Don't Fear The Reaper (9 page)

Already bunkers, caves, bomb shelters were being constructed by average
folk. The Royal family; the rich and famous and other highly regarded, important,
skilled members of the public were being called out to be offered this
temporary sanctuary.

In their county of Neath and Swansea the oceans would rise and towns,
villages would fall asunder and be washed away. There was another asteroid
heading to them four miles wide. The nations not close to the oceans would
rapidly become an inferno rolling across the land, peeling the Earth like that
of the skin of an orange.

The panic roiling inside the rector’s innards was a shark, prowling the
sea, waiting to burst from the depths and unleash its fury. The realisation of
what was pending was too surreal to contemplate with any rationality. He
assumed his experience and faith would give him strength. Yet here he was
wiping the sleeve of his jacket over his damp brow. As cold as it was outside
and in the high-ceilinged mausoleum sweat continued inexorably to run down his
brow and into his eyes.

‘I still remember everything you said some six months ago, like it was
yesterday,’ he said in almost a whisper. ‘You remember? It was the sixth day of
the sixth year of the new millennium, and I told you what had been foretold.
Well, this is it.’

Rev Perkins sat back down, weary not from physical exhaustion but from
constant worry. ‘Yeah, I remember.’

‘Then you shall also remember that at the end of the same year another
baby would be born unto this world. The child of God. The child and this child
alone, that would set us free. You remember this, yes?’

Perkins nodded.

‘Last night I had a dream. A dream so real I still believe that it was a
vision. A way to communicate through me so I could help protect the child – our
saviour – from being hurt and worse from those who fear the reaper.’

This time it was the young reverend that knitted his eyebrows together,
alarmed and yet intrigued by what the Rector was saying. ‘Like the visions –
dreams, whatever – I told you about?’

John Hayes concurred. Then he said, ‘In this dream, I saw the birth of
our saviour, not literally, I should add. It wasn’t quite that explicit. But I
saw the newly born baby lying on its back in its crib. Something bad had
happened. I don’t know what or how I knew, but I sensed it. Then a nurse gently
picked up the baby and handed him over to a man with brown hair of average
height, who appeared to be enduring great shock. At first I thought it was
because this man had just found out that he was the father of this baby, but
that couldn’t be it, for there was no smile, no mirth or any sense of
fulfilment and gratitude in appreciation of this little miracle.

‘The man had his back to me and was cradling the baby close to him. The
doctors, midwife and nurses looked on forlornly. They didn’t say anything.
Apparently there was nothing they could say to make things better or to console
this man and infant. Then the man holding the infant turned around… and I saw
you
.’

*

There
wasn’t much to say thereafter. Bishop John Hayes’ vision could not be
substantiated or unproven, for it was merely a vision. And had there been no
apocalypse looming over their very planet, steadily heading into their
atmosphere, both the Rector and the reverend could dismiss it the moment it’d
been spoken.

Perkins was compelled to inquire further as to what this meant. However,
his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth. The vision he’d had of
the world burning to ash was an accurate account of what would befall some
parts of the world. Therefore, the Rector’s vision had to be believed or taken
into consideration.

Instead of sitting still, waiting for the Rector to break the silence, Perkins
rose and paced the red-carpeted aisle. His shoes thudded the thin carpet and
hardwood underfoot; the sound reverberating in the high ceiling and stone
walls.

‘I don’t think any of it matters, anyway, does it?’

John Hayes cocked his head. ‘What doesn’t matter?’

‘What you saw in your dream or vision. It’s totally irrelevant. I mean
we’re all gonna either be smashed away by a thousand foot high tidal wave or be
the meat on the barbecue.’

The Rector also stood. Rev Perkins thought he’d offended him, but wasn’t
about to apologise.

‘I want to show you something for when the time comes,’ he said, vapour
pouring from his mouth. It was so cold.

With that said Rev Perkins watched as the Rector sidled down a row of
pews towards the pulpit and kept going past the chanters and disappeared under
the Anglo-Saxon arches into the sacristy.

Dutifully following, Perkins wondered what was so damn important after
everything else that was happening worldwide and the possible premonition the Rector
informed him of.

He found John in the vestry not much bigger than an alcove. The bishop
grimaced as he withdrew the bolts and heaved the rickety ancient timber door
open, emitting a squeak on its rusted hinges to the rear side of the environing
cemetery grounds. Then he beckoned Perkins to follow as he stepped outside.

Emerging into the overcast day gloomier still in the shade of the church,
Perkins was not only perplexed but now intrigued; no longer indulging the Rector’s
delights.

‘Look down there,’ John Hayes said, pointing to the cobbled stairway that
disappeared into the depths of the earth.

It took a minute for Perkins’ brain to register what he was seeing.
Amazed at the sight that he’d only seen partially beneath the kindling and
assumed was an old well, Perkins couldn’t stop staring. ‘What is it… exactly?’

‘Salvation,’ John said, grinning.

Perkins let out a nervous laugh. ‘It’s a well though, isn’t it?’

‘It’s an old bunker. During World War One and Two, women, disabled and
other members of the parish took shelter here when the bombs started dropping.
When you went up to be with your sister earlier in the year, I saw that some of
the kindling was rotting with damp and going to waste. I started gathering it
up and put in the new log cabin.’ The log cabin was no bigger than a timber-slatted
shed used to store the lawnmower and hedge-trimmer. Also, as the church no
longer needed logs for an authentic hearth in the advent of radiators there
wasn’t any use for them, lest there be a power cut.

The bishop produced a long steel key from his coat pocket. It wasn’t
anything like a modern key. On the contrary, this key was big and hefty,
probably weighing a kilo or two.

Somewhat dazed, Perkins followed on legs as light as feathers down the
cobbled steps. The rough stone ensconced the curved stairway to a hardwood
chamber door. The wide keyhole accommodated the hefty key and after a series of
turns the lock
clacked
open and reverberated in the niche.

Bishop John Hayes drove his shoulder into the sturdy door, which scraped
and yielded only a few inches. He repeated this four more times until the door
finally opened and allowed them to sidle into the Stygian interior. Perkins
remained where he was, his eyes fruitlessly trying to see through the impenetrable
darkness. The bishop entered and disappeared somewhere behind the door
approximately four feet wide. Perkins felt the snakes writhing around his innards
momentarily. Then the bishop poked his head around the frame and held up the
torch. ‘It’s not much light and we’ll need to light the wall sconces, but with
the door open we can go in and see enough.’

Perkins shifted from one foot to the other, slightly bemused in the
revealing of the Rector’s survival ingenuity he’d kept secret until now; it was
as though Perkins had been introduced to another person altogether.

He followed tentatively, reaching out with his fingertips to touch the
wall so he didn’t become totally disorientated and kept his wide-eyed gaze on
the yellow beam. The passage they walked down widened and resisted the
claustrophobia had it been the same width as the cobbled stairway.

John halted. He craned his head over his shoulder to look back at Perkins.
‘It goes for a few hundred yards to another door, which is unlocked but closed
– easier to open than that door,’ he said, indicating the first door. ‘Then
there’s this big bunker with stone pillars. It’s about the size of two tennis
courts with concrete pillars and niches. Beyond that is another door.’

Mesmerised by the information being absorbed by his overactive brain, Perkins
said, ‘What’s behind that door?’

The Rector smiled again. The broad, contentedness of the smile was
unfamiliar as Perkins couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen the Rector this
happy.

‘I worked it out and followed the gravel road leading back down the hill,
but before you get there a footpath intersects across towards the other side of
the cemetery. That path as you know leads to the rear of a single-storey
stone-walled vicarage.’

Perkins didn’t feel, never mind register, that his mouth had fallen open
and rested on the hinges of his jaw. ‘My house!’ he gasped.   

*

The
reverend and the bishop spent the rest of the day cutting the grass in Perkins’
back yard and raking away turf, finally revealing beneath the layers of soil
and dust a storm door. The rusted handles on each folding door were secured by
two plastic ties.

Perkins returned from his home with a scissors and severed the ties. Then,
together with the bishop, they heaved the heavy, recalcitrant storm doors open
where they slammed the back yard and coughed up two separate plumes of dust.
When the dust cleared and Perkins removed his hand covering his nose and mouth
the chasm below offered them access into another identical stone passage,
presumably leading to the bunker. Seeing it from above with daylight conquering
the darkness made it appear much more promising, Perkins thought.

Breathing hard from exertion, both men exchanged glances and gave each
other a wry smile.

‘Hope lives, my friend,’ John Hayes said. ‘Hope lives!’

*

As
the sun went down and darkness invaded the sky the two men sat in Perkins’
kitchenette by the patio doors and faced the back yard, nursing cans of Coke.
Both were now feeling the effects of their hard labour, but nonetheless
satisfied with their achievement.

‘What’ll we do now?’ Perkins wanted to know.

The Rector put down his Coke. ‘We can’t tell too many people about our
sanctuary otherwise before we know it we’ll be the ones pushed out. It’ll just
be me and my wife, Natalie, and her friend Sue. We’re gonna need provisions and
plenty of clothing and bedding. We now have entrances and exits in case of
emergency. We’ll also need to get more torches and batteries, as there’s no
electric down there. I don’t have any idea how bad this part of the world is
gonna be affected. We might still be wiped out if the asteroids don’t break-up
upon entering the atmosphere. Whatever the case, we’ve got a chance of
survival. Whether there’ll be anything left to live for is another thing
altogether.’

Perkins drained the last of his Coke, crushed it and launched it into the
black rubbish bag where he kept all his other recyclable leftovers. ‘I just
want to bring my sister and her baby. I just hope to God she gives birth
before…’ he trailed off.

John Hayes rested a reassuring hand on the reverend’s shoulder. ‘I know…,’
he said.

Perkins blinked back the hot tears brimming in his eyes. The tranquillity
beyond the patio glass doors revealing the back yard and cemetery beyond
appeared so creepy and tranquil; at the same time it would be perfect for a
director to shoot a horror film. The leaves whispered in the sycamores and oaks
casting deep shadows across the straight and crooked headstones.

‘If I give you some money for food and water will you be all right if I
went to stay with my sister for the birth?’

The bishop patted Perkins’ shoulder tenderly. ‘Of course.’

‘I might not make it back,’ Perkins said, realising the peril he was
putting himself in and not caring.

‘Don’t talk like that!’ The Rector stared at him with steely eyes. ‘PMA:
positive mental attitude. You go and be by your sister’s side and then bring
her and the little one here. You’re a survivor, Anthony. God knows you’ve
survived more than most and could’ve easily ended up a bitter, sinister
criminal taking his vengeance out on the world – but you didn’t. Remember that.
You chose the righteous path.’

Perkins nodded. However, he also remembered it wasn’t quite as easy as
the Rector made out. For a short while, prior to being saved or finding Jesus, Perkins
had resided in a crappy council flat in a tower block, smoking crack and
drowning his sorrows with as much alcohol as he could afford. Then one day as
he was on his way back to his apartment, drunk and staggering across the road,
he spotted a young boy no older than twelve cycling down the steep hill
alongside the traffic when a car in its haste trying to overtake misjudged and
struck the rear tyre of the boy’s mountain bike. The youngster had fought
fruitlessly although courageously to right himself and inadvertently steered
into the three-lane road. Another car in the right-hand lane collided with the
mountain bike and the boy was tossed through the air. Perkins blinked purposely
when he saw a boy seemingly flying overhead and marvelled at the miracle. Then
in his drunken stupor condition he understood that the boy wasn’t flying but
falling. The boy hit the road in an unforgiving fashion; skull cracked concrete
and concrete was unsurprisingly victorious. The traffic was travelling at too
great a speed to stop. The car trailing the one that had knocked the boy from
his saddle was racing down the steep road bearing down on the half-conscious
boy who raised his head and saw how his life would end. That was when a force
had seized him by the collar of his T-shirt and hurled him onto the grassy
bank. A sickening thud that ought to have been the boy’s body being crumpled
caused traffic to screech to a halt.