Soul Harvest: The World Takes Sides (8 page)

Sandy Moore had been at the table with her newspaper and coffee when a huge oak tree crashed through the roof with such force that it flattened her and the heavy wood table. The dead girl’s finger was still curled around the cup handle, and her cheek rested on the Tempo section of the Chicago Tribune. Had not the rest of her body been compressed to inches, she might have appeared to be dozing.

“She and her husband must have died within seconds of each other,” Tsion said quietly. “Miles apart.”

Buck nodded in the faint light. “We should bury this girl.”

“We will never get her out from under that tree,” Tsion said.

“We have to try.”

In the alley Buck found planks, which they forced under the tree as levers, but a trunk with enough mass to destroy roof, wall, window, woman, and table would not be budged.

“We need heavy equipment,” Tsion said.

“What’s the use?” Buck said. “No one will ever be able to bury all of the dead.”

“I confess I am thinking less of respect for her body than for the possibility that we have found a place to live.” Buck shot him a double take. “What?” Tsion said. “Is it not ideal? There’s actually a bit of pavement out front. This room, open to the elements, can be easily closed off. I don’t know how long it would take to get power, but—”

“Say no more,” Buck said. “We have no other prospects.”

Buck threaded the Rover between the duplex and the burned-out shell of whatever had been next door. He parked out of sight in the back, and he and Tsion unloaded the car. Coming through the back door Buck noticed they might be able to extricate Mrs. Moore’s body from underneath. Branches were lodged against a huge cabinet in the corner. That would keep the tree from dropping further if they could somehow cut under the floor.

“I am so tired I can barely stand, Cameron,” Tsion said as they descended narrow stairs to the cellar.

“I’m about to collapse myself,” Buck said. He shined his light toward the underside of the first floor and saw that Sandy’s elbow had been driven through and hung exposed. They found mostly discarded computer parts until they came upon Donny’s stash of tools. A hammer, chisels, a crowbar, and a handsaw should do it, Buck thought. He dragged a stepladder under the spot, and Tsion held it as Buck wrapped his legs around the top step to brace himself. Then began the arduous task of driving the crowbar up through the floorboards with a hammer.

His arms ached, but he stayed at it until he had punched out a few holes large enough to get the saw wedged in. He and Tsion traded off sawing the hardwood, which seemed to take forever with the dull blade.

They were careful not to touch Sandy Moore’s body with the saw. Buck was struck that the shape of the cut looked like the pine boxes in which cowboys were buried in the old west. When they had sawn to about her waist, the weight of her upper body made the boards beneath her give way, and she slowly dropped into Buck’s arms. He gasped and held his breath, fighting to keep his balance. His shirt was covered with her sticky blood, and she felt light and fragile as a child.

Tsion guided him down. All Buck could think of as he carried her broken body out the back door was that this was what he had expected to do with Chloe at Loretta’s. He lay her body gently in the dewy grass, and he and Tsion quickly dug a shallow grave. The work was easy because the quake had loosened the topsoil. Before they lowered her into the hole, Buck pulled Donny’s wedding ring from deep in his pocket. He put it in her palm and closed her fingers around it.

They covered her with the dirt. Tsion knelt, and Buck followed suit.

Tsion had not known Donny or his wife. He pronounced no eulogy. He merely quoted an old hymn, which made Buck cry so loudly he knew he could be heard down the block. But no one was around, and he could not stop the sobs.

“I will love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death, And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath; And say, when the death-dew lies cold on my brow; If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ‘tis now.”

Buck and Tsion found two tiny bedrooms upstairs, one with a double bed, the other with a single. “Take the bigger bed,” Tsion insisted. “I pray Chloe will join you soon.” Buck took him up on it.

Buck went into the bathroom and shed his mud—and blood-caked clothes. With only his flashlight for illumination, he hand dipped enough water out of the toilet tank for a sponge bath. He found a big towel to dry off with, then collapsed onto Donny and Sandy Moore’s bed.

Buck slept the sleep of the mourning, praying he would never have to wake up.

Half a world away, Rayford Steele was awakened by a phone call from his first officer. It was nine o’clock Tuesday morning in New Babylon, and he had to face another day whether he wanted to or not. At the very least, he hoped he would get a chance to tell Mac about God.

Rayford ate with the stragglers at a bountiful breakfast. Across the way, dozens of aides hunched over maps and charts and crowded phone and radio banks. He ate lethargically, Mac next to him drumming his fingers and bouncing a foot.

Carpathia sat with Fortunato and other senior staffers at a table not far from his office. Now he pressed a cell phone to his ear and talked earnestly in a corner, his back to the room.

Rayford eyed him with disinterest. He wondered about himself now, about his resolve. If it was true Amanda had gone down with the 747, Chloe and Buck and Tsion were all he cared about. Could he be the only Tribulation Force member left standing?

Rayford could muster not a whit of interest in whom Carpathia might be talking to or what about. If a gadget allowed him to listen in, he wouldn’t even flip the switch. He had prayed before he ate, a prayer ambivalent about sustenance provided by the Antichrist. Still, he had eaten. And it was good that he had.

His spirits began to lift. No way could he cogently share his faith with Mac if he stayed in a funk.

Mac’s fidgeting made him nervous. “Eager to get flying?” Rayford said.

“Eager to get talking. But not here. Too many ears. But are you up for this, Rayford? With what you’re going through?”

Mac seemed as ready to hear about God as anyone he had ever talked to. Why did it happen this way? When he had been most eager to share, he had tried to get through to his old senior pilot, Earl Halliday, who had had no interest and was now dead. He had tried without success to reach Hattie Durham, and now he could only pray there was still time for her. Here was Mac, in essence begging him for the truth, and Rayford would rather be back in bed.

He crossed his legs and folded his arms. He would will himself to move today. In the corner Carpathia wheeled around and stared at him, the phone still at his ear. Nicolae waved enthusiastically, then seemed to think better of showing such enthusiasm to a man who had just lost his wife. His face grew somber and his wave stiffened. Rayford did not respond, though he held Carpathia’s gaze.

Nicolae beckoned with a finger.

“Oh, no,” Mac said. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

But they couldn’t walk out on Nicolae Carpathia.

Rayford was in a testy mood. He didn’t want to talk to Carpathia; Carpathia wanted to talk to him. He could come Rayford’s way. What have I become? Rayford wondered. He was playing games with the potentate of the world. Petty. Silly.

Immature. But I don’t care.

Carpathia snapped his phone shut and slipped it into his pocket. He waved at Rayford, who pretended not to notice and turned his back. Rayford leaned toward Mac. “So, what are you going to teach me today?”

“Don’t look now, but Carpathia wants you.”

“He knows where I am.”

“Ray! He could still toss you in jail.”

“I wish he would. So anyway, what are you going to teach me today?”

“Teach you! You’ve flown whirlybirds.”

“A long time ago,” Rayford said. “More than twenty years.”

“Chopper jockeying is like riding a bike,” Mac said. “You’ll be as good as me in an hour.”

Mac looked over Rayford’s shoulder, stood, and thrust out his hand. “Potentate Carpathia, sir!”

“Excuse Captain Steele and me for a moment, would you, Officer McCullum?”

“I’ll meet you in the hangar,” Rayford said.

Carpathia slid McCullum’s chair close to Rayford’s and sat. He unbuttoned his suit coat and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. Rayford still had legs crossed and arms folded.

Carpathia spoke earnestly. “Rayford, I hope you do not mind my calling you by your first name, but I know you are in pain.”

Rayford tasted bile. “Lord, please,” he prayed silently, “keep my mouth shut.”

It only made sense that the embodiment of evil himself was the slimiest of liars. To imply that Amanda had been his plant, a mole in the Tribulation Force for the Global Community, and then to feign sorrow over her death? A lethal wound to the head was too good for him. Rayford imagined torturing the man who led the forces of evil against the God of the universe.

“I wish you had been here earlier, Rayford. Well, actually I am glad you were able to get the rest you needed. But those of us here for the first breakfast were treated to Leon Fortunato’s account of last night.”

“Mac said something about it.”

“Yes, Officer McCullum has heard it twice. You should ask him to share it with you again. Better yet, schedule some time with Mr. Fortunato.”

It was all Rayford could do to feign civility. “I’m aware of Leon’s devotion to you.”

“As am I. However, even I was moved and flattered at how his view has been elevated.”

Rayford knew the story but couldn’t resist baiting Carpathia. “It doesn’t surprise me that Leon is grateful for your rescuing him.”

Carpathia sat back and looked amused. “McCullum has heard the story twice, and that is his assessment? Have you not heard? I did not rescue Mr. Fortunato at all! I did not even save his life! According to his testimony, I brought him back from the dead.”

“Indeed.”

“I do not claim this for myself, Rayford. I am telling you only what Mr.

Fortunato says.”

“You were there. What’s your account?”

“Well, when I heard that my most trusted aide and personal confidant had been lost in the ruins of our headquarters, something came over me. I simply refused to believe it. I willed it to be untrue. Every fiber of my being told me to simply go, by myself, to the site and bring him back.”

“Too bad you didn’t take witnesses.”

“You do not believe me?”

“It’s quite a tale.”

“You must talk with Mr. Fortunato.”

“I’m really not interested.”

“Rayford, that fifty-foot pile of bricks, mortar, and debris had been a two-hundred-foot tall building. Leon Fortunato had been with me on the top floor when that building gave way. Despite the earthquake precautions designed into it, everyone in there should have been killed. And they were. You know there were no survivors.”

“So you’re saying it’s Leon’s contention, and yours, that even he was killed in the fall.”

“I called him out of the middle of that wreckage. No one could have survived that.”

“And yet he did.”

“He did not. He was dead. He had to be.”

“And how did you extricate him?”

“I commanded him to come forth, and he did.”

Rayford leaned forward. “That had to make you believe the story of Lazarus. Too bad it’s from a book of fairy tales, huh?”

“Now, Rayford, I have been most tolerant and have never disparaged your beliefs.

Neither have I hidden that I believe you are, at best, misguided. But, yes, it gave me pause that this incident mirrored an account I believe was allegorical.”

“Is it true you used the same words Jesus used with Lazarus?”

“So Mr. Fortunato says. I was unaware of precisely what I said. I left here with full confidence that I would come back with him, and my resolve never wavered, not even when I saw that mountain of ruins and knew that rescuers had found no one alive.”

Rayford wanted to vomit. “So now you’re some sort of deity?”

“That is not for me to say, though clearly, raising a dead man is a divine act.

Mr. Fortunato believes I could be the Messiah.”

Rayford raised his eyebrows. “If I were you, I’d be quick to deny that, unless I knew it to be true.”

Carpathia softened. “It does not seem the time for me to make such a claim, but I am not so sure it is untrue.”

Rayford squinted. “You think you might be the Messiah.”

“Let me just say, especially after what happened last night, I have not ruled out the possibility.”

Rayford thrust his hands in his pockets and looked away.

“Come now, Rayford. Do not assume I do not see the irony. I am not blind. I know a faction out there, including many of your so-called tribulation saints, labels me an antichrist, or even the Antichrist. I would delight in proving the opposite.”

Rayford leaned forward, pulled his hands from his pockets, and entwined his fingers. “Let me get this straight. There’s a possibility you are the Messiah, but you don’t know for sure?”

Carpathia nodded solemnly.

“That makes no sense,” Rayford said.

“Matters of faith are mysteries,” Carpathia intoned. “I urge you to spend time with Mr. Fortunato. See what you think after that.”

Rayford made no promises. He looked toward the exit.

“I know you need to go, Captain Steele. I just wanted to share with you the tremendous progress already made in my rebuilding initiative. As early as tomorrow we expect to be able to communicate with half the world. At that time I will address anyone who can listen.” He pulled a sheet from his coat pocket.

“Meanwhile, I would like you and Mr. McCullum to load whatever equipment you need onto the 216 and chart a course to bring these international ambassadors to join those who are already here.”

Rayford scanned the list. It appeared he would fly more than twenty thousand miles. “Where are you on rebuilding runways?”

“Global Community forces are working around the clock in every country.

Cellular-Solar will network the entire world within weeks. Virtually anyone not on that project is rebuilding airstrips, roads, and centers of commerce.”