The second coming, p.15
The Second Coming, page 15
•••
In the flourishing neighborhood of North Hollywood, the streets are normally full of trendy couples and individuals walking their dogs, relaxing on the outside terraces at coffee and sandwich shops, waiting for friends to meet them for a day of shopping, things like that. However, today a mere handful of people are swiftly walking the streets, looking like they’re only out for practical reasons.
Inside Abernathy Investigative Services, Melody sits at her desk, talking to one of Shawn’s clients on the phone. She grows increasingly impatient. “Sir, I’ve given him your messages. He said he would call you back about your case.” She listens, nods, and continues, “I know, sir. Your point is valid. Please try to understand, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. And if you—”
Her words are cut short as another line rings. Melody continues, “Sir, can you please hold? I have another incoming call.” After listening to the answer, she responds, “No. No, sir. I will be back. Just a second, please. Please hold. Thank you.”
Before the person can object any further, she places him on hold and answers the other line.
“Good morning, Abernathy Investigative Services. May I help you?”
First, a look of surprise, then joy, and then anger flits across her face in a fraction of a second; she almost shouts, “Shawn! Where have you been? You have dozens of messages! Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through all this time? What’s going on? I haven’t seen you in weeks! Actually”—she pauses as she flicks through some desk calendar pages—“it’s been three months! Three freaking months that I haven’t seen or heard from you, Shawn! And according to your wife, neither has she! She believes you’re in some kind of trouble. I told her you’re working on an undercover case with the Feds, but I don’t think she believes me. Where are you? More importantly, how are you? I was beginning to wonder if you were even alive.”
She says all of this in one go. Completely out of breath, she waits for a response.
Somewhere in Norco, California, Shawn stands inside a telephone booth with a look of extreme exhaustion after bustling around most of the day. Fatigued, unshaven, and distraught, he says into the phone, “My dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”
“What?” Melody demands at the other end, dumbstruck.
“What? Nothing,” Shawn says quickly. “I guess I’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. Don’t worry about me, Melody. I’m okay. I just needed some time away. But I’m alright, and yes,” he finishes with a smile, “I’m alive. Rest assured, you’re not talking to my ghost on the phone, at least not yet.”
On the other end, Melody laughs sarcastically and says, “Ha-ha. I can see that time hasn’t taken away your sense of humor. But all kidding aside, you need to come back now. Three months is too long. I can’t cover for you forever, you know. The clients are starting to pull their business, and everything is a mess, everywhere!”
“Melody,” Shawn responds, “I can’t. I need a little more time. I trust you enough to know you can handle it, as always.”
“Pacifying me isn’t going to cut it anymore, Shawn,” Melody says, rolling her eyes. “Things are getting out of hand. What’s gotten into you? This isn’t like you!”
“Trust me; I’m still very much me. Or perhaps,” he continues, “it really is my ghost you’re talking to right now.”
“Ha-ha, no. It’s you alright,” Melody says sarcastically. “I can tell by your failed attempts at humor to lighten the mood so I won’t resign. But if you want me to continue working for you, you need to let at least me know where you are and what’s going on. And when you’re coming back!”
“Why does it matter, Melody?” Shawn says, finally allowing his exhaustion to show in his voice. “Anyway, I will be back—”
“No, Shawn, no! You have to tell me something because your clients are seriously throwing me shade, and I don’t know if you’ll have any clients left when—or should I say ‘if’—you decide to return!”
“Melody,” Shawn sighs, “just let them know I’ll be returning real soon after I’ve completed this project. I have to hang up now. I’ll be in touch. Tell Sylvia and Alyson I love them. I believe she knows what’s going on. Her father warned me before the Rapture, and now . . .” His voice trails off as he mumbles something inaudible to himself.
“Wait! I can’t hear you. Before the what? Warned you about what? Shawn, are you in trouble? Shawn! Shawn! Are you there?”
“Yes!” Shawn answers, his voice again audible. “Death threats. I’ve been getting death threats by mail, email, text, phone calls, and social media! I have to go. I’ll call back, but, Melody, trust no one! Stay safe!”
Shawn hangs up, pulls his jacket collar up to cover his face, and leaves the phone booth, peering around as he walks toward an old motel in the middle of nowhere.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the line, a frightened Melody is still talking. “Who’s sending you death threats? No, don’t hang up, Shawn! Please! Dammit!” she curses loudly as the line disconnects at the other end. She shakes her head, staring at the wall in front of her. Then, remembering something, she quickly takes her original call off hold and says into the phone, “Sorry to have kept you holding, sir. Sir? Hello?”
When no one responds, she curses again, though this time under her breath.
As she hangs up and takes a deep breath, her face full of anguish, she says, “Shawn, I’m praying for you. It’s all any of us can do at this very moment. I know you can’t hear me right now, but I pray to God that wherever you are, you stay safe!”
The phone rings again, stirring Melody from her silent reverie. Sighing with frustration, she answers the call and says with forced calm and cheer, “Good morning. Abernathy Investigative Services.” Her voice changes again as she recognizes the person at the other end. “Oh, hi, Mercedes.”
Instead of the bright, cheery voice she used to greet Mercedes with, Melody is now more apprehensive and reserved. “Oh, I’m fine, just a little busy. ETG tonight? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Her voice drifts off as Mercedes asks at the other end, “Why not? I’ve been seriously missing you, girlfriend!”
“Well, I have so much work to do, and Shawn—” She stops, realizing she has said too much already.
“And Shawn what?” Mercedes asks abruptly. “What is Shawn doing?” Her eyes widen and she leans forward, peering through the windshield of her car, which is parked right outside of the Abernathy Investigative Services building. Mercedes strains to get a good view of the second-floor suite.
“Oh, nothing,” Melody answers quickly. “Never mind.”
“What do you mean, never mind? I’m still your friend, right? You know you can talk to me about anything. Is Shawn giving you any trouble? Is he coming on to you? Or is he not paying you?”
“What? No, nothing like that. It’s really nothing,” Melody answers. “How’s it going with you?”
Her attempts to steer her friend off the topic fail.
“Talk to me, Mel. Am I not your friend?”
Sighing, Melody finally gives in and tells Mercedes everything.
After listening, Mercedes says, “Listen, girl, you’ve got it all wrong. Why is Shawn hiding anyway? Everyone knows that most death threats are bogus, and if his God cared anything about him, wouldn’t he already be protected? He’s so stupid, and you know what? He can’t be protected!”
The words come out in a hurry before Mercedes can stop them. She realizes at once that she has made a mistake, shouting into the phone, “Hello?! Hello?!” She slaps the phone against her thigh in frustration. “That trick just hung up on me! I can’t believe it!”
She starts up her car, muttering to herself. “I’m sure she knows more than she’s letting on. She’s more clever than I thought. But I haven’t been looking for Shawn all this time for nothing. I’m going to get whatever I can from her, even if I have to drag it out myself.”
Still grumbling under her breath, Mercedes drives off in a fury.
•••
Somewhere in rural Norco, California, the night is slowly falling. As it gets darker, most of the streetlamps automatically light up. Some, however, remain dark; they’ve been out of order for a long time, and the residents living in this area don’t have time to forward their complaints and then follow up to make sure the relevant work is done. People here are too preoccupied with work, desperately trying to make ends meet in a very unpredictable world.
Although the street is mostly dark, the red neon signboard of a cheap motel flickers intermittently, lighting Shawn’s car in random rhythm. It’s parked in an almost deserted lot, along with two or three shabby-looking trucks. His car is clearly in dire need of several repairs.
The signboard actually reads Regal Motel, but since the lights behind the g-a-l and the second l are burned out, the name reads more like Remote. As any passerby would rightly observe, this name suits the motel more than its original name, not only because of its desolate, isolated location but also because it looks deserted.
Inside one of the rooms, Shawn sits at a desk, typing rapidly on an old typewriter, avoiding his laptop to prevent being tracked through electronic devices. He’s frowning because what he’s working on demands his full attention and causes him a certain level of stress and anxiety. As his frown gets deeper, he rips out the sheet of paper he’s been working on, crumples it up, and whips it to the floor in anger. Then, he holds his head in his palms and rocks back and forth, muttering under his breath.
This goes on for a while, and then Shawn stops. He takes a deep breath, and another, and then another, and then finally he gets up and turns on the TV. He walks to the small, single bed in the room. He sits on the bed, leans back against the headboard, and opens the only book on the nightstand, the Holy Bible, to Revelation.
After reading for a moment, he yawns, closes his eyes, and immediately falls asleep, still sitting up.
In a matter of a few seconds, Shawn enters a state of a deep sleep—so deep, in fact, that even the voices coming from the television don’t wake him. These voices belong to a news anchor talking to religion scholar Russ White. In his crisp, designer-tailored, light-blue suit, Russ looks like a very distinguished and influential man.
While Shawn sleeps, the news anchor asks, “So, Russ, you’re saying the Messiah is from heaven, and he’s here to save the world? Do you really believe that?”
“Of course I do,” Russ replies emphatically, smiling.
The news anchor says skeptically, “To me, this sounds like some kind of science fiction. I mean, come on, now; is this guy for real?”
Russ shakes his head at the news anchor’s doubt. “Yes, he’s here to save the world,” he declares, ignoring the news anchor’s sarcastic laugh, “and he’s very real. If you don’t believe me, just look at what he offers us. He promises to end nuclear warfare, create world peace, cure deadly diseases, and put an end to famine and starvation. And all of this in just seven years!”
“Seven years is a short period for something so ambitious, don’t you think?” the news anchor asks.
“Quite short, I’d say, considering he’s claiming to create world peace, which no man has ever been able to achieve since Cain first murdered Abel,” Russ replies.
“Huh? Really? A lot have claimed it,” the news anchor says, emphasizing claimed. “But of course, no one has even come close to fulfilling it. I’m sure everyone has noticed that warfare has only increased over time.”
“Well,” says Russ, smiling again, “so far, he’s come through on almost all of his promises. I’m certainly a believer. If you think about it, who else but the Messiah can make these promises and make them come true?”
“I guess I’ll believe it when I see it then,” the news anchor says, laughing again. “For now,” he continues, “I have another question. Some people are saying that he’s secretly working under the direction of Satan, Russ. They say we’re actually living in what the Bible calls the Tribulation, and the man you call the Messiah is actually the Antichrist. What do you think of that? Don’t you believe in what the Bible says, Russ?”
Russ, showing increasing agitation as this question unfolds, answers more aggressively than before, “The Messiah predicted there would be nonbelievers! What about all the so-called Christians that just abandoned their families and homes, like the Stephen King movie The Langoliers? The only preaching we should listen to now is from one man, and that’s the Messiah! With all the good this man has done, how can anyone say he’s the Antichrist?”
“Hey, man!” the news anchor says as he laughs again in hopes of lightening the mood. “It’s just a question, and I get—”
Russ continues, angrily now, “It’s not just about the question. You are right! Today, some people dare to compare our Messiah to the Antichrist! And they’re just hypocrites. I mean, how else can anyone do that? We need to put all these nonbelievers in their place! New laws need to be legislated worldwide! It’s just a matter of time before everyone knows the truth.”
The polarized argument continues blaring from the television. Shawn sleeps on, oblivious.
Meanwhile, there’s complete silence outside the window of the motel room. The night grows darker, and there’s no one in sight. The silence is occasionally broken by the sound of a distant owl, who seems disappointed because he cannot find any prey in sight.
The clock on the cable box above the TV in the room now reads 2:20 a.m. The nightly news show has long since ended, and an episode of I Love Lucy is showing. The sound of Shawn’s heavy breathing competes with the laugh track. In the show, Lucy and Ethel are working in a chocolate factory, and have become overwhelmed by the assembly line conveyor belt, so they stuff their mouths with chocolates in an attempt to keep up with the onslaught of vanilla creams.
Shawn repositions himself as a bright glow gradually fills the room, and a female voice calls his name with a slow echo. “Shawn. Shawn,” the voice whispers, gently but urgently.
Shawn, barely awakening, eyes still firmly shut, says, “Sylvia, can you check on Alyson, please? I got up last night.”
“Shawn. Shawn,” the female voice continues, this time more insistent.
“Okay!” Shawn mutters, a little exasperated. “If you’re too tired, I guess I’ll get her, but I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”
Saying this, Shawn finally opens his eyes and turns over. Then he sits up abruptly and squints at what has woken him up. It’s the holy spirit of Rachel Turner, hovering at the foot of the bed. Shawn is startled at first, but he quickly regains his composure and says, “You said you would return when it’s time. I guess the time is now?”
The holy spirit smiles pleasantly at him and then answers, “The Lord says don’t be afraid of what you are about to endure. He wants you to know that the Antichrist will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution.”
The color drains from Shawn’s face, and the holy spirit continues, “Don’t worry. It is all a test. Remain faithful, no matter what happens, even to the point of death, and He will give you the crown of life.”
“What’s about to happen?” Shawn asks nervously.
“You know the answer to your question, Shawn,” the holy spirit pleasantly replies. “The Antichrist’s rule has already established itself. There will be few who remain faithful. Those who do will face many hardships. You have to help them survive and remain loyal.”
At this, Shawn straightens and says solemnly, “I understand now what the Lord wants me to do. But I have writer’s block. I’m having trouble continuing. I can’t stay at my house because I’ve been getting death threats. I know it sounds crazy, considering what’s at stake,” he continues, blushing as he sees the holy spirit smile at this, “but I don’t want to put my family at risk. What should I do now?”
The holy spirit nods and says, “God has heard and wants you to continue your path to the city with a heart amongst the blowing trumpets.” Shawn immediately picks up a pen and pad and takes down notes as she continues, “There you will find an eleven-year-old youth, from the offspring of lathe workers. Seek out the one with azuring sight and the crown of an unfettered Palomino. It’s then that you shall have what you’ve asked of our Lord.”
Shawn stops writing and blinks at her. “‘The city with a heart’? ‘Azuring sight’? ‘Unfettered Palomino’? I’m definitely going to need your help with this. I’m good, but not that good, with circumlocutory dialogue.”
Still smiling, she begins to fade. As she vanishes, she says, her voice tinkling ethereally, “Shawn, just remember, God is with you always, so remain strong and resilient in the face of all trials. Solely trust those who believe that Jesus Christ is the only true Messiah.”
As the holy spirit fades to mist and then completely disappears, he returns to the desk, where he spends the next few hours attempting to decipher the Holy Spirit’s message.
In the early-morning light, Shawn packs up and checks out. He walks from the motel’s front desk to the front door in a hurry. As he reaches the door, the attendant calls after him, “Hey, man! Don’t forget to take your deposit!”
Shawn shakes his head and yells back, “Keep it!”
Then he rushes out the door. The attendant gapes at the $100 bill in front of him. “Wow! If he can afford to give away that kind of money, I wonder why he bothered to stay here. He could have gone somewhere fancy. Well,” he continues, quickly pocketing the note, “who cares? Today must be my lucky day!”
Outside, Shawn whips out of the parking lot and is soon rocketing along a two-lane highway.
•••
A few hours later, Shawn stops at a rundown gas station just off a lonely dirt road in the middle of nowhere outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. He parks at the pump and repeatedly blows his horn for an attendant. When no one comes, he finally gets out of his car and ventures toward the station’s food mart, shouting along the way, “Hello! Anybody here? Can anyone hear me? I need gas!”
In the flourishing neighborhood of North Hollywood, the streets are normally full of trendy couples and individuals walking their dogs, relaxing on the outside terraces at coffee and sandwich shops, waiting for friends to meet them for a day of shopping, things like that. However, today a mere handful of people are swiftly walking the streets, looking like they’re only out for practical reasons.
Inside Abernathy Investigative Services, Melody sits at her desk, talking to one of Shawn’s clients on the phone. She grows increasingly impatient. “Sir, I’ve given him your messages. He said he would call you back about your case.” She listens, nods, and continues, “I know, sir. Your point is valid. Please try to understand, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. And if you—”
Her words are cut short as another line rings. Melody continues, “Sir, can you please hold? I have another incoming call.” After listening to the answer, she responds, “No. No, sir. I will be back. Just a second, please. Please hold. Thank you.”
Before the person can object any further, she places him on hold and answers the other line.
“Good morning, Abernathy Investigative Services. May I help you?”
First, a look of surprise, then joy, and then anger flits across her face in a fraction of a second; she almost shouts, “Shawn! Where have you been? You have dozens of messages! Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through all this time? What’s going on? I haven’t seen you in weeks! Actually”—she pauses as she flicks through some desk calendar pages—“it’s been three months! Three freaking months that I haven’t seen or heard from you, Shawn! And according to your wife, neither has she! She believes you’re in some kind of trouble. I told her you’re working on an undercover case with the Feds, but I don’t think she believes me. Where are you? More importantly, how are you? I was beginning to wonder if you were even alive.”
She says all of this in one go. Completely out of breath, she waits for a response.
Somewhere in Norco, California, Shawn stands inside a telephone booth with a look of extreme exhaustion after bustling around most of the day. Fatigued, unshaven, and distraught, he says into the phone, “My dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”
“What?” Melody demands at the other end, dumbstruck.
“What? Nothing,” Shawn says quickly. “I guess I’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. Don’t worry about me, Melody. I’m okay. I just needed some time away. But I’m alright, and yes,” he finishes with a smile, “I’m alive. Rest assured, you’re not talking to my ghost on the phone, at least not yet.”
On the other end, Melody laughs sarcastically and says, “Ha-ha. I can see that time hasn’t taken away your sense of humor. But all kidding aside, you need to come back now. Three months is too long. I can’t cover for you forever, you know. The clients are starting to pull their business, and everything is a mess, everywhere!”
“Melody,” Shawn responds, “I can’t. I need a little more time. I trust you enough to know you can handle it, as always.”
“Pacifying me isn’t going to cut it anymore, Shawn,” Melody says, rolling her eyes. “Things are getting out of hand. What’s gotten into you? This isn’t like you!”
“Trust me; I’m still very much me. Or perhaps,” he continues, “it really is my ghost you’re talking to right now.”
“Ha-ha, no. It’s you alright,” Melody says sarcastically. “I can tell by your failed attempts at humor to lighten the mood so I won’t resign. But if you want me to continue working for you, you need to let at least me know where you are and what’s going on. And when you’re coming back!”
“Why does it matter, Melody?” Shawn says, finally allowing his exhaustion to show in his voice. “Anyway, I will be back—”
“No, Shawn, no! You have to tell me something because your clients are seriously throwing me shade, and I don’t know if you’ll have any clients left when—or should I say ‘if’—you decide to return!”
“Melody,” Shawn sighs, “just let them know I’ll be returning real soon after I’ve completed this project. I have to hang up now. I’ll be in touch. Tell Sylvia and Alyson I love them. I believe she knows what’s going on. Her father warned me before the Rapture, and now . . .” His voice trails off as he mumbles something inaudible to himself.
“Wait! I can’t hear you. Before the what? Warned you about what? Shawn, are you in trouble? Shawn! Shawn! Are you there?”
“Yes!” Shawn answers, his voice again audible. “Death threats. I’ve been getting death threats by mail, email, text, phone calls, and social media! I have to go. I’ll call back, but, Melody, trust no one! Stay safe!”
Shawn hangs up, pulls his jacket collar up to cover his face, and leaves the phone booth, peering around as he walks toward an old motel in the middle of nowhere.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the line, a frightened Melody is still talking. “Who’s sending you death threats? No, don’t hang up, Shawn! Please! Dammit!” she curses loudly as the line disconnects at the other end. She shakes her head, staring at the wall in front of her. Then, remembering something, she quickly takes her original call off hold and says into the phone, “Sorry to have kept you holding, sir. Sir? Hello?”
When no one responds, she curses again, though this time under her breath.
As she hangs up and takes a deep breath, her face full of anguish, she says, “Shawn, I’m praying for you. It’s all any of us can do at this very moment. I know you can’t hear me right now, but I pray to God that wherever you are, you stay safe!”
The phone rings again, stirring Melody from her silent reverie. Sighing with frustration, she answers the call and says with forced calm and cheer, “Good morning. Abernathy Investigative Services.” Her voice changes again as she recognizes the person at the other end. “Oh, hi, Mercedes.”
Instead of the bright, cheery voice she used to greet Mercedes with, Melody is now more apprehensive and reserved. “Oh, I’m fine, just a little busy. ETG tonight? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Her voice drifts off as Mercedes asks at the other end, “Why not? I’ve been seriously missing you, girlfriend!”
“Well, I have so much work to do, and Shawn—” She stops, realizing she has said too much already.
“And Shawn what?” Mercedes asks abruptly. “What is Shawn doing?” Her eyes widen and she leans forward, peering through the windshield of her car, which is parked right outside of the Abernathy Investigative Services building. Mercedes strains to get a good view of the second-floor suite.
“Oh, nothing,” Melody answers quickly. “Never mind.”
“What do you mean, never mind? I’m still your friend, right? You know you can talk to me about anything. Is Shawn giving you any trouble? Is he coming on to you? Or is he not paying you?”
“What? No, nothing like that. It’s really nothing,” Melody answers. “How’s it going with you?”
Her attempts to steer her friend off the topic fail.
“Talk to me, Mel. Am I not your friend?”
Sighing, Melody finally gives in and tells Mercedes everything.
After listening, Mercedes says, “Listen, girl, you’ve got it all wrong. Why is Shawn hiding anyway? Everyone knows that most death threats are bogus, and if his God cared anything about him, wouldn’t he already be protected? He’s so stupid, and you know what? He can’t be protected!”
The words come out in a hurry before Mercedes can stop them. She realizes at once that she has made a mistake, shouting into the phone, “Hello?! Hello?!” She slaps the phone against her thigh in frustration. “That trick just hung up on me! I can’t believe it!”
She starts up her car, muttering to herself. “I’m sure she knows more than she’s letting on. She’s more clever than I thought. But I haven’t been looking for Shawn all this time for nothing. I’m going to get whatever I can from her, even if I have to drag it out myself.”
Still grumbling under her breath, Mercedes drives off in a fury.
•••
Somewhere in rural Norco, California, the night is slowly falling. As it gets darker, most of the streetlamps automatically light up. Some, however, remain dark; they’ve been out of order for a long time, and the residents living in this area don’t have time to forward their complaints and then follow up to make sure the relevant work is done. People here are too preoccupied with work, desperately trying to make ends meet in a very unpredictable world.
Although the street is mostly dark, the red neon signboard of a cheap motel flickers intermittently, lighting Shawn’s car in random rhythm. It’s parked in an almost deserted lot, along with two or three shabby-looking trucks. His car is clearly in dire need of several repairs.
The signboard actually reads Regal Motel, but since the lights behind the g-a-l and the second l are burned out, the name reads more like Remote. As any passerby would rightly observe, this name suits the motel more than its original name, not only because of its desolate, isolated location but also because it looks deserted.
Inside one of the rooms, Shawn sits at a desk, typing rapidly on an old typewriter, avoiding his laptop to prevent being tracked through electronic devices. He’s frowning because what he’s working on demands his full attention and causes him a certain level of stress and anxiety. As his frown gets deeper, he rips out the sheet of paper he’s been working on, crumples it up, and whips it to the floor in anger. Then, he holds his head in his palms and rocks back and forth, muttering under his breath.
This goes on for a while, and then Shawn stops. He takes a deep breath, and another, and then another, and then finally he gets up and turns on the TV. He walks to the small, single bed in the room. He sits on the bed, leans back against the headboard, and opens the only book on the nightstand, the Holy Bible, to Revelation.
After reading for a moment, he yawns, closes his eyes, and immediately falls asleep, still sitting up.
In a matter of a few seconds, Shawn enters a state of a deep sleep—so deep, in fact, that even the voices coming from the television don’t wake him. These voices belong to a news anchor talking to religion scholar Russ White. In his crisp, designer-tailored, light-blue suit, Russ looks like a very distinguished and influential man.
While Shawn sleeps, the news anchor asks, “So, Russ, you’re saying the Messiah is from heaven, and he’s here to save the world? Do you really believe that?”
“Of course I do,” Russ replies emphatically, smiling.
The news anchor says skeptically, “To me, this sounds like some kind of science fiction. I mean, come on, now; is this guy for real?”
Russ shakes his head at the news anchor’s doubt. “Yes, he’s here to save the world,” he declares, ignoring the news anchor’s sarcastic laugh, “and he’s very real. If you don’t believe me, just look at what he offers us. He promises to end nuclear warfare, create world peace, cure deadly diseases, and put an end to famine and starvation. And all of this in just seven years!”
“Seven years is a short period for something so ambitious, don’t you think?” the news anchor asks.
“Quite short, I’d say, considering he’s claiming to create world peace, which no man has ever been able to achieve since Cain first murdered Abel,” Russ replies.
“Huh? Really? A lot have claimed it,” the news anchor says, emphasizing claimed. “But of course, no one has even come close to fulfilling it. I’m sure everyone has noticed that warfare has only increased over time.”
“Well,” says Russ, smiling again, “so far, he’s come through on almost all of his promises. I’m certainly a believer. If you think about it, who else but the Messiah can make these promises and make them come true?”
“I guess I’ll believe it when I see it then,” the news anchor says, laughing again. “For now,” he continues, “I have another question. Some people are saying that he’s secretly working under the direction of Satan, Russ. They say we’re actually living in what the Bible calls the Tribulation, and the man you call the Messiah is actually the Antichrist. What do you think of that? Don’t you believe in what the Bible says, Russ?”
Russ, showing increasing agitation as this question unfolds, answers more aggressively than before, “The Messiah predicted there would be nonbelievers! What about all the so-called Christians that just abandoned their families and homes, like the Stephen King movie The Langoliers? The only preaching we should listen to now is from one man, and that’s the Messiah! With all the good this man has done, how can anyone say he’s the Antichrist?”
“Hey, man!” the news anchor says as he laughs again in hopes of lightening the mood. “It’s just a question, and I get—”
Russ continues, angrily now, “It’s not just about the question. You are right! Today, some people dare to compare our Messiah to the Antichrist! And they’re just hypocrites. I mean, how else can anyone do that? We need to put all these nonbelievers in their place! New laws need to be legislated worldwide! It’s just a matter of time before everyone knows the truth.”
The polarized argument continues blaring from the television. Shawn sleeps on, oblivious.
Meanwhile, there’s complete silence outside the window of the motel room. The night grows darker, and there’s no one in sight. The silence is occasionally broken by the sound of a distant owl, who seems disappointed because he cannot find any prey in sight.
The clock on the cable box above the TV in the room now reads 2:20 a.m. The nightly news show has long since ended, and an episode of I Love Lucy is showing. The sound of Shawn’s heavy breathing competes with the laugh track. In the show, Lucy and Ethel are working in a chocolate factory, and have become overwhelmed by the assembly line conveyor belt, so they stuff their mouths with chocolates in an attempt to keep up with the onslaught of vanilla creams.
Shawn repositions himself as a bright glow gradually fills the room, and a female voice calls his name with a slow echo. “Shawn. Shawn,” the voice whispers, gently but urgently.
Shawn, barely awakening, eyes still firmly shut, says, “Sylvia, can you check on Alyson, please? I got up last night.”
“Shawn. Shawn,” the female voice continues, this time more insistent.
“Okay!” Shawn mutters, a little exasperated. “If you’re too tired, I guess I’ll get her, but I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”
Saying this, Shawn finally opens his eyes and turns over. Then he sits up abruptly and squints at what has woken him up. It’s the holy spirit of Rachel Turner, hovering at the foot of the bed. Shawn is startled at first, but he quickly regains his composure and says, “You said you would return when it’s time. I guess the time is now?”
The holy spirit smiles pleasantly at him and then answers, “The Lord says don’t be afraid of what you are about to endure. He wants you to know that the Antichrist will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution.”
The color drains from Shawn’s face, and the holy spirit continues, “Don’t worry. It is all a test. Remain faithful, no matter what happens, even to the point of death, and He will give you the crown of life.”
“What’s about to happen?” Shawn asks nervously.
“You know the answer to your question, Shawn,” the holy spirit pleasantly replies. “The Antichrist’s rule has already established itself. There will be few who remain faithful. Those who do will face many hardships. You have to help them survive and remain loyal.”
At this, Shawn straightens and says solemnly, “I understand now what the Lord wants me to do. But I have writer’s block. I’m having trouble continuing. I can’t stay at my house because I’ve been getting death threats. I know it sounds crazy, considering what’s at stake,” he continues, blushing as he sees the holy spirit smile at this, “but I don’t want to put my family at risk. What should I do now?”
The holy spirit nods and says, “God has heard and wants you to continue your path to the city with a heart amongst the blowing trumpets.” Shawn immediately picks up a pen and pad and takes down notes as she continues, “There you will find an eleven-year-old youth, from the offspring of lathe workers. Seek out the one with azuring sight and the crown of an unfettered Palomino. It’s then that you shall have what you’ve asked of our Lord.”
Shawn stops writing and blinks at her. “‘The city with a heart’? ‘Azuring sight’? ‘Unfettered Palomino’? I’m definitely going to need your help with this. I’m good, but not that good, with circumlocutory dialogue.”
Still smiling, she begins to fade. As she vanishes, she says, her voice tinkling ethereally, “Shawn, just remember, God is with you always, so remain strong and resilient in the face of all trials. Solely trust those who believe that Jesus Christ is the only true Messiah.”
As the holy spirit fades to mist and then completely disappears, he returns to the desk, where he spends the next few hours attempting to decipher the Holy Spirit’s message.
In the early-morning light, Shawn packs up and checks out. He walks from the motel’s front desk to the front door in a hurry. As he reaches the door, the attendant calls after him, “Hey, man! Don’t forget to take your deposit!”
Shawn shakes his head and yells back, “Keep it!”
Then he rushes out the door. The attendant gapes at the $100 bill in front of him. “Wow! If he can afford to give away that kind of money, I wonder why he bothered to stay here. He could have gone somewhere fancy. Well,” he continues, quickly pocketing the note, “who cares? Today must be my lucky day!”
Outside, Shawn whips out of the parking lot and is soon rocketing along a two-lane highway.
•••
A few hours later, Shawn stops at a rundown gas station just off a lonely dirt road in the middle of nowhere outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. He parks at the pump and repeatedly blows his horn for an attendant. When no one comes, he finally gets out of his car and ventures toward the station’s food mart, shouting along the way, “Hello! Anybody here? Can anyone hear me? I need gas!”
