The Illuminati (24 page)

Randy Cross was just driving into Atlanta when he saw the first group, or more correctly, the first mob. They were mostly young, rough-looking men, as well as a small group of kids—some who looked to be about eight or ten. They were moving toward the intersection where he was headed, shouting something he couldn't understand at first.

He thought about turning around and finding another way into the city, but he noticed a police car parked at the intersection. So he decided to keep going, rather than take a chance on getting stopped for making a U-turn.

As he eased up to the intersection, he heard what the crowd was chanting: “God is dead, God is dead . . . .”Then he saw that the placards they were carrying were inverted crosses—the traditional sign of the Gay Rights Movement. The mob saw him just as he stopped at the intersection. They were still a good forty feet from where he was, but several in the group started throwing rocks and bottles at his car. He knew this was a mob that would attack first and ask questions later.

He gunned the car and turned the corner where it appeared the group was the thinnest. Three of the men ran into the street to stop his car, but he jammed the gas pedal to the floor and accelerated. They jumped out of the way at the last moment, crashing bottles and rocks against his car. His last image of the mob was the three who had tried to intercept him, throwing debris in a futile attempt to hit his car. The police car was still sitting where he had first seen it; the policeman made no attempt to stop him or the mob.
Apparently the Atlanta police have become observers, not enforcers
, he thought. He was shaking from the encounter. If he had any doubts before, he didn't now. His life was on the line. Anarchy was ruling his city.

He was praying silently as he drove on past burned-out homes and hulks of once-great churches that had been destroyed by the roving mobs. The sounds of fire engines and ambulance sirens told him that the violence was far from over. He was tempted to drive by his home, but resisted the urge for fear that someone might recognize him.

It made him sick to see what was happening to Atlanta. The stores that had not boarded up their windows were scenes of broken glass and merchandise strewn all over—inside and out.

Once he was past the inner city, he realized there was much less damage and more police. Obviously the law enforcement officers were letting the mobs destroy their own neighborhoods and were concentrating their efforts in the more affluent areas to protect what they could. The radio news commentators made it sound like the mobs were offshoots from the Constitutional Rights Committee, destroying property in retaliation for the attacks on their group.

If it's this bad in a city like Atlanta, what must it be like in New York and Los Angeles?
he wondered.

He heard on the news that the police had a list of suspected terrorists and were tracking them down.
Well, I know my name is probably on that list
.

The news programs also carried comments about the inauguration of the first woman president, Katherine Alton. The commentators said the new president would hold her first official press conference as soon as possible after President Hunt's funeral. She announced that her administration would support the efforts of President Hunt's administration to reestablish law and order in America.

“Which probably means more of the same,” Randy commented cynically.

He turned onto Lenox Avenue, where Brent Olford lived, and let out an involuntary gasp. “It looks like a war zone.” The homes weren't burned, but windows were smashed and doors shattered. The personal possessions of those who lived in the neighborhood were strewn across the lawns. The ravaging mobs had carried off anything of value and left behind all that was judged sentimental in scattered or smashed heaps. The dead animals littering the lawns—household pets that had attempted to protect their owner's property—attested to the violence that had taken place. If there were human casualties, and Randy knew there had to be, they were not in sight. He assumed they had either been removed by the police and medics still protecting the city or by friends and relatives.

He drove slowly and carefully, looking for any signs of those who had wreaked such destruction on innocent people. He had no doubt that some in the mobs were neighbors, angry over their circumstances and quick to vent their anger on others.

Seeing no sign of life on the street, he drove into the driveway of the Olford home. He decided it would be less obvious if he went in the back door. The whole area was a mess. Water had flooded the lower level of the split-level home and was running out the back entrance. The destruction outside was bad enough, but it gave no hint as to the total demolition inside the house. The refrigerator and cabinet doors hung open with the contents spilling onto the floor. Walls were kicked in and splashes of blood were smeared on the living room walls. Someone had spray painted the sign of an inverted cross in every room of the house.

Looking around one more time to be sure no one had followed him in, Randy called out, “Paula, are you here?” There was no answer, and he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. To think of a frightened seven-year-old girl in the hands of that mob he had seen made him shudder.

He called again, “Paula, it's Randy Cross. I'm the one who called you. Come on out, honey.”

Still no response. The hallway leading to the bedrooms was splattered with blood. It looked as if something bloody had been dragged down the hall. He followed the red smear to what appeared to be a child's room. There, against one wall, lay a bloody, blanket-clad bundle. His heart stopped.

With his heart pounding, he approached what he knew must be the body of his friend's child. “Paula.”His voice broke as he spoke her name. In the poor light of the darkened room he hadn't noticed the shadow of someone crouched just inside the closet. As he bent down over the torn little body, he was suddenly attacked from behind.

“You leave my dog alone!” the shrill voice cried out as she pummeled him with her small fists.

A relieved Randy grabbed her hands and said, “Wait, Paula. It's Mr. Cross. I'm here to help you.” He held her at arm's length as she continued to swing her little arms wildly. Pulling her to him he said more sternly, “Stop it, Paula. I'm here to help. You're safe now.”

Suddenly she collapsed into his arms sobbing, “Oh, it's you. I was so scared. My dog, Scruffy, is hurt. He doesn't move when I call him.”

“I'm afraid he's dead, Paula.”He expected her to break into tears, but she seemed to be in a daze, so he hastened to say, “We need to leave right away. Did you pack some clothes like I asked?”

“Yes, sir. They're right here in my bag.” She pointed to the small overnight bag beside the closet door.

“Good, sweetheart. Let's go.”

Carrying Paula's bag, he cautiously looked out the back door before opening it. There was a man dressed in old army fatigues standing in the alley behind the house. He appeared to be talking into a handheld radio. Randy quickly went to the living room and looked out the window, where he saw two more men standing in the driveway of a looted house down the block.

He turned to Paula, “Where is the door to your garage, honey?”

“In the utility room,” she said, pointing in that direction. Randy took her hand and went to the utility room. As he opened the garage, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the family van. He rushed to open the van door and looked inside, praying the keys would be there. A first sweep failed to turn up the keys, but when he pulled the ashtray open, there they were.
Just where Harriet would leave them, too
, Randy briefly reminisced.

He told her a thousand times not to leave them in the car. He bet Brent had told his wife the same thing.
Praise God she didn't listen
, he thought.

Randy knew that his car was probably on the police's wanted list, so it would be best to take the Olford's van. But how to get all the things he bought at the service station out of his car and into their van? He didn't want to leave that behind, especially the gas. Putting the garage door opener in his pocket, he put Paula and her bag into the van and told her that he would be right back. She started to protest, but his tone of voice convinced her to do as she was told. He went back into the kitchen, looked out of the back door, and to his great relief, he saw that the fatigue-clad man had disappeared. He didn't have time to figure that out; he just made a dash for the minivan, where he'd left it in the driveway. Jumping inside, he fired up the engine, punched the control to open the garage door, and pulled into the vacant garage space next to the van. Working frantically, he threw everything from his car into the van, while Paula watched in fascination. Taking one last look at the minivan that held so many memories for him, he jumped into the Olford's van. As he was backing down the driveway, he punched the garage door button again.
That should give us a little time
, he thought.
I doubt that anyone will check the garage for awhile
.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he caught a glimpse of the men he had seen watching the house from their parked car. They were going into a neighbor's house.
Are they friends of Paula's family? If so, why didn't they help her before I got here? Are they FBI? Vigilantes?
He didn't have time to ponder the questions. He just dropped the gear lever into drive and sped away. Luckily for Randy and Paula, the men were part of a hastily formed neighborhood watch team that had been set up to watch for looters. The man out front, seeing Paula clinging to Randy, had informed the others to let them pass.

Randy was weaving his way through the city, using back streets as much as possible. He knew the danger from looters was greater on back streets, but he feared being picked up by the police even more. He passed cars stalled on the sides of the roads, totally stripped. Many of them had been set on fire and gutted.

Paula sat huddled up against the door on her side of the van. No amount of coaxing from Randy could get her to sit next to him. His heart went out to her. He knew there was no way he could explain what was happening, even if he knew himself.
The world's gone mad
, he thought for the thousandth time.
Now I know what the Lord means when He said, “Let him who is in the field not turn back to get his coat . .
. ”
I wish I were out of this city and back at the cabin. But what about all of our friends? And what must be happening to Christians who live in places like Chicago and New York City? I wish we had a way to communicate. Maybe we could help
.

Just then a car pulled up behind him. He looked in the mirror and saw six or seven teenagers in an ancient Oldsmobile, with the stereo blaring loud enough for him to hear it inside the van. Suddenly, the battered Olds sped up.

Randy guessed the hoodlums were looking to replace their old car with the van, so he floored the gas pedal. In its prime, the Olds would have kept up with the van easily, but its prime was long past. In a couple of blocks, Randy was well ahead of the car loaded with angry teens. But as he looked ahead, the traffic light was just turning red. He knew if he stopped they would easily catch up with him. So instead, he kept the accelerater floored and rushed to beat the light. It turned red at least fifty feet before he reached the intersection, but he never even thought about slowing down. As he sped through the light, two cars approaching from the cross street started through. Seeing that he was sure to hit one of them broadside, Randy twisted the wheel of the van and attempted to slide past the cars and onto the street to his right. He almost made it, too, but the rear of the van skidded into the front car. The van spun around in the street and came to a halt on the sidewalk.

Meanwhile the car full of teens had no chance of stopping since the brakes of the old junker were worn thin. The brake pedal dropped to the floor as the driver smashed down on it. His eyes wide with alarm, he pumped the pedal frantically and the hydraulic system responded by providing minimal braking—just enough to slow the hurtling car to controllable speed. The battered Olds smashed into the parked cars and careened onto the opposite sidewalk. As it hit the curb, the Olds flipped over and rolled three times.

The whole event took less than twenty seconds, but to Randy it seemed more like an hour. The Olds came to rest upside down. Immediately teenagers came crawling out of it from every opening and scattered in all directions. Randy glanced over at the other drivers whose vehicles had been hit either by his van or the Olds. They looked frightened, but otherwise unhurt. Then he heard the sound of a police siren headed toward the scene of the accident.

I'd like to stay
, he thought, but Paula's screaming reminded him of a greater danger, so he shoved the van into gear and sped off, past the oncoming police car.

The officer, unable to give pursuit because of the chaos in the intersection, noted the license number and called it in to his dispatcher. But he also noted the pile of stereos and VCRs that had dumped out of the trunk of the Olds when it came to rest upside down. The occupants had made quick exits.

Randy continued through the city without further incident. Once he reached the perimeter, he headed directly for Interstate I-75 South.

I know that policeman got my license number
, Randy worried silently.
God, let us make it back to the cabin
.

It was nearly six before Randy pulled up in front of the cabin. Harriet rushed out to meet him. “Thank God, you're okay!” she said as tears streamed down her checks. “You were gone so long, and I was so frightened.” Then she saw Paula huddled against the passenger door and her motherly instincts took over. She rushed around the van, opened the door, and cradled the frightened girl in her arms.

13

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