which caused a stir among zombie fans, had been out for about two years at that point. You can imagine the fun that ensued for booksellers. Zombie fans who had read
City of the Dead
and were looking for the previous book picked up something about the Rapture instead, and Christian readers who were expecting more of LaHaye and Jenkins’ Biblical adventure got Ob and Frankie and a bunch o’ gut-munching zombies.

I originally wanted to call this story
Left Behind
. My attorney said we couldn’t be sued for it, and I laughed with glee. But then a friend’s more sensible head prevailed, and I changed the title to
Take The Long Way Home
, which is also the title of my favorite Supertramp song. I think I like this title better.