Plot Line (11 page)

“I’m not saying it is. I’m just showing the
Bible mentions intelligent creatures other than what we see on
Earth today. The prophet Isaiah sees creatures with three pairs of
wings.”

“So you’re saying there are creatures we
can’t see.”

“Exactly. Some are described in the Bible
others are not, and not all of them are friendly. The Scripture is
clear about God’s holy angels, but it is equally clear about
demons.”

“I may have seen a demon?” Ray drew back.
This was beyond his experience and his willingness to believe.

“I can’t say for sure. Even if I was there,
I wouldn’t know any more than you. The New Testament speaks of
demons as evil spirits, but no physical description is given. We
have no idea what they look like.”

“I need more than that.”

“So would I. One thing that got me thinking
in that direction was your response to what you’ve seen. You were
terrified, right?”

“More than I can say.”

“You said Dr. Rehnquist was crazed and
filled with hatred, and that he had been clawing at his head and
face.”

“Right.”

“In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus heals a man
who was possessed by a group of demons who called themselves
‘Legion’ because there was so many of them. The Gospel of Luke has
the same account. The possessed man lived among the tombs,
withdrawn from others, screaming, and cutting himself with
rocks.”

“Why would someone cut themselves?”

Shackleton shrugged. “We can’t know for
sure, but I suspect that either the demon’s were causing the man to
hurt himself, or it was a desperate act on the man’s part to force
the demon’s out.”

“That doesn’t seem rational.”

“That’s the whole point,
Ray, it’s
not
rational. At least not by any standards we humans
use.”

“I don’t know if I can believe this,” Ray
shook his head. “Aliens are one thing, wicked angels are
another.”

“In the New Testament book of Second Peter
there is a verse that says, ‘For if God did not spare angels when
they sinned, but cast them into hell and committed them to pits of
darkness . . .’ He then goes on to talk about judgment against
false teachers. Peter uses a very interesting word in the verse.
The New Testament was written in Greek and the word translated Hell
is not the usual term. It’s Tartarus. In ancient Greek thinking,
Tartarus was the lowest part of Hell in which the Titans were
punished. Peter uses the same word. No one knows what these angels
did to receive such a severe punishment, but the Scripture records
it as a fact.”

“How does this relate to what I saw? What
would angels, wicked or otherwise, be doing in an underground
military research facility?”

Shackleton sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“I can only speculate. I’m guessing and nothing more. We just don’t
have enough facts to go on. Based on your response, your sense of
evil, and what you’ve told me about Dr. Rehnquist, I would say they
found a way to bridge the gulf that separates the world we know
from the spiritual world described in the Bible.” He paused. “I
can’t know what they were looking for, but the researchers may have
opened a door between these two worlds. Worse, they may have opened
the door to the worst possible place.”

“Tartarus.”

“Maybe. If so, I fear for everyone in the
lab.”

“How does this help me? Even if it’s true,
how do I get the images out of my head?”

Shackleton leaned over the table and spoke
firmly. “The Apostle Paul wrote something in the book of Ephesians
that may help. He said, ‘Our struggle is not against flesh and
blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the
world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of
wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore, take up the full
armor of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day,
and having done everything, to stand firm.’”

“Heavenly places?”

“The realm of spiritual beings,” Shackleton
explained. “I think you have seen what few, if any, have:
‘spiritual forces of wickedness.’ If I’m right, then your
protection must be a spiritual one—and the only spiritual solution
that works is Jesus.”

“Jesus?” Ray spoke with disbelief. He was
thankful for Shackleton’s compassion. He was even more thankful the
man hadn’t laughed in his face, but he knew sooner or later,
religion would pop up in the conversation. “I’m not religious.”

“Ray, do I strike you as an ignorant
man?”

The question caught Ray off guard. “No, not
at all. You seem brighter than most people I know.”

“I am not a religious man,
either. I’m a
spiritual
man. There’s a difference. I have spent much of my
life studying the things of God, and I assure you He is as real as
this table.” He rapped a knuckle on the wood surface. “Jesus, His
son, came in the flesh, lived among men, died on the cross for our
sin, was buried in a tomb, and raised from the dead. Those are not
suppositions those are the facts. I believe you’ve had an encounter
with something sinister, and I believe the help you need must come
from God through Christ.”

Again, Ray shook his head. “I’m a writer. I
deal in fantasy, but fantasy is based in reality. I once had an
editor tell me that fiction must be more believable than life
itself. I just can’t believe the way you do.”

“Despite all you’ve seen and
experienced?”

“I appreciate your help, Pastor, I really
do. You’ve taken me seriously when anyone else would have called me
crazy, but all this talk of demons, angels, living creatures, is
beyond me. I don’t see how Jesus can help me.”

Shackleton leaned forward. “Ray, when the
time comes, Jesus will be waiting. Call on him. If anyone needs
Jesus, it’s you, Ray. In your heart you know that.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ray said.

“Ray, do more than think
about it,
act
on
it.”

Twelve

Ray sat bolt upright in the
bed.
His heart fluttered in his chest, his
breathing was ragged, sweat dripped from his face. Another
nightmare. He raised his hands to run them through his hair. They
shook. The dream had been so real. He had just lived through the
death of his wife and only child, yet it was only a dream. What
difference did that make to the mind and heart? Ray was shaken to
his core.

“Another dream?” Nora’s voice floated up
from her place on the bed. Ray turned to look at her, but the room
was too dark. He could see nothing.

“Yeah, another dream.” He draped his legs
over the edge of the bed and sat up.

“This can’t go on, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.” Ray stood.

“Where are you going?” Nora asked.

“To the kitchen. I need a drink. You go back
to sleep.” Ray didn’t wait for a response, and made his way through
the dark, his hand in front of him. He knew the bedroom well enough
to know where the door was. Once he touched the doorjamb, he would
be able to find the knob and exit into the hallway. A small
night-light shone in the corridor casting a dim, pale yellow light
on the opposite wall. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to
see what lay ahead.

In the kitchen, Ray poured a tall glass of
milk and then sat at the dining room table. His heart was pounding
against his chest like a bull trying to break down its pen. Raising
the glass he watched as the white fluid sloshed in rhythm with his
tremulous hand. Nora was right; Ray couldn’t go on like this. It
wasn’t fair to her or to Skeeter, but what could he do? How did one
wash away a memory, especially one so deeply scored into his
brain?

Ray sipped the milk, barely tasting it, and
stared into the dark house. By the time he had consumed half the
glass he was certain he would soon lose his mind. Despair, darker
than the room in which he sat, enveloped him. When he drained the
last of the milk from the tumbler Ray was contemplating suicide.
The most frightening part of the thought was that it made so much
sense.

There would be pain for the family, of
course, but they would adjust. Others had. Why couldn’t Nora and
Skeeter? A tear flowed down his cheek. Setting the glass aside, Ray
lowered his head to the table. How had he reached the point where
life, his life, was so cheap that he would be willing to toss it
away?

There was a sound. A familiar click. Ray
lifted his head and listened. He heard the noise of the
refrigerator quietly humming, the ticking of the grandfather clock
in the living room, and the sound of a slow drip in the kitchen
sink—but he had heard something different, distant, and yet
familiar. Where had it come from? The living room. He rose from his
seat to investigate. Reaching for the dining room light switch he
paused. The sound repeated. This time he recognized it. The
deadbolt on the front door had been turned—from the outside. There
was another noise, this time from the kitchen window. Snapping his
head around, Ray caught a glimpse of a face, lit only by moonlight,
peeking in the kitchen.

A burglar?
No. Not coming from the front
and
back of the house. Ray took his
hand away from the light switch. Darkness was the only shield he
had.

A phone hung from the kitchen wall. Ray
lifted the handset and placed it to his ear. There was no dial
tone. This was no robbery, it was an abduction and Ray knew why. He
had spoken to Shackleton. How they knew that, he could only guess.
At the moment, it didn’t matter. They had come for him. Ray’s mouth
went dry.

By nature, Ray avoided confrontation, but
there would be no avoiding what happened next. Still, he was not
going to surrender. For the first time in his life, Ray wished he
kept a gun in the house. There was no gun. Not even a baseball
bat.

Quietly, Ray slipped down the carpeted hall
until he reached Skeeter’s room. He turned the doorknob and slipped
in. A dim blue light came from the dresser that stood opposite her
bed. A lava lamp, with its churning globules, gave off the light.
He stepped to her bedside and saw his daughter in blissful sleep.
He touched her arm and she awoke with a start. “What—”

“It’s Dad,” he whispered. “Hush.” He put a
finger to her mouth. “Get out of bed and follow me.”

“Why—”

“Don’t talk. There’s danger. Follow me.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t hesitate.
Slipping from the bed, she took Ray’s hand. With agonizing
slowness, Ray pulled the bedroom door open, listening first, and
then venturing a glance down the hall. He gulped a lungful of air
and stepped into the corridor, pulling Skeeter behind him. It was
only five quick steps to the master bedroom, and he slipped in
quietly, closing and locking the door behind him. The lock was
useless. One hearty kick and the whole, hollow-core door would cave
in. It might, however, make the intruders pause for a few
moments.

The bedroom was pitch black. Ray was
familiar enough with the furnishings to walk the room blindfolded.
Skeeter wasn’t. She smashed her toe on a large wood hope chest at
the foot of the bed. A small cry of pain slipped from her lips. Ray
knew it took a heroic effort not to scream in pain.

Nora was immediately awake. “Ray?”

“Quiet,” he commanded in hushed tones.
“Someone’s breaking into the house.”

“Oh, my . . . Amy.”

“She’s here, now hush.”

Ray felt his way along the bed until he came
to his nightstand. Fumbling along the face of the wood furnishing,
he found the pull knob and opened the top drawer. He reached inside
and found what he was searching for: a flashlight. Placing his hand
over the front of the light, he turned in on. Small beams, shreds
of illumination, shone between his fingers providing just enough
glow for Ray to see.

He heard something. Someone was trying to
turn the locked doorknob. “This way.”

His wife and daughter followed him into the
master bath. A narrow, sliding window opened to the outside. The
intruders were in the house and Ray knew at least one had been
outside the kitchen window. Maybe they all had come in, leaving the
backyard unattended, if so, then Skeeter and Nora could slip
through the window and run to a neighbor’s house. There they could
call for help. “Open the window as quietly as possible,” Ray said.
“I’ll be right back.”

“What are you going to do,” Nora asked.

“Just do as I say,” he said as he handed the
flashlight to his wife. “I need to slow them down. Maybe get a
weapon.” With help, Nora and Skeeter could fit through the narrow
opening. Ray held no such hope for himself. He was too big. Beside,
someone had to stall the attackers. They were after him, not
Skeeter and Nora. At least, he hoped so.

Quick as the dark would allow, Ray exited
the bathroom and felt for the bed, got his bearings and moved four
steps across the room. With his hands before him, he felt something
cool and smooth. Glass. It was the glass of the old television
screen that sat opposite their bed. Ray wrapped his arms around the
set, lifted, took two steps to his left and set the device on the
floor. The set’s electric cord was just long enough to reach. He
hoped he had the distance right. Whether they chose to pick the
lock or kick the door down, they would move quickly. So quickly,
Ray hoped, they wouldn’t see the television on the floor. If his
plan worked, one or more would trip and fall. Ray might then be
able to seize an attacker’s weapon and fire at the others. Success
was doubtful, but it was all he had. A gun battle would mean his
death, but maybe his family could get away. It was a slim chance,
but one he was willing to take.

He heard the bathroom window open. Ray
pivoted and charged toward the master bath. Nora and Skeeter would
need help getting out. He also wanted to make sure no one was
waiting for them in the backyard. Despair again washed over him.
Everything he tried had so little chance of working. They were
desperate acts made in an impossible situation.