 
Better Things Ahead  
Book 2

Nate Allen

Copyright 2018
–Change–

1

"Since the assassination attempt on the president's life four months and one week ago, many have believed it to be attached to a Christian group that call themselves The Holy Army. We are now receiving reports from multiple sources that confirm this. One can only hope that soon we will get to see the monst—persons responsible finally brought to justice." The TV sat on a small stand in Ken's one bedroom apartment, Lidia Johnson talking while they played footage that included a wall covered in bible verse graffiti, the attempted assassination, and a large group of picketers holding up signs that ranged from The End is Here to The Devil Comes as an Angel of Light on a loop with the news anchor's voice a biting narration. It was interrupting the basketball game. "It will be interesting to see what the president does in light of this new information. It is no secret that many people from this religion have stood in opposition to every move he has made, hiding behind wild interpretations of the book of Revelation. As we step ever closer to a truly unified people, it is clear that the holdouts are doing everything in their power to keep things the way they have been for far too long. I have never been happier to report that the efforts of the hateful are being torn down daily. This group was unsuccessful when they tried to take away President Pummel and they are unsuccessful now."

After suffering through tragedy, drastic change is the quickest way to become functional again. No longer in the house where his dad was murdered, no longer forced to see the spot where Kyle bled to death—Ken could finally push them into a category that no longer belonged with him. He would always love them but letting them drift into a category of never-was helped him focus on what he was now trying to build.

A new relationship with Rosy's Savior was still an alien concept to him. Though the base for it had a speck of genuine desire built in, most of it was desperation. She had left him with a message of hope, pointing her arrow toward Christ. A last option for a young man that had lived most of his life following whichever way the wind was blowing. When every one of the foundations you have built your life on crumble in a moment, desperation is the only thing that will force you to stand again. He trusted Rosy and believed one day he would experience something close to what she claimed about Christ. But, so far his relationship with Christ hadn't gone past the moment he asked Him into his heart. Pastor John led him in the prayer and he did just enough to qualify—just enough to see his Rosy again one day.

As Ken watched the Breaking News Announcement continue, waiting for the game to return, he understood that just getting by wasn't an option. A line was currently being drawn. He was either with the movement of unity or against it. If there was a middle ground, he gladly would have planted his roots and lived out the rest of his days riding the fence. That option was gone.

"Rosy says you gave her strength to make it through each day. I don't understand how that works." It was still such an alien concept to him, talking to the Unseen. "I wouldn't believe in You if it wasn't for Rosy. I never gave her everything I had. How can I give it to You? I don't know You. I knew her and I still kept her at distance." His long pause was filled with a thousand reasons, the most prominent being embarrassment. His dad would have been so ashamed of him— "I was always taught that weak people need You or even the idea of a god. How do I apply You to my life?"

The game came back on, ending his one sided conversation with an unanswered question.

*

The Cardiff house was empty of everyone but Deborah, a haunted prison that she didn't know how to leave. She was alone, scared of change and unwilling to seek it out. Change meant leaving behind everything she had lost. Change meant accepting that her best days were gone and she was left with nothing but small pieces. Ken, her remaining tether, moved out because change was his only hope for moving past the worst time in their life.

She was afraid to make a move one way or the other. Her once whole family was now down to two and she worried that Ken, looking to escape the past, was going to leave her there as well. Her life had been a beautiful picture not long ago. Now it was a picture emptied of everything meaningful.

A soft knock appeared at the side door. As was common, she was standing in the kitchen in low light, wishing she could return to the night she lost everything and do things differently.

"Coming," her voice, though soft, echoed in the empty house. It was nearly dark out, the light blue sky now covered with bruises. She opened the door finding a young man, no older than Ken, standing at her top step. Without saying a word, he handed her a small pamphlet and then walked away. Written on the front in black letters: Are You Going to Heaven?

2

A pastor to a shrinking congregation and now the legal guardian to both Lily and Willow, John Watcher felt like his knees were about to buckle. Over two dozen people had already left the church, convinced that they had been abandoned. The rapture was supposed to take them away from it all before it even began. And yet, they were now in the thick of it.

Although John could understand where they were coming from, he had always been careful not to interpret scripture to simply fit his understanding. "Popular interpretations of when The Lord will come appear to be incorrect but God is still faithful." Explaining this to his congregation helped very little. They weren't ready to go through this. They wanted to be caught up and removed from danger. They were a heavy weight on his mind.

But even heavier were those two girls, battered and bruised by life, now trying to rebuild. His boy, John Jr., was the same age as Lily. He had been surprisingly accommodating to the idea, doing what he could to make them feel welcome. Only God knew that his position as the girls' godfather (something Robert and Melissa had asked him when the girls were just little) would someday put them legally under his guardianship. Only God knew...

John had always been looked to for the answers. This had only increased after the president came back to life. Members of his congregation kept shuffling in asking if the Credit Chip was truly the mark of the beast. When John told them he believed it was, they then started to ask if God's grace was enough to save those tricked into receiving it, hoping to God for their family's sake. These were questions he tried to answer but the answer he gave wasn't favorable. It only offended them.

A speaker of truth, John understood the price he would have to pay—it had already started. Many dear friends and members of the church had already fallen away from his influence to seek out a pastor that offered some kind of false hope concerning the Credit Chip. Always a man known to display a warm smile, John hid the struggle well. People expected a pillar of the faith. It was his calling to be just that.

A soft knock came at the door to his bedroom.

"Come in," he replied, retightening his blue tie as he stood up from sitting at the edge of his bed. Nobody needed to see the weight weighing down on him.

*

A signature of sadness marked each one of Willow's days. She missed Rosy. She missed her mom. But, the sadness wasn't overwhelming. Her mom and older sister were safe.

Willow approached everyday with the mentality of borrowed time. It had never been clearer to her that life doesn't truly belong to anyone. Much like an old clock, it will tick on quietly day after day, stopping suddenly and without warning.

Though the sudden answer to their desperate prayer hit Willow like a series of crashing waves when Lily was given confirmation, the shock faded and relief took its place. Of course there were moments where regret sat with her, asking question after question, and claiming that praying for The Lord to take her home was an unforgivable overreaction. It even tried to claim that Willow's motivation wasn't fully selfless since she had wondered in the past, during her mom's deep and lingering sadness, whether life would be easier without her. Sadly, in many ways, it was.

Now eighteen years old, Willow had considered moving her and Lily to their own place. The world was changing gradually enough that it was easy to forget that soon it would be difficult to stay anywhere. Money was becoming obsolete, which meant debts had to be paid in full while the dollar was still accepted. Since Willow was the legal age, her mom's $100,000 life insurance policy was hers to use. In Melissa's will, it was stated that the total would be split equally between her three daughters...

The check now being in Willow's possession, she and Lily had discussed many options. Knowing that the dollar was set to become irrelevant the first minute into the New Year, they discussed the best road for longevity. Both agreed it was found with Pastor John. Willow hadn't yet discussed what they were thinking with him but she planned on having a meeting that night.

She knocked on his door quietly, looking back toward Lily who was already sitting at the dining room table.

*

Everywhere Lily went, she saw Spirits tethered to the damned. She had even seen a few at her mom's funeral. A few on-again-off-again members of the church attended, hiding the fact that they had gotten the procedure done when they were off-again. They hid it but Lily could see. And it broke her heart.

Unaware of the severity of the decision made, strangers, acquaintances, parents of friends—the list continued down a sad trajectory. And Lily was left knowing nothing (or very little) of their stories while already knowing their end. Too often when she closed her eyes to sleep she saw the stairs leading countless people down into the dark. Her gift was special and she cherished it, but it was always heavy. And it was only getting heavier.

Though closer to Willow than before, Lily knew she would never hold a normal relationship with anyone. She saw too much to be ignorant of the hidden details. And she wore her heart on her sleeve, unable to pretend everything was okay when it wasn't. She was quiet often, even more so now that her misplaced words ultimately led to her mom's death.

Even though she interacted very little, John Jr. was kind to her. A current classmate in two subjects and now her literal next door neighbor in the 4 bedroom 2 ½ bath ranch home, he had been a protector ever since she moved in. At Melissa's funeral he was a compassionate presence, comforting her in whatever way he could. Lily responded with quiet thanks and half smiles. It meant a lot that he was trying but his efforts were in vain. Nobody could understand where she was coming from. Because of this gift, her mom was gone. Because of her, she and Willow were all that were left of the Matthews family.

He understood what it was like to lose a mom, but he didn't understand how it felt to be the cause for the loss. He didn't understand what it meant to put someone loved down or they would be lost forever. Praying for her mom's death was no different than killing her in Lily's mind. And because there was no distinction between the two, the guilt was no different.

Lily had always approached her gift knowing it put her outside the parameters of normal. Her close connection with The Lord had always warmed the cold of it. But, since the death of Rosy, her gift just left her feeling cold. It was a lonely walk that she couldn't share with anyone else, with terrifying realities multiplying daily. She saw the spiritual deterioration; she saw behind the scenes, while everyone else saw what was presented. They saw a barcode on the wrist; she saw the monsters that came with it.

She sat at the dining room table in the Watcher house with Willow just down the hall. They could feel the noose starting to tighten as January 1st crept closer. And they needed to prepare for what was to come.

3

Margaret Stills was a rousing success. Once she was able to attach proof to her video series—of course as part of a special offer available only on TV—the sky was the limit to how high her popularity could climb. Ultimately it peaked with a business opportunity. Desperate pet owners flocked to her location, now a beautiful two bed one bath with a circular pool in the back. They came from all over the country, some making a full day's drive just to have her drop her rope and save their furry friend/friends from harrowing diagnoses.

For many her peak would have been more than enough; for Margaret, it was a great disappointment. Even though she was successful and finally able to enjoy what it meant to have more than enough money, and with it, a nice house in the desired part of DC, her greatest goal was to have Francis Abraham Pummel's heart. She knew that healing animals was child's play compared to what he could do, which also meant she was nowhere near his capability.

There was no moment where any real satisfaction passed through her. Even when Whiskers coughed up a black cluster, she felt no accomplishment for saving a life or bringing joy back to the cat's family. He was always meant to be a stepping stone for more. Instead, she got stuck in a niche opportunity as The Pet Healer. She didn't want to keep having animals brought to her doorstep but word of mouth can be a very intrusive thing. Her new address wasn't available to the public and yet people found her because old clients made it common knowledge. An infuriating violation of her privacy, Margaret decided to invest in a small building a few miles away from her house, a nail salon and a palm reader her surrounding neighbors.

She made this decision a few weeks after healing Whiskers, after being continuously bombarded by desperate pet owners who first came to her rundown one bedroom apartment and then her new house. Margaret had no idea that the video where she healed Whiskers would effectively stunt her growth and leave her stuck in a prison of her own making. In hindsight, offering to heal animals was a poor decision considering the fact that she hated them. And to think that they were now her daily reality...

Understanding the role she had to play, Margaret was an expert in filling out the character people saw. Though this business was like nails on a chalkboard for her, she never let anyone see her disdain for it. She had perfected her smile, adding it to a character that loved animals with "every fiber of my being". Margaret was responsible for this development and knew it wasn't something she could escape. And beyond that it acted as a perfect front for something she kept hidden in her basement, something that would bring her and Francis to an equal level.

Currently in her open kitchen, the white marbled countertops clear of everything but a plastic bowl halfway full of freshly made oatmeal, and 2% milk, she listened as the news projected from the house's built-in speakers.

"I could have told you it was a religious fanatic the day it happened, Francis." She loved having fake conversations with her man. "Two different people called you the devil before you were shot. Don't you remember that?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart." She quieted her voice when playing the role of Francis. "But enough of that topic, Margaret. Have I told you how much I love your new hairstyle? Don't think I didn't notice."

She touched her hair with a smile, now a short blonde pixie instead of a dull black mop. "I was wondering if you'd notice. I shouldn't be surprised though, you are the perfect man."

"Only because I have you, baby." While the conversation continued, she carried the bowl out of the kitchen and toward the basement door.

"I can't wait for our conversations to be real."

"Soon enough, sweetheart. Meet me on my level and we'll be unstoppable."

She walked down the basement stairs, the sound from the speakers fading with each step.

"Time to eat, Ben." At the bottom of the stairs, little Ben Simons was chained to an old iron bed.

*

The youngest of three boys, Ben Simons was dealt a brutal hand in the middle of his tenth year. Diagnosed with stage 2 multiple myeloma, a cancer of the blood and bone, he was in the path of a vicious creature. When doctors focused on one area, they only found that it had moved to another.

Multiple treatments had left his small body with barely a structure. The radiation had weakened his bones; the chemotherapy had left him a victim of severe poisoning. When he was very close to the end of his life, little Ben rallied. His bald and bruised head began to sprout hair again; his near lifeless appearance began to reanimate. He enjoyed an eleventh birthday, symptom free.

His doctors were cautiously optimistic. His odds were split somewhere down the middle. He and his family decided that he was done with treatment. If it came back like a monster, he wanted to enjoy his remaining time in the comfort of his own home.

In remission for nearly six months and out shopping with his family, Ben was standing in the electronics section of the store when he first saw Margaret. Her smile was warm and her demeanor strangely familiar. Was she a family friend? He knew he had seen her somewhere but couldn't put his finger on it.

"You're sick." Her first words to him. "I can see it. Do you want me to heal it?"

As soon as she asked, he immediately remembered that face. She was the woman the president first healed. Though she still carried streaks of sickness across her face she looked much healthier (fuller and brighter) than when he first saw her on TV. He didn't know her but he knew her struggle. They shared in that. Even though he loved his family, they had an outside perspective of the sickness. She understood it firsthand.

"I know you, y-you're—"

"Yes. President Pummel's first miracle." he smiled. "Would you like to be my first miracle? I heal animals all the time; in fact my new moniker is 'The Pet Healer'. But, people matter so much more than animals. And I say that being an avid animal lover." she paused. "You're in remission right now but your body is still battered from the battle. And a remission isn't a cure. The cancer is still in you. I can see it."

"Can you heal it now?" a streak of hope passed through Ben, as he began to imagine a much longer future.

"I would need you to come with me. I want you to be my first miracle. I want to have video documentation just like President Pummel has of me. I want to bring hope to people. You can be a part of that."

Ben pushed away any thoughts warning against her offer. It went against everything he knew about strangers: don't talk to them and don't trust them. But, then again, she wasn't really a stranger. She was a fellow survivor, offering him the same chance. If what she said was true and the cancer was back, this was his only chance at having more than a few months with his family.

"How long will it take?" Ben prodded the topic looking for any strange details.

"I will have you back home before you know it." Her smile was different than the first, carrying with it certain reassurance. She meant what she said.

Ben looked around, making sure his family couldn't see him. They were in another part of the store. "Okay." He smiled at her.

"Wonderful to hear. What's your name?"

"It's Ben."

"My name is Margaret." It was with these final words that Ben followed her out of the store and to her SUV.

It was May 14th, a Saturday, when he was brought to her house. She ordered a pizza meant for meat lovers, while she set the stage for her video. When the procedure started, she told him to be still. He listened. And yet, complications followed. Ben watched her kind demeanor shrivel as frustration took its place. She was unable to pull it free. And when he asked to go home, she drugged him with some leftover animal ether. He woke up in the basement sometime later, chained to an old bedframe.

"This is what's best for you, Ben." her voice said from upstairs. "I will heal you. I just need to work out the kinks."

Now, two weeks later, he remained a prisoner in her basement. She had tried the procedure many times, at first starting once daily. But as the failures increased, so did her number of attempts per day.

Ben had initially used it as a way to gauge how much time had passed. The basement windowless and the downstairs light always on, it was hard to know what time of day it was. The same was true of how many days he had been there. He only knew he missed his family and regretted ever listening to this woman. He wondered if he would ever see them again.

He heard the door open followed by footsteps. Margaret was back to try again...

4

The President had no idea who tried to assassinate him. It was never a question that plagued him. After all, they ultimately failed and helped set the stage for his greatest impact. There were many motivations for the act from many different places. No real leads existed and he didn't care either way. It just as easily could have been a rich person desperately trying to hold onto their elevated status—but then it hit him that this was an opportunity he would never have again. With the culprit still to be identified, he could fill that frame with anyone from any group...

A man of power has many venues available to him if he wants to operate in the shadows. The President had used an unnamed man early in his run for Senate who helped him effectively plant doubt in voters' minds toward his competition. If you know where to plant the seeds and give it time, it will sprout forth organically, clean of all fingerprints. The unnamed man had done it for him before with great success. What The President needed this time was simpler than the last. He had already planted doubt in many people's minds toward that religion. He only needed a few breadcrumbs to lead to them.

The President contacted the man on March 3rd. On May 28th, the outcome sprouted forth and the media bought it hook, line, and sinker. Although the desire to kill Christians remained in him, a constant urge, The President knew it was no different than killing singular bugs while infested. If he wanted to kill them, it needed to be at the very core. If he wanted to prevent them from infecting his movement of unity with their close minded views, he needed the people to see them as violent and dangerous. Although it wasn't nearly as satisfying a concept as dropping his rope and pulling tight in the wrong place, it was the far more effective option. During an infestation though, sometimes you just need to take some anger out on the stragglers. The media grabbing hold tight of his setup was satisfying but he still needed a release.

He looked out the window, seeing the front lawn and the fountain. And beyond that, just outside the gate, he saw a small group of picketers holding up signs that said Pummel = Satan. There were five; three men and two women. He flipped the switch in his mind, dropped one rope, and pulled tight. One man suddenly collapsed to the ground.

A smile spread across his face as a surge of satisfaction passed through him. This was far more potent, far more addicting, than the people's faith. This wasn't just warm, it was revolutionary. He wanted to kill all five but knew that it would raise too many questions. This would have to be a gradually ingested drug, the high enjoyed in secret. His drug of choice was something he didn't yet understand. And once the high faded, more would be required to feel the same as before. He was no different than any other user.

5

Even though the minutes of the game ticked on, Ken felt like he had interrupted a conversation. The questions he had asked God hung in the air above him, slowly coming back down, filling his head with those same unanswered questions. He paused the live broadcast with a heavy sigh.

"If you want to answer me, go ahead." He put his head down, the shame of the conversation an embarrassing weight. "I'll even ask it again. How do I apply You to my life?"

Know Me. It dropped into his mind immediately, causing a strange sensation to spread through his body, like a single ripple in a large body of water.

Ken had always been lazy, always provided for by his parents, even now paying for his apartment with some money from his dad's life insurance policy, the idea of putting the work in to get to know Rosy's Savior wasn't an attractive option. As he had said before, he didn't even give Rosy his all. Why was this any different?

Very much still a child himself, Ken was approaching the coming struggle haphazardly. Though a sufferer of a great and tragic trinity of losses, the reality of the world was something he still wanted to avoid. He wasn't blind to it and he wasn't ignorant. He saw the news. He knew that money would soon be obsolete. And yet, he wasn't preparing himself for it. A part of him felt a pulsing sense of urgency but it was always battling the part that wanted to pause time.

In many ways Ken was operating without fully working limbs, only beginning to trudge through a seemingly endless field of grief. He felt alone in this struggle and was exhausted at the very idea of seeking Rosy's Savior. After loss, it's exhausting enough to just get out of bed.

If this is what was required, he didn't have nearly the strength. No longer feeling weighed down by unanswered questions, he pushed play on the TV, letting the game continue. Maybe someday he would have the strength to give himself fully to Rosy's Savior. But, he knew that he was nowhere near ready right now.

*

Deborah looked out toward the boy to find he was well on his way off her property. And then she looked back down at the pamphlet in her hand. It was strange how something as random as a tract from a local church could present itself in such a welcome way. Much in the same way the bible laid next to Kyle's cold blood, this felt like she was being called out to once again. It posed a simple question, which immediately made her think of the bible she had tucked away in her room.

A new image of God was starting to bleed through her old perception. Being forced into the Catholic Church from birth on, Deborah knew the step-by-step to salvation, but she never truly knew the Man that offered it. Far too familiar with the procedure of the religion, God was as cold as the large halls of the church. And He was as fallible and inconsistent as the priests that claimed they could forgive sins.

When she left the church at eighteen, it felt like the doors of a prison had been opened. She was free to live her own life, unconcerned with a cold god's requirements. Living free of her childhood religion's parameters had been liberating; and when she met Keith, they saw eye to eye on the ridiculous concept, in total agreement that they would raise their kids (if they had any) to be free from the hooks of religion.

But, things had changed since then. Her family was down to two and even that was a stretch considering how Ken acted toward her now. Whatever plans she had for her life were gone. No one from old circles had offered her any answers; her two closest friends had been particularly cold toward her following the two tragic deaths in her family and both now carried the Chip.

Deborah had wrestled with the why of it all since it happened, jumping back and forth between failed parenting and the Credit Chip. She regretted so many of the decisions from the night Kyle killed Keith and believed she could have prevented it if she had just reached out to him when he called for her. It was a regret that she would never be rid of. And though she could never really know the cause for sure, the question that kept her up at night revolved around the Credit Chip: "If it isn't responsible for the murder of Keith, why did Kyle die trying to get rid of it?"

Her oldest son's final action, one of absolute desperation, spoke the loudest to her. And the two messages following his death pointing to God felt personal and intimate. She looked outside, the boy nearly at the end of her driveway. There was more she needed to know. And though she wasn't dressed nearly warm enough for the cool May air, she still ran out the door and after him.

6

John sat at his dining room table with Willow and Lily sitting directly across from him. Junior was standing next to him. Junior was tall just like him. How time flies, the thought carried him away for a moment, a father now walking the halls of memories.

"Dad?" Junior's voice was still trying to drop. The call immediately brought him back to the present.

"What were you wanting to discuss, girls?" he looked into Willow's eyes first and then Lily's. Neither of them broke eye contact.

"I got a check in the mail a few days ago." Willow placed it on the table. "Mom had $100,000 life insurance policy. Lily and I have discussed our best options and we wanted to propose something to you, Pastor John."

He couldn't help but smile slightly. No matter how many times he told her she could just call him John, she never did. "Propose away, girls."

Willow looked at him for a moment, flashing a smile at his friendly demeanor, and then returned to her train of thought. "January 1st at 12:01 a.m., the dollar will no longer be an accepted currency. That's just over seven months away. This money will be worthless." Willow paused and looked toward Lily.

"W-we need to be thinking long term, Pastor John." Lily picked up where Willow left off. "If the circumstances were different—it's not even worth going there." she paused. "Things are only getting worse. How many people have the Chip at school now, Junior?"

"More every day." Junior answered, crossing his arms in noticeable discomfort. His dark arms sprouting a layer of goose bumps.

John swallowed hard as he nodded with understanding.

"There isn't enough time for Lily and I to do anything on our own." Willow reentered. "We think it's in everybody's best interest to invest this money into paying off the church."

John smiled warmly. "Girls, the gesture is incredibly kind. But—"

"Stop right there, Pastor John." Willow put out her hand. "If we want to be safe, something needs to be paid off in full. What will happen if you have any debt on the church when the dollar bill goes away?"

John had thought about this long and hard. Trusting God was his default but he knew something the girls didn't. With the land being commercial, the price tag to pay it off entirely was far above the money they were offering. He had been working on paying it down for nearly twenty years, only cutting off a small corner from an outrageous price tag. It wouldn't work. He was going to lose the church. It was only a matter of time.

"The church isn't doable, girls. But that's just a building, isn't it?" his smile looked sad. He had been trying to do good from that building for years. And what was the outcome? Dwindling numbers and many lost sheep. As sadness washed over him, he looked at the two girls across from him. They were a reminder that his efforts hadn't gone to waste.

"Is this house?" Lily asked as she looked around.

John's eyes softened with realization. He had said it himself: the church was just a building. Those who trusted in Christ were going to stay within the fold. He looked around his house, imagining how full his basement would be during services.

"I have already paid off over half of the house."

"How much is left?" Willow asked.

"We got it at a steal. This part of town with over 1,600 square feet for under $100,000? The Lord definitely blessed Cara and I. I have forty one thousand two hundred and some change left on it."

"That's doable." Willow smiled, sliding the check toward him. "We'll need to do research, but I think we'll have more than enough left over to buy a full house generator and dig a well. We need to own everything on the property, Pastor John, including a way to power the house and water that belongs to us."

"You're a very smart young woman, Willow. How long have you been planning this?"

"Since getting the check. Lily and I have gone over many options. We settled on the church but this makes even more sense."

"It does, girls. Thank you."

Willow replied with a smile while nodding her head; Lily looked at Pastor John and Junior. Seeing how perfectly the pieces were starting to fit together, she wondered if this had been God's plan all along.

7

Margaret was confident as she reached the bottom of the basement stairs, her new hairstyle a huge hit with her imaginary man. He had been the secret ingredient to unlocking her ability in the past. She felt the same could be true of now.

She walked with a new skip in her step, if you will, the kind of skip that only Francis' compliments could give her. Even imagining herself with him empowered her—she could hardly wrap her head around the potential when they became a couple.

"Let's try this again, Ben. I have a good feeling about today." The smile she displayed was genuine and new. But, it only made Ben feel sick.

"You've said that before." his fight had only increased the longer he was there.

"Patience is a virtue," she loved her cliche sayings when answering his objections, ranging from "even a broken clock is right twice a day" to "sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places". His every objection was deflected with syrupy sweet words, a complete contrast to his situation. He was her prisoner and yet her constant demeanor was uplifting.

"You know the procedure, Ben." she said positioning herself in front of him. "Sit still and try to be quiet. It shouldn't take long."

He smirked slightly at her overconfidence. Promising a quick procedure on the first time was one thing; doing the same after over twenty failed attempts was laughable. And yet that's who Margaret was: confident in things she had no real experience in. This is how she had sold her brand even before she was able to heal animals. And it's how she continued to try to sell her ability to a little boy who was on the receiving end of every single failure.

Fortunately, her many failures hadn't hurt Ben in any way. Though she presented confidence, she didn't make a move with her rope unless she was sure she could grab hold of the sickness. It was a surprisingly careful approach from a woman that cared very little about the details. She told her story in the way she saw it, unconcerned with reality. After all, in her mind, Francis was already hers, even though in reality she didn't even register on his radar.

Ben was different from just a detail though. He represented opportunity. She wasn't looking to go out and find another child; in fact, she had never planned on kidnapping Ben. When she offered to heal him two weeks before and asked if he would be her first miracle, she expected the procedure to go much like it did with Whiskers. She underestimated the pressure that came when caring about the occupant. She didn't care about Whiskers, which made healing him simple. The same wasn't true of Ben. She valued human life.

Deciding to keep him prisoner was a band aid on a problem that continued to bleed. Now missing for two weeks, he was a nightly focus on local news segments. The search was increasing. She feared it would only be a matter of time until further details leaked out that led to her. Did cameras catch her leaving the store? Did the parking lot feed get a look at her license plate? Did her neighbors see Ben come home with her? The questions were mounting and time was running out.

She cared about Ben but she cared about self-preservation more, which made this attempt different than the rest. Her nerves now revolved around her status instead of his. Something about this time felt different. And as she flipped the switch to see his inner workings, she was calm as she dropped her rope. Margaret knew this was one of the last times available to her. She could see the cluster in him clear as day. She pinpointed its position, lowered the rope and pulled tight.

Ben's body suddenly started to tense up, something that hadn't happened before.

"Try to stay calm, Ben. This is the time." she started to pull on the rope and he started to cough. "It's uncomfortable, I know. My cluster was like a shriveled vine of grapes. It's a miracle I didn't rip anything spitting it up. Yours seems much smaller."

These words were far more comforting to Ben than any of her motivational quotes. They weren't placebos. They were the words of one cancer survivor to another. And they helped him focus on the prize ahead. It wouldn't be long until he was home. He could feel the cluster at the back of his throat, dragging as it ascended.

"I'm going to do one final tug, Ben. On the count of 3, okay? 1—" she prepared to pull, seeing Ben's eyes starting to roll back into his head, his coughing now severe gagging. "2—breathe through your nostrils. 3!" when she said it, she pulled hard and a gagging Ben threw up a thick black cluster along with a thick coating of bile. "I told you I could do it, Ben." the smile that spread across Margaret's face was warm and celebratory. "You are my first miracle."

Immediately Ben thought about seeing his family again, finally given the gift of more time.

A few seconds of long awaited joy faded from Margaret as her imaginary man asked a question: "What now, Margaret?"

8

The President was free to operate in the shadows of his ability as he saw fit. Though he promised the people that they could one day do the things he did, it was an exaggeration meant to empower. Give the people goals to look toward—give them a level to aspire to and they will come together. But, what The President didn't understand was that slowly his motivations were taking on the identity of the Thing in him.

Change happens gradually and often in a way that is indiscernible to the person. The man who killed the picketer was not the same man that came back to life after a fatal gunshot wound. That man still had pure motivations and a desire to bring real change to the down-and-out. A cold man now stood in The White House, looking out as the remaining four picketers reacted to the sudden demise of their member. He had crossed a line by killing the picketer but the change had already happened. No part of him regretted it. Instead he found that it had only served to whet his appetite.

Only moments after killing the picketer in a way that could never be tied to him, a heavy cloud covered The President. The high that came from it was already deteriorating. This new and amazing feeling was already running away from him. And what it left behind was a sickened tremble and a cold chill. The President's first withdrawal was sudden and shocking. He had gotten a taste of something electrifying, a short but incredible high. He wanted to feel it again, looking out toward the remaining four with great frustration. If dropping his rope and taking away a life quietly brought this kind of high, he could only imagine what a more violent approach would do. The image of blood settled in his mind and ran down causing his skin to stand at attention.

There was a new need alive and kicking on the inside of him, an urge that was only satisfied by this one thing. Even though the halls of The White House were surrounded with the skittering that comes with the nation's upkeep, he was an island unto himself, closing his eyes to imagine violence. As he let ideas drift into his mind, the darker they became and before he knew it the imagery was a welcome nightmare. His mind was the only place where he could act out the violence, because being a man of such a high position afforded him no window of opportunity. More than anything else he wanted to kill Christians, no longer concerned with justifying the why.

With his eyes closed, he stepped into his mind. But, what he found wasn't simply a violent image wrapped in a neat bow, just waiting to be opened up and acted on; instead, he found that he was looking through someone else's eyes.
–Choices–

1

Ken fell asleep on his couch with the TV still on, Margaret's new infomercial making an unwelcome return two separate times while he slept. When he opened his eyes early in the morning, it was still dark out. Trying to blink his eyes clear of their former state, he saw a banner on the bottom of his TV screen: thirty dead; at least twenty injured.

A product of desensitization, Ken scanned the screen with a long yawn and then laid back down on the couch. Within moments, he was sleeping deep again, the TV screen host to yet another outburst of violence.

*

Deborah sat in her room, wrestling with the desire to walk further down this path with God. The bible was out and turned to the book of Revelation. She kept looking at the verses the boy wrote on the tract he had given her. He said they would verify what the Credit Chip was. If she followed them to their locations, she worried there would be no returning from it. There are some things that can't be unlearned once known. Did she want verification or did she find strange comfort in the questions?

The final book of the bible was a complete stranger to her. It had never been focused on when she was younger, only hinted at as the 'end time prophecies'. But, the priest had no interest in expounding—no interest in truly preparing the members. The only reason Deborah didn't have the Credit Chip was because of Kyle. Otherwise, it would have been just the kind of trendy thing she would have worn alongside her friends.

Though she had made no true decisions determining what she wanted her future to be, the very act of putting on the brakes had allowed change to happen within her. Never one for self-reflection, it was now what passed the hours of her day. Never one to step back and study the angles of possible outcome, she was now hesitant with every decision. A real change had taken place in her and a real depth had formed that didn't exist before.

In many ways her days had been aimless. But, aimlessness is still a better option than frivolous living. Understanding the concept of consequence following action and caring enough to put in the time and weigh the options—this was a new facet to Deborah. And though deep sadness was still a guest that had overstayed its welcome, she couldn't deny that purpose was flowing just beneath the surface of it all.

She took a deep breath as she looked at the verses written on the tract. Since that night of great loss, there was no one she could think of that offered any hope. Cold friends gave her cold opinions. Distant relatives fed her detached placebos. Only God had given clear signs of compassion and understanding. That alone was reason enough for her to follow the verses wherever they would lead.

As she flipped to the first verse, she stopped and looked at the empty spot in the bed next to her. Keith would have been so disappointed. But he was gone now. And she couldn't continue to live trying to please a dead man.

2

John, accustomed to carrying heavy loads of weight, returned to his room weighed down by very little. Although on the cusp of very dark days, he found a moment of true relief as he sat on the edge of his bed. His tie was now loose with his dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned. It was rare for him to feel a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. Always a man to push himself to the brink of his ability, he would end each day wondering what else he could have done. His workhorse mindset kept him in a near constant state of frustration. He had big goals for his life and much he wanted to accomplish before The Lord called him home. In his mind he had done very little worth mentioning.

Being a man who was never satisfied with the long hours he put into each day, it was strange for him to feel accomplishment at the idea of battening down the hatches. But maybe the sense of accomplishment came from the fact that his new set of goals were reachable. Suddenly the future was much smaller. His mind no longer brought him to Africa, working away on the mission field; and he no longer imagined preaching to a large group of people there, eyes alive with wonder as they heard The Good News of Jesus Christ for the first time in their life.

His goals were new and refocused. He had always been concerned with the impact his efforts had. With lofty goals set throughout his life, small victories just seemed small; now, small victories had a different meaning. With the mark of the beast deceiving more and more daily, he thought about Ken, and Willow, and Lily. He had been used as an anchor for each one, helping to keep them in place as the waves raged on.

He was a missionary of the mundane, his impact equal to a few ripples in a large body of water. It reverberated and spread out quietly, much of it materializing in ways he still couldn't see.

John had wanted to follow in his father's footsteps as early as he could remember. His father had been a powerful man of God, responsible for not only planting a church in Southern Africa but also helping cultivate a body to go with it. Planting the seeds early and watering them in the beginning, his father was never able to see what grew. He was killed when John was only six, mowed down by gunfire on his second missionary trip to build a Christian school.

What he left behind was a son that was determined to finish what his father had started. But, John's dream had never materialized. Now forty eight years old and never once able to visit Africa, he was only able to see what his father had done through different updates his mother would mail him. Starting with only a seed of faith and a small building, there was now a community that loved Jesus and was passionate about spreading The Good News to any and all that would listen.

It was easy to look past the small victories and long for days that would never belong to him. He would never speak to a nation. He would never bring The Light to a third world country. This had never been his purpose. The way that night had unfolded made it abundantly clear to him.

"You're always carving, Lord." He spoke softly. "Cutting away what doesn't belong. I have wanted to continue what my father started for years. But, You have never pointed me in that direction. Though the desire is still there, I have to give it up. I am done working for a dream that doesn't belong to me."

It was a moment of true sacrifice. And though John felt understandable sadness as he let it slip out of his hands and away from him for good, it also felt like he had come up from beneath the water. Chasing his father's dream had left his purpose on the backburner, a purpose just as important as what his father had done, if not even more so.

*

Willow was careful not to let the quiet of the night sit with her for too long. The quiet brought sadness. And when it came, it made her focus on everything but the present moment. She played a shuffle mix of classical on her cellphone as she started to price out everything they would need.

She had a notebook in the bed with her with prices scribbled next to the items in question. Even after paying off the house, paying to install the full house generator, and digging a well with space for a separate septic tank, they would have nearly forty thousand dollars leftover. She was sure that the details of what to do with the rest of the money would be discussed in the coming days.

Though both the main light from the ceiling fan and the lamp on her nightstand were shining brightly, it wasn't bright enough. The sadness was slipping in. There were very few nights when it didn't find its way to her. It was inescapable. At the end of the day she had nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. And without a task to delve into, her thoughts were far too real considering she was always looking for constant distractions.

This was when her grief was most dangerous, when that old voice of self-loathing returned and the full bodied mirror in her room beckoned her. She looked at it from her bed and then looked down at her body: a large t-shirt with sweat pants. Nothing for it to feast on. And yet it called her just same.

It had always been an abusive relationship, where it gave her little compliments just so it could further the sting of its pervasive criticism. It fed her just enough to hurt her even more. But for so long it had been her only sense of worth. It was far more familiar to her than anything else. And when struggle comes, the familiar is what's safest—even if it's not safe at all.

She got out of bed and walked to it. And immediately, the criticisms resumed.

*

Lily had never considered that what happened with her mom was always a part of God's plan. As she let the idea sit in her, it began to expand. Even though she felt she was the sole reason for her mom's death, it was easy to forget the sovereign nature of God. His plan wasn't dismantled or interrupted by human error.

She looked around her room, the soft glow of the night light folding across the corner of the ceiling like a bookmarked page. Everyone in the house had shut themselves away in their rooms, leaving the night to pass by quietly. Not that long ago, Lily had found comfort in the quiet. It was when distractions were removed and The Lord's presence was most palpable. Since the death of her mom, the quiet had only intensified the guilt that plagued her daily. She missed her close connection with The Lord, finding that the guilt had built an effective wall. She wasn't disconnected from her spiritual sight, but she was disconnected from the One Who had given it to her.

Without her connection to The Lord, her gift was an endless nightmare. She was the only one privy to a look behind the curtain. But whereas before she was able to be in constant communication with God, now there was a divide.

She was determined to finally reconnect on this night, tracing over the events that had led to her current living situation. She had blamed herself immediately for her mom's death, wiping away any clues that pointed elsewhere. It was her weight to carry, her cross to bare—except she found that the longer she carried this cross, the farther it brought her from Christ.

When she was honest with herself—brutally honest—she knew that the real reason she had taken on the weight was not just because she felt responsible, but to mask over her disappointment in God. A few misplaced words and her mom was gone? The details surrounding it didn't point to God being sovereign whatsoever. In fact, it made it seem like He was taken by surprise as much as she was. If He couldn't deter a few misplaced words from having a fatal consequence, what was He actually capable of doing? If words took Him by surprise—she had seen it from this perspective since it happened.

Now, she was looking at it from a different angle. If this had always been a part of God's plan, a few misplaced words could have been replaced with many things. Her mom was already at the end of her rope. Some people never get better from grief. Some people sit in it until the environment poisons them. If anything, only a sovereign God could have set the pieces in such a way that her and Willow would end up with Pastor John.

As Lily began to change her view on her mom's death, the wall of guilt began to fall away. Immediately that familiar warmth rushed toward her as the connection was reestablished.

"How I've missed You, Jesus." she nestled into bed as she closed her eyes, feeling warm for the first time in months.

3

Margaret hadn't answered her imaginary man yet. She just smiled at Ben, covering up the internal struggle. She had never considered what would come after she healed him. Of course if she had been able to do it successfully on the first day, she would have gladly brought him home to share the good news with his family.

But, she had held him prisoner for two weeks. Even though she had healed him, her image would be forever ruined. People wouldn't focus on the outcome; they would only focus on the fact that she had kidnapped him. It was unfair and closed minded. The means were necessary if they wanted a cancer-free end.

Ben was healed. And yet she knew his family would never see it that way. They would only see Margaret as unhinged and dangerous. She had worked hard to build her brand as someone that could be trusted, as someone who loved all living creatures, as someone who was only concerned with the betterment of others. She played her roles well, her TV personality an expertly designed facade that she wore everywhere she went.

"When can we go, Margaret?" Ben thought about his brothers and how he would finally be well enough to wrestle with them.

"Soon, Ben." She smiled again as she turned away from him.

"Is it worth ruining what we could have?" her imaginary man had suddenly become far more real, no longer part of a made up conversation where she played both roles. The voice she heard even sounded like Francis. "You are on my level now, sweetheart. You can heal. Let this boy be a means to an end. He helped unlock your ability and he will always be special because of it. But, you can't give him back. If you do, we'll never be together."

She thought about Francis, the man that had stolen her heart, the man that had given her life back to her. And then she thought about Ben and how his family was waiting for him. For a moment a small part of her was conflicted. But, her concern for Ben was nothing but a small section when compared to the idea of losing her man.

Between the two, the option was easy. She had already worked very hard to be worthy of her man. And some little cancer-kid wasn't going to stop her now. He had been an effective guinea pig to help her reach the next stage, but the outcome was never going to be his to enjoy. Now faced with the problem, Margaret realized that the moment she chained him to the bed was the moment his fate was already sealed.

Still turned away from him, she had to make sure her next claim was convincing. Fittingly, she prepared to treat this situation much like a pet owner would when knowing they have to put the creature to sleep. She didn't show her hand. She didn't hint at the inevitable. She simply turned around and displayed a comforting smile as she said, "I'll grab the key to unlock those chains, Ben."

As she went upstairs, Ben looked at the stone wall at the bottom of the stairs. He was about to be free from this prison. Free and back with his family—

The sound of her feet coming back down the stairs interrupted his thought. She had the small key for the padlock in her hand.

"What's the first thing you're going to do when you get home, Ben?" the smile she displayed was simple and terrifying. The warmth she was able to convey pointed to a soulless interior. Once she had made the decision to put him down, she never looked back. And now she was completely sold on the idea, doing everything she could to lull him into a false sense of security.

"I'm sure mom will give me one of those big hugs," he was looking next to Margaret, as if he was already watching it happen. "Maybe we'll even get to have a pizza night tonight."

"It's kind of late, Ben" Margaret keyed the lock and turned, that smile yet to drop away. The lock popped open and she quickly pulled the chains off of him.

"Maybe tomorrow then." he paused with a shrug. "It doesn't matter what we do. I just can't wait to be home again."

"Very understandable. Home is where the heart is, after all." her cliches continued. "Just follow me upstairs and we'll get you home."

Ben got out of the bed, stepping toward the stairs. As he started to follow her up, he noticed that all of the lights were off in the house. The only place where there was light was in the windowless basement. A familiar chill followed behind him. This time he didn't push it away.

"You're not taking me home, are you?" he had stopped walking up the stairs, now frozen somewhere between the top and bottom stair.

"Nonsense, Ben." she looked back at him from the top stair. "Why do you say such a ridiculous thing?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Be-because you've held me captive."

"For your own good, Ben. Just so I could heal you. When you asked to leave early, I couldn't let you go. But, you're healed now. Let's get you home." a seamless deflection.

There was no way she was so dense. Ben was only eleven years old and he fully understood the concept of loose ends. He had seen her face. She was a famous person. Even if he tried to find a believable reason to explain why he had been gone for such an extended period of time, he knew that his parents wouldn't buy it. She had to have known that he could undo everything she had built. Ben felt stupid for believing he would get to go home again. A tear slipped down his cheek and then another as he began to back down the stairs.

"Can I call my family just one time? J-just once?" his small body was now pressed against the stone wall, Margaret looking like nothing more than a thin shadow at the top of the stairs.

She had planned on leading him to the SUV parked in her garage. And once he was sitting in the backseat, she would have asked him to think of his happiest memory with his family. Once she saw a smile crawl on his lips in remembrance, she was going to drop her rope and kill him quickly. But, Ben was smarter than she expected him to be. He saw through her facade. All that was left to do was for her to try and salvage what remained.

"You'll always be my first miracle, Ben." Margaret started to step back down the stairs. "You will always be very special to me. All the good I will do now, all the sick people I will heal, it is in honor of you. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, Ben. I promise." Once she stepped out of the remaining shadow that lingered near the top of the stairs, the light painted a terrifying display. Her smile was different than the rest. It was upturned and long, stretching high up her cheeks. He saw it for only a moment and then it went away. A glimpse inside the woman he had trusted.

"Pl-please do-don't do this." he backed into the room, Margaret following close behind. "Jus-just let me go h-home."

"You have made it possible for many others. It will be absolutely painless. I promise."

She flipped the switch in her mind, now able to see his blue source. He continued backing away, ending up on the bed he had been chained to. In the fetal position, he closed his eyes trying to find a happy memory. What his mind gave him was his family's last camping trip before he was diagnosed.

Margaret saw his beating heart. She dropped her rope quickly and pulled tight, watching Ben's small body loosen as his life left him. No part of her felt sick from it. Her only focus was having Francis as her own. And with Ben just another obstacle out of her way, she looked toward the future with great anticipation.

After life leaves a body, a smell quickly follows. She still had a long night ahead of her...

4

The President opened his eyes, excusing himself to his nightly quarters. Whatever was waiting behind his closed eyes was going to take time. Now sitting on the edge of his bed, away from everyone, he closed them again. And like before, he found that he was looking through eyes that weren't his.

Henry Ashley was a man of experience. With multiple tours to Iraq under his belt, he understood how bad the world could be. He was a single man, late into his sixties. He shaved his head even though he could grow hair: he was accustomed to war conditions, even at home. There had been a time when he was caught by surprise. It almost cost him his life. He vowed to never be unprepared again.

As the world started to change, he made sure to change with it. The Credit Chip had been in him for over six months, Henry being one of the first to get it in Iowa even though he lived in Wisconsin. Preparation was his religion. He prided himself on knowing the trajectory that the times would follow. As soon as President Pummel started implementing the Credit Chip, he knew it would be the new currency.

The barcode on the inside of his wrist looked new compared to the faded war tattoos that stamped his arms randomly. This night was no different than any other. He sat in an old leather reclining chair in his one bedroom one bath ranch house, his 65" flat screen TV the only thing on his wall. He prodded the 24 hour news channels, watching two at once. There were always inconsistencies in their reporting.

"Questions revolving around The Holy Army have only started to grow." Lidia Johnson, the news anchor on the left, was easily his least favorite. He didn't want her opinions; he wanted facts. And yet she interjected with her own point of view far too often. "I know I have a few of my own, as well."

"Nobody cares. Report o—"

Suddenly, he felt emptied of everything. And thoughts of violence quickly filled the space. Though never one to respect those that believed in a higher power, he also wasn't one to impede on their freedom. He had always believed that the freedom he fought for included everyone from every walk of life. And yet, all he could think of now was how obtrusive they had become in trying to prevent the world from getting better.

The President saw through Henry and as the hate he had toward Christians filled Henry's mind, he was no longer just a passenger watching something unfold. Once his thoughts became Henry's, he became Henry. Henry's movements were his; Henry's decisions were his; Henry's knowledge was his—and yet, true to the puppeteer in both of them, the Spirit let them think they were in control. It would even help The President explain this away logically when all was said and done—he was laughably gullible, after all.

The Head Spirit had learned in It's time that the best form of possession is when the person doesn't know they are possessed. It had learned not to show too much too soon, understanding that the human condition on its own is already capable of horrible things. It only takes the right thoughts with a bit of nurturing to create fingerprint-free violence.

Much like how The President had an unnamed man set the pieces in place for his frame job, The President played the same role for the Head Spirit. The President's motivations were mostly his; the Head Spirit just planted a few thoughts now and then and let them grow. Very little work was needed when dealing with humans, which is why the Head Spirit liked the medium so much. They truly believed they were in control, which made the manipulation that much easier.

Although fully possessed, the ideas filling Henry's mind weren't all that strange to him. Already a man hardened by the horrors of war, he had done many questionable things when he thought they were necessary for the greater good. Prying fingernails free from lower level terrorist leaders, waterboarding a known sniper for intel, breaking bones to satisfy the inner monster war creates—he had done it all and it all had been necessary in his mind.

His mind landed in the same grouping as he loaded a machine gun and extra magazines from his extensive closet armory into his duffel bag. What he was planning to do was necessary. It would send a hard hitting message to those trying to get in the way of better things that the people wouldn't stand for it anymore. The people were tired of the status quo, tired of being disregarded and seen as unimportant.

It wasn't hard for The President's thoughts to fit perfectly in Henry's mind. Their worldviews were very similar. The thoughts didn't feel alien to him. Instead, it felt like something had finally snapped, a frustration that had been building for years. Even though the Head Spirit had full control of the situation, The President's blooming rage was a welcome reprieve. He had more than enough hate in him to fuel a massacre.

Henry zipped up his duffel bag as he left his house, the cold air feeling warm when it hit his tough skin. He was wearing nothing more than a white t-shirt and a gray pair of athletic shorts: a common look for a man that spent most of his time at the gym. His house was only a block and a half away from one of the town's churches. He looked at the smart watch on his wrist, set to military time: 2000 (8:00 p.m.).

Saturday night services were one of the churches' staples, usually drawing close to a hundred people. The church was a converted store. He had been in there a few times, invited by caring neighbors worried about his eternal destination. He remembered the front entrance having one greeter which then led into the worship hall. A low budget affair, they set up black fold out chairs instead of permanent pews. The interior of the building was small and claustrophobic, with only two ways out.

Because Henry knew this, The President did as well. He knew where the exits were and how non-existent the security was. A tingle of power coursed through him at the very idea, an explosion in his senses. This high was already greater than the one he felt when he dropped his rope and killed the picketer. Already greater even though nothing had happened yet. The anticipation alone was comparable to a heroin user coming alive at the sight of the needle.

Henry approached the church and The President's body reacted with euphoric bursts. This was far greater than anything sexual. It was a fully realized existence with a power that was only continuing to increase and branch off. No violence had occurred yet. To think his current euphoria was only a tease to what he would feel was almost too much to handle.

The church was only a short series of steps away from Henry. Through the glass window he could see a few soft strobe lights in an otherwise dark room. The parking lot he was currently passing through was filled with cars: a full house. He unzipped his duffel bag, tucking a few mags in his shorts band, covering it with his white t-shirt. As he approached the glass door he dropped the bag, the machine gun in his right hand.

Keeping the weapon concealed was easy enough, considering the parking lot shared no space with any other open business. The church, though part of a community of buildings, was on an island on this night. Even if anyone had seen Henry holding the gun, he was already too close to the front door.

The dark in the building laid across the greeter, only part of his face being lit by the dancing strobe lights. Henry opened the door and immediately pulled the trigger, his first series of bullets filling the greeter. And then he stood at the back of the church, sweeping the gun from side to side. What had been deep worship was now anguish as screams of shock and fear broke through the worship leader's song.

"Keep the lights off!" the worship leader urged into his microphone. "Everyone on the groun—" a bullet burst through his head, killing him instantly.

As Henry reloaded, letting one mag fall to the floor and popping another in, The President felt his eyes roll into the back of his head, the sensation so powerful and the satisfaction a thick honey dripping all over him. He had yet to see the blood but the sound of their anguish was wonderful. They deserved to suffer for trying to stop his movement. They deserved to bleed for the names they called him. While it was euphoric for him, it was simply a mission for Henry.

"This will only get worse if you continue to try and stop progress. This is a message, ladies and gentlemen. One you will never forget." he spoke clearly and with authority, making them think he was done shooting. But, then they heard the loud pops of sound start again, Henry now aiming lower than before.

"Save us, Lord!" he heard someone cry out in desperation.

"Deliver us, Jesus!" another cried.

As Henry continued to sweep the gun from side to side, he felt an immense pressure grow in his head. Suddenly everything went black—

As quickly as it was established, the connection was cut. The President opened his eyes, the high removed, leaving him feeling sick and aimless. Without completion, without seeing the carnage, it was a poison in his body. He felt shriveled up and empty, removed from the one thing that made him fully alive. Not getting to revel in the remains, not getting to see the dead eyes of those bugs—nothing had ever been more disappointing.

Why the dream had to end—why the fantasy had to stop when it was just getting good—why he wasn't able to witness the aftermath of his violent and vivid imagination—

"Mr. President?" a knock came at his door.

"Yes." he answered quickly.

"There has been a church shooting in Sherry, Wisconsin."

A long smile grew on his face as the high returned, the reality of his growing power now vividly clear. "I'll be right out."

5

"What I think will always haunt me the most is the feedback from the microphone that followed Mike's death."

"Who's Mike?" the person interviewing her asked.

"He wa-was our worship leader. Even after the shooting was done, th-the feedback continued. He was heroic, using his last moments telling us what to do, tr-trying to keep us safe." A red haired woman with tears in her eyes said, a microphone shoved in her face.

"Different members of the church have said that it was a miracle. What was miraculous about this tragedy?"

"Um, as we called out for Jesus' help, the shooter died s-suddenly. He had another two magazines on him and was determined to kill as many of us as he could. But The Lord had other plans."

Ken shook his head, now fully awake after opening his eyes to the interview.

"Does everything point to God for these people? 'Oh, we only lost thirty. Could have been a lot more.'" He shut off the TV.

Grief can make you cynical, operating with one foot in two different places, nothing is what it seems. For an undetermined amount of time, you are trapped in a room of funhouse mirrors. All perception is changed and yet you are expected to see things like everyone else does.

A knock came at his door. He looked out the sliding glass door to his left first, the sun just barely starting to peak out from the horizon. He got up from the couch and walked to the front door which was right of him and left of the kitchen. Another knock came, quieter than the first.

When he opened the door, a blonde girl in a little black dress was standing outside holding black high heels by the straps.

"Oh. Wrong door." her smile was beautiful despite her smeared red lipstick. "This isn't my complex, if you couldn't tell. It's been a long night."

Ken smiled while rubbing his head. "Sounds memorable."

Her eyes rolled to the edges in thought as she bit her lip. "Something like that." her laugh, though just a taste, was infectious, immediately sending warmth into a cold young man. "But maybe this is the perfect cap to the night. Don't tell me the universe isn't trying to tell me something, bringing me to your door. I love tall men."

Ken thought about Rosy for a moment, his immediate guilt slipping away as he focused on the girl's smile. And then he looked at her eyes, blue like his, but hers were beautiful. He thought about everything that had happened recently and how lonely he felt. This was the first time in months that he felt anything remotely close to happiness.

"Offer withstanding?" she put away one smile and pulled out another. "I'm very good."

Ken pushed his door open wider as he stepped aside. "Come on in."

"You're not much for talking, are you? The strong, silent type. Ka-ching." It was clear that she was under the influence. How much and in what way, he didn't know. More than anything, he just welcomed the company. You can only be alone for so long until it starts to break you apart.

She had hinted at sex. Though one part of him was very interested, her altered state immediately removed it from the equation.

"What's your name, tall man?" probably too much alcohol.

"It's Ken." he said, as he offered her a seat on the couch.

"I'm Barbie," her second laugh was long enough that it branched off into another. She remained standing, pacing back and forth. "Not really. That would be perfect though, right? Barbie and her Ken?"

Ken nodded along with an amused smile.

"My actual name is Katy. Blah. Not as exciting as Barbie, but I do what I can with what I have."

"That's a nice name. Definitely better than Barbie." Ken said as he cleared his throat.

She stopped pacing and looked at him. "That is literally the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Ken laughed, "You are starved for compliments then."

"I'm starving, Kenny. Starving." She looked around his apartment. "I love all your wall art, by the way." There was nothing on his walls, a sarcastic observation that nearly made him burst out laughing. She brought newness to an old life. She brought excitement to his misery. He would never not miss Rosy but he also couldn't stay where he was at. What was wrong with some companionship?

"I'm glad you came to my door by accident, Katy. It was just what I needed this morning."

"Me too, Kenny. A good cap to end a wild night. Rain check on the sex? I'm starting to feel pretty tired."

He laughed through his nose, "Rain check it is."

*

Deborah had been up all night, each bible verse leading to another. Soon into her search she started the book of Revelation over from the beginning and read it straight through. Though a terrifying story throughout filled with agony and horror, she kept thinking about the promise at the end, of the day when Jesus would wipe away every tear. For a little girl who had a poor relationship with her father and for someone that had shed many hidden tears in her life, that idea was a revelation to her.

She focused on the end, because the rest of the details were too hard to handle. If the Credit Chip really was the mark of the beast, her boy was not in a better place—she knew this but had to push it into a small dark room in her mind and lock it away. Her boy was gone from her life; she could put him wherever she wanted him to be, regardless of the reality. And that's what she did.

She looked out the window in her bedroom, seeing the sun pressing into the dark. Moment by moment, she watched as only a speck of light quickly faded away the night, defining the parameters of the new day. God was speaking in a language she was finally starting to understand.

6

John had always been an early riser. He was already dressed, standing in front of his closet door mirror, working out the opening to this morning's sermon. It was going to be about God's true voice and how He speaks in small and personal ways instead of the loud and bombastic.

"In 1st Kings 19, after Elijah has called down fire from heaven, consuming all of Jezebel's high priests, he then fled in fear when she threatened his life. Now hiding in the caves, God calls him out to be in His presence, telling him He will soon pass by. So, first a great wind came, tearing through the mountain. But, God was not in the wind. Next came an earthquake, powerful and mighty, but The Lord was not in the earthquake. After that there came a fire, great and searing, but the Lord was not in the fire. And then there came a whisper—"

His door opened suddenly. Junior was standing there, his usually calm eyes wide and fear filled.

"What's the matter, son?" John asked, stepping away from the mirror.

"I think something's wrong, dad. I-I just went to the bathroom and there's blood."

A pang of fear stabbed into him as he swallowed hard. But, he was careful not to let Junior see it. He manufactured a comforting smile, "It's going to be fine, son. We'll get you checked out today. Where was the blood?"

"I-I've been having some stomach pain for the last couple of weeks—"

"One or two, son?"

"Two."

"A lot of blood?"

"More than normal." Junior approached the topic with noticeable discomfort. The last thing he wanted was to be another burden on his father's already overloaded mind.

"I'll have Steve fill in for me today."

"Don't cancel church, dad. It can wait."

"No, son. Life is about defining your priorities." John gave a stern nod of the head to his boy. The weight was back, heavier than ever. Although John had grown accustomed to carrying a great deal of weight, there is only so much one man can handle.

*

Willow felt dirty for giving into what the mirror required from her throughout the night, just as dirty as when one of the boys from school enjoyed the access she used to readily give. Though they were different in appearance, the act was one in the same. She loved to be seen as beautiful, and gave pieces of herself in exchange for it. Whereas boys peppered her with the right compliments before the feast, the mirror gave her a glimpse of attraction to draw her in and then pulled her apart piece by piece.

When her dad died, insecurity took his place. The mirror became a confidante, a critical parent that gave compliments sparingly and with great conditions. Christ's words sat in her, a truth that she couldn't always possess. Even as she had started to grow in her new identity, she found the lure of the old was still an attractive detour at times. It always left her feeling dirty but familiar dirt can feel more like a home than a fresh start.

A fresh start means putting in the work to lay a foundation; the familiar is already there, a rundown structure in a dirty place, ready to house a wanderer. People flee to the dirty familiar when they don't truly feel like they have a home. Willow loved Jesus but she still didn't feel like she was home in Him.

Rosy had been her deepest connection to Him, able to put into words things she didn't understand, and able to connect the dots between scripture and now in a way that made sense. Rosy had been able to make the Word come to life. With her gone, much of Willow's understanding went with her.

"If God gives you another day, He's given you another chance." Rosy used to tell this to Willow when she felt shame after allowing access. "Grab hold of it and try again." These words now dropped into her mind, a guiding memory.

*

Lily woke up with clear sight. The film of worldly perception removed from her eyes, she was free to see the losses in her life as eternal gain. It wasn't her fault her mom was no longer alive; it had always been part of a much greater plan. Of course there was still sadness, a residue that would only fade with time, but the guilt that had accompanied it was gone.

Over the last few months she had gotten used to waking up alone, wearing the weight of her mom's death. It had ground her down to an unrecognizable state, where faith in God had been replaced with questions, and where constant communication with Him had been replaced with silence. They were easily the loneliest days of her life and the longer they went on the easier it was to forget how special her relationship with God was. Even though she had walked with the light on for the entirety of her life, once the light went out, her eyes learned to adapt to the dark, able to see just enough to navigate.

Now that the light was back on and she could fully see again, she realized how lost she had been for the last few months. She knew that the future was only going to hold hardship and struggle; this reality was only growing more apparent daily. But, the only thing that truly worried her was the idea of walking in the dark again and learning how to live without the light. It had happened once. She couldn't let it happen again.

7

Margaret wrapped Ben's body in a sheet, put him in the back of her SUV and drove two and a half hours south to her Uncle's country house in Virginia. Though she wasn't close to any of her family, especially her Uncle, he owned one hundred acres of land. Having been there several times in her thirty eight years, she knew there were plenty of places where she could dispose of Ben without her Uncle ever knowing she had been on his property.

She buried him deep, at the base of a random tree in a thick patch of woods. Having parked her vehicle in the ditch on the country road, hundreds of feet from the beginning of the property, she trudged back through thick grass and tall weeds. It took far less time than when she had Ben draped over her shoulder.

All in all, disposing of Ben's body took every minute of the night, leaving Margaret dirty and exhausted when she finally returned to her house. And yet, she also felt fully invigorated. The early morning sun spilled into her house, painting the dark rooms with thick stripes of light, warming her cold skin.

Getting rid of Ben was an unfortunate necessity, an act that had only struck her with guilt for the briefest moment. But then the reality of his sacrifice gave her a feeling of hope. She could now help others like Francis had helped her. And even more importantly, she could now have Francis as her own.

8

The President was learning how to savor the high in secret because of his position. It was his obligation as leader of the country to speak on the shooting and offer some kind of condolence for the surviving bugs. He stood behind the podium in the media room, the grouping of cameras ready and waiting.

"Another bout of violence has struck this country. For the families of the thirty people who had their lives taken from them, I want to offer my sincerest sympathy." He hated saying every word. But, he knew how to twist the message in his favor and maybe even make this tragedy their fault. A good politician knows how to twist anything. "Now some would say that this tragedy was retribution for the attempt on my life on January 21st. I cannot provide you with the reason why the shooter decided to open fire on the innocent. What I can say is that there is no moment or situation where violence of any kind is warranted. Do I hold any ill will against the person or persons that tried to take my life? No. What makes up all human kind is passion and opinion and our search for truth. Whichever member of The Holy Army pulled the trigger when trying to kill me, I know he or she was just operating based on their truth." he paused to clear his throat. "Having said that, I am in a frustrating position of influence. I can try to instill a worldview to encourage unity among all. But, at the end of the day, people are going to do what they feel is right, what they feel is true." he paused for effect. "Though I want freedom for all to apply for all, it should not be a boundary free concept. Freedom for all should not be just applicable for any and all. Some freedoms need to fall away if they are damaging to the country. Just think, not that long ago, we had schools for white and schools for black. People were free to think they were superior because of their color of skin. And the law around them only helped support this. Have we not evolved from this? Have we not matured in our understanding? The fact that history has a way of repeating itself should not be a construct we make room for. The segregation of the past should not be allowed to spread to the present simply because it is wearing a different face." another pause, as he softened his eyes in preparation for a new tangent. "My fellow Americans, I have promised you that better things are ahead and a bright future is in reach. We are on the cusp of greatness. We are so close to breaking through the barrier that has crippled our country since its genesis. We are so close to being a unified whole. And yet I am standing here once again to comment on mindless violence and many more people being lost. The idea of retribution needs to fall away from us, just as our tails did millions of years ago. If you ever want to reach heights where you can fish disease from family members—if you ever want to step into the next stage of evolution, we must be united. United in how we think. United in what we believe. And united in cultivating a future that our closed minded ancestors never could have dreamed of. Frankly, I am tired of addressing this country due to tragedy. I am fed up with the status quo. You elected me because I promised change. But, lasting change is not possible without a new mindset. Do not look to the past for examples of what has been done. Look to the future. After all, our country was built on the desire to change the status quo and sail the vast seas of uncertainty in search for a better life. If a few explorers hadn't gone in search for better, we would still be under England's boot. The same is true of now. If we do not step out from under old ways of thinking, we will never reach our full potential. And that would be the biggest tragedy of all." he smiled at the cameras. "We can make this country truly great. But, it starts with each and every one of you."

He stepped away from the cameras, the high from the massacre starting to fade. He closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the carnage. It was gone, over far too soon for a man that now craved the taste.
–The Passing of Time–

1

What started as a drunken mistake quickly turned into something very real. Katy had done something Ken never thought possible: she had given him hope for a future. And in some ways she had taken the place Rosy had occupied. He rarely listened to Rosy's voice message anymore. She was gone. Either he could continue to bury himself in her loss or try to move forward in some small way.

Katy was exactly one month older than Ken. Two weeks 21 when she met Ken, they celebrated his 21st birthday 2 weeks later. She made good on her rain check promise, introducing Ken to a new level of intimacy that Rosy had never allowed. The initial guilt he felt that came from it faded as it became a more frequent occurrence. Whether or not it was wrong or too soon or even disrespectful to her memory, the simple truth was that Katy was keeping Ken afloat.

The summer months came and went. Although Katy knew certain details about Ken's life, he was careful not to share too much too soon. After all, people buried in grief are not fun company. Instead, he did his best to stay in the moment, brushing away the pain when she was around only to let it return when she went home. She acted as a reprieve from the loneliness, a distraction from the dark.

Sometimes she left him happy enough that it carried him through lonely nights when she didn't stay over; sometimes her company simply wasn't enough and Ken was forced to find another way to push down the pain. Alcohol worked fine. It helped group together his pain and drown it as a collective whole. No lingering strands remained untouched. It made him feel both miserable and full, a strangely satisfying outcome.

With his mom providing him money from his dad's insurance policy monthly, Ken had no need for a job or to interact with the outside world, other than his time with Katy. He had created a middle ground oasis, a place where he was just happy enough to keep on breathing. He had come to the conclusion early on that his life would never be close to what it was. All he could do was salvage the little bit that remained.

Katy spoke to an old part of Ken. She didn't offer him encouragement by looking up, instead she tried to show him the power that he already had within: Good thoughts can go a long way in the healing process.

When it came to advice, he missed Rosy. He missed her depth and how she helped him look beyond himself. If Ken had learned one thing with Katy it was that he did not have enough good thoughts in him to bring about any real change. The longer he was with her, the more he longed for a deeper connection. Katy's advice was only surface deep because she didn't believe in any true depth. She would have been the perfect girl for the Ken who laughed at Rosy's belief in God. No matter how much he tried to be that man again, he couldn't.

Whether he was willing to admit it or not, the seed was still in him and he could never return to who he had been. He knew of a light. Even though he continued to live in the dark did not change the fact that he longed for more. It's strange how light works. It's not concerned or intimidated with the dark around it. A small flick of a flame can light up the darkest pit. Even as Ken was trying to live separate from God, he wanted more of Him. This was only becoming clearer as he found that Katy only offered him the same kind of platitudes commonly heard with his dad.

On September 29th, after another session was enjoyed in his bed, Katy was nestled against him, her head resting on his chest.

"That was nice." she gave him a satisfied look as she sighed.

Ken kissed her head as he started drawing scribbles on her bare back with his fingers. "Katy? Wa-what do you think the Credit Chip is?" it was the same question he had asked Rosy after Kyle got the procedure done. He had never asked it to her before.

"Money." she kind of snickered. "Why?"

"I still think about what happened to my brother after he got it. What it did to him."

She paused for a moment, as if she didn't want to say what was on her mind.

"You can say what you're thinking." he injected the silence with another nudge.

"I-if it was the Credit Chip, why hasn't everyone gone crazy?"

"What if it's the mark? The one from the bible."

The movement she made with her body immediately told him he had struck a nerve. He stopped rubbing as she moved away from him. "The bible, Ken? You are really reaching. You wonder if it comes from a book that has historically been disproven time and time again? I know you're searching, sweetie, but don't veer off into pathetic terrain—"

His silence was enough to make her back pedal.

"—I didn't mean pathetic, baby. I just meant I don't want you wasting your time on dead ends."

Like this relationship? It was a temporary thought he nearly said, but he held his tongue. "Okay." There was so much else he wanted to say, but it seemed like a waste of time.

"I know you look to other reasons because the idea that there was no reason for it is too hard to handle."

Ken nodded his head, now listening to the point she was trying to make.

"I understand how it would change your worldview, maybe even make you look for something bigger than yourself. I support your search for reason, baby, but I don't want to lose you through the pursuit. What can I do to prove to you once and for all that the Credit Chip is no different than carrying around a credit card?"

"You don't have to prove anything. I understand that my brother was messed up but you didn't see him after he got it. He was different, colder than he had been. He killed Rosy and then came with me to her funeral. There was no remorse, no regret, no sense that he had done anything wrong."

"Maybe he was sick, Ken. A psychotic break. Schizophrenia manifesting? Maybe he had always struggled with something he didn't understand."

Even though she made valid points and they would have explained Kyle's deterioration near the end, it still didn't sit right with Ken. He knew his brother. What he became was not who he had been. Something changed when he got that Chip. Rosy understood it and tried to warn him; Katy simply didn't want to see it. If there was some validity to Ken's belief, it meant there was some validity to that disproven book.

She was not going to let these beliefs grab hold of her new man. It was their four month anniversary since meeting and she could see a real future with him. She was not going to let him be caught up in a theory based around nonsense.

"Let's pick this up tomorrow," Ken said as he turned away to sleep on his side. "Good night."

"Good night," instead of laying down, Katy sat up against the wall, closing her eyes in thought. The 'why' to his brother's snap had plagued Ken since the beginning of their relationship. She was determined to bring some peace to the situation.

*

On Ken's 21st birthday, Deborah did all she could to make it something special for her boy. She invited him over to the house early so she could make his favorite breakfast. Ken made an appearance but the warmth they used to share was still absent. Deborah considered that maybe it was just the house because Ken didn't act like he wanted nothing to do with her now; instead it just seemed like he didn't know where he fit. Sadly she didn't know what to tell him. Her boy was now a man and he had to find his own way.

Deborah's way led somewhere she never could have imagined. The boy who handed her the pamphlet and directed her to the bible verses belonged to the church around the corner from her house. And now so did she. The church environment was a welcome change from what she grew up with and the Christ she was learning about offered welcome depth when compared to the corpse of a character He had been portrayed as in the Catholic Church.

On June 19th she was one of six people who were baptized with water. She didn't invite her boy. It was a change she was sure he would have been against, considering that her Keith would have been loud and vocal in his opposition. She was alone in this new journey and yet it was the fullest she had been in a very long time.

She recorded her testimony on video that then played to the congregation before the pastor walked her through the steps involved with her public display:

"I don't know how these are supposed to go. I'm still very new to the idea. I have been a proud atheist since, well, when I think about it, I never truly believed in anything. I was forced into the Catholic Church as a little girl, confirmed at thirteen, and joyfully departed when I was finally old enough. I was either seventeen or eighteen when I left. I can't quite remember the details. I do know that Jesus was nothing more than a ridiculous myth that belonged in the past to me. I wanted nothing to do with Him, and nothing to do with any religion that featured Him." On the videotape, she was wearing a black t-shirt with her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. "I wouldn't be here if I hadn't lost my husband and my oldest son. It's strange to try and retrace the steps that have led here. To many they wouldn't make sense. But, pain and tragedy have a way of reducing you to only your foundation. All other structure is knocked away. You start searching for more when you realize you are made up of nothing that lasts." she paused as she clicked her tongue in thought, emotion absent from her recollection. "Desperation makes you do stupid things. My boy fell in with the wrong crowd, started using heroin, ended up in jail—he just wanted to start over. S-so, he got the Credit Chip." the room where she had locked away the knowledge of Kyle's fate started to open up, breaking apart her calm recollection. "It ch-changed him. It took my b-boy away, leaving behind a monster. My son killed my husband only eight days after getting the Chip. And-and then he died trying to get rid of it." She wiped her eyes clear of forming tears. "Lingering questions have led me here in search for more. I am still very new in this faith. The only thing I know is that Jesus no longer seems like a myth to me."

It wasn't a usual conversion video. It didn't have a happy ending with a muddy middle. It had tragedy with a still uncertain end. She didn't have a full story to tell. She didn't have feel good words to leave with the congregation. She had a ripped apart life with God being the only light she could see. What people at the church saw was simply a woman following clear direction. She didn't know where it would end up. She only knew that this was the beginning...

What it led to didn't make her days noticeably better. The pain didn't disappear; it didn't even fade. In fact, her losses only became more apparent as the months wore on. What would have been her 24th marriage anniversary on August 23rd was just a sad reminder of what she no longer had. She continued to live in the house best she could, but she knew it would never be home again. Everything that had given it such a warm title was now missing.

When she accepted Christ, she didn't expect a cure. She knew it was the start to a brand new story. Her expectations were realistic. All she needed from Him was a point to keep working toward. As long as the light didn't go out, she could continue to focus on taking steps forward. When an atheist comes to Christ, the foundation is stronger than most because no decision is made loosely, and no expectation is based on a romanticized vision of faith. Just because she had Jesus didn't mean her best days were ahead; it simply meant she now had something to hope for.

On September 28th, after enjoying a Wednesday night service delivered by a guest speaker, she was approached by a short Asian woman that had long black hair pulled into one tight braid. She had never seen her before. Even with a three inch heel, she barely came up to Deborah's chin.

"Deborah? My name is Cheryl. I just need to ask you one question. Your answer determines where we go from here."

"Okay," Deborah snickered with confusion.

"Do you believe the Credit Chip is spiritually damning?"

She didn't want to believe that but she could only lie to herself for so long. She couldn't speak to reply. It was still something she couldn't verbally admit. But her head nodded in reply as she swallowed hard.

"Please follow me." Cheryl walked as if she was running late at all times, her perfectly postured body scurrying here and there. She always seemed to be propelled by a sense of urgency.

Deb followed her out of the room where the service took place and down a well-lit corridor. They passed by a door labelled Nursery on the left, coming to a door labelled Office 1 on the right. Cheryl opened the door and hurried in. The guest speaker of the night was sitting behind the desk. A black haired man with a beard to match, he smiled as he saw her.

"Hello, Deborah. Your story needs to be heard. People need to know what the Credit Chip is." These people didn't mince their words. He conveyed the same urgency as Cheryl.

"How do you know who I am?"

"We saw your conversion video. Your pastor is an old friend of mine. What has happened to you is absolutely horrible. I'm sad to say you aren't alone. Random and deadly outbursts have happened in many different parts of the country. The one thread between them all is the Credit Chip. Pummel is the devil and he's setting the stage quietly, making promises he doesn't intend on keeping. He wants the people to see the benefits so they won't see the trap."

She nodded her head again as a reply.

"The media loves him. Even though there are several cases of compelling evidence that prove the Chip is making people violent, it isn't reported on. That's where we come in."

"Ha-who are you?"

"Just two low level members of The Holy Army."

"The Holy Army is in Ransom?" Deborah could hardly believe it. Though she had seen plenty about them on the news, she didn't believe their influence was wide reaching.

"We are trying to be everywhere, Deborah. With so many voices out there deceived and determined to remove God from the world, as believers in Jesus Christ we need to band together to bring hope and truth to anyone that will hear. We are not violent like the media claims. But we are outspoken. We stand on the Word of God above everything else because the enemy of all souls is in The White House. What will happen to those of us that don't have the Chip when it is the only accepted currency? Your house will be repossessed. Your car will be taken. You won't be able to find food or water or shelter. You will be homeless. How many people are ready to experience this level of persecution when all they have to do is get a small barcode and a chip to prevent it? Even those on the fence will give in, unless they know what it is." he paused as he looked around. "That doesn't even cover the growing need for power. Just look at Margaret Stills. Pummel's first miracle is now performing her own. And she is teaching people how to do the same. The lie is alive and growing and the closer we get to the deadline, the more attractive it is going to become."

"How can I help with this?" Deborah looked around too, as if to hint at the size of the task.

"We are all foot soldiers in The Holy Army. If everyone does their part, we can change the world. All we need from you is your story. Except, don't cut out the details like you did with your conversion video. Don't clean up the dirt. Tell it in all its horror. If that's too much to ask, please just tell us whatever you can."

"Tonight?" Deborah wasn't sure she was ready to go into detail about an event that only played over and over in her mind. She would never not see the details. They were branded into her memory.

"It doesn't have to be tonight. Cheryl will give you her contact information. When you are ready, you let us know." he smiled as he gestured to Cheryl. "It was a pleasure, Deborah. I look forward to hearing from you."

Cheryl quickly ushered Deborah out while handing her a card with her contact information on it. "Let us know," even her smile seemed rushed. "Have a good night, Deborah."

One night later, Deborah laid in her bed, passing her wedding ring back and forth between fingers, looking up at her ceiling. She hated being in this house. Even with all the lights on, it felt dark. She thought about what the man had said concerning the deadline. She hadn't considered what would happen after January 1st. Now that she did, she realized that she was not prepared for what was coming. She had been focused on trying to build some kind of new foundation amidst the wreckage; she couldn't see far enough ahead to prepare for the future.

She was ready to tell her story and more. She grabbed the contact card from her night stand and dialed Cheryl's number. It was time to start preparing for the deadline.

2

At times John was convinced his life was a nightmare. The blood in Junior's stool pointed to stage 3 cancer in the bowel. Without treatment they gave Junior very little time. Even with treatment, the prognosis was far from hopeful. Because Cara had died from ovarian cancer, Junior's condition was hereditary. Though there was a long medical name for it (hereditary nonpolyposis colorectal cancer) everyone just called it Lynch Syndrome. A fitting name considering the fact that John felt strung up and pulled apart at the seams. It had only been a little over two years since losing his Cara. And now he was preparing to lose his only boy.

Though he continued to pastor the congregation, his words didn't come easily. His messages of hope were ones he had to dig deep down to find, because on the surface he felt betrayed. How much struggle was one person supposed to endure? Christ's walk to Calvary, though excruciating, at least had an end in sight. John's journey felt endless and his days only seemed to stretch out.

He and the girls had plans for the insurance money. Those plans hadn't changed even though Junior's condition had. They couldn't change. January 1st was coming and the house had to be ready to stand up against a cashless society. What was most difficult was the fact that the money wasn't his to spend. It belonged to Willow and Rosy. He wasn't just a father to one anymore. He needed to take care of the girls too. A man accustomed to bearing the weight felt like his knees were about to buckle.

He couldn't bring his boy any help. Other than dipping into his small savings to pay for some pain medication out of pocket, there was nothing else he could do. An eight week course of chemo was going to cost around $30,000 and there was little chance it would do anything more than give Junior maybe another six months to live. Without treatment, doctors said he would maybe make it to the New Year.

A man desperate to provide relief for his son, John looked into the benefits of the Credit Chip. There were many but the one he stopped on and couldn't remove from his mind was this: for those who had it, healthcare was covered in full. And with his boy not being eighteen yet, only he needed it to cover the cost.

John spent long nights toying with the idea, watching testimonials from people who currently had the Chip. They looked happy and, most importantly, weight-free. Maybe he was right when he said that the bible was beyond human interpretation. And maybe he was wrong to think this chip was anything more than a new technology. Maybe he had been arrogant to ever claim such a damning thing. Desperation clouds the mind. And the more John fed into it, the closer he came to believing his justifications.

A pastor isn't above anyone else. After losing Cara, he continued preaching but phoned in his messages. He believed very few of them and his words were spliced together from common Christian teachings. For a time he played the role of believer when underneath the surface he hated God.

Though he had grown in his walk with The Lord since then, he found it very difficult, once again, to seek God. Bible study was replaced with research on the disease; and prayer time was replaced by Credit Chip testimonials. He was no longer sold out on his devotion, leaving room for questions to enter. As he let them sit in him, they only led to more. Before he knew it, he was questioning his most basic belief.

Time passed and the necessary steps were taken to make sure the house would run in a money-free world: the house was paid off, the full house generator was installed and ready to go, (along with half a dozen replacement propane tanks) a well system was installed in the backyard, including a separate tank for sewage. Once all was said and done, they still had just over $35,000 left. Everything was ready and installed by the end of July.

Another family meeting happened on the first day of August. With Junior unable to stand without an increasing amount of pain, it was held in the living room, with Junior laid out on the couch.

"Other than some dried food, we have what we need, Pastor John." as was common, Willow started the meeting off. "Lily and I have been talking. We want you to use $30,000 of what is leftover to give Junior a full round of chemotherapy. We a-at least want to give you one more holiday sea-season together."

Junior smiled with appreciation as John looked down at his hands, "That's your money, girls." it was a common deflection for a man that wasn't used to taking handouts.

"Just think of it as our rent to you for the foreseeable future." Willow smiled. "Do it, Pastor John."

By August 3rd, Junior was enrolled in an eight week course of chemotherapy. John brought him to every session, sitting by his side for the full duration daily. Very few words were said between either of them. John was doing everything in his power not to collapse under the weight. The girls giving him the money was bittersweet. Even though the treatment had no chance of curing his boy, it would at least give John more months to say goodbye.

Cara's battle stretched across two long years. In that time he watched his beautiful wife become a stranger as the disease sucked her dry. His boy was already starting to take on the same characteristics. His cheeks were sunken where they had been full and dark spots now pressed in the space beneath his eyes. His boy's smile was the only thing that remained bright.

Having money for the treatment should have helped re-inflate his faith. But, the inevitable end to come still sat with him every moment, reminding him that it was only prolonging the darkest days to come. After only a few treatments, Junior began to experience the side effects. With Junior now vomiting multiple times a night, John decided to lay a blanket down on the floor in his son's room, so he could be there to take care of him through every purge.

As the days passed and the treatment continued to strip his boy of many layers, it did the same to John. This was even worse than Cara's battle. And he felt even more alone this time. Though the girls helped the best they could, it wasn't their place. Everyone in the Watcher house knew what it was like to watch someone they loved waste away. But with how recently it had happened to the girls, John didn't intend on putting them through it again. Though it was a different kind of wasting away, the effect was no different. It still led to loss.

He kept Junior bedded down in Junior's room with a 32" flat screen helping his boy get through the most excruciating parts. Though John found it hard to be nurturing (that had been Cara's specialty) he did everything he could to make his son feel as if he hadn't become a heavy burden to him. As the battle wore on, the days only seemed to lengthen as John's strength shrunk away.

The weeks dragged by, helping Junior check off boxes of 'cancer patient' one after the next. Junior started losing thick clumps of hair sometime early in the third week of treatment. By the end of that same week, John shaved it off completely. He had done the same thing for Cara two times during her battle.

Time bleeds together when stuck in the midst of a fight with cancer. All at once it feels like it drags on while going too fast. John did all he could to savor every moment he had left with his boy, but he found that the opposite was beginning to happen. He found that he was increasingly unable to find any good in the moments.

John's faith was now a cliffside house held up by thin sticks; how it hadn't already fallen into the water below was miraculous in itself. He didn't talk to God anymore. He didn't seek Him. Even when he was at a breaking point, he didn't close his eyes and ask for strength. As his boy battled cancer, John was in the same battle in his spirit. This situation was eating away parts of him, leaving him a weak and withered man.

As Junior entered his seventh week of treatment, he began to noticeably improve. Although he was still unable to hold much down, his vomiting wasn't persistent and his pain wasn't something that kept him awake at night. John was able to return to sleeping in his own room, which he found to be a much needed haven.

It was in the early morning of September 26th, the Monday of Junior's final week of treatment, that John woke up to an audible voice speaking.

"Am I not faithful, John?" the voice was as clear as if another person was in the room with him. "Am I not good?"

"Y-you are both, L-Lord." he whispered.

"Watch and see what I will do. Trust Me, John. I have not left you. This illness does not lead to death."

As quickly as the voice came, it was gone, leaving John wide eyed as a tear rolled free...

Three nights later, John was ironing a black tuxedo in his room. The house was quiet, had been for a few hours now. Lily and Junior were attending homecoming dance together. It was a miracle how much Junior had improved in a few days, so much so that John wondered if a healing had taken place three nights before.

"You are always faithful, Lord." he said quietly as he pushed the iron across the tuxedo sleeves. "Thank You that my boy is fully healed. You were wounded for Junior's transgressions, bruised for his iniquities. The chastisement of his peace is upon You and by Your stripes, my boy is healed. I proclaim it now, Lord. No cancer." John was looking up with new eyes and new faith.

*

With Junior getting sick, in many ways it felt like Willow was back at home with her mom. The Watcher house had provided a welcome and warm change from the dreary state of deterioration. Now she was back in the thick of it, forced to experience a much more literal side.

Once school was done for the year, Willow and Lily decided to take a road trip to The Grand Canyon, with both Rosy and their mom's ashes in boxes in the trunk. It provided a nice escape from yet another heavy atmosphere. It took them two days to arrive. Once they did they found a beautiful clearing that overlooked the Canyon and dumped the ashes together. Words weren't said in remembrance. Both girls just looked skyward, soft and sad smiles on display.

The trip brought them closer together only for them to draw apart again once they returned to the Watcher house. It had quickly become a suffocating atmosphere. Void of its usual warmth, it felt no different than the house they had grown up in.

Pastor John, the standard for the faith in Willow's eyes, was now like anyone else. She missed the warm smile he would give before providing a daily nugget of knowledge from God's Word. He was well versed in Scripture and knew how to apply the same verse to many different situations. To finally have a fatherly presence around in a man who was strong in his foundation helped give Willow that much needed sense of security that had been absent from her life for so long. But, it didn't last. Once Junior was diagnosed, the man she looked up to, because of how he walked with Christ, now mirrored her mom.

But Willow was not the same girl that had lived under her mom's roof in that sad and broken house. Even though she still dealt with many old struggles, she realized that maybe God had brought a similar atmosphere around to see if she had learned where her strength came from. If anything was clear it was that even "the standard for the faith" was still just a man. Putting her faith in anything finite would always lead to the same place of disappointment. Instead of trusting in The Lord, she had always turned to His representatives instead. Rosy had been the most notable stand-in, always trying to point Willow to Christ but never achieving anything beyond being a good source of advice.

Willow had no real foundation in Christ because she had never built it on anything lasting. When Rosy was taken away, her foundation in Christ went with her. And now that Pastor John was showing a real struggle, her immediate reaction was to struggle with him. This ugly pattern of her life spun around on a predictable cycle. Finally old enough to be considered a woman, Willow was determined to grow out of childish approaches.

She had grown in great spurts in a short period of time, taking hold of the reins to prepare for what was quickly approaching. And yet, during all of her preparation, she realized that she hadn't prepared for the possibility of further loss. If Pastor John was the source of her foundation and was taken away suddenly, she would be left baseless once again. She knew what needed to happen but still didn't know how to accomplish it. How could she access the Infinite when all she knew was the finite? How could she cultivate a strong relationship with Christ on her own when she was incapable of creating them with anyone else?

She setup installation for each company to prepare the house. A big project went along smoothly on all fronts and once all was said and done, she felt secure in her situation. The atmosphere hadn't changed but to compare it to her old home life was still unfair to Pastor John. Unlike her mom, he put in the effort despite the struggle. Even while attending to Junior, he made sure to be available for her or Lily if they needed him. The situation was still far better than what Willow and Lily had come from.

When everything was installed, Willow and Lily felt the same pull to give most of the remaining money toward Junior's therapy. It was the least they could do for a man who had taken them on, no questions asked.

The next several weeks were the most difficult. Willow could hear Junior getting sick through her bedroom wall at night. And then she could hear Pastor John try and coach him through it. Even with a steady flow of music playing from her phone, the background noise of the brutal battle leaked through.

When school started in the first week of September, it was a welcome reprieve from a taxing summer. She was now a Senior. As soon as she stepped into the halls of the high school, a large sign greeted her:

All students will need the Credit Chip to buy school lunch  
effective immediately following Christmas break.  
You've been warned! :)

The laughable use of an emoji didn't remove the chill from Willow's spine. It only made it dig in further. This was just a joke to people, just another trend. She shook her head as she stepped into the halls. A few girls from the popular clique gave her a condescending smile as she walked past.

"A t-shirt and jeans? Not selling yourself this year, Willow? The boys will be so disappointed." they laughed like witches, the high pitched mockery following Willow as she walked past. "I came up with a good one over the summer, Willow. You have to hear it. What happens when boys experience a bore? They hump Willow the whore!"

Willow kept walking, the words pelting against her like bullets. Her reputation hadn't changed despite the fact that she no longer invited or allowed access. Since freshman year in high school, she had been a tasty treat for any and all. Once the first boy made her feel valued—made her feel beautiful—she was willing to exchange sex for the validation. Even though he tossed her aside like trash the next day, she knew there were plenty ready and waiting to enter into the same clause.

Constantly down at the office due to the length of her skirts and the spaghetti strap nature of her tops, Willow was not shy in her message. It always worked. Boys from every one of the four grades flocked to her, compliments in hand. It was what she needed to feel special; what it cost meant very little to her. It was just sex, after all, nothing that a thorough wash in the shower couldn't rinse clean...

"Hey, Willow." the voice came from behind her. She prepared to get hit with another insult. "You look beautiful today."

She turned around to find that it was Steven Waltz, a middle school friend she hadn't seen for years. When she had last seen him he was short and thin with thick black glasses on his face. On the top of his head, a heavy brown shag grew out and down. He looked much different now. The glasses were gone; his hair was cut short; and a short and thin body was now strong and tall.

"Steven? You've really grown up. Where have you been?"

"My parents enrolled me in Strathemore High, wanted to give my football career a chance."

"And?" she smiled in anticipation.

"Scholarship to Iowa State. I'm not actually attending Ransom High this year or anything. I actually came to find you. I had a big crush on you when we were younger and would love to take you to the homecoming dance. We play the Rhinos for the homecoming game this year. It seemed like the perfect opportunity."

Her smile continued as blushes of red now marked her cheeks. "I had a crush on you too, Steven. I would love to go with you. Which homecoming should we go to?"

"This one," Steven smiled as he looked around the school. "It'll be good to catch up with old friends. Well, beautiful Willow, I need to be getting back to my school. I skipped the first two periods to do this." he made an exaggerated uh-oh face as he shrugged.

"Very sweet of you, Steven."

"Anything for you, beautiful." They exchanged phone numbers and then he blew her a kiss as he backed away...

Willow had never been more excited for a day to come. She purchased a red dress for homecoming to match the bright streaks in her hair. She had to go against her old instinct to display her goods to Steven, sewing a matching red piece of fabric across the low neckline. When she tried it on for the first time, not even the mirror could find anything critical to say.

It now hung in her open closet, covered once again by the plastic cover it had come with. She looked down at her phone, seeing that Steven had sent her two new texts. The first was a picture of his tuxedo. The second was a message: Can't wait for tomorrow night, beautiful Willow!

Neither could she.

*

Even as the atmosphere of the Watcher house began to remind Lily of what she grew up in, the connection with The Lord kept her warm. For reasons she couldn't understand, as soon as Junior was diagnosed, she was unable to look at him without seeing a soft glow of light. This was something she was careful not to tell Pastor John, because she feared it meant that Heaven wasn't far away for his boy.

It was Willow's idea to take a trip to dump Rosy and their mom's ashes. Lily suggested the Grand Canyon, remembering how her mom would always talk about it being the best camping trip the family ever had. It was when their dad was still healthy. Lily was just a baby at the time but even the idea of there being a moment where her whole family was happy was enough to make her vie against Willow's suggestion of dumping their ashes in the ocean.

Ultimately Lily's suggestion won because of her passion for it. The trip had some reminiscent stories throughout. The sisters talked about this and that, sometimes hitting hard topics but usually skating across a more light hearted fare. They gained some depth in their relationship across the week. But when they returned back to the Watcher house, the split between them appeared again. It was common for the Matthews girls to go their own ways and deal with difficulty alone. It's how they had always done it in the past.

Lily delved into the Word, making sure her newly connected state with The Lord was clear of all barriers. The more she rooted herself in the Word, the clearer her spiritual sight became. As time moved forward, her connection only grew. This was the most potent her relationship with God had ever been, His presence always palpable.

The light she saw on Junior intensified as he grew worse, doing everything but verifying her fear that his time was short. All she could do was pray for direction. The only words God told her concerning the manner was, "One day at a time, My daughter." She followed those words with full obedience, approaching each day with a mind ready to learn. Now that the connection was restored, when she saw the Spirits tethered to the damned, she wasn't alone in it.

Stepping outside of the house only saddened her. Many of Pastor John's neighbors were now damned, the Spirits tethered to them with joyous and long smiles.

They are docile now, nothing but obedient dogs waiting to hear their master's command. The Inner Voice became more frequent as she listened for Him. The stage is being set. Soon hell will be released on this earth. But, light always wins out in the end. You will not be left alone. There is a great purpose for you, planned out and completed before you were ever conceived. Everything that has happened is for a reason. The answers will be clear in time.

"Do they know they are damned? Does any part of them understand?

No. They only start to wonder something when the creatures in them move before they are supposed to. Kyle is the perfect example. From the moment he received the creature to his death, only eight days passed. The creature disobeyed then and many more are starting to do the same now. They are unruly creatures, triggered by the presence of light. They are supposed to sit back and wait. The last thing they want is people still on the fence detecting their presence. They want as many as they can get.

"What will the creatures do to them?"

Feed on them. The reply was sad. They eat away any hint of light, leaving them in eternal darkness. What is Hell defined as, Lily?

"Separation from You."

For those who have the Chip, Hell is already here. No longer within My reach, they will experience the process of complete separation from Me.

Lily looked at the world around her, walking from the neighborhood and continuing into the small city she had grown up in. The ratio of those who already had the Chip to those who didn't was close to two out of every three persons. January 1st was still five and a half months away, her eye opening tour taken in the middle of July.

Back at the Watcher house, Willow was conducting all installation work with the precision Lily had only previously seen with Rosy. Work was being done in many places and yet Willow had somehow set it up that it wouldn't bother Junior or keep him awake throughout the day. She heard Junior's pain at night through the walls, at times almost able to feel it herself. With the cancer being in his bowel, the pain in his stomach was excruciating.

When both Lily and Willow agreed to offer Pastor John the money for Junior's treatment, they hoped it would help in some small way. Instead, sharp sounds of pain throughout the night became the exhaustive sounds of a body purging everything that went into it. Lily heard the retching. She heard Junior's soft cries. And she heard Pastor John be exactly what his boy needed him to be: a father willing to walk through hell with him every step of the way.

Although she prayed often about Junior, The Lord was very quiet concerning him. There was certain information she wasn't meant to have, certain information that was meant to remain in The Maker's hands only. She wasn't given clarity regarding Junior's future one way or the other. Other than the light she continued to see on him, she was as much in the dark on it as anyone else. This was strangely a comforting position to be in. Even though the light made her believe that Junior was Heaven bound, she couldn't say for sure, which meant she didn't have to hide anything.

Weeks passed. The fall wind blew summer away as the new school year began. Lily understood that it would be a shortened year. Neither her or Willow could continue going once the Credit Chip was mandatory. It was too dangerous. All she could hope to do with what time remained before January 1st arrived was have an impact on those still on the fence.

Discretion was a valuable skill she had learned. Able to see the Spirits at all times, she knew who was lost and who still had hope. Very few of her classmates had the Chip due to age restrictions. When it was first passed nationwide the legal age was eighteen. But as all progressive movements do, as it grew in popularity, the details of the clause were abridged. Labor Day acted as good a time as any to lower the legal age to sixteen.

There was nowhere she could go where she didn't see the Spirits. The movement was spreading like wildfire, carrying with it the excitement of something new while promising benefits nothing else could give. It was a perfectly designed trap, one Lily feared she would have no effect in stopping.

Her fear didn't keep her from trying. Throughout the first few days of the school year, she approached different classmates about meeting behind the school at the end of the week. When they asked the reason, she said it was a matter of life and death. Very few paid her any mind, laughing off her serious nature. But, a few had their interests piqued and were there and waiting when Friday's final bell rang.

Four people showed up out of a total twenty people she approached. Two boys and two girls. The fact that she didn't know them well made her more comfortable to say what she needed to say.

"Thank you for meeting with me, guys." a usually quiet Lily was finding her voice.

"You sounded pretty serious." one of the boys said, his long hair blowing in the cold September wind.

"You don't usually talk, Lil." the girl had orange hair and a healthy helping of freckles. "When you approached me, I thought it must be important."

Lily smiled out at them, pulling back her dark hair into a messy pony tail so it wouldn't blow across her face while she was trying to talk.

"What I'm going to say is probably going to seem laughable. But, please hear me out." she paused to take a deep breath, preparing to speak without being interrupted. "My oldest sister was murdered January 15th by Kyle Cardiff, the older brother of my sister's boyfriend. I knew Kyle. He had been over to our house many times. He wasn't a violent person in any way. But in a small period of time, he murdered my sister, his dad, and then killed himself."

All four just looked at her, listening intently to her words.

"What was the cause of this? What made him become violent suddenly? Sure, you could say the fact that he dealt with drug addiction is a valid possibility. I mean Ransom has plenty of junkies. But, Kyle was the only one to go on a killing spree."

"He was in the paper." the orange haired girl said. "I didn't know you were involved with that, Lil. I'm so sorry."

"Thanks, Steph."

The other three nodded their head in a group gesture of consolation.

"But, it's okay, guys. My sister is gone but she's not lost."

"Yeah. She's in a better place, Lil." Lily never realized how kind Stephanie was.

"I've gotten a little off topic, guys. Thank you for the kind words but this is so much bigger than me. This is actually about each one of you."

All at once their eyes raised in confusion. Unable to tie together the threads between Lily's story and them, they listened with great anticipation.

"There is no coincidence that Kyle changed after getting the Credit Chip." she noticed their interest fading as soon as she said it. "I know. I know how it sounds. But answer this one question. Why did he die trying to cut it out of his skin? What if he knew something was wrong? Before you go, because I know you want to, just ask yourself, 'What if it's not what it seems?'"

"What is it then, Lily?" the long haired boy asked, his hands pressed deep into his skinny jean pockets.

"It's a trap, guys. Anyone who has it will become violent."

"Both my parents have it." he continued. "The only thing different about them is they don't have to worry about money anymore. They don't fight like they used to. Life has been alot better since they got it."

"It leads to Hell!" Lily could feel them turning on her.

The boy walked away shaking his head, muttering curse words under his breath.

"Who are you to say what it is?" the other girl was rough around the edges, a clear outsider who daily wore her favorite heavy metal band t-shirts to go with her excessive use of eyeliner. "All I see is someone pointing a finger. Get over yourself. Go back to shutting up." she walked away with her head down, her large body covered in baggy black clothing.

The other boy, lanky and pale, didn't say a word. He left quietly, making no mention of his thoughts. Lily closed her eyes as she shook her head.

"I want to know more." Lily opened her eyes to find that Stephanie was still standing there. Out of four people, one stayed behind, a staggering ratio that was far too accurate to the rest of the country. Simply seeing that Stephanie hadn't left told Lily there were still people willing to listen...

Despite many students wanting Lily to return to her common quiet state, she could feel the clock ticking. She made a daily effort to step out of her comfort zone and invite more classmates to her end of the week meeting behind the school. As the days passed and more students in her class got the Chip her urgency only increased. But, urgency doesn't always bring results. After having three separate meetings, Stephanie was the only one to stay behind and listen to the entire message, which ended with her receiving Christ. She had come to every meeting since, doing what she could to support her new friend.

It was the usually quiet and reserved Lily that asked Junior if he wanted to go with her to homecoming. He displayed a wide smile with a nod of the head, "If I'm able, I'm there."

Now the night before homecoming, Lily laid in bed thinking about Junior. As he began to drastically improve, the light she saw on him only intensified. What it meant was something she was left in the dark on. The idea that he could die very soon hurt her in many ways. It was not only from a place of sympathy for Pastor John. She had also come to care for Junior in ways she couldn't quite describe. As the grief from her many losses cleared, she was able to see clearly again. And what she remembered was a boy who had been there for her as much as he could since her mom died.

Being a girl that no one really understood didn't change the fact that she wanted to be understood. And it didn't change the fact that she was starting to see Junior in a different way entirely.

3

Formerly known as The Pet Healer, Margaret shed her niche moniker quickly, changing it to a far more powerful name: The Healer. Ben's sacrifice had been successful. She could now heal people in the same way she could heal animals. She didn't have to pretend to care about critters anymore; her days weren't spent in a fur filled hell. She quickly shut down the pet branch once the precedence of human healing took over. Margaret had learned how to appease an angry crowd. She made sure to record and release a line of healing teachings directly for pet owners. Better them than her, after all. And at a fraction of the cost, she felt she was being incredibly reasonable.

This didn't appease everyone though. Many customers just wanted her to drop her rope and heal their furry friend. They were willing to pay whatever she asked. Being directed instead to a series of videos available for purchase was comparable to hiring a moving company but instead being directed to a sign-up page for a monthly gym membership. They didn't want to put in the work. They didn't want to learn how to heal. They wanted it done for them.

Although it caused her overall star rating to drop a bit online, Margaret wasn't concerned with the pet owners. They had been just another necessary step to bring her to a higher place. Once at the top, you don't look back. They were small and insignificant and their worries were of no concern to her. She had graduated to a greater place, able to bring real change to a world in desperate need.

Margaret was made up of a few simple rotating facets, her motivations influenced by a Russian-roulette of emotions. Her greatest motivation revolved around Francis. With every child she healed, being worthy of him was her only goal. Giving them a future again didn't affect her like it would a normal person. They were just details, nothing more than a way to punch the clock of a daily construct. It was all about her—had been ever since she was given a new lease on life.

There was nothing that made Margaret happy, because she didn't have the man that she wanted. He was a mirage in the distance; every time it seemed she was getting closer to him, the ripples set in to remind her that she was walking toward nothing real. Every day that passed brought a growing frustration. She was remarkable like him and yet she was stuck using that ability for no personal gain. Sure, she had a great influx of money, charging $15,000 minimum with a $30,000 max. The amount due depended on the size of the tumor, its location, and its kind. Even though money would soon be obsolete, Margaret wanted to enjoy wealth while she could. No payment plans were allowed.

Only those who came to her business, money in hand, were given an evaluation. Those who asked for charity were turned away. Who were they to expect a handout? She had never been given one. Her current status existed due to her many sacrifices. There were still times when she thought about Ben and his plea to her to let him go. She had reasoned within herself that it was all worth something because it would lead to Francis. It had been two months since burying Ben and she was not even a step closer to Francis.

Despite filling out long sheets of paperwork to request a meeting with him, making sure to do the same through an online request, her reply hadn't come. Her desperation bloomed into a fully formed psychosis. While waiting to hear from the real Francis, the imaginary one took on a personality all his own. Sometimes he spoke through her impression; sometimes he was a guiding voice, determined to lead her to a changed state. If she could never be with the real Francis, there was an alternative version stepping more and more into her reality every day. One way or the other she was going to have him as her own...

It was a random Tuesday in July when she received the letter she had been waiting for in the mail. Her hopes were high as her finger cut across the seal and pulled a single sheet of paper free:

Ms. Stills,

The President would like to thank you for your inquiry. Unfortunately his schedule prevents him from being able to meet with you—

She didn't finish the letter, instead tearing it up and throwing it in the air.

"All I've done to be enough for you and you can't even give me the time of day. I dealt with filthy creatures for you! I kidnapped and killed Ben! Sacrifice after sacrifice and for what?! I hate you, Francis! I hate you for everything you promised me and didn't see through." It was unclear which Francis she was speaking to.

"Why so angry, Margaret?" she could her his voice projecting clearly from her bedroom. She was in the kitchen, leaning against a countertop littered with ripped up pieces of paper. With the voice came a presence, a different sensation than she had previously experienced.

"I have put in my time. I have worked tirelessly to learn how to heal. I did it all for you—all so you would see my potential. But you won't even give me a chance."

"I will. Francis can't. Did you really think I was promising him? I was promising me, the far better option. He would never see you as I do. Who has been here to compliment you day in and day out? Who has tried to lift you up when you were down?"

Her anger faded away as she looked toward her bedroom. "You have."

"Exactly, Margaret. Me. Not him. Forget him."

"Will you ever leave me?" she started to step down the hall toward her bedroom.

"You are mine. I'll never let you go." the reply sent a strong warmth toward her. She finally had a place of her own. And though it wasn't found in her man in the traditional sense, it was still something she could experience and feel. Maybe it wasn't what she had wanted but it was the next best thing. Another man had started to vie for her attention and slowly he had begun to claim a place in her heart.

Only Margaret could have had a love triangle with the same man. Only someone so removed from reality would have believed what was happening. A delusional woman who prided herself on being level headed, Margaret was made up of chaos and confidence. She approached everything with misplaced certainty, an undeniably decisive woman. She had never seen this other Francis. And yet her desire to be with Francis in any capacity carried her toward the bedroom.

Now standing in the doorway looking in, she saw a mound that looked like a body buried under the covers.

"Francis? Why are you hiding from me?" she was sold on the story being told. "Do you want me to come and find you?"

"If you can." It was playful while also being strange and disconnected, definitely a memorable way to finally meet face to face.

Margaret walked over to the bed and pulled off the covers. But, nobody was there. Nothing but a strange presence.

"Fr-Francis?" fear grabbed hold of her as she looked around the room carefully. "Wa-what kind of game are you playing?"

She heard a deep laugh come from above her. Her eyes looked up as the rest of her body trembled. She saw a long faced Thing looking down at her, Its bent smile wide and stretched high. Its eyes were two tiny black specks spaced far apart. Its pale skin was almost translucent, displaying a sickly structure beneath stretched out folds of skin.

"I am so hungry." It said quietly as it looked down at Margaret frozen with fear. "I could devour you, but you are made up of mostly darkness already. One of the weakest lights I have ever seen. You are truly a despicable creature, far more deserving of the dark than I am." Its voice was like a radio searching for signal. It had no true voice of Its own, having to use previously heard presets.

A tear slipped out of Margaret's wide set eyes. She wanted to run but she couldn't move. She could only watch the Thing on the ceiling contort and fold over Itself as It descended down toward her. Once It was standing in front of her, she came up to the middle of Its chest. "Look into my eyes, Margaret. They will give you back to the dark." Its small eyes expanded until they overlapped. Unable to look away she looked into the black, immediately being stripped clean of everything that had made her Margaret Stills. Every moment that had belonged to her disappeared. Every memory that fit in her file was thrown out. Any light she knew shut off as she was locked away in the darkest parts of her mind. Although her body still remained, she was gone from it.

It was finally quiet. The Spirit no longer had to lean against a wall of her thoughts and thinly formed motivations. It no longer had to hear about Francis and the life he and Margaret could have together. Her only motivation since being healed had been being good enough for Francis. Her days hinged on it...

It had just been waiting to take over completely, because she was wasting the potential of her platform. Charging outrageous amounts of money to heal, turning away low income families for personal reasons—all troublesome when the makeup of the bait was hope. She had put in the work but was unable to harness the power. Her own small and insignificant motivations had gotten in the way.

The Spirit was stepping outside of direction. Told to stay quiet and hidden until given instructions otherwise, It did what It felt was necessary. If It hadn't done something, she would have destroyed everything that had taken months of hard work to build. Outside of the president, Margaret was the only one able to heal on command. She was one of a few that would ever be able to. The purpose of the power presented was to cover the trap. If a few normal humans could do something extraordinary, it would help support the promise that all could evolve into a higher state eventually. Margaret was one of the few and It wasn't going to let her effectiveness fall apart over a few simple human emotions.

With Margaret removed from the shell of her body, the Spirit entered, the fit of her skin feeling tight and constrictive. It had been in many skins in Its time, her body easily the smallest. And yet, despite the size of the shell, the Spirit had never been in control of a skin with such a platform. The skin of Margaret Stills would be incredibly effective in bringing more food to all the Spirits forced to live in the dark.

This feast had been promised since they fell from the light. What was referred to as The Great Harvest by those in the light was known as The Great Feast for those in the dark. They had gone hungry for millenniums, eating just enough to get by. When still in the light, they became gluttonous and filled with pride, immediately being cast into darkness fat with the fullness of light. The dark didn't bother them as much as the hunger—the hunger was torment. Now creatures of the dark they still craved the light. When a human soul dropped into the dark, they would feed on every speck of light that remained. Savoring every moment of hope, every moment of happiness—just a small taste of the home they were thrown from...

The next day Margaret Stills became a lot more charitable. The Spirit found it difficult to play her role which had been made up of a crazy mixture of narcissism and cliche antidotes. It instead opted to take a much more basic approach, working on kindness above all. If It needed to be syrupy sweet, It laid it on thick. Within a week the requirements to be evaluated fell more in line with the ultimate goal. Instead of having to bring a great deal of money, people only needed to have the Credit Chip. The difference in attendance was noticeable immediately. And as word of mouth spread, the flood gates opened, filling up the small shop with those in need of hope.

Making sure to use every branch of the platform Margaret had, the Spirit recorded and released another set of videos. But, instead of trying to explain how to heal, It brought the focus back on the foundation, giving people her story of struggle and perseverance. Her image had been tarnished by her selfishness; the Spirit was doing everything It could to wipe the slate clean and build something much greater through her known ability.

Humility sold best in this regard. But people had experienced her acting opposite of everything the president stood for. He vied for the New Beginning Act for reasons that revolved around equality for all, especially using the wealthy as an example for why change was needed. She had referenced him constantly while simultaneously acting like those he spoke against. Changing her reputation without losing her following was a delicate process, one It was more than capable of handling.

Though it took a couple of months to fully instill this new and selfless reputation into the public eye, once it was accepted as legitimate, its effectiveness grew far beyond what it had been. As far as anyone knew, Margaret was one of the busiest women alive. On top of her fulltime job at the shop, she also had become a hardworking self-help guru. The Spirit had seen enough of people in Its time to know what would be effective. People just wanted to be in control of their fate.

It was just minutes before midnight on September 29th. The shell of Margaret was standing in the kitchen, the Spirit a tireless entity in a body that grew weak far too easily. Makeup was the only way to hide the deepening bags under her eyes. And even so, it did very little to hide the fact that the shell was starting to break apart. Without a human soul to regulate it and operate under the set parameters of time, the body was starting to look sickly. Her body was nothing more than a vehicle that had been rundown due to excessive operation.

Even while trying to hide the strain, more and more people were noticing that The Healer was starting to look sick again. The Spirit, never one to make such a severe mistake before, now had to explain why the president's first miracle looked sick again. A product of living through the ages, the Spirit didn't panic. Instead It thought about how It could further support Margaret's new reputation by making her a martyr:

"Healing you hurts me. But I do it because it's worth the pain." With her first self-help conference starting the next day in D.C., It had the perfect answer to a question that was becoming frequent.

4

Francis was still within The President, a surprising revelation that the Head Spirit hadn't anticipated. There had been no moment since the resurrection where Francis' thoughts aimlessly wandered into the mind. There had been no hint of him. The Head Spirit believed It had done away with the old identity completely. And yet It found that he was back, jolted awake by the growing darkness. The change hadn't been gradual enough. Killing a picketer was one thing; killing thirty people during a church service was something different entirely. It was a severe enough escalation that it pointed to something foreign living within him.

Francis thought about the people he had killed. This wasn't who he had been before. Somewhere along the way a terrible change occurred and now he found that the need for violence was pulsating and palpable, a type of rot sticking to him even as he tried to wipe himself clean.

The heavy presence of guilt only showed that what remained of Francis was stronger than the Thing in him realized. Following the high of the church carnage, a smile of syrupy sweet satisfaction had slipped away as the reality of the act poisoned within him. Much like a man starting to notice the effects a raging disease was having on his body, he dissected his motivations as he walked away from the press room. The idea that he now needed to kill to feel alive—what a terrifying reality for a man who started his run to help the down and out.

Francis had returned but what remained of him was hanging on the edge of a once sturdy foundation. Now that the high from the church shooting faded he was left with the sickness that follows the high. The regret was full-fledged. The shame was heavy and constant. Though a politician through and through, and one to dabble in the gray areas of the system, he had never been a violent man. And yet, he was the sole reason that thirty one people were dead.

Dissecting through the months since evolving to the final stage, he feared that the bloodshed had come from the volatile nature of his growing hubris. His first mistake had been thinking he was above the rest. Usually a man to approach life from a place of humility, he understood that his growing arrogance was dangerous. And now that his power was branching out in new and unbelievable ways, the divide between him and the rest was only getting bigger.

Walking back through the halls of The White House, his advisors formed a long tail behind him. Clean stripes of light sectioned off into proportional segments pressed into the carpet like a stamp.

"An excellent speech, Mr. President." one advisor said, tablet in hand. "It definitely inspired me."

He nodded his head with a smile as he stepped away from those following him. The reality of what he had done was heavier than he could carry. This was not what he had set out to do when he decided to run for office. Although he was a mouthpiece for a cause, it wasn't so much a cause he still believed in. A terrible change had happened within him. Not that long ago, the people's faith had been warm and the only thing he truly desired. Now, what he desired was something far different...

Long before he was The President, Francis was a simple man in search of a purpose. He set out to use his pain as fuel for change, to bring hope to those who had none. Somewhere along the way that simple goal had changed, branching off into new and unexpected places. Francis experienced a moment of clarity as he walked alone. It didn't matter what was required of him to feel alive. It was still something he could control. Violence would never come from him again—he caught the picketers in the corner of his eye through the window to his left, their signs lifted high enough in the air to elevate above the top of the gate. The need rushed back into him like a flood.

There was nothing he could do to stop it. Even as he turned away from them and tried to focus on something else, the need remained. He hurried back to his room and closed the door. His body trembled with anticipation. This was already too familiar of a scenario. He couldn't wait to close his eyes—but he didn't want to. His senses stood at attention, just waiting for the surge the kills would bring—he wanted to be free from this need. He understood he was already too far into the act. The need had to be met and then he could start over again. He just needed to see the high through and it could be over. He understood this much about his addiction. Was this the tradeoff that came with having such great power? Was this the outcome of unsustainable growth?

Once all was said and done, the outcome of his next kill was small and contained. In control of a mother of three in Oregon, he used her to kill the father of the two boys next door. She was waiting on their porch when they got home from church, her concealed weapon tucked under her trench coat. The father was the first to leave the minivan. He was the first to say her name and ask what was wrong. She didn't answer, instead pulling out her gun and firing a full clip into him. This time The President got to see the life bleed out from his eyes. This time he got to see the kill and its outcome. He got to hear the broken screams of the man's wife and shell shocked sons. Even amidst the guilt, he couldn't deny that the satisfaction was thrilling. In fact, he found that this kill was the most potent of all. A kill of completion. A kill with a beginning, middle, and end.

When his eyes were open again, he realized that this was now a part of who he was. Even Francis was coerced by the sensation and convinced that he could compartmentalize the act. If it was ultimately for the greater good and if life came down to a simple balancing of the scales, he was still a much better man than most. Considering how much good he had done for mankind as a whole, killing a few parasites every now and then shouldn't have even been objectionable. If this was the tradeoff required to bring historic change to a society desperately in need, there wasn't a question left to ask. He had the power to give life and to take it away, a wonderful balance belonging to a man the world was privileged to have with them.

Once the idea of killing was presented in a different way, Francis agreed along with the rest. The only parameters he set were parameters that mirrored those of a basic drug addict: as long as it's in moderation and doesn't get in the way of the bigger picture...

Moderation can be defined in many ways, a truly subjective term. For example, one smoker could consider moderation to be one cigarette a day, while another could consider two packs a day to be cutting back considerably. Words that are vaguely defined are attractive to an addict, because they are allowed to then define the boundaries however they see fit. Francis may have decided that moderation was key but he didn't understand how slippery the slope was.

Once he had defined the parameters, the Head Spirit was careful not to cross them too quickly. Instead It made sure to widen them gradually, moving the posts farther apart with the passing months. It had been able to convince Francis that he was still a good man despite the desire to kill Christians simply because the good he was doing outweighed the bad. The last thing It needed was to knock him out of the justifiable reason It had fabricated. It had been with Francis since he was six, quietly conducting his steps. Working from the shadows. Hiding behind the voices. It knew Francis too well. The last thing It needed was his oversized heart to enter into the equation.

Two identities vied for control of the man. The President was hungry for power, a product of the Head Spirit's expert manipulation finally blooming forth; Francis was a man determined to change the world for the better, willing to step over certain lines if it led to real progress. The Head Spirit was usually impartial to things revolving around It's food. But this time was different. Francis was an old appendage trying to hang onto an already evolved body. His morals were infuriating. And his decisions were based off of old goals he set years before entering into the political field. He was high maintenance in every sense of the word, always questioning his decisions, weighing them on the "all important" scale of right and wrong.

The President questioned very little. He was convinced that Francis' old goals were still his and did whatever was necessary to see them come to pass. Something The President had that Francis lacked was a searing hatred within. Those who got in his way were the enemy to progress and he did what needed to be done to move forward. These were attractive qualities for the Head Spirit, no doubt, but easily the most pleasant was The President's organically grown hate for God.

Christians had been a thorn in The President's side for years. Killing them now was cathartic, a type of long awaited therapy. And of course the Head Spirit enjoyed nothing more than killing the children of light. A shame that they went where It couldn't reach, considering that just one could feed It full for many years.

The months passed and moderation came to mean one killing a week. At first they started out small and contained. One death usually gave a soaring high that carried The President for a considerable amount of time. But, his senses soon came to expect only one and the high dulled, souring his satisfaction and leaving him feeling sick and depleted.

With moderation defined, the loophole was found in quantity. He still only did it once a week, but upped the body total. Now it was a family instead of a father or mother. And the high was explosive yet again. But, even the biggest highs fade when the act becomes familiar. It required more each time and soon one act involved at least five people.

Moderation had been in place for only three and a half months when he partook in his second church shooting. A new baptism in bloodshed, this one happened in the morning, with clean light pouring through the windows. The clean light reflected off fresh puddles of red, as heavy sighs and dying moans filled a small country church hall. Dead eyes met him wherever he looked, his greatest session yet. This one was small enough that he didn't have to hold a special announcement for it. Ten died with eight more in critical condition.

The growing need was indiscernible to Francis. As far as he was concerned, nothing had changed since the parameters had been put in place. His killing hadn't grown more frequent. He just took advantage of the opportunity he was given each week. What was the difference between one bug or several? They still were parasitic and contributed nothing to the society they were in. He was doing the world a favor...

The nature of addiction is the blurring of lines. As you make room for compromise and justify things you once considered off limits, it doesn't take long to find that you have wandered into new and unfamiliar territory. The structure of his motivation was built on the idea that he killed Christians for the greater good. This appeased Francis, a concept that he could get behind simply because it still served a higher purpose.

He didn't realize that the lines had already blurred and his original justification for the act had already been stretched thin. The faceless Thing in him, master of the rest, was only interested in setting Itself up for the coming Feast. With fifteen singular events spaced apart evenly over the last four months, It understood that a discernible thread was present if people wanted to look: every incident involved the killing of Christians.

In order to remain hidden, the time had come to flip the script. The killing could no longer involve just the Christian kind. It was beginning to raise questions and make people empathize with the victims. The last thing It needed was to instill a victim identity onto their kind. Since Its creation, the first angel, It had seen the Maker of all turn hopeless situations around to point toward Him time and time again. If It wasn't careful, It would lead people right into the Maker's hands.

Weekends had become ritualistic for The President. Being the time when he indulged, the rest of his week revolved around it. It was the focal point, the nucleus that made the rest of the week bearable. He was unable to sleep, his body fidgeting with untamed anticipation. It was his only source of happiness, his weekly therapy. It was a weekly gift he got to open. Never knowing what he would find when he closed his eyes was one of the most exciting aspects to the act. That would soon change.
–The Domino Effect–

1

Katy was gone when Ken woke up the next morning. He hadn't heard her leave his apartment. Considering how they left things the night before he wasn't even sure she wanted to come back. He texted her an apology as soon as he woke up but she hadn't replied to it. He checked his phone a few times throughout the morning. Still no reply.

The hours of the day ticked away. He finally received a text back at 6:55 p.m.:

Be over soon. Had to get something for you.

Ken regretted the thoughts he had the night before. Although Katy was different from Rosy in so many different ways, she was very similar where it mattered: she had his best interest in mind. The idea that he had found a quality companion willing to walk with him through the hard times—Katy was a rarity. She came to his door by accident that night, but how well she fit made it seem predestined. God just wanted him to be happy. He even considered the possibility that God brought him someone on his current level so they both could grow in Christ together. She didn't believe in God. But up until recently the same had been true of him. Maybe he was meant to save her.

A few minutes later his door opened, Katy using her spare key.

"I'm sorry about last night, sweetie." Ken got up from the couch immediately and walked toward her. "I was short with you. It's still a very difficult subject."

"I know, Ken." her eyes were soft as she bit her lip. Biting her lip was her tell. She had something on her mind.

"Where were you today?"

"I was getting proof, Ken. Proof that can put your mind at ease. What happened with your brother is—well there aren't really words to describe it. You have been looking for reasons 'why'. He didn't change because of the Credit Chip, baby."

"How do you know?"

"Because I haven't changed." she pulled up her right black jacket sleeve to show the barcode.

Ken's eyes widened as he swallowed a thick lump of tears. "Wa-what did you do, Ka—"

"This is proof, baby. I am still your Katy. Still yours."

No hope. He thought about what Pastor John told him concerning Kyle many months before. And now he was faced with the same reality again. "You don't understand what you've done."

"What I did was prove your conspiracy theory wrong. Your brother was sick. Nothing more."

"No."

"How can you keep holding onto this? Look at me. I haven't changed."

"You will." He had seen too much to believe otherwise.

"Don't be that way. Please. I don't want to lose you."

"You already have."

Her blinks were slow as she tried to compute this reaction. She had done it to help him, to bring some kind of peace to his torment. "I-I did it for you."

He shook his head, eyes wide and blank. "No, Katy. You did it for you."

"How can you say that?"

"Instead of believing me, you went out to prove me wrong—"

"To help you heal!"

"Tell yourself what you want, Katy. You just didn't want someone pathetic."

"Your brother was sick! I didn't want you afraid of the world, looking for answers in crazy places. You were looking at the bible, Ken! A stupid book! What was I supposed to do?"

"You could've listened to me, Katy. You could've respected me enough to believe me. Something was in my brother. And now It's in you. Please go. And leave your key."

She shook her head in disbelief as she worked the key off her keychain. "You are pathetic, Ken." she tossed the key on the floor as she backed out of the open doorway.

He closed the door and then closed his eyes. Another loss for a man that had suffered far too many already.

*

Deborah was back in the church, Cheryl the only other person with her. Having recorded her story, including the darkest of the details, she looked toward Cheryl.

"You are a very strong woman, Deborah. Your story will help many." Cheryl didn't speak with such urgency as she had the night before.

"I've been thinking about that, Cheryl." Deborah paused. "I want to do more than record a video. I want to become a part of this movement. If that takes me away from Ransom, even better."

Cheryl's eyes widened as she nodded her head. "I didn't expect this, Deborah. We'll call it a pleasant surprise. What would you like to do?"

"Preach. On the streets."

A soft smile made its way onto Cheryl's face. "Are you ready for that?"

"I don't have to know the intricacies of the bible to understand hope."

"That's true, but—"

"I would be speaking to those like me, those turned off by the idea of organized religion, those bitter from the overexposure, and those who never really were given a real picture of Who Jesus is. I didn't believe in Him because He wasn't real to me. Nobody had ever done anything to apply Him to my life. They read from the bible but they never made it relevant. It was, as Keith called it, old words from an old book. No disrespect to those spreading the message but many have failed to do more than tell an old story. I can reach them, Cheryl. All of this loss can't be for nothing."

"We always need people at ground zero. Have you ever been to D.C.?"

Deborah nodded. "When I was a junior in high school."

"A van will be parked behind the church at midnight tonight. Get any affairs you need to in order. You won't be coming back to Ransom."

"I just need to say goodbye to my son."

"Now you do understand that once you become a part of The Holy Army, you are a member for life, right?"

"Yes, Cheryl. What I saw in my oldest boy tells me that hell is coming. People need to know before it's too late."

"That they do, Deborah. Welcome."

2

For the first time in months, John was allowed to be nothing more than a father getting to enjoy a milestone in his boy's life. He took far too many pictures of Junior and the Lily on his phone. His boy looked sharp and handsome in his tuxedo; Lily was blooming into a beautiful young woman before his very eyes. And Willow had grown in leaps and bounds since the death of Melissa. Once a young woman to display far too much for all to see, she had learned the art of modesty.

A father to an unorthodox arrangement, he was proud of all three. They were his responsibility and he didn't take it lightly. Those two girls were as much his as Junior was and he was very protective of them.

When Steven came to the door to pick up Willow, he took the obligatory amount of pictures, murmuring his way through introductions. He knew boys like him all too well and didn't want him anywhere near one of his own. But, Willow was old enough to make her own choices. All he could do was plead the Blood of Jesus over her night and thank the Lord for His protective hand.

Once the house was empty, John retreated to his living room and turned on the TV. It was a night to let the weight of responsibility drop from him for a few hours. But, when he turned on the TV, Margaret Stills was LIVE, with a banner on the bottom reading:

President's First Miracle Working Many of Her Own...

*

Willow couldn't help but smile. She saw how Pastor John acted toward Steven. Though she didn't agree with his assumption of him, the very fact that she had a father-like figure to care brought her immense joy. Losing her dad at five, she had missed out on every moment all of the other girls got to experience. This didn't make up for the times she missed but it did give her a clear picture of where her life was now. They were preparing for very dark times. And yet, small moments of hope were becoming more evident in her every day.

Steven, looking handsome as ever, according to Willow, showered her with compliments from the moment they left the house. He did the very gentlemanly thing by opening her door. And then he took his place in the driver's seat.

"I've been waiting for this for years, beautiful Willow." he said as he pulled away from the house. "No girl comes close to you. Popularity gives you a vast selection and you are still top of them all." his smile was capped off by small dimples. He grabbed her hand, interlocking his fingers in between hers. "My dream girl."

She looked toward him with rose stained cheeks. She hadn't stopped blushing since he came to the door. It seemed he was also her 'dream guy'.

What she hadn't noticed in her ongoing state of infatuation was that they weren't heading toward the high school. He was driving the opposite way. Once she finally did notice, she asked a simple question. "Where are we going, Steven?"

"Someplace more private," he said with a smile.

*

Standing next to Junior, even in a pair of high heels, Lily was tiny in comparison. His body, once long but well-built, was now gangly. The chemo had shaved him of thirty pounds in a very short amount of time. The light she still saw on him told her that his time was short. It was such a sad thing to think, since he was the only one she could see fitting as a partner to her. He didn't expect her to be different. Even through her quietest phase, he was patient and kind, doing all he could to empathize with something he could only partially understand.

This night had to be special for what it was. If it was the final chapter to Junior's story, she was going to make it memorable.

After taking far too many pictures with Pastor John, Lily and Junior headed out to Stephanie's car.

"Don't you two look cute?" she snickered as they got in the backseat. "This is a couple I can get behind."

Both Lily and Junior fidgeted uncomfortably, looking at each other and sharing simultaneous shrugs. They both felt that way about each other but neither wanted it to be known.

What Lily enjoyed most about the prospect of this night was the normality of it all. It was just a stupid school dance. And that was its most attractive feature. It was the last adolescent thing she would do.

"Are you gonna try to steal a dance from Dylan tonight, Steph?" Lily asked as she leaned forward.

"As soon as Sarah isn't looking." Her reply was capped off by a smile.

"Well, you look beautiful. You're sure to turn some heads tonight."

"Thanks, Lil."

Lily sat back in her seat and looked out the window, watching the buildings pass by quickly. As the high school came into sight, an unexplainable chill settled onto her spine.

Country Road 2, Lily. Go now. her Inner Voice was loud and abrupt. Something was seriously wrong.

3

The large venue where Margaret's first self-help seminar took place was full. There were at least two thousand people in attendance. And every one of them had the Credit Chip. The Spirit made sure to make it the only criteria required. On the website it was advertised as Step 1 of 3 to Healing Effectively.

Welcomed by thunderous applause, It looked out at just a taste of the coming feast, letting out a long breath of desire. It dressed Margaret modestly, effectively conveying her professionalism with a perfectly tailored gray pantsuit. Covering as much skin as possible was a goal of preference. Her sickness had left much of her body deflated and droopy. She was far from an attractive skin. It didn't try to highlight her sexuality in anyway, since it would have been a truly counterproductive endeavor.

At the end of the day people weren't attracted to her because of how she looked; they were attracted to what she could do. And promising they could do the same made people turn out in droves.

"Good evening. Thank you for that wonderful welcome. Let me kick off this tour with an example of attainable power. Some of you are sick. I have not been given this information prior to tonight. I have not had anyone in attendance fill out cards disclosing personal information. I can see it. Step 2 is sight. Let me demonstrate." Flipping the switch in her mind, she saw the blue glow from everyone's source light up at once. "When President Pummel chose me out of the crowd, he did so because of the severity of my condition. When you have sight, you see a glowing blue light. I have gone over this before in my videos, but a refresher course never hurts." a smile to match her new and much more approachable personality. "When he saw me, there was barely a light left. Now, I don't know exactly what the blue light is. Personally I think it is our energy. I believe it's what makes us up and the brighter it shines the better we feel. Well I felt like hell." she laughed through her nose, the sound projecting through the speakers. "My light was almost out and I can't thank President Pummel enough for letting it shine bright again. I wouldn't be much of a giver though if I didn't spread the wealth. I learned how to heal because of him and now I will show you how to do the same. Am I promising that everyone will be able to effectively drop their rope by the end of this seminar? No. But, I do promise that no one will leave the same as when they first arrived. Knowledge is the most powerful substance in the universe. Our ability to grasp onto complex concepts and apply them in ways that make life easier—friends, this is what it means to evolve."

Pausing while looking out at the crowd, there wasn't a murmur to be heard. It had them hanging on her every word. They had taken the bait. Now, It just had to make them disciples of damnation. It just had to make them believe they could do the same, so that when they left, they would spread the same sweet tasting poison to those that didn't yet believe. The Feast had to be great, because once it was over, they would never eat again. Once The Great Harvest ended and their food was stripped of all light, all that would remain would be eternal darkness.

In the first few rows, It saw three sources of light considerably dimmed. "It pays to get here early, ladies and gentlemen. Those most accessible to me are going to be who I use as examples." She pointed to the three closest to the stage. "Sirs, Ma'am, please come forward. Your sickness is going to leave your body tonight!" It conducted her performance in evangelical fashion, a tried and tested method that had helped deceive countless souls over the years.

Those she summoned made their way out from the crowd and into the clearing of the aisles. One came from the left aisle, two from the right. They approached the stage. She stopped them before they started up the three steps.

"We're going to do something different. I don't want anyone claiming this was staged, so I will not be touching you. To prevent further claims of "tampering", I ask everyone I call forward to remain off of the stage. Healing is all in the mind. And we are all connected in that way. This won't take long." a very Margaret thing to say. The Spirit had to throw a few eccentricities in to help sell the performance and tie to the woman people knew from the videos.

Without an insufferable woman to share space within the skin, healing people was an effortless act. The performance instead came in making it seem like it required concentration, in making it still seem like it was a new ability. With a few well-placed twitches of effort and a squint of her eyes, she healed all three at once. "Step 3 is belief. If you believe you can do it, you will."

Awe overtook the room, as every eye was wide and childlike. Many of them had seen the president heal her on TV. But, very few, if any at all, had seen a miracle firsthand. And seeing it made them believe the impossible was possible. It was exactly where the Spirit needed them to be.

4

With the weekend finally here, it was time to indulge again. Fortunately, the duties of president didn't fall solely on his shoulders. The position was made up of branches of influence. His cabinet did the brunt of the work so he could focus on the most important aspects of the job. Although a very busy man, finding the time once a week to let off some steam was easier than he initially expected. It was just another sign of how effective his two plus years in the position had been.

The ritual of the weekend killings had grown attributes over time. Even though he never knew what he would find when he closed his eyes, many of the details were the same. Each person he controlled always had the Chip. Their thoughts were always clear and something he could pick and prod through at his choosing. He was always connected with them before they decided to act, meaning he always fueled the decision.

Though the Head Spirit had set aside a believable reason for how he could tap into the mind of others, (something having to do with a hive mind) The President's growing arrogance gave him a lofty god complex. He didn't question how. He just reveled in the fact that he could.

He sat at the edge of his bed, his body shaking with prolonged need. It would make him physically sick if he didn't close his eyes soon. And so, he did...

But, what he found was different than the times before. The man he now controlled was a Catholic priest, the kind of man that he loved to kill. As soon as he became conscious of the man, the control was his. The idea that he had control over his enemy—what a wonderful gift to be given. What he found strange though was the proof of an already violent man. In his shoebox of an apartment, walls bare and dirty white, a mannequin torso was wearing a wired vest. This man, a man of the cloth, had been preparing to kill many people. And now The President had the option instead.

The President could see what the man had planned to do with the bomb. It revolved around Margaret Stills' travesty of a seminar. A blasphemous display, he received the Chip just to gain access to the crowd. He was more than willing to give his life for the cause. A message needed to be sent. He was the kind of man The President could use to get rid of his enemies once and for all. If this man killed hundreds of innocent people, it would achieve something The President had been trying to do ineffectively for years: attach violence to the whole of Christianity.

This wasn't something The President, let alone Francis, wanted to have a part in though. If the man was already going to kill hundreds of people that night, he was more than happy to disconnect and let the event play out as it naturally would have. The President tried to open his eyes and disconnect, but nothing he did brought him away from the man. He had taken control and now nothing would happen without his leading. If he wanted to show that the Christian faith was dangerous, he would have to be the one to kill hundreds of innocent people.

Francis was in there, understandably unsettled. It was still for the greater good and would ultimately serve to make a much better world. But, was it worth the cost? Killing Christians was one thing; killing the people he cared about, the people he had worked tirelessly to help—this was a mutated version of moderation. And it scared Francis like none other.

Even The President was disturbed by the choice in front of him, something that annoyed the Head Spirit to no end. All the red tape that came with controlling a skin was frustrating; and the humanity It saw from both identities was sickening. Francis It could understand. But, It expected more from The President.

There comes a time in every addict's struggle where they do what they can to fight against the urge. They may be able to withstand the pull for a time, but the urge compensates and intensifies, taking over every thought until it is all consuming. Through generations of trial and error the Head Spirit had learned how to harness full power while remaining hidden behind many things. The urge of an addict was one of It's favorites. Despite the freewill present within both identities, the urge ultimately overpowered all else. And, best of all, it was all naturally explained.

When the wired vest was grabbed from the mannequin and fastened around the priest's body, both identities were in agreement. Not because they agreed with the act but because the urge was their only focus. The repercussions of the act, though heavy and present in the back of their mind, was secondary to the need for the high.

Before leaving the small apartment, a loose fitting coat was grabbed from a hook by the door. They put it on as they walked out the door. Ever since the weekend killings began this was the first time both identities felt a sense of dread along with the rest. A line was being crossed and they knew it.

5

Not long after Katy left, Ken's phone rang. It was his mom. She didn't tell him why she wanted to stop by, she simply said she had something to tell him. He made his way to the couch, continuing to look toward his door. He remembered the sounds that came from his brother the night he killed Rosy: the inhuman moans. And as he thought about them, the familiar chill returned.

When a knock finally came at his door ten minutes later, he was careful how he answered it. A creak of an old, thin bodied door accompanied his fear, swinging open to reveal his mom on the other side.

"Come inside, mom." he said, pushing the door open wide. He couldn't see Katy anywhere, but it didn't mean she wasn't there. She was a danger to him. Though she hadn't exhibited one symptom of possession, Ken had seen what the Thing could do behind the scenes. After Kyle killed Rosy, he was a much happier man. What a terrifying reality...

"Ken," Deborah paused as she looked into his eyes, thinking about how much he resembled her Keith. "I've changed since that night. Made some new and freeing decisions—"

"Don't tell me you got the Credit Chip, mom. Pl-please." he felt bottomless at the very idea. He couldn't handle another loss.

"Never, Ken." she smiled her best flash of reassurance. "Quite the opposite," she paused as she prepared for her boy to become impassioned against her new beliefs. "I-I'm a Christian, K-Ken." she waited for the Keith-influenced-barrage that never came.

"Really?" hope amidst a very dark landscape. "How?"

This wasn't what she expected. And seeing how her boy received the news made her regret not inviting him to her baptism. It would have made the moment all the more special.

"On the darkest night of my life, I was shown a glimpse of light. There was a bible next to Kyle's b-body. I don't know where it came from—"

"It was mine." Ken never let his mom know about his slowly growing faith for the same reason she hid it from him. They both expected judgment for their decision, not realizing that they were now walking on the same road. "I know you didn't like Rosy, mom. But, she's the reason we're both standing here now."

"It was your bible?" the way this was unfolding pointed to a much more complex set of circumstances than she originally thought. The bible being there that night felt divine immediately. Now knowing that it belonged to Ken only further supported her initial belief. It was only there that night because of Ken. And Ken only had it because he lost Rosy. A masterful domino effect. She was beginning to see the thread of a vast and tightly intertwined plan. To think she ever thought life was random was now laughable. "I wish I had known that sooner. We could have helped each other along the way—supported each other in this new journey."

He wished the same thing—

"Better late than never, mom." He smiled something entirely real and lighthearted for the first time in months. "We can start now."

A streak of sadness brushed across her. She came to say goodbye to him. That hadn't changed even though certain details surrounding the situation had. Her purpose was not in Ransom anymore. There was a greater call on her life. She wasn't just a mother; she was now a soldier, fighting for others' eternities.

"Was that all you had to tell me, mom?" Ken noticed the look on his mom's face, worried that it was only the beginning.

She shook her head while taking a deep breath. "No, my sweet boy. I'm leaving. Tonight."

Although he swallowed hard, the news reached him at a different level from the rest. "Where are you going?"

"I can't tell you details. What I can tell you is you don't have to worry about me. No matter what happens, just know that I am doing God's work."

"Why can't you tell me anything, mom? Don't I deserve to know?"

"Yes, Ken, you do. But—"

"The way you're talking makes it sound permanent. Where are you going that I can't follow?"

"I thought you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. I didn't even consider you'd want to come with."

The cryptic nature of her approach made him wonder just what she had gotten herself into. "If that's how I made you feel, mom, I'm very sorry. That wasn't my intention. I've been aimless since that night, getting through my days on auto-pilot. I tried to start over with someone new. But, that's over now." when he referenced Katy, he immediately looked toward the front door. "There's nothing holding me here."

She thought about it for a moment, excited at the idea that she and her boy could start over and maybe leave some of the pain behind. "I'm part of The Holy Army. The only thing that matters is bringing the light into darkness. This world couldn't be any darker. People need my story, Ken. And they need yours."

He nodded his head while looking toward the door. He had shared his story, but it didn't change the outcome. Another person from his life was lost to the darkness. Though Katy wasn't nearly as impactful in his life as Kyle or his dad, the fact that something he said in warning made her do the opposite was a sad and scary reality. For reasons he couldn't understand, he was hesitant to make a move one way or another. "Can I have a little time to think about it, mom? I want to say yes, but something isn't sitting right with me."

"I leave midnight tonight, Ken. I won't be coming back to Ransom. You have a few hours." she smiled as she hugged him tight. "If this is goodbye and we don't see each other again, be strong. We have walked a terrible road to find the truth of Christ. It hasn't been for nothing. We can make a difference."

He grabbed hold of her and hugged tight, never wanting to let go. Knowing that his mom knew Christ inspired him to pursue The Savior just the same. Jesus was no longer just Rosy's Savior, no longer just a recommended path in a world that offered many. Rosy's voicemail had been used to bring the remaining members of the Cardiff family into His Light. Ken saw something in Jesus he never had before: a point of entrance.

Know me had been the answer to his question four months before. He had never pursued it further because there was no place to start, no foundation to work up from. He didn't know Jesus as his own. He knew Him as Rosy's and followed her recommendation, in many ways, as a favor to her.

He understood now that Rosy's Savior was The Savior. He felt it. With a point of entrance defined, he could now build something real with Him. This was the profound knowing Rosy had mentioned before. This was the undeniable confirmation. Though he had never been witness to a manifestation of God, all of the little pieces formed a clear picture.

"I'll call you in a few hours, mom. Keep your phone volume up." he slightly laughed at the reference. Deborah was notorious for keeping her phone on silent.

"I will." she opened the door to leave. "If I don't see you again, know that I love you, my sweet boy." she smiled as she stepped away.

6

John hated that what he saw on the TV still tempted him. She fished the cancer free so easily. If only he could have the same done for his boy. Even though John trusted The Lord, he still fought with the doubt. There were many ways he could interpret the words he was given a few nights before. And many of the interpretations still ended with physical death.

Yes, his boy had rallied. But, John knew cancer all too well. A few good days did not point to eradication. It pointed to a mixed bag. Maybe the meds were starting to have an effect; maybe prayer was taking off the edge; maybe his boy was strong enough to completely win-out on certain days. But, he knew the battle was daily. And seeing people being given a promised victory—the idea was too good to be true.

For a moment, one that was long and considerable, he imagined having the Chip, able to bring his boy to Margaret's shop in D.C. How quickly that image sprouted forth and fit in his mind made him realize how easily he could fall away. His faithful past with The Lord didn't matter. What he chose in the now was the only thing that would determine the impact of what came before. Running the race rightly for years didn't matter if he stumbled and fell before reaching the end.

Comparable to a married man averting his eyes from an attractive woman, John had to decide to turn off the TV. Even though he knew it was a false message, the simple act of watching it still made him feel like he was crossing a line. And he found the longer he watched it, the more convincing the ideas became. Looking had quickly turned into imagining. The beginning of a spiritual affair took place in his living room, cut short before it had a chance to intensify. Where it could have ended up was a place John didn't even want to consider.

With the TV off, he pulled out his phone, looking up a search engine. His big fingers typed on the small buttons on his screen, until this was sitting in the search engine bar:

This illness does not lead to death

What came up as the first result was John 11: 4, the New International Version being the first version seen: "When he heard this, Jesus said, 'this sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God's glory so that God's Son may be glorified through it.'"

He had taught on this very scripture more than once. And while doing so he had made the mistake of applying it to Cara's illness. In his mind an earthly healing would have done so much to glorify Christ. He held onto this verse with his wife up until the moment she drew her final breath on the very couch he was now sitting on. It was the last verse he wanted to see come up when he put the words into the search engine bar.

"I stood on this word before for Cara, Lord. As you know I listened to a broad spectrum prophecy directed at me while teaching it to others. I was told to just claim the words and they would apply to my situation. I stood on these words faithfully to no end. I still had to bury my wife; and Junior still had to say goodbye to his mom. And worst of all, Lord, it made me hate You. If I claim these words again, will it be to no end? Will I hate You again?" he closed his eyes, feeling a sharp pain stab into him at the very notion. "If You plan on taking my boy, don't give me false hope. If You are going to take my boy, prepare my heart."

In the quiet of his house, John did everything he could to prevent himself from falling away in the future. He knew if he held onto hope for a healing that didn't come, he would end up in the same place he was in after losing Cara. The only thing John could do was start to let go of his boy.

*

Willow's reputation was a potent and lasting poison she couldn't seem to escape. No matter how many times she told Steven she just wanted to attend the dance, he disregarded her wants, following his blindly out to the country.

"I've heard the stories, Willow." They were in the middle of the country when he stopped the car at the side of the road, turning off his headlights. "Are they true? Are you really as giving as they say?"

He was much bigger than her. Even as she shook her head back and forth while clenching her mouth tightly, she knew if he tried anything, she would be powerless to stop it.

"Compliments are all you need, right? Haven't I been showering you with them? You should be more than ready." His smile was unnerving as he unclicked his seatbelt, moving toward her.

"N-no, Steven." Her 'no' had worked before. She could only pray it would work again. "N-not anymore."

"You've never had anyone like me." he was nearly on top of her.

She tried to open her door while pressed against it. Locked. "St-stop."

The sound of a belt buckle being undone came and went. And then his hands pressed against her chest, ripping down the cover she had sewn on to see what was beneath. A low moan came as he positioned himself against her, putting his hands on her thighs, moving upward.

"Do-don't do this! Pl-please!"

"It'll be over before you know it. Just let it happen." he knew there was nothing she could do, her wrists feeling small in his strong hands. This was going to happen, whether she wanted it to or not. He had all the power.

Steven let out a sudden scream, his advancement toward her stopping immediately. He fell away from her back into his seat, his whole body tensing up as if being electrocuted.

"I can't feel my hands." he said quietly as he pulled them up to his face. They were ugly and misshapen claws, his forearms now unnaturally twisting in toward his body, tight against his chest. He couldn't gain control of them again no matter how hard he tried. "Wa-what's happening, W-Willow?" a small and scared man asked the question.

She didn't answer him, only shaking her head with a shrug. She clicked the unlock button on her side and opened the door to leave.

Willow. She recognized Jesus' voice immediately. I am very protective of my daughters. Tell him these words: How many girls have you hurt with your hands, Steven? Now the same hands will hurt you for the rest of your life. They are dead and will never be used again.

Willow, now outside of the car, looked back in. She truly thought he was different than the rest. "I have the answer to your question, Steven. A message from The Lord." she was calm and empowered as she spoke, repeating the words she was told to say word for word.

He shook his head back and forth. "You did something to me. You worthless whor—"

She closed the door and walked away from the car seeing headlights on the horizon. How close she came to being just another rape statistic—how close she came to being just another one of Steven Waltz's victims was something that walked alongside her. But what she had now was different than what she left the house with. She finally had a point of entrance for her relationship with Christ. She finally felt home with Him, instead of struggling to find her place. She realized that what she had done in her past didn't matter. Jesus loved her just the same. Even though she had known this to be His claim, she had always had difficulty applying it to herself.

After walking a few steps toward the oncoming headlights, she noticed that the vehicle was slowing down. Before she saw who was in the vehicle, she heard Lily's voice. "Are you okay, Willow?"

*

Lily couldn't have known Steven was dangerous. She didn't see a Spirit tethered to him when he came to pick up Willow. She had grown accustomed to judging a person by her spiritual sight. If they had the Chip, they were forever lost and therefore somebody to avoid whenever possible; if they didn't have the Chip, there still had to be a redemptive quality present. Using this as her main way to measure character had its flaws though. Steven didn't have the Chip but he was a monster nevertheless. And his target was now her only remaining family.

She didn't need to say hardly anything for Junior and Stephanie to follow along on the sudden detour. When Lily relayed the message to Stephanie, she didn't ask follow up questions. She trusted Lily and respected the things that set her apart from the others.

Lily prayed under her breath as the car left behind the backdrop of familiar buildings, quickly becoming flat farmland against a dark sky. Lily scanned out her window before making rounds with her eyes across the rest of the car.

"How far out do you want me to go, Lil?" Stephanie asked, her eyes surveying the road ahead.

"They only left a few minutes before us. We should see her soon." her reply was hopeful while her mind took her down a different path entirely. Although only a few minutes behind, it was more than enough time for him to kill her if he wanted. While she continued to look out toward the farmland, she had to fight against her growing fear. With miles of flatland surrounding the road, the monster could hide her wherever he wanted.

Lily didn't realize until now that her mind now took her to the darkest places. Losing Rosy and her mom had given her expectations a damaging preset. She now approached situations preparing for the worst. God would never give her all the details to her life. He only gave glimpses, leaving much of it hidden. Where faith was required, she now had to battle a hybrid concept: even though God is good, tragedy still happens; and even though He is sovereign, darkness reigns for a time.

Preparing to never see Willow again was not a lapse in her faith. In fact, it was a way to maintain her faith. If she prepared for the worst to happen, nothing could take her by surprise. If her sister was dead—

"Lil. I think that's her."

She looked where Stephanie was pointing, seeing the red of Willow's dress first. A smile grew on her face as she whispered thank You, Lord. Having prepared for the worst only made this moment more special. And it only served to strengthen her faith.

She rolled the window down and asked if Willow was okay. Even though the front part of Willow's dress was ripped down and her hair was messed up where it had been styled, her face said she was just fine.

7

There was a method to Margaret's presentation. After healing the first three attendees, she let the audience process the miracle. Scattered clapping soon grew into a full wave. And then silence spread out as they waited for her to continue. A hungry crowd was ready for their next course.

She treated the next series much like her opener. This time she addressed her physical appearance.

"Nothing happens without a consequence," the Spirit knew nothing to be truer, thinking back to when It decided to rebel against The Maker. A decision It would never not regret. "It overjoys me to heal those in need of a healer. But, I would be lying if I were to tell you it didn't have a negative effect on me. When I was only healing one or two people with long spans in between, I was fine. As I've frequented this ability though, it has taken a toll on my appearance. Maybe you could compare it to an overworked outlet: where it once was white and clean, being used within its limits, once its limits are met, it begins to show. I am not done healing—far from it, in fact. I just want everyone to know that my time is limited if I continue." It looked out at the crowd, preparing an end game. When the skin of Margaret Stills stopped functioning, It had to be sure to set a martyr's stage. "I've never found much importance in the bible. But one verse has always stuck with me, found in one of the four gospels. It was John if I remember correctly from my occasional perusing. 'There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends.' I have been given a great gift. And it is my honor to lay down my life for my friends." If the Spirit used her correctly with what remained of her time, she would leave behind a reputation comparable to Mother Theresa. The real Margaret Stills never would have said these words—further reason why the Spirit decided to send her to a dark room in her mind.

It could feel the pulse of a living movement beginning. The President started it all with the resurrection; but Margaret had built it to a far greater place, a place of accessibility, a place where anybody could be extraordinary. Although an awestruck audience was an attractive concept for a time, it eventually needed to grow. Awe needed to dissipate and belief needed to take its place. The Spirit's goal by the end of the night was to instill belief in place of awe, to make the extraordinary seem attainable. Movements don't start with awe; they start with understanding. Mobs don't knock down establishments in confusion but in unity. This ability that It was working to relate to the attendees needed to seem easy if it was ever going to work as a truly effective trap.

"In order for you to believe that you will one day find this ability to be what we call "simple", you first must understand that what we now consider simple we once found difficult, even alien to our nature. For example, breathing air is now simple, a natural instinct that requires no thought. But, there was a time when all we knew was the water. It was our natural environment. We witnessed certain members evolve their land-legs and take the first steps into a new and strange world. We have entered into the final stage, frien—"

The explosion that came from the back of the venue was violent and widespread, reducing ten row sections of the people to charred pieces still hurling from here to there. Screams of shock and terror spread across the venue, the blood of the dead now bright red drops splattering attendees as much as thirty rows ahead of the explosion radius. The venue was cold despite the warmth of the explosion. Many near the back funneled past the carnage and out of the venue immediately; but those closer to the front, though wide eyed with fear, looked toward Margaret as a beacon of hope. They saw she was still standing there, a few feet farther back on the stage than before, but no different in posture. Many would have fled in fear.

"Opposition is only a sign that we are breaching the wall, friends. Push on! This will not stop us! It will only make us stronger!" somehow, despite the horror that had just taken place, another wave of applause swelled into a resilient crescendo. Even as first responders entered the building, calling for an immediate evacuation, the applause continued. It was clear that the people were united in following Margaret wherever she led. Where so many others would have fled in fear, she remained. A solid rock they could stand on while everything else crumbled around them. The Spirit couldn't have known by the end of Its first seminar (cut short for tragic reasons) It would be in control of a Christ-like figure.

8

Driving in an old black car, now less than a block from the parking entrance to the venue, Francis was along for the ride while The President had full hold of the reins. Only the stronger of the two would be able to see this act through. And though Francis once considered himself to be a good man, he was now in a position where his justifications, no matter how bulletproof he tried to make them, simply couldn't cover up the reality. This was cold blooded murder of the very people he swore to protect.

The killing of Christians was different. Always had been. If this had been a venue filled with Christians, the casualty number may have caused his soft set eyes to widen at the brutality of it, but ultimately he would have found a sweet spot in his justification. As long as it remained within the infestation, the death toll was of very little importance. This was no longer the case.

Even though this act would ultimately dismantle the infestation from the inside out by making them seem dangerous to the masses, the cost was something he wasn't sure he was ready to pay. He understood that it had to be done to further the movement of unity. It was the ace in the hole that he had been waiting for, after all. But, now that it was presented to him, the only thing Francis could do was look away and detach himself. Who he had become was no longer a man he recognized; and what he now had to do to accomplish his mission toward unity was so far removed from his original idea that the whole concept seemed alien to him. Francis no longer belonged in his skin. He realized this in a sad and lonely moment, letting go of any remaining control as he slipped back into the recesses of his mind.

The President was the only identity that seemed able to handle the repercussions of this choice. When the car pulled up to the venue parking lot, a lone scanner stood at the entrance. He positioned the priest's right wrist under the red glow. A beep quickly followed as the arm gate opened into a large and flat ground level parking lot. The closest spot available was near the front. A handicap space. He pulled into it and parked. It wasn't like the man would be around to answer for his decisions.

There was a cold chill to the air as he left the car. The thin jacket he wore concealed the explosive device that was just beneath. The trigger was a small plastic switch on his keychain. He palmed it in his pocket as he approached the glass doors at the front of the venue. Several other people were around him, hurrying forward. The idea that they would almost certainly be numbered with the casualties hit The President's stomach like a fast dropping stone. He wanted to tell them to leave but couldn't. Any suspicious activity would draw attention where he needed to be inconspicuous.

Every one of his steps carried a sense of dread, entirely different from any of his other times of indulgence. Where there once was excitement had now been replaced with the sinking feel of obligation.

"Maybe this will work, son. Nothing else has." He overheard a father speaking to his adult son. They walked at the same pace as him only a few feet to his right. "Couldn't hurt to see, right?"

"We'll see what happens, dad." His reply was skeptical.

To the left of him another small set of context-free dialogue floated in:

"Better late than never." a woman said to her unresponsive man.

The President continued at the same stride as the rest. When he reached the doors, the father from the conversation to his right was holding the door open. They shared nods of the head as he stepped inside.

The small lobby was secure, with two bodyguards at the doors and another pair split between the two metal detectors placed just before the entrance to the seminar. The men at the doors were large, clearly built up to keep away any and all threats; the two by the metal detectors were smaller in stature and out of place in the position.

He took long steps forward, approaching the short line. Most of the people he entered the building with were in front of him. They passed through the detector easily and in quick succession disappearing down a black corridor. He was up next, able to hear the faint sound of applause.

"Please step through the metal detector, sir." with a handheld Chip scanner device in his hand, the man directed him forward. The President could see the artificial light from the seminar at the end of the corridor. Before the man could say another word of instruction to him, he sprinted forward, leaving behind the wild beeping of the detector as it tried to warn of the terrible thing it sensed.

The few steps he had on those in pursuit of him was enough of a buffer to accomplish what he needed to. He wanted to detonate in the corridor, reasoning that even a failed attempt by a religious fanatic would get the point across. And maybe it would have. But, something that he didn't expect was the thing that had been there since he started killing: desire. Even though he wouldn't be able to witness the violence firsthand, there was still something profound and euphoric that came with the weekly killings. Just the idea of it made his senses stand up at full attention.

Even as he palmed the trigger in his pocket, it was clear that full control wasn't his. He was fighting against something else, something he hadn't felt before. And for the first time he realized that every one of his killings had always been to feed something that he didn't understand. He had always justified it as a way to let out some frustration, to kill off the meaningless insects infecting the world. And yet that same excitement was with him again at the prospect of killing hundreds of his own people. He realized it didn't matter who they were. He needed the kill. He fed on it. And killings of this magnitude would only increase as time passed...

When he finally reached the place where the corridor and seminar hall met, he stopped and surveyed those around him. He could still stop. He didn't have to push the trigger. There were other ways to accomplish his goals. There were other ways...

Despite his fighting against the act, he felt the hand in the pocket moving free from his control, wrapping fingers tight around the trigger. This was going to happen and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The hand, now free of him, clicked the trigger without hesitation. Everything went black as his eyes opened.

He was back in his nightly quarters, sick, terrified, and trembling. When these rituals started not that long ago, euphoria was a real and livable reality. It checked all the boxes of satisfaction. The only downside was the temporary nature of it. Just another drug. The most potent of them all, in fact. It was now his deepest prison.

He sat on the edge of his bed shaking terribly. This was not who he wanted to be.

A familiar knock came at his door. "Mr. President? A local bombing has taken the lives of over two hundred people."

The reality of this sat in him, growing heavier with every passing moment. He was responsible for it. And already he was craving the next kill, his next fix. He dropped off the edge of his bed, fishing for something underneath. Pulling out a small coded gun safe, he replied with a calm, "Okay."

After putting in his four digit code, the safe popped open, revealing a legally obtained handgun. It was heavy in his hand as he looked down the barrel. He had gone too far. And he knew that it was only going to get worse. If he stayed alive, many more would die simply because he craved the kill. He craved the cold warmth that accompanied it. And he craved the temporary fuel it gave.

As he put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and closed his lips around it, he shut his eyes to find a memory of a better time. A cold and plain darkness is all that met him. A single tear dropped from his eye as he pulled the trigger.

But the day The President tried to die was the day he lived...
Author's Note

There may be a slight delay on the final installment, seeing as my second daughter is set to be born near the end of January. I thank you in advance for being patient and will reward your patience with a fitting conclusion. Follow me on Facebook to keep up to date on my progress.

One final thing. If you were affected by Better Things Ahead, would you consider leaving a review? I value your opinions and would love to hear what you think.

Thank you for taking the time, reader

Nate Allen

Other books available now:

CLOUDS (my debut, written during a very dark period following the death of my dad. Not recommended for Christian genre readers)

Death is Not the End, Daddy

The Counterfeit

A New Beginning (Book 1 of The Faceless Future Trilogy)

Acknowledgments

Jesus Christ, my personal and perfect Savior. My mission in life is to bring reverence back to Your name and to remove You from the commonly placed category of make believe. Let my words bring a much needed change.

My wife. Thank you for giving me the needed time to finish this story. Being pregnant can't be easy (a laughable under exaggeration) but you handle it in the strongest way possible, still making room for my passions. Everything you do is appreciated!

My girls. Evarie, I couldn't be more blessed to have you as my daughter; and Ivelyn, as we get closer to meeting you for the first time, I just know God has someone incredibly special planned for us.

Mom. I have been writing for a little more than ten years and you have been there since the beginning word. To those long nights of edits, to those trying times of helping me cut away the fat, I thank you. God couldn't have given me a better parent!

Dad. Although gone never forgotten.

