The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (178 page)

“I heard it,” Bo said, obviously disgusted. “If you believe it was a voice from the sky, you’re loopier than I thought.”

“Well, what was it then?” Ernie said, as Bo studied Rayford.

“Those crazy fundamentalists again, playing with our minds. Some kind of loudspeaker trick. Don’t fall for it.”

Ernie emitted an embarrassed laugh and looked self-consciously at Rayford.

“Howdy,” Bo said, nodding to Rayford. “Can I help you with something?”

“No thanks. Just a friend of Ken Ritz.”

“Yeah, that was awful.”

“Actually I just came by to see about his belongings. I don’t believe there were any living relatives.”

Ernie straightened up and turned around so quickly that even Bo seemed taken aback. It was clear both wanted to say something, but each looked at the other and hesitated. Then they both spoke at once.

Bo said, “And so you just thought you’d come by and see what you could—”

While Ernie was saying, “No, that’s right. No relatives. In fact, he told me just a week or so ago that—”

Ernie conceded the floor first, and the man backed up and finished his thought: “—you’d come by and see what you could make off with, is that it?”

Rayford recoiled at such insensitivity, especially on the part of a stranger. “That’s not it at all, sir. I—”

“Where do you get off calling me
si
r
? You don’t know me!”

Caught off guard, Rayford’s old nature took over. “What, am I talking to an alien? How does polite society refer to strangers on your planet,
Bo
?” He hit the name with as much sarcasm as he could muster. Rayford was much taller, but Bo was built like a linebacker. With his blond crewcut, he looked the part too.

“Why don’t you just take your opportunistic tail out of here while it’s still part of your body?” Bo said.

Rayford was boiling and repenting of his attitude even as he spewed venom. “Why don’t you mind your own business while I talk privately with Ernie?”

Bo stepped closer to Rayford and made him wonder if he would have to defend himself. “Because Ernie’s on my payroll,” Bo said, “and everything on this property is my business. Including Ritz’s effects.”

Rayford took a deep breath and regained control of his emotions. “Then I’ll be happy to talk to Ernie on his own time, and—”

“And on his own property,” Bo added.

“Fine, but what gives you the right to Ken Ritz’s stuff?”

“What gives
you
any right to it?”

“I haven’t claimed any right to it,” Rayford said. “But I think its disposition is a valid question.”

Ernie looked ill. “Um, Bo, sir, Ken told me that if anything ever happened to him, I could have his stuff.”

“Yeah, right!”

“He did! The planes, this car, his personal junk. Whatever I wanted.”

Rayford looked suspiciously at Ernie. He didn’t want to question a fellow believer, especially in front of an outsider, but he had to. “I thought you told me you two hardly knew each other.”

“I’ll handle this,” Bo said. “That’s bull, Ernie, and you know it! Ritz was part owner of this airport and—”

Rayford cocked his head quickly. That didn’t mesh with what Ken had told Rayford about wanting to buy the place.

Bo must have noticed Rayford’s reaction and assumed he knew more than Bo thought. “Well,” he adjusted, midstream, “he made an offer anyway. Or was going to. Actually, yeah, an offer was made. So if there are assets in his estate, they would be the property of Palwaukee ownership.”

Rayford felt his blood boil again. “Oh, that makes a lot of sense. He dies before your deal is consummated, so you take his estate in exchange for what? You’re going to change the name of the place to Ritz Memorial? You take his assets and he gets what, posthumous ownership while you run it for him and take the profits?”

“So, what’s your stake in this, smarty-pants?”

Rayford nearly laughed. Was he back on the playground in fourth grade? How had he come to a shouting match with a total stranger?

“As I said, I made no claim, but my stake now is to be sure nothing happens to my friend’s legacy that he didn’t intend to happen.”

“He intended for me to have it,” Ernie said. “I told you that!”

“Ernie,” Bo said, “stick to your grease-monkeying and keep your nose outta this, will ya? And wipe that smudge off your forehead. You look like a snot-nosed rugrat.”

Ernie tugged down on his cap and whirled around to busy himself under the hood again. He was muttering, “I’m takin’ the stuff he said I could have, I’ll tell you that right now. You’re not bullyin’ me into giving up what I know is rightfully mine. No way.”

Rayford was disgusted with Ernie’s obvious lies but even more so that he was ashamed of the mark of God.

And then it hit him. Only other believers could see the mark. Was Rayford arguing with a fellow tribulation saint? He looked quickly at Bo’s forehead, which, because of his haircut and his complexion and the breadth of his face, had been right in front of Rayford’s eyes the whole time.

Even in the dense smog, Bo’s skin was as clear as a baby’s.

Buck felt restless. He sat across from Chaim Rosenzweig in the parlor of his estate and was nearly overcome with compassion for the man. “Doctor,” he said, “how can you see and know and experience all we have endured—all of us, even you—these last few years and yet still resist the call of God on your life? Don’t be offended. You know I care for you, as does Tsion and my wife and her father. You told an international audience on TV that Ben-Judah was proven correct in his interpretations of what is to come. Forgive me for being so forward, but the time is growing short.”

“I confess I have been troubled,” Rosenzweig said, “especially since Ben-Judah stayed with me. You have heard my arguments against God in the past, but no, not even I can deny he is at work today. It is too plain. But I have to say I don’t understand your God. He seems mean-spirited to me. Why can he not get people’s attention through wonderful miracles, as he did in the Bible? Why make things worse and worse until a person has no choice? I find myself resisting being forced into this by the very one who wants my devotion. I want to come willingly, on my own accord, if at all.”

Buck stood and pulled back the drape. The skies were growing darker, and he heard a low rumble in the distance. Should he stay away from the window? The weather had not portended rain. What was the noise? He could see no more than ten feet through the heavy smoke.

“Doctor, God has blessed you beyond what any human deserves. If your wealth of friends, education, knowledge, creativity, challenge, admiration, income, and comfort do not draw you to him, what else can he do? He is not willing that any should perish, and so he resorts to judgments that will drive them to him or away from him forever. We’re praying you will choose the former.”

Rosenzweig appeared older than his age. Weary, drawn, lonely, he looked like he needed rest. But life was hard everywhere. Buck knew everything would head downhill from here. The old man crossed his legs, appeared uncomfortable, and set his feet flat on the floor again. He seemed distracted, and he and Buck had to raise their voices to even hear each other.

“I must tell you that your praying for me means more than I can s—” He furrowed his brow. “What
is
that noise?”

The rumble had become higher pitched and had developed a metallic sound. “It’s like chains clanging together,” Buck said.

“A low-flying craft?”

“The airports are closed, Doctor.”

“It’s getting louder! And it’s darker! It’s dark as night out there. Open that drape all the way, Cameron, please. Oh, my heavens!”

The sky was black as pitch and the racket deafening. Buck spun to look at Chaim, whose face matched Buck’s own terror. Metal against metal clanged until both men covered their ears. Rattling, thumping against the windows now, the rumble had become a cacophony of piercing, irritating, rattling, jangling that seemed it would invade the very walls.

Buck stared out the window, and his heart thundered against his ribs. From out of the smoke came flying creatures—hideous, ugly, brown and black and yellow flying monsters. Swarming like locusts, they looked like miniature horses five or six inches long with tails like those of scorpions. Most horrifying, the creatures were attacking, trying to get in. And they looked past Buck as if Chaim was their target.

The old man stood in the middle of the room. “Cameron, they are after me!” he screamed. “Tell me I’m dreaming! Tell me it’s only a nightmare!”

The creatures hovered, beating their wings and driving their heads into the window.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Buck said, shuddering, his arms covered with gooseflesh. “This is real. It’s the first of the three woes the angels warned about.”

“What do they want? What will they do?”

“Tsion teaches that they will not harm any foliage like locusts usually do, but only those who do not have the seal of God on their foreheads.” Chaim paled, and Buck worried he might collapse. “Sit down, sir. Let me open the window—”

“No! Keep them out! I can tell they mean to devour me!”

“Maybe we can trap one or two between the screen and the window and see them more clearly.”

“I don’t want to see them! I want to kill them before they kill me!”

“Chaim, they have not been given the authority to kill you.”

“How do you know?” He sounded like a schoolboy now, doubting the doctor who’s told him a shot won’t hurt bad.

“I won’t tell you they won’t torment you, but the Bible says the victims they attack will want to die and be unable to.”

“Oh, no!”

Buck turned a crank that swung open the window. Several creatures flew near the screen, and he quickly shut the window. Now trapped between, they flew crazily, straining, fighting, banging off each other. The harsh metallic sound increased.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Buck said, fighting to not turn from the sight of them. “They are fascinating hybrids. As a scientist, don’t you want to at least see—”

“I’ll be right back,” Chaim cried, and he hurried away. He returned looking ridiculous, dressed head to toe in beekeeping garb: boots, bulky canvas body smock, gloves, hat with face mesh and material covering his neck. He carried a cricket bat.

Bloodcurdling screams rose above the clamor. Chaim rushed to the other window, threw back the drape, and fell to his knees. “Oh, God,” he prayed, “save me from these creatures! And don’t let Jonas die!”

Buck looked over Chaim’s shoulder out to the gate. Jonas lay writhing, screaming, thrashing, slapping at his legs and torso, trying to cover his face. He was covered with the locusts. “We’ve got to get him inside!” Buck said.

“I can’t go out! They’ll attack me!”

Buck hesitated. He believed he was invulnerable to the creatures’ stings, but his mind had trouble communicating that to his legs. “I’ll go,” he said.

“How will you keep the creatures out?”

“I can only do the best I can. Do you have another bat?”

“No, but I have a tennis racket.”

“That’ll have to do.”

Buck headed downstairs with the racket. Chaim called after him, “I’m going to lock myself in this room. Be sure you’ve killed or kept out all of them before coming back in. And put Jonas in the front guest room. Will he die?”

“He’ll wish he could,” Buck said.

He waited at the front door. The smoke that had hung over the city for days was gone, having left just as dense a spread of the ghastly beings. Praying for courage, Buck opened the door and ran to Jonas, who now lay quivering and twitching.

“Jonas! Let’s get you inside.”

But he was unconscious.

Buck set the racket down and used both hands to grab the big man by the shoulder and roll him over. His face showed one welt, and he was beginning to swell. A barrel-chested, beefy man, Jonas was going to be difficult to move. Buck tried to remember the fireman’s carry, but he couldn’t get enough leverage to get Jonas off the ground.

The locusts, too tame a description for these revolting beasts, flew menacingly around Buck’s head, and some even landed. He was astonished at their weight and thickness. And while he was relieved they didn’t sting or bite, he heard their hisses and believed they were trying to drive him away from Jonas. When one hovered over Jonas’s face, Buck snatched up the racket and stepped into a full, hard backhand, sending the locust rocketing through a window at the front of the house. The sensation of beast on strings felt as if he had smacked a toy metal car. His first order of business, if he ever got back into the house, was to board up that window and get rid of that animal.

Buck tucked the racket under his arm and resorted to pulling Jonas by his wrists, on his back, up to the house. About ten feet from the stairs, their progress stopped, and Buck discovered Jonas’s waistband and belt had torn up grass as he slid. Buck spun him around and tucked the man’s ankles under his own arms and kept going. When he reached the steps, he sucked it up, bent at the knees, and lifted Jonas up onto his shoulders. He believed the man outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

In the house he plopped Jonas into a chair, from which he nearly toppled before rousing enough to at least keep his balance. Another locust flew in before Buck could shut the door, and he smacked it with the racket as well. It skittered across the floor and rebounded off the wall, rattling as it rolled. It lay stunned, its segmented abdomen heaving. Buck’s first target chose that moment to attack, and Buck knocked it out of the air again.