The End is Now (38 page)

Still to this day there is a lot of debate about what actually happened that night and morning of the Goodland rapture. Some
say that God was ready to pull the trigger and begin Armageddon until the Realists and the police from Salina made such a
mess of things. If the point of the Goodland rapture was for the town to be a signal flare and a sacrificial lamb for the
entire planet, it was just too hard for that to happen in the middle of the police riot. How could God make a big grandiose
gesture in the middle of all that? He is a gentleman and He isn’t going to upstage everyone else. The rapture is supposed
to happen only when there’s peace and quiet and it’s barely expected, not in the middle of absolute chaos where it would hardly
be noticed.

Some say that the police and helicopters and the actual chaos
was
the rapture. It was a metaphor. They were there to show how crazy and hopeless planet Earth would become once the tribulation
began. The rapture was never going to
actually
happen. Not just in a small town. That’s nonsense. It was more like a fire drill or a test of the emergency broadcast system.
And what’s important in these tests is how people are going to react. That’s what God wanted to see. He wanted to see what
was in their hearts. Because once Armageddon began, He would have to assume complete control. The time for human decision
would be over. Hence, God’s intention from the start was to give Goodland a good old fire drill and warn about what was to
come. He just wanted one more chance to let everyone know it’s not too late for you, but it will be soon.

And inevitably there are some who say that the signs were misread. The real harvest was the one that happened only once every
five years, and that harvest was in sync with the Mayan calendar. So when the boy said, “The rooster will crow at the harvest,”
that’s what he was talking about. Even that interpretation caused debate, but the bottom line from that group was that they
were sure the rapture was coming. There was just a sign or two that had been misread, and once they were figured out, everyone
would know the
true
date of the rapture.

And then there are the Realists, who felt both vindicated and embarrassed when Sunday came and went without a single soul
floating towards heaven. They thought they were just as bad, maybe worse, for reacting like they did, strapping the Hendersons
up on that billboard. Most never gloated about the rapture not coming. Most denied that they were ever there that evening
watching the family on the billboard under the glow of the bonfires.

Those who did admit to what they did said they got swept up in something and they felt the need to apologize to the Hendersons.

One family even bought an expensive cheese basket loaded with a variety of cheeses and jellies and crackers. They weren’t
sure if a cheese basket was an ample apology after having just strapped their children to the top of a billboard, ridiculing
them, and then driving Jeff almost to the point of murdering a police officer and his best friend. But they thought a cheese
basket was better than nothing.

They came with their cheese basket early on that Sunday afternoon. They were the first family with the courage to face the
Hendersons. To look them in the eyes and say, “We’re sorry.” They knocked on the door and waited in a cold sweat. Would the
Hendersons scream at them and say, “How dare you show up here?” Or would they embrace them and admit that everyone had made
some mistakes over the last week and it was time to move forward?

The family with the cheese basket never got to find out.

They knocked and waited, knocked and waited, but neither Will, Emily, Amy, or Jeff ever showed up at the door. The father
walked around and opened the back door. Inside, the Hendersons’ house was messy, but lived-in messy; it didn’t look like they
were robbed or like it had been invaded by spies looking for secret microfilm or anything like that. There were clothes strewn
about but it was hard to tell if that was because they were doing some last-second packing or if Amy just hadn’t had time
to keep up with the housekeeping. She was probably quite busy with all of the prophecies and what-not, but some of the clothes
weren’t even in the laundry basket, and that’s embarrassingly messy. You never know when someone’s going to break into your
house looking for you, so you should at least try to keep your house clean enough for those instances, the father with the
cheese basket thought.

When he walked into the garage he saw that both the Hendersons’ cars were nestled safely inside. “Jeff?” the father said as
he shut the garage door, but the only sound he was met with was the ticking of an old clock. And that’s when the father called
the police.

Soon the police were all over the Henderson house, and by that night, they had officially declared Jeff, Amy, Emily, and Will
as missing persons. Everyone all over Kansas was on the lookout for them.

But no one ever found them.

The Henderson family was never heard from again. Some said it was because everyone was looking in the wrong place. The Hendersons
were the only ones who’d deserved to be raptured and there was no way anyone was going to find them because heaven was nowhere
near Kansas. Others liked to think the Hendersons ended up on some beach in Mexico, spending the rest of their days basking
in the sun, building sand castles, and watching the surf endlessly roll up onto the shore only to be sucked back into the
sea.

The Hendersons became a legend around Goodland — another exhibit in Miss May’s rapture museum. They became part of Goodland
mystique. An outsider could every now and again hear the people of Goodland talking about the Hendersons. If outsiders waited
around coffee shops and diners long enough they would hear bits and pieces of the story about the family who’d created the
apocalypse and then afterwards promptly vanished. And the outsider would occasionally ask questions once they heard the story.
But they’d get different answers depending on whom they talked to. The people of Goodland could, and did, say whatever they
wanted about the Henderson family. They shaped their own stories. Because at the end of the day, there was no way of knowing
what was fact and what was fiction, and there was no way to prove what was a prophecy and what was simply a coincidence.

I would like to thank in advance the actors who would be ideal to portray the characters in the summer blockbuster adaptation
of
The End Is Now
. I’d like to thank Bill Paxton for playing Jeff Henderson because he’s Hollywood’s best everyman. Diane Lane will play Amy
Henderson because she’s the type of actress who’s beautiful, sophisticated, and sympathetic when she’s trapped.

I would like to thank Ellen Page for playing Emily Henderson. However, by the time this book goes into print, and certainly
by the time it is green-lit by the Hollywood studio system, Ellen Page will be far too old for this role. Does she have any
younger siblings with that spunky, know-it-all vibe?

And speaking of younger siblings, I have no idea who could play Will Henderson. Macaulay Culkin would be perfect. So would
Haley Joel Osment. But they are old and completely uncute now. Are there any Culkin kids left? Weren’t there like fifteen
of them at one point? Maybe Macaulay will have a kid and he and his son will make
Home Alone 5
where Macaulay’s family leaves him home around Christmas because he’s too busy at his office and flirting with the secretary.
Then the whole movie will be about this thirty-seven-year-old man who has to battle through his alcoholism and childhood demons
to find the true meaning of Christmas. There won’t be a single joke in it. It will be on the Hallmark Channel. And at the
end, right when Macaulay is standing on the edge of a bridge and ready to take his life, Joe Pesci will show up and give Macaulay
the perfect advice he needs to hear. I would like to thank the Hallmark Channel for making that movie.

I’d also like to thank Andy Meisenheimer, my editor, for once again being Yoda and Captain Kirk rolled into one. Thanks for
your friendship, advice, and pushing this story to what it needed to be. I’d like to thank Becky Philpott for making sure
my prose snaps, crackles, and pops. I’d like to thank Marcy Schorsch and Karen Campbell for their brilliance in helping
The End Is Now
get out into the world. And I’d like to thank Chip MacGregor for his wisdom and guidance in the literary business.

I’d like to thank all the author friends I’ve made along the way: Patton Dodd, Mick Silva, Steve Rabey, John Bolin, Glenn
Packiam, Joel Kneedler, Matthew Paul Turner, and Michael Snyder. Processing writing and bouncing ideas off of you guys has
helped immensely in shaping this novel and my career.

I’d like to thank Kevin Beck and Tim King and Jason Boyett (to name a few) for their expertise on eschatology.

And finally, I’d like to thank Sarah and Julianna and Claire for being so understanding whenever I snuck away to write and
for being so loving when I return home. I hope I’m never raptured without you.

A Novel

Rob Stennett

Meet Ryan Fisher — a self-assured real estate agent who’s looking for an edge in the market.

While watching a news special late one night, he sees evangelical Christians raising their hands in worship. It’s like they’re
begging for affordable but classy starter homes.

Ryan discovers the Christian business directory and places an ad complete with a Jesus fish. His business doubles in a week.

But after visiting an actual church, Ryan realizes that with his business savvy, he could not only plant a church — he could
create an empire.

The Almost True Story of Ryan Fisher
is a hilarious, spot-on, and often heartbreaking satire in the tradition of Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Perrotta, and Douglas Adams.

Softcover: 978-0-310-27706-4

Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!

9 : 0 2 P. M.

I’m locking myself in tonight.

And no, I don’t mean I’m getting ready to snuggle up with a glass of wine and a good book on the bearskin rug by the fire
or lying on the couch to watch a nice romantic comedy while I chow down on a pint of Cherry Garcia — no I mean I’m literally
locking myself in.

I live in one of those Los Angeles apartment buildings where all the paint is peeling on the outside, and there’s always a
bright yellow sign hanging over the balcony that announces the “Move-In Special!” This is the type of place that will soon
be condemned, the type of place where you never feel safe, where the door to one apartment is rattling with the thumping of
hip-hop gangster rap while another apartment always has girls with fish-net pantyhose and way too much make-up coming and
going.

I live in apartment 517 B. If you walked down the hallway toward my apartment you’d notice the carpet is warped, green, and
it smells like old people. The walls are constructed of synthetic wood paneling. The numbers on the doors aren’t metal or
raised gold; they’re simply stickers and half are on crooked or partially torn off.

I’ve seen a lot of strange things happen in this hallway.

Which is probably why no one stops me as I return from Home Depot. I walk down the hallway with brown plastic bags full of
everything I need: power drill, screwdrivers, deadbolts, chains, latches, and locks. I spend the next hour drilling and twisting
and attaching them to the door of my apartment. One or two people glance at me funny as I work on my door, but most just walk
right past me. They look at me like this is just normal apartment maintenance.

It isn’t.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never installed locks before. But now, here I am with seven of Home Depot’s most heavy-duty
burglar-proof locks lining my front door — “the Kingston series” is what the bearded guy in the orange apron called them.
The door’s a complete mess now. But it’s fine, it doesn’t have to look nice, it just has to work.