 
### BLOODMASTER II

### THE TRIBULATION

Copyright 2015 Mary Quijano

Published by Mary Quijano on Smashwords

* * *

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BLOODMASTER II

THE TRIBULATION

BY

Mary Quijano

For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood,

but against principalities, against powers,

against the rulers of darkness,

against spiritual hosts of wickedness

in the heavenly places _._

Ephesians 6:12

Joi pinde soi brahmande...."as above, so below."

The Upanishads

Part 1:

First of the Seven Seals

Chapter 1

Vatican City

And I saw a beast come out of the sea. It had ten horns

and seven heads, and on each head a blasphemy.

Revelation 13:1

It was time.

The vision had come in the midnight hour, or three am, or just before dawn. Did it matter? Only that it had come at last, at last.

The great red dragon, archbishop of hell, servant of the servants of death, prince of demons and darkness, had come.

"Wake up," he commanded, and Pope Caius II was instantly awake, eyes wide open in the dark of the sumptuous papal suite. He may have been the chosen second, but his heart never-the-less raced in fear.

The demon sat in the corner of the room on the Pope's throne-like chair. He wore seven heads, six of which were restless, endlessly looking around, back and forth, the single horn in the middle of each forehead twitching like an antenna. The central head, however, remained still, focusing intently on the cowering pope, who was sitting in his bed with the covers pulled up around his neck. This head had two pairs of horns protruding from its forehead just above the large reptilian eyes.

"Forty-two months," the dragon said: "You do understand the significance?"

"Yes master," Caius replied.

"Forty-two months ago my blood was in the communion cup that was given to the cardinals of the church during high mass, at the coronation of Sixtus. By drinking that blood, the cardinals became my own, my purpose became their purpose. And every time they officiated at a mass from then on, offering the Eucharist, they infiltrated the wine of communion with my blood, making all those who imbibed it mine as well. Enough have now been converted to my army to ensure that the next stage of my appropriation of the worldwide Catholic Church and all its believers will proceed with success."

"Uh, yes master," said Caius, figuring he was expected to say something.

"You're an idiot," the dragon sneered. "Luckily you don't have to do any thinking on your own, just do as I command, say what I tell you to say and you'll be fine. The doctrine of papal infallibility will take care of the rest."

Caius blew out a breath, nodded.

"You did proceed to have the Statue of Marcus sculpted by Rowena?"

"Yes. Secretly, per your directive: It is at a location in Rome, well hidden from the public eye, ready to be moved to the basilica and unveiled at your command."

"Good. So here's what you do."

Chapter 2

San Francisco

Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death,

and Hades was following close behind him.

Revelation 6:8

The clock on the wall read two fifteen when the doctor came back into the examining room, one of a dozen or so small screened-off cubicles in the emergency section of the large metropolitan hospital.

Marija had been given medication to ease the pain, once the possibility of appendicitis had been ruled out; but the tension in her body, the way she gripped Joe's hand, confirmed that much of the earlier agony remained: That, and fear. Her face was pale and dotted with perspiration, her green eyes huge as she tried to read the internist's face.

"The, uh, the MRI detected an abnormal mass in your uterus, Mrs. Martens," the doctor apologized. "Quite large, actually: Are you certain you haven't experienced any other symptoms prior to the pain that brought you in tonight?"

MJ licked her lips: They were quivering and she strained to bring them under control. His words weren't quite registering, or else she was rejecting their message as quickly as her mind grasped its potential: _Abnormal Mass: Does that mean...?_

"No doctor, nothing: No irregular bleeding, no cramps..." She shook her head as a tear slipped from beneath her lashes, then another. "Are you sure?" she asked him.

"My wife just underwent a complete physical not two months ago," Joe exclaimed angrily. "How could something like this have been missed?"

"I don't know," the internist replied cautiously. "Sometimes these growths do spring up quite rapidly. Perhaps when your regular gynecologist arrives to examine her and look over our workup, he'll be better able to answer your questions."

"When will that be?"

"He'll see you first thing in the morning. I've already discussed our findings with him by phone, naturally, and he concurs with my recommendation, provided of course that his examination does not disagree with my own findings."

"Which is?" Marija asked, her voice barely audible.

"Uh, we feel that a complete hysterectomy is probably the safest course of treatment at this point."

"Ah Jesus," Joe swore softly.

"Shit," sobbed Marija.

In the three and one half years they'd been married, they'd been trying to get pregnant without success. Now it looked like that would never happen.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said. "You don't have children?"

"Two," said MJ.

"But they're adopted," added Joe. "We wanted...more."

Almost three years ago MJ's sister and her husband were tragically killed in a car accident, and MJ and Joe had adopted their two children without hesitation. Eric was just four and Sandy eight at the time, and the couple had quickly fallen in love with the pair of siblings. But they'd still hoped for a child of their own making.

"Well, when we have a tumorous mass growing this rapidly, Mrs. Martens, we need to excise it without delay before it can invade the surrounding tissues. Of course we'll biopsy the growth as soon as it's out."

The woman felt the world tilt and spin. She pressed her face into her husband's chest, eyes staring and terrified. This couldn't be real, it must be a nightmare. Just a few hours ago she'd been fine, perfect. She knew it. What could have done this to her?

Suddenly there, in the fabric of Joe's shirt an inch in front of her eyes, she saw two almond shaped orbs blink open, crimson colored eyes with black vertical slits for pupils. Then one of them winked at her.

Her screams had gone on and on, like she would scream forever. He heard them still, lying here in their bed alone. It had taken two shots to knock her down, but even as she drifted into the blackness she'd grabbed his collar in her two fists, pulled him close and whispered: "It's him, Joe. He's back: He's the one doing this to me."

Joe prayed to not know what she was talking about, prayed it was just nonsense, the drugs speaking, a hallucination. Anything but what she said it was.

Please God, let it be anything but that. I already fought that monster once for you: No man should have to face such a thing twice in his lifetime.

********

He walked alongside the gurney, holding her hand, looking down into the eyes of this woman he loved, catching on the pain and fear he saw there and looking away again too quickly so she wouldn't see his own eyes fill with tears. The cell phone in his pocket buzzed again, but he wouldn't answer it, not until he'd seen her into the operating room. He felt so helpless, and at the same time angry, irrationally stupidly angry at her for putting him through this, this fear, this despair. He was scared to death for her, for them.

She squeezed his hand as if reading his thoughts. The gurney stopped at the door to the operating room. He bent to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, and she wished for more, wished for a full throttle lip-lock. But she didn't feel up to asking for it.

"I'll be right outside honey," he told her. "Don't worry, okay? Everything's going to be okay."

"Sure," she said, trying hard to smile reassuringly at him. "I'll be fine."

Once the door closed behind her and the attendings, Joe took a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs in the hall and checked his cell phone. There were three voicemails, all from Mike Muldoon. Curious: they kept in touch, but usually just to shoot the shit, nothing urgent. Three calls had to mean something.

All three calls had the same message: "Call me. Something's come up I need to talk to you about."

_Yeah, no shit. Like a wife in the operating room with possible cancer, hallucinating that our old friend Havohej is back. We could talk about_ _that_ _._

He dialed Mike, suddenly needing the comfort of the priest, needing to share this burden.

But what he learned from Muldoon was hardly comforting.

"Joe, something's happening at the Vatican: I think Satan has returned for another round," Mike said."

"Crap! Mike, I'm at the hospital right now with Marija. They're operating as we speak: They think it might be cancer."

"Oh my God, Joe, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you with this."

"How could you know? Just pray for her, okay Mike? She, she thinks he's back too."

"Who?"

"Havohej, Mike: Satan. She thinks he's the cause of her condition. I thought maybe she was just hallucinating, but then you call me about this, and it's the same shit." He shook his head in disbelief. "So what is it, Mike, what's going on at the Vatican?"

"Cardinal Magliano just got a summons to go to Rome for the unveiling of some huge statue of Pope Marcus, with an inscription declaring " Il Papa è Il Figlio."

"Which is?"

"It translates as 'The Papa' - which means the Pope - 'has become the Son.' Essentially what they are proclaiming is that Pope Marcus is the second coming of Christ."

"I thought this was over when we killed him!"

"Apparently not: I've heard rumors, things that seem not quite right in the church over the past three years, strange rites and rituals not part of our doctrine..."

"Not to mention molestations becoming more and more common, the accusations and admissions just swept under the rug with a 'boys will be boys' attitude by the Catholic hierarchy?" Joe added.

"Yeah," Mike sighed. "Stuff like that. I've tried to ignore the signs, but now I'm beginning to think Satan got a foothold in the church somehow, despite our getting rid of Pope Marcus and Sixtus three and a half years ago. And I think he may be coming back with a vengeance now."

********

Inside the operating room, the glare of the lights made Marija squint, but she didn't want to close her eyes, not just yet. She watched the preparations being made, feeling more and more detached from the drama. Perhaps it was simply the effect of the tranquilizer they'd given her back in the hospital room, but she felt almost peaceful now. This was all out of her hands. Someone spoke to her, one of the incognito faces behind white masks, but she wasn't sure what he'd said and didn't want to make the effort to understand. She murmured something noncommittal and continued drifting.

Now the anesthesiologist was injecting a vial of something into the clear plastic tube of liquid that ran down into her left arm. She watched the sluggish yellow substance mix and swirl inside the narrow hose as it drew closer and closer to her vein. Soon, she told herself, I'll be waking up and it will all be over. There was the sudden pungent taste and smell of garlic invading her senses, and the world disappeared.

********

Joe felt physically ill.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked the priest unnecessarily.

"We were brought together by God once before to fight this: I thought you should know the fight is not over."

"I can't go, Mike: I can't leave Marija, not while she's so ill."

"I understand, Joe, really. I'll accompany Cardinal Magliano and do what I can to keep him safe; you come if and when you're able."

"When do you leave?"

"Not for a few days: We have to get things in order here first."

"Can you come by the hospital before you go? I know MJ would like to see you...and I would too."

"As soon as I can, Joe; as soon as I can," Muldoon assured him.

********

The blackness lifted, and she found herself looking down at the woman's body on the operating table. It was so peaceful for that moment: She had this sense that everything would turn out okay after all. Then all at once she was back inside that body, deep inside the womb, where an ugly pink globular mass of deformed cells was growing and spreading, multiplying geometrically before her very eyes. She saw the fingerlike tentacles of misshapen flesh crawl up into her fallopian tubes and fill her swollen ovaries to bursting; saw others spread rapidly down the vaginal walls and begin to billow from the outer orifice like bubbles of strawberry tapioca. Tiny seed colonies were breaking off from the outer perimeter of the main growth, working their way through the lining of the uterus and into the bloodstream. As it grew and spread, the ugly red mass of tissue began to take on an odd shape, almost recognizable. It was, it was....

The red dragon opened his wide slit of a mouth, tilted his many horned head back on the thick neck and roared with malignant triumph.

"You won't escape me this time, bitch!" He laughed, then snarled and spat. "It's too late; no one can save you now, Marija. Not your beloved hubby, not that sacrosanct priest, no one! Too late, you cunt, tooo late!"

"Too late," she heard the doctor saying in a hushed voice. "I've never seen any cancer spread like that, at such speed...Oh!" He'd looked over, seen her eyes were open.

His grey and white features were slowly coming into focus, taking on color and form, and now she could make out Joe, standing beside him.

"She's coming out of it. Good evening Mrs. Martens," the surgeon said, taking her hand. "How are we feeling?"

She opened her mouth, wanting to cry out for help, wanting to tell them what she'd seen, what was growing inside her. But what came up from her larynx was not hers, but a deep guttural monster voice: "Go fuck yourselves!" It ordered.

Chapter 3

San Francisco

Ask the Lord, your God, for a sign.

Isaiah 7:11

Monsignor Michael Muldoon was escorted into Cardinal Magliano's office by Father Murphy, the same young priest who had once apologetically thrown him out of his own church at the command of his superior, Bishop Dumore. That was when he was temporarily excommunicated by the directive of Pope-elect Sixtus for trying to exorcise the demon from Marija through a seance that went tragically wrong.

But after he and Joe had managed to warn the Vatican curia about Satan's plot to take over the church through his minion Sixtus, and with the help of Magliano and the other cardinals had ended the threat, Magliano was subsequently made head of the San Francisco archdiocese by the Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Mendice. Dumore was immediately transferred to some other distant diocese - Dayton or DC or some such - and Murphy, always an amiable fellow, had replaced him as the new Cardinal's personal secretary. He had proven himself a loyal and faithful servant ever since: None-the-less he still seemed embarrassed about the earlier incident, doing the _mea culpa_ thing every time he saw the reinstated monsignor.

As the door closed behind him, Muldoon knelt to kiss the Cardinal's ring, then stood to give his friend a hearty hug.

"You're looking more svelte every time I see you," he exclaimed, standing back to take in the once portly Italian's leaner meaner self. "How much have you lost altogether?"

"About twenty five kilos, give or take," Magliano grinned: "It's all these hills."

"You could take a cab."

"Yes, but then I'd still be chunky. I've also cut back on the pasta...they just don't make it here like back home, so I'm not too sad about that."

"Speaking of back home," Mike said, raising a brow.

"Yes. Well." Magliano shook his head. "I'm not sure what is going on, but from the looks of it, what we thought we'd finished three and a half years ago isn't over yet."

"What do you make of it Luigi?" Muldoon asked.

"I've been in touch with Mendice, and he's contacted Falliano and Bertini...You know they were all sent abroad as nuncios by the new Pope shortly after he took office?"

"Yes, but I didn't think it particularly worrisome: Frequently people taking office want a whole new curia, don't they?"

"Not so much in the church hierarchy, but generally I agree; I didn't think too much of it at the time either: We were so sure we'd won, that we'd rid ourselves of Satan's threat to our church. But now that this has happened, I'm reevaluating everything. I now believe that they were purposely sent away so that they wouldn't be able to keep an eye on what was happening in the Vatican until it was too late."

"And what about Pope Caius? What do you know of him personally? Can you think of any reason he would be a willing party to this?"

"Before he was elected Pope he was sub-dean of the College of Cardinals - Cardinal Mertinello, Bishop of Porto and Santa Rufina - and a pretty straight-up, Catholic traditionalist, so his election made a lot of sense. But since he became Pope there's been some subtle indications that he's changed: Nothing major that would draw undue attention, mind you, just little differences in the way he does things, the way he interprets certain protocols."

"Like secretly commissioning a huge statue of a dead Pope that had been infested by Satan, and declaring him the second coming of Christ, subtle little things like that?" Mike queried.

Luigi shrugged.

"So when do we leave?"

"You haven't actually been invited," Magliano reminded him.

"Yeah, but I'm not letting you go into this snake pit alone and unarmed."

"Two days," Magliano said. "Pack light."

Chapter 4

Brisbane, Australia

"And it became as the blood of a dead man, and every living soul died in the sea."

Revelation 16:3

As Rome tucked herself snug and secure into bed that night, while some in San Francisco could not sleep at all, a man stood on the small private balcony of his hotel room at dawn nearly half a world away, silently greeting the new day with his mental middle finger.

The sun reached out tracing a golden path across the skin of the sea, its gentle fingers of light caressing his bare skin, and bathing the tall tanned figure that leaned against the sixth floor railing in a gentle promise of the summer warmth to come. His head tilted up to meet her touch, eyes closed against the glare. He inhaled deeply of the opalescent sea air as if its fragrance might serve to cleanse his palate of the residual fuzz left over from a sleepless night and the morning's angry grit of realty.

This moment of silent communion, a reaching out to touch what was essential inside himself, was Charles Hemmings' way of preparing himself mentally and spiritually to face the day. He particularly needed it this day: This was to be his "stand" - his personal one-shot, fifty minute verbal blitzkrieg against the immovable forces of fence-riding rhetoric that had immersed his scientific colleagues in the slow death of inaction too long. Far too long.

The political and financial pressure attached to the research funding done by these members of the World Oceanic and Atmospheric Coalition, coming as it did primarily from private industry grants and government programs with their own vested interests to protect, had been used as an excuse for inaction over too many years, until the environmental crises they investigated could no longer be ignored; the timidity of their watered down, ambiguous conclusions were no longer tenable by any standards; and their refusal to make a stand and tell the truth amounted to an irresponsible, unconscionable betrayal of the public trust and their own ethical code as scientists.

He intended to tell them so today.

It wasn't like these renowned and brilliant researchers didn't realize the scope of what was happening to the world: The program for this five day International Symposium had read like the storyboard for a disaster movie on the Irwin Allen or Roland Emmerich scale. Of course one had to be able to read behind the carefully neutral titles and neutered content to hear the terror inherent behind the dry and purposely inconclusive data that was presented. One had to stand back and look at the greater picture to see how all the pieces fit together without flinching, and that took more testosterone than this group of ivory tower talking heads apparently possessed, combined.

"The Greenhouse Effect: Magnetic and Rotational Accumulation of Atmospheric Pollutants in the Polar Regions and Resultant Effect on Polar Ice Caps." Now there was a doozy, especially when viewed alongside Herlihy's paper on "The Erraticity of the Diminishing Jet Stream due to North Pacific Gyre Wobbles," and Brunhardt's controversial theory entitled, succinctly: "Global Pressure Variants" which hinted that the warming trends over the poles might be disrupting the normal polar to equatorial high-low pressure systems upon which normal global wind patterns, weather and ocean currents depended.

To the layperson this was just so much meaningless jargon, even to the fairly well educated science reporters in their midst. With interrelationships as complex and enigmatic as chaos theory, it was impossible to say with certainty what any of these studies could actually predict; thus it was far easier to dismiss the worrisome aspects of their findings as hyperbole and accept the senior scientists' conclusion that there was "nothing to look at here, move along folks."

Except that what they were really talking about in the grand overview was an incipient global catastrophe, a perfect storm of synergist conditions that could unleash Mother Nature's wrath in a way no nation could hope to cope with.

In addition to the oceanic and atmospheric studies, there were as well numerous presentations by the marine biologists in the gathering which indicated a growing dysfunction of the marine ecological balance.

Johnstone's "Ozone depletion and Marine Phytoplankton Growth Curves," indicated that the so called "pasture of the sea" - upon which all ocean life depended for food and oxygen - was being decimated during the months when the protective ozone layer was at its lowest level. There was as well a report on the recent disruption of shipping in the Caribbean due to the mysterious appearance of massive floating islands of decaying kelp in the sea lanes. The author's conclusion, however, had not been directed towards discovering the cause of the algal death but had merely advised shifting the shipping lanes two hundred miles to the north temporarily until the mess could be burned off with gasoline. Not coincidentally, Hemmings had noted in reading the paper's abstract, the funding for the study was through a grant from Richfield Oil.

Similarly a report on the recent beachings of hundreds of starving sea lion pups in Southern California had made no attempt to uncover why their food fish species had disappeared nor to suggest ways to remedy that problem, it had just called for donations by the marine rescue organizations to help feed the animals back to health and return them to their empty larder.

"Study the ocean, but don't make waves," that seemed to be the motto of the vast majority of researchers he'd heard during the first four days of this conference. Well, today he was going to change that if he could. Today's meeting might be his last opportunity to force these entrenched opinion leaders to listen, to evoke their collective conscience, make them confront what was really going on, and make them step up and take responsibility for the ocean they purportedly loved, the ocean that was dying before their eyes.

A soft hand quietly touched the back of his shoulder, startling him: a pair of soft lips pressed against the hard flesh of his upper arm where the sun had warmed it, adding their own heat, a message gentled by familiarity and love. He turned to the woman who'd shared his life; his dreams, disappointments and bed these past 14 years. She still looked good in the morning, even after two kids. Good? She looked great!

He smiled into her soft brown almond eyes, watching them change, the barest chameleon wave: First the color of relief that his mood seemed good passed through their inner depths, then another wave, brighter still, the color of desire.

His smile broadened and her eyes sparked mischievously as the want passed between them.

He touched her breast.

A slender finger went to her lips as she flashed a quick sideways look in the direction of the second double bed in their economy suite, where two small dark haired boys still slept like slack-mouthed angels. She giggled, then took his hand, the one that wasn't on her breast, and led him in tiptoeing playfulness to their own bed.

Afterwards he took a long invigorating shower, letting the drumming water pound back into him the energy Linda had so sweetly tapped. Unfortunately some of the anxiety returned as well. This was it, the day he'd been working toward for over sixteen years, ever since he'd taken that seminar course in Marine ecology his senior year at the University of Hawaii, and found the cause and calling that his life had unwittingly been seeking.

The shower drummed on in an endless supply of hot water from the hotel's giant boilers - at no additional charge Linda would've hastened to point out - massaging him into a state of reverie, a review of his past which seemed not just appropriate but vital, putting into perspective all that which had lead up to this day.

Doctor Charles Hemmings PHD - associate professor of marine environmental ecology at the University of Hawaii's extension research laboratory in Lahaina Maui, and maverick brainchild of his relatively untrammeled field of marine ecological biochemistry - had been what could most kindly be described as a "late bloomer." (Less lenient in their adjudication, his parents had pronounced him a surf bum, refusing to relent in that conviction until he was well into his junior year at the university. It had taken five semesters of nearly perfect grades to convince them that he was actually serious about college and career at last.)

Not that he could really blame their skepticism: He'd wasted his last two years of high school and the subsequent five following his skin-of-the-teeth graduation chasing the waves, the contests and the girls around the world in the foolish dream of making a living as a pro surfer.

As it turned out, his early wanderlust had paid off in the long run - as he'd reminded his parents numerous times without much appreciable change in their opinion - since the majority of his monthly ocean samples were collected at surf spots around the planet by the friends he'd made during his widely travelled youth. If he hadn't those resources to call on for his herculean research task, it would have been nearly impossible to pull it off, especially with the budgetary constraints he labored under by refusing to take any grants with industry or government strings attached.

He'd fallen into marine biology as his major field of study quite naturally, partly because of his long term love relationship with the sea, and partly because it was the specialty of the University of Hawaii, thus offering a large and excellent teaching staff, extensive grad programs and a better than average opportunity for getting into some sort of government subsidized research project once he graduated.

But it wasn't until the final semester of his senior year, when the famous environmentalist Doctor Robert Erlich arrived on campus to deliver a seminar series on marine environmental ecology, that Charles Hemmings finally discovered what he was supposed to do with his knowledge.

"Twenty years, thirty tops," Erlich had stated ominously on that warm November morning, sitting cross-legged on the gently sloping green outside the natural sciences building, looking like an angry owl to the thirty or so rapt and wide-eyed students seated on the damp grass in a semi-circle before him.

"At the current rate in which man is polluting the oceans - and I'm speaking not so much about heavy metals, radioactive waste and all the other toxic by-products of industry which, though significant in their long term effects, are not so voluminous as to pose an immediate threat to all mankind...unless of course you eat fish," he grinned at the substantial number of Asian students in the audience. "But I'm talking about the widespread and imminent danger caused by the millions of tons of chlorinated organic and organophosphate compounds introduced into these great bodies of water annually - millions of tons _annually_!" he'd repeated for emphasis. "At this rate we have only about fifteen years before the damage is irreparable and the oceans begin to die."

Students in the audience looked back and forth at one another quizzically: no one was smiling now.

"Farmers, claim they need such chemicals to increase their yields - while being subsidized to burn their excess crops in the field in order to keep prices up," he'd said with an arched brow. "So they pour tons of these harmful chemicals onto their fields each spring and summer; then each fall and winter the residuals of these poisons are leached back out of the soil during the rainy season, finding their way into groundwater basins, streams, rivers and ultimately into that last great un-flushable toilet for all the world's wastes - the ocean."

Erlich had paused at this point to pull an old, highly polished briar pipe from his jacket pocket, going through the ritual process of filling and tamping and lighting the sweetly scented tobacco while the students fidgeted and murmured nervously over his last revelation and in anticipation of his next. It was exactly the effect the professor had intended.

"Let me introduce you to a new term here, one I've coined personally: the OLLL, or Oceanic Life Lethal Limit. This is the concentration, expressed in parts-per-billion seawater, of the aggregate accumulation of all these agricultural chemicals, the concentration at which the simplest marine organisms - the phytoplankton and zooplankton upon which all ocean food chains depend - will begin to die off. The OLLL is measured at or near the ocean's surface, primarily because that is where the vast majority of these organisms are found, and also because most of the chemicals we're concerned with are dissolved in an oil base, which causes their residues to float."

Erlich blew a cloud of white smoke thoughtfully over his head. "Through my own extensive research," he continued; "I've been able to predict that the Oceanic Life Lethal Limit will be reached near most shorelines and river outlets by the year 2016, and within ten to twenty more years - as these toxic wastes are carried out into the open seas and spread globally by the major ocean currents - we will reach or closely approach the Life Lethal Limit for the entire ocean."

A dead hush had fallen over the gathering of students; no one even talking or looking at anyone else as they digested the import of what they had just learned.

He stopped to relight the pipe at that point, drawing hard with concave cheeks until the smoke began lifting in thin white streamers above his head, the rich burning odor almost as comforting to his nervous little class as it was to the speaker, their minds drifting awhile together on the smoke.

"When the OLLL is reached," he continued, his gaze suddenly seeming to direct all its energy into the worried brown eyes of one Charles Hemmings, as if lecturing to him alone; "the phytoplankton and zooplankton covering the top several feet of the ocean's surface will begin to die en masse. Fish and marine organisms will subsequently experience large die offs as well, but due to starvation rather than lack of oxygen. And the effect won't right itself until all the chemicals have finally broken down. In the case of DDT, the estimated half-life is 300 years if adsorption is considered. And this deadly chemical is still being used in enormous quantities by many countries around the world including the first and second most populous countries in the world, India and China.

Chuck could feel even now the sensation that had rocketed down his spine at the professor's next words. "Thus, in my humble opinion, once we reach OLLL, the process will be irreversible."

One girl, a slender Asian chick with a smattering of pimples and plain black-framed glasses had begun very quietly to cry: Linda. Chuck's own throat felt thick and lumpy even now, remembering the moment. A number of students' hands had shot up, mouths pursed around questions, but the professor had raised an authoritative hand, silencing their unspoken outcry.

"The oceans of our planet comprise more than seventy percent of the earth's surface. Much of this area, as I've said, is covered with a floating layer of phytoplankton several feet deep - "The Pasture of the Sea" - which not only provides directly or indirectly the food for every other living thing in the sea, but provides as well a significant portion of the dissolved oxygen necessary for these organisms to convert the food they eat into energy for maintenance and growth...arguably as much as 90%."

He waited, his smile a hard Rod Serling grin. As expected, several hands shot up. This time he acknowledged, calling on one with a curt nod.

"Doctor Erlich, are you telling us that, should the oceans become as critically polluted as you predict, the resultant die off of marine phytoplankton would not only bring about the slow starvation of all living organisms in the sea, but would as well cause an even quicker death by asphyxiation, as the dissolved oxygen content of the ocean was used up and not replenished?"

The boy that had spoken was a wimpy, bookish type; a bespectacled kid with a military haircut and acne standing up in bright revue across his forehead and cheeks, the sort who early on in school had assumed the role of interpreter for the rest of his classmates, presuming it his duty to explain the obvious to those less bright.

"Give that boy a cigar," Erlich had responded, doing his best imitation Groucho, an ash-flicking, eyebrow-raising parody.

The other students had laughed, but it was a nervous uncomfortable noise. No one was feeling particularly jolly by then.

"You're absolutely right, of course," the teacher had acceded more kindly, with a little wink in the blushing youth's direction; "although it's a bit more complex than that. As the algae is depleted, you see, the CO2 it is no longer taking up from the water for its own growth will begin accumulating in higher and higher concentrations, and that's at least as significant, if not more so, than the diminishing dissolved oxygen content. An excess of carbon dioxide in the water interferes with the uptake of oxygen by the blood, so even if dissolved oxygen was sufficient the fish could still suffocate. In addition," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily with his fingertips; "the decaying plankton will quickly begin to release their own toxic compounds into the marine environment, further weakening or killing the animal life nearby, while at the same time their bacterial decomposition will use up any available oxygen remaining. In other words, the marine animals will be getting it from all sides in a rapidly accelerating process of death and destruction. That's why I said that the process, once the Oceanic Life Lethal Limit has been reached, is virtually irreversible."

He'd stopped talking at this point, his silence hanging over the group like an axe for several minutes while various emotions warred across his craggy features: Utter sadness was the strongest, anger next. Some students were beginning to gather their things, thinking he was done.

Finally he spoke: "Unfortunately the above described events are not the worst of it for planet Earth, not the capital B - _Big_ \- revelation I've got you all hanging breathless on my every word to hear."

That hard grin, the attempt to inject a little humor, had failed utterly this time: No one even smiled.

"As much as ninety percent of the free atmospheric oxygen," he went on somberly; "is produced by the ocean's "pasture of the sea" as well. _Ninety percent_ , ladies and gentlemen - though a few diehards still argue that it's only sixty or seventy percent, despite the fact that most of our rainforests, grasslands and old growth forests have been destroyed in the past 100 years. Ninety percent of that stuff on which you and I and all other air breathing terrestrial life forms depend to sustain our basic life processes, gone. Do you realize that an average of twenty cubic feet of oxygen is absorbed by every man, woman and child each day - 140 billion cubic feet of oxygen daily - just to keep the human race in its current semi-catatonic state? This does not even include the billions and billions more consumed by their pet cats, dogs, gerbils, and livestock."

The professor had begun to sweat, a thin film of perspiration beading up on his broad forehead. He'd raised up on his haunches, plucking nervously at the grass between his feet.

"Oxygen, the 'other fuel' without which our gas combustion engines will not combust, our industrial furnaces will not fire, our electrical generators will not generate...do you have any idea how much of the Earth's available oxygen is burnt up every _minute_ to produce and operate all those items of comfort, convenience and pleasure we've come to take for granted: our cars, TVs, computers, air conditioning, refrigerators and lights...even our toilet paper?!"

He'd looked over the double row of mute, slowly shaking heads, then shook his own. "No, of course not. Who wants to know that? If you knew, if you really _got it_ , that might force you to give up something you like, or at least feel guilty about it, right? So let's just keep our collective head in the sand and let someone else solve the problem."

"But tell me this, young friends; what do you think will happen to our wonderful world of technology if it kills off, through its by-products, the very source of the most vital fuel it needs to run at all? No!" he'd shouted angrily at the instant response of raised hands that had shot up from his eager young audience, shocking them. He'd jumped to his feet, looking down on the group with a stern and penetrating glare. "Don't answer yet: It's far far too important for any glib or superficial replies."

The professor had started to pace, tight little circles that made the grass beneath his feet bleed green.

"It's a textbook case, ladies and gentlemen, the classic test tube culture growth curve; macrocosm/microcosm, all that crap!" He'd begun beating the bowl of his pipe against the heel of his palm, loosening the burned out residue, shaking it onto the grass at his feet. "Industry, like a culture of microbes in a nutrient broth, has been proliferating at a logarithmic rate, using up the finite set of nutrients and O2 on this planet while at the same time slowly poisoning the ambience which supports it. Test tube Earth," he'd smiled, looking dangerous.

"In a bacterial culture, what happens after a while is that the exponential growth curve levels off, then begins to decline rapidly, the microbe population dying off as the nutrients become too scarce and the toxic wastes of respiration too great to allow life to continue. Why should we suppose it to be any different in the macrocosm as in the microcosm? Aren't we in an equally finite and closed system?"

"Your assignment, my hope, is to go home and think about it, think about "test tube Earth" and think about OLLL: Think long and hard, diagram it out. By the time class reconvenes on Thursday," he'd concluded, abruptly walking way, throwing them a last facetious grin over his left shoulder; "perhaps you'll all have come up with some world-saving solutions for me. I sincerely hope so."

No solutions had come forth. And that was over sixteen years ago.

Hemmings sighed audibly: All Erlich's predictions had come true, and he hadn't even included the effect of the ozone hole in his calculations. This is what he was going to tell his audience today, even though by now it was really too late, wasn't it? Based on his own research, his calculations on what combination of biological and chemical factors would signify the tipping point and his ongoing sampling of ocean water from around the globe to confirm, it had already slipped past the OLLL, and unless the world took it seriously and began to do everything they could to replant the earth with oxygen producing organisms, then all terrestrial life would be gone in less than a decade.

Chapter 5

San Francisco

Then the dragon was enraged at the woman, and went off to wage war

against the rest of her offspring - those who keep God's commands.

Revelation 12:17

Marija awoke without warning: One moment she had been nowhere, nothing; the next she was back, eyes looking into the golden haze of morning. And she felt fine. A little sleepy, a little dazed, like a child who's overslept on a summer day; but otherwise perfectly normal.

She switched her gaze from the ceiling to the room before her, and there was Joe looking down at her with some unfathomable expression. His eyes were red and puffy as he tried to force his lips into a smile.

A shadow flitted at the edges of her glow of well-being, a knowledge she couldn't quite bring to mind right now, but it made her a touch uneasy. Some dream she'd been having, perhaps; maybe a nightmare of some kind. But it was over now.

Behind Joe another man appeared, moving into focus; dark-skinned, tall, curly black hair...Mike! What was he doing here? And why did he look so sad?

A rat of anxiety began to gnaw at her entrails. She flicked her gaze to the plastic tubes leading into her forearms, the stainless steel poles holding clear polyethylene bags of colorless liquid, the hard narrow bed with metal sides, clearly not her bed at home: It was a hospital bed, this was a hospital room! The rat bit down hard and vicious, her heart pumping wildly in alarm. Shadows were closing in fast, obliterating the light from her heart, darkening the room. She tried to reach out her arms to Joe, seeking the comfort of his solidness, his reality, but they had become impossibly heavy to lift. She tried to call out his name, but her voice stuck in her throat and all that was emitted, if anything, was a small garbled bleat, as when you call out in a nightmare.

The Beast loomed up in the nascent black dimension behind her eyes: His breath, stinking and hot, played upon her neck like fire and ice, simultaneously burning and chilling her skin. She sensed his fingers moving through her hair, now feeling like worms and roaches crawling across her scalp. A snake began to wrap itself around her skull, constricting its muscular body tighter and tighter until her brain threatened to explode through her bulging eyes.

"Oh my God, oh please God, no! No!" The scream reverberated inside her head, trapped there, a preposterous supplication demonstrating only her essential confusion in the matter.

The Beast laughed, a terrible sound, pitiless, evil, and triumphant. He whispered something in the woman's ear, then let go of her for a moment as she fought to escape his grasp, rushing for her own world, for sanity, for Joe and life and all it meant. She surfaced like a fish leaping desperately into the air, trying for freedom in a world where it cannot possibly survive. She opened her mouth, gasping; her eyes widening, seeking out Joe's. Then **He** pulled again, and Marija felt herself sucked back down, drawn by a power that was overwhelming, unfathomable. And all resistance fled away as if it had never been, no more than illusion, just like everything else in the universe of man; Illusion in the face of _His_ monstrous reality.

She was falling, falling endlessly into Him, into the timeless void that was His body, into the bitter rancor of his hatred, the blackness of his empty soul. She rushed into his emptiness like a lover, accelerating now, her velocity doubling and doubling again, the speed of light nothing compared to the speed of darkness: _His_ malignant darkness.

The weak glow of her world, the two small familiar figures that stood in its mystic confines reaching out to her, grew microscopic, infinitesimal, then winked out and were gone altogether, gone forever. And she was lost forever as well, lost in this something and somewhere unimaginable, still falling. Yet behind her there was still worse to come. It waited like a great black hungry maw, opening wide to suck her in, to swallow and digest her and turn the molecules of her being and identity into a part of the fiber of its own body and soul. There was a sudden rush, a roar as the thing closed over her; then nothing more.

Joe and Mike had rushed toward the woman on the bed the moment her eyes first blinked open. If their movement through space and time had been slowed to a stop frame action in Marija's mind, it had not seemed so to them. In the second or two it took them to reach her side she was gone: One tiny cry, and then her body stiffened, neck arched, and her eyes rolled back in her head leaving only white cornea to stare sightless at the men.

Joe grabbed her by the shoulders, screaming for the nurse: The priest, a step behind him, rosary in hand, screamed for God. The woman's body relaxed from its convulsed tetany, the white eyes filling with blood to become deep red. They glowed like spotlights, bright with inner power, as a vertical pupil appeared in the center of each. The woman's soft lips opened in a sneer, and she spat a putrid oily liquid into Joe's face.

"Get that cock-sucking priest away from me, asshole! He has no power here. None of you have power over me anymore, hear that choir boy? You lose, fuckers: You all lose this time. The world is mine, as good as done. No one can stop me now!"

"Marija!" Joe cried, backing away. The stuff on his face was burning, the smell making his stomach convulse in waves of nausea. He grabbed a corner of the bed sheet, trying to wipe it off.

Muldoon continued the litany of Extreme Unction, backing up a pace or two. A part of his mind toyed with the idea of confronting the beast by name and exorcising him, as they had three and a half years ago in the state park. But Marija had almost died in that attempt, and she'd been healthy then. He looked at the cancer stricken woman on the bed, so fragile now.

"Cocksucker!" She raged, red eyes flashing as the power within her frail form forced her bolt upright on the cot, her hands tearing the needles and tubes from her arms. The voice was not a woman's voice, not a human or even an animal sound. It was something from another world, another dimension.

"Fu-uck you, priest! Fuck you all, fuck every one of you miserable human creations!"

The nurse rushed in just then, pushing past with a syringe full of calming medications. Three feet from the woman she ran headlong into an invisible wall. It was almost comical, the way she bounced backward onto the floor, the breath knocked out of her in a loud whoosh, her expression priceless. Marija laughed aloud, clapping her hands like a child.

Now the nurse was lifted up into the air, her practical white shoes dangling a foot above the tile floor as the hand that was gripping the syringe turned towards its owner with murderous intent. Her eyes widened in fear, then next second she hurtled backwards into the side wall, impacting with an awful cracking noise. As she slid to the floor unconscious, Joe and Mike saw the glass syringe swaying back and forth, its metal point impaled deep into her neck.

"Oh my God," Joe whispered.

"I think we'd better leave," Mike advised.

"What? Why?"

"That nurse may be dead, or at least badly injured; and who do you think they'll blame? A bedridden woman dying of cancer? He's set us up again, Joe!"

"Who?" Joe said, but of course he knew the answer.

The priest looked hard at Joe, shook his head. "It's not over. It's so not over."

Joe looked back towards the bed, where his wife now lay silent and still, eyes closed.

"I can't leave her, Mike. You go, go onto Rome, do what you can."

Muldoon started to protest but stopped, seeing Joe's expression.

"Go quickly before someone comes. I'll tell them I was alone with Marija, that she went into convulsions or something, and the nurse was injured trying to subdue her. It happens," he shrugged.

The priest nodded. He clamped a hand on Joe's shoulder, squeezed it hard. Tears filled his eyes as he looked over at the woman on the bed; then he turned and fled. Joe gave him two minutes, then put his thumb to the red emergency buzzer.

A minute later the room was filled with emergency personnel.

"What the hell's going on here?" a burly male nurse challenged, noting the tubes and needles dangling uselessly from their poles, the smears of blood on Marija's arms where they'd been yanked out.

The oncology resident hurried past him to check MJ's vitals.

"Jesus, doctor," the EKG technician cried out just then, spotting the crumpled form of the nurse, looking like a pile of dirty linens in the corner. "It's Nurse Doherty!"

"Call security," the staff physician ordered tersely, moving from Marija to the stricken nurse. "And you, don't move!" he told Joe, glaring as he passed. He and the male LVN began ministering to the unconscious woman on the floor, removing the needle from her neck, checking her vitals, administering an antidote to counteract the meds she'd injected. Joe found himself growing edgy, impatient: No one was even looking at Marija anymore. The tubes still dangled from the poles, unconnected.

"Hey!" He blurted finally. "What about my wife? Why isn't someone helping her?!"

The doctor looked up from where he worked over the fallen nurse. "Because it's too late," he replied tersely.

"What?" Joe said, feeling suddenly cold all over. Beads of sweat popped out across his forehead. His heart took up a fast jungle riff against his ribcage.

"She's dead, passed on, passed away," the male nurse snapped coldly as he assisted the doctor to resuscitate his co-worker. "Nothing more we can do for her."

"No," Joe looked at the man with tears in his eyes, his denial a plea. "No," he turned to the doctor, begging. But they were back at their task, and offered no comfort nor hope at all.

And as Marija sank into the emptiness of death, one tiny spark of being dissolving into the bowels of the great void, her parts and sub-parts began disintegrating bit by minute bit until soon there would be nothing left of her former self at all.

Chapter 6

British Columbia

And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels,

Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."

Revelation 16:1

"Shit!" Moni swore as the heavy door was ripped from her hands and slammed against the outer wall of the structure by a blast of cold air.

The others looked up at her noisy entrance: They lounged carelessly around the great fireplace, their clothes already dry, their present comfort making them amnesic to their similar misery a short while earlier.

She grabbed the door's icy handle and yanked it shut against the storm, then turned to glare pointedly at the lack of gentlemen in the room.

"We're scientists," one of the accused shrugged amiably, saluting her with a half full snifter of brandy; "first fully liberated field."

She almost grinned, but lost the urge when she saw Lugol step forward from the hearth, his teeth spectacularly white and even against the deep bronze glow of his handsome face.

"You look like something the cat dragged in, then dragged back out again, Moni," he smiled, his accent thick and sexy.

"Skin deep, skin deep, skin deep," she muttered to herself, remembering his seduction, the ensuing copulation in which he'd manipulated her body like a plucked chicken being readied for the stew pot. She'd had one sent to him the next day from the local butcher, but she doubted he'd gotten the point.

The slender dark haired woman removed her long woolen trench coat, carefully shaking off the excess raindrops before they could soak in further and leave her smelling like a wet Labrador. She handed it gratefully to Doug in exchange for a towel, which she used to carefully pat dry her face then vigorously rub the wetness from her hair until the damp curls glowed like deep embers in the firelight. Doug carried her damp coat to a rack near the fire to dry.

"God I hate this damnable Washington weather," she exclaimed, plopping down in one of the overstuffed chairs and accepting a snifter of brandy from Lugol with a small, tight smile. "Where's Alan?"

"It's B.C., actually," Ben Takamoto corrected gently; "and we haven't actually seen the Professor yet, but you know how he loves an entrance."

The eight exchanged wry looks: Lynette, to her left, actually stifled a giggle, which Moni found slightly inane, considering the reason they'd all been summoned to Dr. Forsythe's remote island retreat in Puget Sound in the dead of winter.

The Brown Pelican, Alan's fishing trawler converted to a state-of-the-art marine lab, had plucked Monique Vasquez and the others from the rainswept docks of Victoria harbor early this morning and carried them fifteen long choppy miles to this isolated little rock in the middle of nowhere, depositing them seasick and half-frozen on the rickety pier, where they were met by Frederick Lugol, the renowned climatologist, and by microbiologist Leo Weinstracker - as pot bellied, balding and amiable as Lugol was not. Leo had achieved world-wide recognition for his pioneering work developing new strains of microorganisms capable of cleaning up oil spills, reducing CO2 levels in the ocean, and increasing its dissolved oxygen content. Both he and Frederick had already been on the island for days, conferring with Alan.

After several hours rest in their private cabins, which Moni had spent shivering under a pile of down comforters while her queasy stomach settled and her jet lag readjusted itself to Pacific Coast time, they'd been summoned to meet in the main lodge for supper and a briefing.

Moni had opted for a shower first, which the others apparently had not.

The entire complex was actually an aging summer resort on about 35 acres of rock and pine, which Forsythe had purchased with donations and grants a few years back and converted into the _EarthRight_ headquarters. It now boasted a first rate computer system with satellite and wireless linkages to every important university and private institution in the world that was involved in any sort of environmental research and/or eco-political activism. Monique had spent three months here last summer doing research for her doctoral thesis on the rate of destruction of estuaries along the North American coastlines, and the projected long term effects on marine life. She'd been amazed at the ease of access the compound's computer programs gave to all the most relevant and up to date findings in the field, cross-referencing, summarizing and synthesizing the complex and varied data from a variety of sources with a speed and accuracy that left her feeling humbled and rather useless.

"Yes, but remember it's you who designs the questions to ask, Moni," Alan had reassured her, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way. "And it's you who has the voice and the passion to push these predictions into the public face and make them aware, make them care enough to do something before it's too late. No computer can do that for us."

She fidgeted now in her chair, fumbling in her pocket to pull out the printed copy of the email she'd received three days earlier, and re-reading for the twentieth time the terse message: "Imperative that you attend meeting of EarthRight executive board to discuss necessary changes in our policy in order to address recent wartime ecological disasters and tipping point for global climate change. Discuss this with no one."

Something about the message had made her mouth go dry, her heart accelerate. It still did.

"So what do you think Alan has in mind?" she asked the room, sending the question to no one in particular.

The murmur of conversation abruptly stopped. It was the question on everyone's mind, but no one had dared voice it.

"He said discuss with no one," Paul Sorocco reminded her, wetting his thick lips nervously.

"But we've been brought here to discuss it," she said. "So I'm pretty sure the _no one_ doesn't include any of us."

Paul was one of the organization's top legal minds, as well as a theoretical analyst of global economies. He never spoke without first carefully weighing his words in the extensive debit and credit columns of his overly organized mind.

"Have another drink, Moni," a voice interjected before Sorocco could decide what to respond. "We'll all know soon enough, won't we honey?" It was Lugol: German god of climatology and congenital sexism, dripping his male superiority from perfectly capped fangs.

She hated the way his W's turned into V's: "It's We, We you stupid monkey. Learn English!" she screamed inside her head. Lynette Takamoto, Ben's wife, laid a gentle hand on her arm. "What's the use?" The older woman's expression said.

Moni sighed, shrugged, and took another drink.

At that moment Alan Forsythe chose to make his entrance from a side door, pushing a metal table laden with graphs, maps and DVDs...as well as sandwiches, coffee, sodas, chips and cheesecake.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "Grab some food and settle in, we've got a lot to go over tonight."

He caught himself - _too abrupt, too abrupt_ \- and tried on a smile as he surveyed the people in the room. He liked these eight people about as much as he could like any members of the human race right now, even himself. When he thought about what he had planned, what he had to do, he couldn't allow himself the sentiment of caring. "Shiva," he whispered under his breath. Aloud he said: "I see you all made it."

Somehow, even in this innocent greeting, Moni mused, Alan's expression always conveyed an undertone of sarcasm, of strange, bitter irony. I guess after a lifetime of too much caring, too many let downs and disappointments, you get like this, she thought. For just a moment she let her own guard down, looking at him. He turned, their eyes met and she felt his pain, felt it so intensely she gasped at the depth of it, the all-consuming nature of his life's passion. Then he looked away and she did as well, shaken.

"So, how bad is it Alan?" The voice, soft-spoken and inherently respectful, offset the abruptness of the question, the lack of polite social preamble.

Charles Hemmings, Marine Ecology professor and researcher from the University of Hawaii, was tired to his soul. He wanted a beer, he wanted his bed and his wife and his two beautiful golden children, and the sweet warm scent of the islands. But he owed Forsythe this showing, this support. He was the one scientist of any renown who had come out in support of Hemmings upon publication of his stunning and controversial theory regarding the projected depletion of world oxygen supplies due to the massive die-off of ocean phytoplankton over the next three decades: Most of the scientific community had either ridiculed him outright or remained tacitly silent on the subject. And as Hemmings subsequently lost funding, EarthFirst quietly continued to supply him with the grants he needed to continue his research.

"How bad?" Alan shot back, that awful irony in his tone again. "How bad do you think? Why don't I let you all decide for yourselves?"

He turned his back on the group, his hands shaking visibly as he withdrew one of the DVD's from the cart. Taking a deep breath to control his emotions, he turned back to the gathering, holding up the disk.

"Leo and his crew," he gave a curt nod of acknowledgement in the direction of the chubby, greying microbiologist; "took most of the footage you're about to see, and acquired the rest by hook or crook. The narration is Leo's voice. Most of his associates are still in the Gulf continuing to film the ongoing repercussions and sending us updated assessments, but I think we've got enough here to convince you."

" _Convince_ us?" Moni wondered, but kept the concern to herself.

The tall lean man turned abruptly to shove the dvd into the slot in the computer: As he did so, Moni noticed the firelight reflecting off the balding spot at the back of his head, carefully disguised by hair combed over. He was not a bad looking man, and she considered for a moment why he'd never married, but knew the answer as quickly as the question formed. His love was for the non-human things on the earth. They were his family, his children, and he grieved for them as they died at the hands of the enemy, which was us. So how could he love a human? How could he marry one and procreate more of his kind to grow and destroy the earth?

A large viewing monitor appeared now on the side wall, as two remote controlled mahogany panels slid noiselessly aside. In a moment Leo Weinstracker's drawn face appeared on the screen, the dark bags beneath his reddened eyes oddly accentuated by the stark glare of the desert sun behind him.

"We are here in the Persian Gulf," he was saying, his voice an emotionless scientific monotone that belied the furious passion underneath; "to assess the environmental damage caused by the massive oil spill which resulted from hostilities over the dwindling supplies of oil in this region. Whether this spill was the result of the inadvertent destruction of major pipelines by allied air assaults, or through conscious sabotage by one or the other of the opposing forces is, for our purposes, of little concern. Responsibility, in either case, weighs heavily on both sides. We are merely here for the body count, as it were."

The obligatory collage of dead and dying sea birds and marine mammals, suffocating under their coats of heavy black crude, brought the expected gasps and curses from the assemblage. Lynette, her matronly face awash in tears, swore lustily as she watched the death throes of the innocents. Ben took her hand to offer comfort, but when the footage switched to a beached porpoise gasping for breath on an oil coated beach, and when it looked into the camera with those too-intelligent eyes as if asking why we would do this, his tears joined her own.

The underwater footage, taken by remote controlled sleds, was even more devastating: the formerly crystalline blue waters now a dark and murky grave, the delicate pink and orange corals covered in black tar, the beds of sea grass and marine algae blanketed as well, strangling the breath out of the entire ocean food chain in that part of the sea. And everywhere the shallow bottom was covered in a deep layer of decaying fish and invertebrates.

Weinstracker went on to chart the grave statistics, the depth of the oil slick, its length and breadth and rate of spread as the disaster continued to worsen hourly. Hemmings felt physically ill, fully understanding the portent even before the older man made his prediction, projecting that by the time the spill was finally sealed it would have killed roughly one third of all life in that sea, and it would be decades - perhaps centuries - before it fully recovered.

"Or will it ever recover," Hemmings said aloud. "Sometimes there is a tipping point beyond which many species simply cannot return. We may be looking at a man-made mass extinction."

" _Another_ man-made mass extinction," Leo said pointedly.

"Over money," Paul Sorocco shrugged. "Every war that has ever been fought has been for economic gain, bottom line. And it has always resulted in the opposite: A huge cost for the many, a huge profit for the few, but ultimately a loss."

"Yes," Alan agreed, stepping forward now out of the shadows. "Yet every warring country throughout history has tried to justify their murder, pillage, rape and destruction by citing religious justifications. Interesting concept of God, eh?"

"Idiots!" Monique stormed, waving her drink in the air for emphasis. It slopped out over her hand, but she ignored it. "Think of what could have been done with the billions wasted in blowing up that country and others like it, if the money were invested instead into developing clean alternate energy? Not only could we have put brakes on this runaway greenhouse effect, we wouldn't need their goddam oil anymore, so they could go back to racing camels and praising Allah, or whatever they do, and no one would even care."

"Like I said," Paul put in; "it isn't about us, it's about them: the few, the rich, the I-don't-give-a-damn-about-anything-but-my-own-bank-account guys that run the world. They profit at our expense, the expense of the entire planet. Always have, always will."

"Blood money," Ben Takamoto spat; "just like on Iki Island. I saw my own mother and father beating the dolphins to death with clubs that day. I'll never forget the screams of the animals, how the entire bay was red with blood, the beach covered in bodies. And why? Because someone decided to blame them for our poor catch of fish that year, when the real problem was we'd been overfishing our oceans for years to make greater profit until there weren't enough fish left to reproduce."

Lynette could feel him shaking, and she took his hand, but he pushed her away, rising in fury. "Only now it's not a few thousand of a single species we've slaughtered but an entire sea full. When is it going to stop? When?!"

Alan looked at him silently, his grey eyes full of empathy for the man. He knew his pain, knew it exactly. And he had a plan, but it wasn't quite time to present it, not until they had readied themselves.

"How has it come to this?" Hemmings asked, his quiet voice commanding attention. "We try reason: we try using science, economics, philosophy, politics, morality, religion...Yet somehow we can't seem to break this terrible stranglehold those in power have over the rest of us, and nothing we can say or do ever seems to change their course a single degree."

"Those with money," Moni interjected. "Those with money control the world: they control every world leader, every politician, every major media source. And as Paul said, their sole purpose is to accumulate more money and more power for themselves, so all other reasons fall on deaf ears."

"She's right," Forsythe said, giving Moni a nod. "What, did you think there were actually any good guys left in positions of power?" He laughed, a bitter strangled sound, harsh and unpleasant even to his own ears. "It takes more than just money and a great smile to get elected to high office these days, it takes being a soulless megalomaniac as well. Our leaders are bought and paid for because they want to be: They are addicted to power, and it takes a lot of money to support that habit. They will lie, cheat, steal, lie some more: Think about our current president, the claims he makes. If you dissect them analytically, you have to realize that they are the most blatantly hypocritical assertions ever mouthed, in face of the reality of what he does versus what he says, and if he actually believes the crap he's spouting he's certifiable."

"Come on, Alan, tell us what you really think," smirked Lugol, who up to this point had been notably silent.

"Really?" Monique turned on him. "And what do you think, Frederick? Will their money and connections be enough to buy them a passport to some other planet when they get done fucking up this one beyond all recognition?"

He smiled at her, and she remembered that anger in women always turned him on. Shit. She got up and refilled her glass, taking a big swallow.

"So, Professor Hemmings," Forsythe said, redirecting everyone's attention back to the subject at hand: "I understand you gave a paper at the recent State of the World Oceans symposium in Australia. Tell me, how was your work received?"

Hemmings swallowed: He'd received Forsythe's summons while he was still on the plane back to Maui, and had barely time to shower and repack his clothes before flying to Vancouver, with no time to really reflect on what had happened and sort out his emotions. The last thing he wanted was to explore that right now in front of this elite audience; however all eyes were on him, and there was no graceful way to back out.

"They, uh, they basically shot it down," he said, and his eyes showed those who looked closely the pain that had cost him. Of all people on earth, he'd thought his fellow marine scientists would understand and support, if not applaud, the import of his studies, his conclusions. They hadn't.

"They determined my theories were unproven, claimed my data was incomplete, and my conclusions alarmist." He allowed a small smile to play on his lips, as he ran a hand through his thick sandy hair. "A pre-eminent marine biologist argued quite convincingly, to those wishing to be convinced, that the phytoplankton were well protected from the excess UV radiation in the polar oceans by the water itself - even though it is a generally accepted fact that the vast majority of diatomic species float at or within three feet of the ocean surface, where UV freely penetrates."

Chuck paused reflectively, shaking his head. "I still can't fathom why he would say that, nor why others would not challenge him, and thus tacitly support his claim."

"Did they at least agree that _should_ the water prove to be an ineffective barrier against UV radiation due to ozone depletion, that there was at least the _potential_ for genetic damage to the marine phytoplankton serious enough to decrease the atmospheric and dissolved oxygen levels on the planet?" Alan prodded.

"They wouldn't even take the argument that far," Hemmings sighed. "What they said was it was a matter of their _ethical responsibility to distance themselves from an unproven theory which could lead to public panic and economic loss._ Unquote."

"Then your research paper won't even be included in the publication of the symposium's work?" DeNoble asked. The speaker was an African American attorney who had begun his professional career as a civil rights lawyer until he had come to see the bigger picture: that white domination encompassed far more than the political and economic repression of minorities, that it threatened all species of which humankind was but one.

Hemmings shook his head: "They said it would discredit the symposium's work."

"Jesus!" Moni snapped. "Who's paying these guys anyway?

"Exactly," Alan smiled, that cold shark grin again. "Government and private industry grants contribute to 95% of the salaries and research money on which most scientists depend. And there are always always always strings attached."

"So what can we do?" Lynette asked.

"That's what I brought you here to discuss," he said.

Chapter 7

Rome, Italy

It was given power to wage war against God's holy people and to conquer them.

Revelation 13:7

Mike waited until most of the other passengers had debarked before leaving his seat. He had felt all at once, upon landing, an odd reluctance to emerge from the safety of this metal-skinned womb that had carried him over the poles from San Francisco to Rome.

Cardinal Magliano, seated in first class, had been one of the first off the jumbo jet, and no doubt quickly cleared through customs by Vatican authority and already on his way to Rome with the delegation sent to receive him. The two priests had decided to keep discretely separate during the trip, and hook up later in Mike's hotel room, away from prying eyes, to discuss their course of action.

Once he'd passed through customs and retrieved his bags, Muldoon stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal into the heavy caldron of heat surrounding the building, shimmering waves of it rising from the sidewalk on which he stood, and from the asphalt roadway clogged with buses, taxis and private automobiles, all of them inordinately fond of their horns. The air felt thick, and there was an odd hue to the atmosphere, a somber orange cast to the sullen sky that filtered down over everything, turning the atmosphere ugly and tense. A taint like distant sulfur teased at his senses, and the very sunlight seemed corrupted, its brightness permeated by an underlying gloom so palpable that day seemed little more than a peeling facade of cheap paint over the reality of eternal night that lurked beneath. And somehow this particular night, this particular darkness, was alive with the presence of evil.

The Monsignor was quickly drenched in sweat, a sheen of perspiration turning his dark skin slick and shiny. There was something wrong here, in this part of the world. He glanced around nervously at the other people milling nearby: Couldn't they feel it, this unholy presence? Were they numb, or did they simply not care?

"What's with the air?" he asked a porter standing nearby.

"Is from the oil fires in the Gulf," the man explained. "The winds change, coming from south all week: They carry smoke to us, discolor the sky, drop ash on everything. And for us, the smoke is act like a lid, trapping heat inside instead of blocking it like in Gulf area. A curse, truly," the Italian complained, mopping the dampness from his own brow with a soggy and stained handkerchief. "You want me get you a cab?"

"No, grazie; someone is supposed to be picking me up."

"Well then, have a pleasant stay, monsignor," he smiled.

Mike looked at him, then nodded and carried his bags quickly away. He was in casual clothing, jeans and a sport shirt: So how did this man spot him as a priest?

He set his bags down beside him and began scanning the vehicles parked along the roadway carefully, looking for Cardinal Bertini. They'd discussed the logistics of this in a skyped conference over the internet the day before.

The Vatican secretariat had already assigned Cardinals Falliano, Mendice and Bertini the task of officially greeting and picking up Cardinal Magliano at the airport, the two men in San Francisco were informed.

"All three of you?" Mike wondered aloud.

"Well, we are all now just visitors to the city, nuncios, with no part in the preparations. I guess they felt we could be spared," Mendice explained, his cherubic features undisturbed by any worry or suspicion.

The issue of whether to pick Mike up at the same time as Magliano was then discussed, but they all concurred it would be best to keep the monsignor's presence in Rome a secret for now, considering the role he'd played in ridding the Church of the threat posed by Pope Marcus when last he was in town.

"It would certainly draw attention, if you were seen getting into the official vehicle along with four well known Cardinal Bishops," Falliano mused. "There are paparazzi everywhere these days."

"I think what I should do," Bertini suggested; "Is to leave in the Vatican limo with the other cardinals, so as not to arouse suspicion; but then have them drop me off to hire a rental car with which I can take Muldoon to his hotel in Rome."

Mike continued peering into cars at curbside, his look of expectancy gradually fading to a frown.

"Ah, well, so he's been a little delayed by traffic, or had to wait for a rental car," the man told himself, pushing away the gnawing dog of worry that had begun to work on his stomach again. He sat on a concrete bench near the terminal exit, one that Bertini could not fail to see, and made himself comfortable, leaning back and resting his feet up on the suitcases; for a time he drifted.

Propelled by what he'd seen happen to Marija in the hospital, the undeniable return of the anti-Christ, Muldoon had quickly turned over his duties and keys to the archdiocese and, along with Magliano, booked the next available flight to Rome. Before leaving he'd made the arrangements for Marija's funeral and cremation at Joe's request, who promised he'd come to the Vatican himself as soon as he could get his affairs in order. The children, he'd said, would go live with their maternal grandmother for a while, until....the thought had gone unfinished or unspoken.

"Until what, my friend," Muldoon pondered now, looking at the flushed and fever-eyed countenances around him, the sullen sky and ash choked air. "We can't even guess at the outcome of this, can we?"

"And where is Bertini?" He said aloud.

He checked his watch: His plane had been late getting in, and it was already another hour and a half beyond that. Mike got up, dragging the heavier suitcase behind him like a pup on a rope, carrying the lighter one on his back. He approached the information desk to see if there were any messages for him. There were none. Nothing on his cell phone either. He'd give it another half hour, then take the hotel courtesy shuttle into the city proper if no one came.

********

About ten miles out of Fumicino, between the International Airport and Rome, on a straight stretch of four lane highway in clear weather, bright sun and light traffic, a black Mercedes limousine lay upside down in the center lane, it's roof flattened to the level of the passenger seats. Traffic coming to and from the airport was backed up for miles.

A cluster of emergency vehicles sniffed the carnage like curious hyenas. Amidst these mute metal beasts the human attendants moved back and forth industriously. Special machines had been brought in to chew through the door of the crushed vehicle, their noisy teeth wrenching and tearing apart the metal skin mercilessly. Two forms were removed and laid gently on the asphalt, pulses checked, airways cleared, efforts made, bodies covered in thin sheets. Finally the last occupant was removed, his neck encased in a foam and metal support. Again the emergency workers hovered over him checking vitals, attaching tubes and monitors, wrapping him carefully onto a body board and placing him gently into a large wire basket that had descended from the sky like a deus ex machina. Above, its source - a great noisome helicopter - hovered and shook the air impatiently.

As the paramedic attached the cable to the body basket, the victim's eyes suddenly shot open, wild with fear. He was trying to speak, but his efforts produced only wet-sounding grunts.

"Shhh," soothed the emergency tech, brushing the hair from the man's forehead with a tender hand, holding the nasal oxygen tube in place with the other. "Shhh, now; lay still. It's going to be all right."

Laying still was easy enough to comply with, Magliano discovered. He _couldn't_ move, not a muscle in his entire body below the neck. But it was not going to be all right, he wanted to tell the woman; nothing was going to be all right ever again.

Chapter 8

British Columbia

They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague.

Revelation 6:8

"So it begins," thought Alan Forsythe.

He'd told them of his plan, given them their assignments, and not one had balked.

He knew they wouldn't: They might have their individual quirks, but bottom line every one of them believed with their whole heart that man was a cancer upon the earth, an imprudent parasite that, unless stopped, would destroy his host utterly, and through that destroy his own kind as well. Thus for the survival of homo sapiens sapiens itself, as well as for all the other species on the planet, modern man had to be reined in, brought low, returned to a stage of development in which he could no longer rape and pillage and destroy everything else on the planet to satisfy his own greed. These others, like Alan, realized that all power had to be wrested from those in control in a single great coup, and that there was only one way to do that and leave the rest of the planet's ecosystems intact.

Each team had been sent forth the day before yesterday with 8 vials of genetically modified yersinia pestis disguised as toothpaste, hand lotion, shampoo and conditioner, all in two ounce containers which would easily pass inspection for baggage carry-on items. They were booked on flights to distant countries, using itineraries in which they would have to transfer at least once to a different carrier before reaching their destinations: On these flights the two travelers would each pour out the contents of one of their vials into two different airliner restrooms within an hour of embarking, so that a maximum number of other passengers would be exposed during the journey.

"What's the incubation period, Alan?" Moni had asked. "Just want to be sure I can get this all done before I come down with the damn thing."

"Four to seven days," Alan replied. "That should be time enough."

"If you get sick, just cough on everyone you can," Lugol told her, wearing his usual ironic smile.

"I've been working on a vaccine," the researcher offered. "Haven't had time to test it yet, but if anyone wants to give it a try..."

"We're part of the problem," Lynette had replied; "so we have to be part of the solution."

"She's right," her husband had added. "If we're going to kill off half the human race, let's not be hypocrites about it. Put your money where your mouth is, true?"

"Well I'm taking it," Hemmings had countered, looking around at the group defensively. "I've got young kids; I'm thinking of them, not me."

"It's okay, Charles: It's an individual choice. No judgment here," Paul said, putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

So they were on their way, Ben and Lynette to Beijing via Tokyo, and a day or two later from Beijing to Singapore via Seoul. Leo and Doug would be travelling together to New York with a transfer in Chicago, and then - after a two day stopover so as not to arouse suspicion by Homeland Security - flying out from New York to LA via Denver.

Monique Vasquez and Frederick Lugol would be reluctant companions from Vancouver to Paris via Munich, and then would split up. Lugol had secretly begged to be partnered with Monique, but -knowing her aversion to the German - Alan had only put them together on the first leg and she'd still squawked vehemently about that. After Paris, Moni would go on to Rome with a transfer in Zurich, and Lugol would travel to Moscow, changing planes in Frankfurt.

Paul Socorro and John DeNoble would go to Cairo by way of London, then from Cairo to Mumbai and from there to Sao Paolo. The only one who would travel strictly solo was Charles Hemmings, who would travel to Sydney Australia via San Francisco, and from Sydney to Mexico City via LA.

Within a week, every major city in the world would be infected with this new, super-virulent version of pneumonic plague, with a CFR of roughly 90% untreated, and 30 to 40% even when treated with antibiotics. As the infrastructure of the modern world collapsed, even more would die from outbreaks of cholera and other diseases that follow pandemics like vultures follow dying herds. In the months that followed, even those who had managed to avoid becoming ill would begin to suffer from starvation, lack of potable water, and the outbreaks of violence that would result when desperate survivors began rioting over these disappearing resources.

_And me_? He glanced over at the small cryo freezer in the corner of his lab, where one last vial of the deadly plague remained: _I will count bodies and track the progress of this hand of god as it sweeps the world clean of its biggest mistake, until it is time for me to join them._

Chapter 9

Rome, Italy

And it was given authority over every tribe, people, language and nation. All inhabitants of the earth will worship the beast whose names have not been written in the Lamb's book of life.

Revelation 13:8

It wasn't until the morning following his arrival in Rome that Muldoon finally learned about the accident. He'd tried calling and texting Magliano once he got to his hotel room, but only static responded. Then he'd dug through the papers in his suitcase and found Bertini's cell number, but his call went immediately to voice mail, and his message was never returned.

Sunday morning he stopped for an early lunch at a small sidewalk cafe along the Via Marsala, across from the university, and had just settled down to his meal when a newspaper left on a nearby table caught his eye.

"Due Cardinalis Morte, Uno Vicino Alla Morte" the headlines read.

His heart made a great sickening lurch in his chest. " _Morte_ "? Dead? He grabbed the arm of a passing waiter, trying unsuccessfully to keep the quiver of alarm out of his voice.

"Scusi, signore, but could you please tell me what this headline says? My Italian is reproachable."

"Certainly, sir: It say that two cardinals die and one near death. Was terrible auto accident yesterday, a pity, no?"

"Who?" Mike demanded, tightening his grip.

"Mi scusi?"

"I'm sorry," Mike said, letting go of the man's arm, who brushed at it as if offended. "Which Cardinals were in the accident, please?"

"Ah quelli che sono morti...that were our beloved former secretary of state Cardinal Bishop Mendice, and the former Bishop of Ostia, Cardinal Falliano. The one survivor is Cardinal Magliano...I don't know him so well."

"Oh my God," Muldoon said, slumping back in his chair. His head pounded, and he gripped it in both of his palms.

"Are you all right, signore?"

"They were friends of mine," Mike whispered in a rough voice. "Magliano and I flew in together yesterday from America. Does it say what hospital he's in?"

"Si, Padre. I am so sorry, truly. It say he in Hospitale Universita di Roma. It is right across the way...shall I call a cab?"

"No, no, I can walk there faster," Muldoon muttered, fishing a wad of paper money from his pocket. "This should take care of my bill. Grazie."

Muldoon sat in a stiff wooden chair near the bed, watching Magliano breathe. The Italian's usually ruddy complexion was grey, his lips sagged lifelessly around the tube that exited his mouth. An orange accordion hung from a nearby pole, wheezing life into his lungs, but there was no monkey with a silver cup there to collect the coins of tribute due.

The cardinal said nothing, made no movement, gave no sign; yet suddenly Muldoon felt an irresistible urge to get in touch with Bertini, to make sure he was all right.

He frowned, staring at the comatose Cardinal: "Was this no accident?" he asked aloud. "Is Bertini in danger?"

There was no response, no voice inside or outside his head; yet he felt again the need to get in touch with Bertini, stronger than ever. At that very moment his cell phone beeped, announcing a new text message. It was from Bertini, asking him to meet in one hour at a particular restaurant, address given. It also instructed him to take three different cabs to three different locations first, before taking the last one to the restaurant.

_Cloak and dagger,_ he thought, shaking his head. _Do I look like Jason Bourne?_

He looked down at his unconscious friend: "All right, little father," he said, bending to kiss the man's sunken cheek. "You hang in there, okay? I need you to help me beat him. I'll go check in with Bertini, then I'll be back."

He started to walk away from the bed, but hesitated, suddenly drawn to the bedside table. Looking around to be sure no one was coming by the room, he slid the drawer open and peeked inside. Within were the cardinal's personal effects: his shattered eyeglasses, his rosary, his wallet, and a set of keys with the Vatican insignia on the key ring. This last he slipped into his pocket, then shut the drawer and stepped away quickly, blinking back tears. "Get better, Luigi," he whispered, then turned and left the room.

The Marco Polo restaurant was a large, family style dining establishment on the ground floor of a large hotel catering to English-speaking tourists. At this hour it was more than half full with noisy families and retirees looking for a reasonably-priced midday meal. Although unlikely to be recognized by this particular crowd in any case, Paolo Bertini was obviously taking no chances. Attired in a turtleneck sweater and slacks, and wearing a knit watch cap and aviator style sunglasses, he had been invisible to Muldoon, who walked right by without noticing him. Suddenly he felt a tug on his arm, and a teenage boy with a fresh bout of acne, led him quietly over to the corner booth where Paolo was having coffee and what looked like some kind of meat filled pastry.

"Order something," he whispered to Muldoon, rising. "It will look suspicious if you don't. And for God's sake give me some kind of friendly greeting: a hug, a handshake, anything."

Mike gave the Cardinal a hug, ordered a sandwich and a cola, then waited for Bertini to begin.

"How is he?" The priest asked.

"Not good: They say if he recovers he'll be paralyzed. Right now he's still on life support. What happened, eminence?"

"Don't call me that," Bertini warned in a low voice. "Here, in public, I'm Paolo, okay?" He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "I was supposed to be in the limo too, you know. I have no idea what happened, but I have absolute certainty who was behind it. These boys," he indicated the young man who'd pulled Muldoon over to the table and another lad of similar age, who were now seated across from them in the booth; "have something to show you. Something that will explain a lot, I think, but will probably raise more questions and problems than answers."

"So let's see it."

"Not here. First we have to get you someplace safe. I've rented you a small flat in the northeast district: not the best neighborhood, but it's an area where people don't ask too many questions. I have my own safe house, a few blocks away."

"But why?"

"They know you're here, Mike. You booked your flight under your own name, right?"

"Well of course, I mean my passport, there was no time to change anything, and..."

"You've been marked by the Vatican ever since you were here before, ever since Sixtus. They knew the second you booked your flight; they had people watching for your arrival at the airport. And they will get rid of you at first opportunity. I can't let that happen, not now that I know their plan, and how few of us there are left to try to stop it."

The sandwich arrived, but Mike found he had no appetite for it.

"Eat anyway," Bertini ordered. "Don't stand out."

Mike chewed, it may as well have been cardboard, while Bertini continued to fill him in.

"Here's the address," he said, handing Mike a slip of paper with some numbers scribbled on it. "If you followed my directions coming here..."

"I did," the priest assured him.

"Then you probably lost whoever might have tried to follow you. But to be safe, do the same thing again: Take 3 cabs to 3 different sites - here's a Baedeker Guide, just pick tourist spots at random, places where there will be lots of crowds to lose yourself in - and then after the last place you go to, catch a cab to the address on this paper. The woman there is named Vittoria: she'll give you the key. I can have Dante," (he gave a nod in the direction of the first boy) "go get your bags from the hotel and bring them to you if you need them, but..."

"No," Mike interrupted. "I have my briefcase with my computer and important papers here with me: Everything else is just clothes and toiletries: From what you've said, I think I'd be safer to simply buy new ones."

"Good," said Bertini. "So, finish your lunch, do a little shopping, take your trip around the city and get back to your new room by evening, agreed?"

"Of course."

"We will come over then, and show you what we have to show you. And then we will try to figure out what to do about it," the cardinal said: "If we can do anything at all."

"As God wills," said the monsignor, and if he had ever meant it, it was now.

Chapter 10

Zurich

The first angel went and poured out his bowl on the land, and ugly

festering sores broke out on the people who had the mark of the beast

Revelation 16:2

Moni Vasquez found herself pacing the room again, back and forth, back and forth, like a cat in heat but without the sexual hunger, or much of it. More like an itch of the soul, an ache of heart, a restless fearful longing. Where was he, why didn't he call? What was happening? She looked at the calendar, looked at the map on the table, estimating his timetable to Frankfurt, from there to Moscow. He should have called by now! Already reports were beginning to filter in from disparate places around the globe, some kind of mystery illness that had yet to be diagnosed, its outbreak pattern being traced to find out what the victims had in common.

Her cell phone rang just then and she jumped, emitting a nervous little squeal, hoping it was Lugol.

She hesitated until the third ring, then picked it up, pushed the green tab, and slowly brought it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Moni, it's Paul, Paul Socorro." He broke off in a fit of coughing, then continued. "I think we've got problems, dear. I just wanted to give you a heads up: This thing seems to have a shorter incubation period than we were told." He coughed again, a fit that seemed to go on and on until she was genuinely worried.

"Paul? You okay?"

"No, not really. Maybe this thing just hit me faster because I'm old, but I don't think I've got a lot of time left. I've been to London and Egypt, and from there to Mumbai. That's where I am now, but I don't think I'll be allowed on any airplane the way I look, and DeNoble's just as bad, so we can't get to Jo'burg. If there's any chance you can take that trip for us, I'd appreciate it."

"Okay, okay Paul, I'll try. You get better, okay?"

No, that ain't gonna happen. See you in hell, babe."

There was another fit off coughing, then the phone went dead.

Moni clicked the phone off, threw it on the bed and walked over to the window, staring at the sidewalk below, wondering what exactly hell might be like, if there really were such a place. _All my science never really did disprove God, did it?_ she thought. _He was always the null hypothesis waiting behind every failed theory._

Thoughts swirled in her head, refusing to either go away or firm up: What if we were wrong, what if we played God when we had no right to? It was suddenly so unreal, like a cheesy soap on daytime TV: A group of fanatical environmentalists unleashes a deadly biological agent on the world, killing half of mankind - TEOTWAWKI - the end of the world as we know it. Are you fucking kidding? And yet that was exactly what they'd done, exactly what Freddy Lugol was doing right now in Moscow. And if Paul was dying already, what about Fred?

Where are you? Call me dammit!

She turned away from the window abruptly, heart racing with fear and guilt. We have sealed their doom, brought about the demise of not "mankind" but of millions - no, billions - of individual human beings, men women and children, from the very old to the very young, dying in agony - and worse, watching those they love die in agony - all to rid the world of the few in power that would destroy it all for their own soulless greed.

Her eyes grew huge with the thought, her hands to either side of her face like a living portrayal of "the scream."

"Oh Freddy," she whispered, "I don't know any more if we've done the right thing."

She ran over to the bedside table: Sure enough, inside were not one but three Bibles, one in French, one in English, one in German.

She remembered the passages her grandmother used to read her, scary bedtime stories from the Book of Revelations, meant to ensure the 8 year old would never engage in sex or any other bad thoughts or acts when she grew up. Maybe they were just boogeyman tales, but phrases kept popping to mind now for some reason, things about the sea turning to blood and plagues unleashed on mankind. She skimmed through the English version, then read again more slowly.

Once she was done reading, she decided to flush her last vial of plague bacillus down the toilet rather than taking it to Rome.

"I'm done, Alan," she said out loud as the creamy liquid circled the drain. She flushed it four more times, just to be sure.

********

Moscow

Frederick Lugol was in deep shit. He'd finally stopped denying that fact about two hours ago, and after a couple of minutes wasted on useless despair over the finality of his situation, had set about taking the last actions of his life that he found truly necessary.

Funny how no matter what your high blown expectations of self, no matter what your internal oratory regarding your role in the world, your duty to the planet, it all came down to simple relationships in the end, just that same stupid emotion the lowest were as capable of as the most elite: love. Loving someone. Wanting to be loved. And if that were truly all that was important in life, how did we manage to muck it all up so badly?

Right now, all he wanted was another moment with Monique, to hold her in his arms, kiss her sweet mouth one last time, look into those deep green eyes of hers, and tell her that - despite his disgustingly chauvinistic veneer - he truly loved her with all his heart and soul.

"How absolutely camp, how bourgeoisie and pedestrian you've turned out to be in the end, old boy," he told himself, shaking his head.

They'd managed to mend fences in Paris, sharing a hotel room overnight before taking the flights next morning to their final destinations.

"One last time, for old time's sake," he'd teased her. "After all, there won't be another chance for any of this will there? And Paris is the city of love."

"I thought it was the city of lights," she'd countered, sipping the glass of wine in the hotel dining room with a little smile. Sitting next to him on the plane for 11 hours had helped break the ice, the natural magnetic pull between them strengthened by the enforced closeness. She'd even slept with her head on his shoulder for several hours, her soft breathing punctuated by an occasional snort which he found adorable.

"We'll turn them off," he'd said.

They were booked on flights for the following morning, but he'd convinced her to let him reschedule for the following day, offering to pay the extra fees - "It's the end of civilization we bring, Moni, so what's another day?" - and they'd had a wonderful day and even more wonderful night, although they'd seen literally nothing of Paris. Next day they'd gone to the international airport together, Lugol to board his flight to Moscow via Frankfurt, there to deliver his last two vials of the deadly plague; and Moni to board the plane to Zurich, and from there to Rome. As they stood at the entrance to the terminal he'd asked what her address in Rome would be.

"What's the point, Freddy?" She said with a shrug. "I won't be there long enough to matter."

"Just tell me," he'd said. "I want to be able to picture where you are, love; that's all."

Now, as he felt the waves of illness sweep over him, he put on his last surgical mask and gloves, and affixed a label to the small padded box on the bedside table - _Monique Vasquez, The Hotel Ascenscion, 357 Via Caberon, Rome, Italy -_ and sealed it in a plastic freezer bag.

Then he dialed the front desk and asked them to call him a cab.

It took about all he had left to put on his socks and shoes, his heavy overcoat and hat, and take the elevator to the first floor of the large old fashioned Gallery Park Hotel in the center of Moscow.

Outside the air was frigid, a light early spring snow flurry just beginning to fall from the colorless sky. The pavement smelled wet, musty, the air tasted cool in his parched mouth. As the snowflakes landed on his burning face and neck he felt an uncontrollable shiver rush up and down his spine, and the world spun for a moment. Quickly he turned up the collar of his long coat and hurried into the warm belly of the cab.

"Puscht du web de leenya," Lugol said, giving it his best shot.

The driver turned around with a confused look and asked him something in Russian.

"Uh, Post Office?" Lugol said.

"Oh sure, Post Office," the cabbie said. "Why not?"

The building was crowded, a long queue waiting for service and only one worker, who looked like she might have been paid to see how slow she could go and how many people she could piss off.

He decided to try being real sick and see if that helped.

The coughing started as a minor effort, but it quickly became its own monster, shaking him with spasm after spasm. People moved away from him, not wanting whatever it was he was selling. Someone nudged him forward in the line, then another and another: Soon he found himself at the front of the line, nodding and gasping thanks to the people around him. At the window he pushed the small package, still in the plastic baggie, through the bars to the worker, and - not wanting to make any more attempts at bad Russian - decided to try German.

"Was kostet der e-mail?"

"Drei hundert Rubel," she replied, looking bored.

"Wie viel für die Zustellung über Nacht?"

"Fünfhundert Rubel."

"Gut, gut," he said, and peeled off five one hundred Ruble notes from his wallet. He would have paid five thousand if that was what it took to get the package to Moni overnight. Somehow he just wanted to know she had it before he, before he....Another coughing fit shook him, and the thought was lost in his attempt to breathe.

"Was ist in dem Paket?" the woman asked, filling out the customs form.

"Ein Ring für mein Mädchen. Ich freue mich, dass sie mich heiraten," he replied, drawing sentimental "aahs" from the onlookers.

Of course he wasn't really going to ask Moni to marry him; that would be ridiculous considering the circumstances. But it _was_ a ring, his mother's engagement ring actually: He thought Moni might appreciate the sentiment, and it made it a little easier for him, to know she would have it.

What she didn't know was that she was probably going to be all right, that he had obtained a vial of the vaccine from Alan and slipped it into her orange juice the morning before they left the compound.

Back in the hotel room, he lay on the bed, the last of his energy drained. His head pounded in fearsome waves of convulsing pain, his brain swam in and out of coherent thought and waking nightmares. He wanted to call her, to hear her voice, but he knew it wasn't safe, that eventually the authorities would figure out he was one of those behind the spread of this plague and his calls would be traced. Besides, his throat was nearly closed now, so speech wasn't really an option. He could barely swallow his own spit, and then only with a great deal of pain and difficulty. Mucous poured from his nose in great greenish yellow streams, and burbled thickly in his lungs, but he was afraid to cough, afraid that once the coughing started he wouldn't be able to stop this time.

After a while he sat up.

"You pussy," he told himself. "Here you are, a walking vial, and all you can do is sit in this hotel room feeling sorry for yourself? Get out and spew mucous on someone!"

He went into the bathroom and peered into the mirror with fever-reddened eyes. His throat was grotesquely swollen, blotched with great dark streaks of purple and blue-black beneath his ear lobes. He pulled the neck of his turtleneck sweater high enough to cover the deformity, sighing at the awfulness of his appearance. His beauty was completely gone, just the monster underneath left to show its face to the world, the red-eyed neckless beast unmasked. He laughed at that, but it hurt.

As he left the hotel, the air wrapped its arms around him in an icy embrace, letting him know he'd forgotten his overcoat. No matter, it was just a 15-minute walk from the hotel to the Paveletskaya Metro Station, where hundreds of commuters could be found boarding trains and buses to all four corners of the city at this time of day - the perfect spot to spread his little gift throughout Moscow in the shortest possible time.

Chapter 11

Rome, Italy

And you have given them blood to drink as they deserve.

Revelation 16:6

Muldoon, now that he'd been alerted to the potential danger he was in, was careful to observe his surroundings with a wary eye. Because of that, he'd easily spotted a couple of men following him at the first two tourist sites he went to. They wore non-descript clothing, but there was none-the-less something about their presence that caught his eye at the Trevi Fountain, and again at the Colosseum. Although they could have just been a couple of tourists coincidentally going to the same attractions he was, he decided to visit an additional three historic sites, using a convoluted route that took him back and forth across the city in a different cab each time. He finally stopped in Via Del Corso to pick up some clothes and toiletries, and when he felt sure he had lost the men, gave the final cab driver the address on the card Bertini had given him.

He was left off in front of a small nineteenth century hostelry, with weeds in the stone pots that fronted the entry.

Vittoria was an older lady with an air of practiced disinterest in the goings on of the human race around her. She told him the rent was paid for the month, no loud noise after ten pm and keep female visitors to a minimum. He agreed he could comply with all her rules and she handed him the key.

The apartment was on the second floor, dingy but well-scrubbed. It was a single large room with a pull down Murphy bed, a small dresser and desk, his own bathroom and a kitchenette with a hot plate and microwave.

He'd only thought to buy a loaf of French bread, some olives and a brick of cheese from the marketplace, his mind on other things than his stomach at the time. Now, however, he found he was famished, and set about making a meal of it.

A knock on the door interrupted his third sandwich. Light had already disappeared from the sky, and in this neighborhood at the fringes of the city proper, the streets were mostly unlit.

"Who's there?" Muldoon whispered through the closed door.

"It's Paolo, and the two boys."

Muldoon opened the door quickly and let the three in, closing and locking it behind them.

"I'd offer you something," he said, waving the sandwich at them apologetically; "but I forgot to shop. Would you like a little bread and cheese?"

The boys shook their heads, and Paolo demurred.

"We've eaten," he said. "Go ahead with your meal while the boys prepare their video."

"This place have wi-fi?" the one called Dante asked.

"God knows," said Muldoon; "I haven't had a chance to check it out yet."

"It does," Paolo said. "That was one of my requirements. I knew we'd be needing it."

While the boys fiddled with their small laptop, Bertini filled Mike in on what he was about to see.

"You recall, of course, the coronation of Sixtus?"

"Of course," Mike nodded.

"Inside St. Peter's Basilica, Sixtus -as a new Pope traditionally does following his coronation - officiated over the high mass, giving the Eucharist to all the cardinals of the church with his own hand. The only cardinals not partaking of the bread and wine were myself, Cardinal Secretary Mendice, and Cardinal Falliano, because we were all officiating with him. There were also these two young lads" (he gave a nod in the direction of the teenagers) "who had won the special honor of assisting as altar boys for that occasion."

"So...?" Mike said.

"Well, although photographs were not allowed to be taken of the sacred mass, and all news people had to remain outside in the Piazza, it appears boys will be boys." He looked over at the pair with an expression of approbation, and the two youngsters looked down with a blush.

"They managed to sneak a miniature camera into the mass, disguised as a small rivet on Dante's eyeglass frame. And when he later posted the footage he'd taken on You Tube \- anonymously of course - it showed something very strange and unsettling in the chalice of wine. Most people thought it was just photo-shopped for sensationalism, and the Church quickly acted to have it removed from the internet. But when authorities finally tracked down the perpetrators - our friends Dante and Mateo here - the boys swore upon the Holy Bible itself that what they filmed had not been altered. For their own safety their families sent them to a private school in France where they've remained for the past three years, but I located them and brought them here secretly. They will be staying with me in my own flat until we know better what to do."

"It's ready, father," Dante said.

"All right. Michael, pay careful attention to the reflection in Pope Sixtus' eyeglasses as he dips the wafer into the chalice of consecrated wine."

Muldoon leaned in over the small computer screen as the video began. There were several minutes in which the bread and wine were consecrated by Sixtus, followed by the rite of communion, as he dipped a wafer into the chalice of transubstantiated wine and placed it into the first cardinal's open mouth, then to each cardinal in turn as they proceeded one at a time to the altar.

"Now," said Bertini.

The camera suddenly moved in, as Dante stepped forward to assist an elderly cardinal back to his feet from the kneeling position. As he did so the camera filmed a close up view of the Pope's eyeglasses: On their lens was a reflected image of the consecrated wine at the bottom of the deep chalice. Something appeared to be moving through that blood red liquid, something wet and slithery, like a worm with eyes, a legless salamander...or worse. And now more creatures appeared: the wine writhed and pulsated with them, a red sea alive with evil, while behind the splashing fury in the depths of the goblet a pair of crimson eyes opened, eyes with vertical slits for pupils.

"My God," Mike exhaled in horror. "It's _him_."

"You understand what this means? What this has done to our church?" Bertini asked.

"Every cardinal took the Eucharist that day?'

"Everyone but the three I mentioned, and two of those are now dead."

"So by accepting his unholy blood, they have been corrupted..." Mike muttered, thinking out loud.

"Corrupted by the blood of Satan, made into his own minions, now to do his work instead of God's," Paolo Bertini confirmed. "And no doubt they've passed this corruption on every time they consecrated wine in their own churches, at their own masses, turning their Catholic parishioners one by one across the world into slaves of the devil himself."

"Not us," Dante put in.

"No," Mateo confirmed; "neither of us have been to mass or taken communion since that day. It totally freaked us out, man!"

"San Francisco has also remained untainted, since Magliano was not a Cardinal until he was appointed to the archdiocese after Sixtus' death; but how long can it stay that way now that Magliano is...."

The thought of Magliano, lying comatose in the hospital bed, brought pause to both men, whose eyes saddened, remembering.

"What are we going to do, your Eminence?" Muldoon asked after a moment.

"For now, we stay safe, undercover. Get rid of your cell phone and use throwaways. Watch your back wherever you go. It's not even safe to visit Magliano right now, but I will find someone who can keep an eye on him and let us know how he's doing. Meantime we observe what's going on in the Vatican from a distance, and we pray to God to guide us. We must have faith, remembering that God is stronger than Satan, and ultimately He will prevail."

"How long is _ultimately_?" Mike wondered, but he kept that thought to himself.

Chapter 12

Sydney, Australia

Wake up, strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have found your deeds unfinished

Revelation 3:2

Charles Hemmings stood on a beach in Sydney, watching the waves. It was a beautiful Indian summer day, and he looked out at the surfers dancing on the head high waves with a nostalgic, almost fatherly affection, knowing that most would soon be dead.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered.

He'd taken the flight from Vancouver to San Francisco, dutifully emptying one of the shampoo bottles full of yersinis pestis onto restroom sinks and faucets in the airlines two bathrooms. From San Francisco International Airport he'd boarded a Quantas jumbo jet to Sydney, spreading two more vials of the deadly bacteria cultures inside four different bathrooms mid- flight. For the rest of his life he'd live with the images of the people on board that plane: the young couple who were very obviously on their honeymoon, the retired couple off on what they kept telling everyone who would listen was the vacation of a lifetime; the two little blond-haired girls whose mother had led them into the restroom as he exited, right after he'd smeared the washroom surfaces with a thin film of black death, enough bacteria to wipe out every person in Sydney.

He was done. Enough was enough. He was supposed to fly out to Mexico City tomorrow with the last vial, but they'd just have to find another way to die without him. Charles Hemmings was going home.

He called his wife.

"Babe, it's time."

"What, Chuck?" She said, but the alarm in her voice said she knew what he was talking about. Get the kids, unmoor the sailboat and go to our compound. Do it now. Just grab your most essential personal shit and go!

"You know," he said aloud. "I'll be back as soon as I can and meet you there."

"Okay," she said, and rung off.

He then threw the cell phone into the ocean and went to his hotel room to pack.

Maybe what had done it for him, finally put him over the edge, had been the call from Lynette this morning, describing in glowing terms how cleverly she and Ben had distributed their "potions", as she called them. "It was Ben's idea really, to smear it on the toilet handles and faucets, places they'd be sure to touch. I'm so proud of him, proud of both of us both really. We've done it, Charles: They'll have to listen to you now, listen to all of us! I just wanted you to know!"

She sounded like a damn fanatic. What right did a sixty-five year old woman have to be a card-carrying fanatic?

"Okay, well good luck Lynette. But better not call again, they may trace the calls."

"Oh pooh, silly; what are you worried about? We're all going down with the ship anyway!"

_Not me,_ he thought. _Not me: Somebody has to stay around to rebuild things the right way, or this will just happen all over again._

He'd been planning for this eventuality the past ten years. His first step had been to acquire a hundred twenty acre parcel of land in a remote valley on the north-eastern end of Hawaii's big island, accessible only by boat. Bit by bit, with grants and loans he would never pay off, he'd built the compound: a series of self-contained greenhouse style shelters patterned after the failed Biosphere project in Arizona, but learning from its mistakes. Four of his grad students took turns living in the compound and helping the permanent caretakers - an elderly farm couple of Japanese, Hawaiian and Pilipino descent, - to maintain the plant and animal life in the greenhouse domes in perfect balance, as well as the 40 acres of papaya, pineapple, sugar cane and banana fields beyond the domes. Right now it was Jake and Suzanne's turn to oversee the place, so they'd be there when Linda arrived with the boys. He'd pick up Drew and Alicia in Maui, provided the disease hadn't reached the islands yet.

As he dumped the last vial of the bacteria culture down the sink, he said a silent prayer that everyone would get along okay in the confines of the compound without undue drama: They would most likely stuck with each other there in total isolation for years.

Chapter 13

Rome, Italy

The time has come ....for destroying those who destroy the earth.

Revelations 11:18

Monique filled the paper basket with the bitter aromatic ground beans she'd bought at the corner market the evening before, and turned the machine's switch to "on". As the coffee brewed she walked to the window, opened it and stuck her head out. The morning sky had a somber orange glow as if the air itself were rusting. The day was already warm, heavy feeling - too warm for early spring even in Rome. A thin film of ash covered the windowsill and she ran a finger through it, leaving a white streak on the sash, a black fingertip. She looked at her finger in disgust, thinking bitterly of the Gulf war, the terrible fires that raged on and on, blackening the sky for a thousand miles, killing fish and wildlife, and disrupting global weather patterns. She turned away in anger, feeling momentarily justified in what they'd done, and wondering where Frederick was. But part of her knew he must be dead. He must be, by now, right? Her heart ached at the thought: Was he? Could he possibly survive? And she wondered as well when it would be her turn.

When the coffee was done she took a sip, made a face, added sugar and milk and took another. Then she slipped on a light sweater, jeans and tennis shoes and ran down the flight of stairs to the lobby.

There was a small sundries shop in the hotel lobby that sold candy, gum, Italian souvenirs made in China, travel guidebooks, tickets to almost anything, and newspapers. She handed the vendor a bill and took the English Version of Il Messaggero newspaper from him.

As she turned to go, she glanced down at the headline splashed across the top half of the newssheet in dark red ink.

Two Cardinals Dead, One Near Death

Her heart stopped, time stopped. She felt as if she were suspended from the ceiling, dangling in the tarnished gilt womb of the old hotel lobby. She read the headline again, and then again. She couldn't seem to get past the headline. A terrible darkness rushed up from the depths of some deeper void to devour her soul, and she fell into it with a sigh of regret.

"Signorina? Signorina? Are you all right, are you ill?"

Monique opened her eyes: The blurry face of the vendor was slowly coming into focus above her, his brow knit with lines of concern as he fanned her with the magazine he'd been reading.

"I, I'm all right," she demurred, struggling to rise. "Did I faint or something?"

"Yes, signorina, you fell like a rock. Boom!" he demonstrated with his hands. It would have been comical but the back of her head hurt and she could feel there was a lump already starting to rise beneath the hair.

He helped her to her feet, then retrieved the newspaper she'd dropped when she fell.

"You sure you okay?" he said. "No sick or...you know," he patted his belly.

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Perhaps it was the shock, the news," said, handing her the paper. "A terrible tragedy, yes?"

"Yes," she nodded; "It must have been the shock." She glanced down at the headline, and once more the room began to spin. "I, I think I'll go back to my room and lay down," she said.

Something nagged at the back of her mind, a memory she couldn't quite bring to the forefront, something to do with a dream she had the night before after flying in from Zurich.

Back in her room, she put a "non disturbare" sign on the knob and locked the door behind her. Then she made a cup of tea, and as it brewed did twenty minutes of yoga breathing to clear her mind before picking up the newspaper again to read the article. After identifying the Cardinals involved in the accident as the former Secretary of State, the former Dean of the College of Cardinals, and the Cardinal from San Francisco that the first two had just picked up from the airport, the article went on to describe the crash.

The three Cardinal Bishops were returning to Rome in the Vatican limousine when, according to eyewitness accounts, it suddenly turned sideways and started flipping over and over for no apparent reason. The vehicle had just been serviced, according to the head mechanic for the Vatican City garage, who claims the car was in perfect mechanical condition. When asked what kind of malfunction could make a car suddenly veer like that and begin flipping, he could offer no explanation. Excessive speed has also been ruled out, as the vehicle was travelling at a sedate 90 km/hr when it went out of control. The two senior Cardinal Bishops were pronounced dead at the scene from massive head injuries. The third cardinal remains hospitalized in critical condition.

Monique shook her head, trying again to remember her dream of the night before. Tears began to flow from her eyes, though she hardly noticed and couldn't have said why. She unfolded the newspaper to see if there was anything more about the accident on the lower half of the page, and that was when she noticed the article in the bottom right corner, an article which any other day would have been the banner headline: _"Plague Identified As Outbreaks Spread. Terrorism Suspected."_

"Shit, oh shit, oh shit!" Moni exclaimed, leaping up from the chair. She paced the room, the newspaper held in both hands, its edges crumpling under the increasing tightness of her grip as she read and swore and read again, spouting segments of the story out loud, then muttering other sections, interspersed with expletives.

"Appears to be resistant to many antibiotics......Rapid onset of symptoms, some in as little as 24 hours...Fuck!" "Outbreaks reported now in parts of Japan, South Korea, Paris, New York...." "Shit!...The only major industrialized countries not reporting outbreaks of this plague so far are Russia and China, although social networks from those countries had tweeted news of mass deaths before being shut down by authorities."

She sat down in the chair by the window as she read the next part to herself, feeling suddenly too weak to stand.

Origin of the outbreaks appear to be linked to airline travel, as most of the initial victims in each country were found to have recently traveled by international air carriers. With outbreaks simultaneously appearing over such a widespread global arena, bioterrorism is strongly suspected: The World Health Organization, in conjunction with national security agents from the affected nations, are meeting to decide whether to temporarily suspend all international flights while authorities review contingencies to prevent further spread of the deadly plague, and to ensure such terrorist acts cannot occur in the future. If this global quarantine is imposed many pundits predict it will have serious and long lasting detrimental effects on the global economy.

I'm screwed, she thought. How long until there is a knock at the door and they come for me, the woman who killed the world.

Maybe I'll die first, if I'm lucky.

She got up and went into the bathroom, peering into the mirror to spot any signs of incipient infection: Red eyes, blotchy tongue, swellings behind the ears.

Her eyes did look a little red...but maybe that was just because she couldn't seem to stop crying.

She walked over to the window of her hotel room and looked down at the busy street three stories below. Crowds of shoppers and tourists now strolled along the ash coated sidewalk, laughing and gossiping as if the world was not coming to an end tomorrow. She saw a local woman - young, voluptuous, full of exuberant joy at her own perfect life - pushing a carriage with a fat, pink cheeked cherub inside. She stopped directly below Moni's window as two fat middle-aged women in shapeless sundresses paused to peer and tickle and coo, all of them speaking over one another in a melodic babble of Italian.

Suddenly it changed. Suddenly the women were all lying dead on the sidewalk, their corpses contorted in death's final agony, fat limbs askew, skirts hiked up immodestly to expose the globular shapeless thighs choked off by tight elastic bands of tan support hose. Their faces were black, their necks swollen and purple, thick tongues protruding and vacant eyes bulging in horror at their last failed gasp of breath. A skinny yellow dog, mangy and flea-bitten, skulked over to one of the corpses and sniffed it hopefully, then skulked away. It put its front paws up on the carriage and peered over the side to see what might be available there, but its weight tipped the thing over and the dead baby rolled out onto the sidewalk.

Monique screamed.

Above the sky darkened to a deep purplish red, the color of clotted blood. Roiling masses of dark clouds piled up into an ominous shape, becoming that of a great winged dragon with seven heads and ten horns. It roared and bellowed as it whipped a great spiked tail back and forth across the sky, hurling molten spears of rock down upon the earth.

Suddenly Moni remembered her dream: This was it.

As abruptly as it had come the vision disappeared. No dead women and babies lie on the sidewalk outside, no rain of fire and brimstone. But the sky had indeed suddenly darkened, and now from the black thunderheads great egg-sized chunks of hail began to fall, sending the shoppers outside running for cover with screams that masked Monique's own.

And though she hadn't done so since she was a child, Monique found herself saying the Lord's Prayer over and over and over, until she dozed off with her head on the kitchen table, still mouthing the incantation.

When God answered her in that semi-dreamlike state, she thought at first she'd misunderstood. "Go see the injured Cardinal, Magliano."

She opened her eyes, then squinched them closed again: That can't be right. But she heard the voice again: "Go see Cardinal Magliano."Again she denied the voice in her mind, rolling her head back and forth on her arms: Why me? Why should I need to see him? But when the thought came a third time, stronger and more urgent than ever, she got up, picked up the newspaper, grabbed her purse and headed downstairs to find a cab.

Chapter 14

Rome, Italy

The elderly receptionist at the information desk didn't speak English, the Hospitale Universita di Roma not being a major tourist destination apparently - although Moni felt sure that Americans must end up here inadvertently from time to time. She pulled out her electronic translator, input English to Italian, and did her best to inquire what room Cardinal Magliano was in.

"Ah, Il cardinale è nella stanza 800, ma egli non può avere i visitatori. C'è un poliziotto alla porta per proteggere lui."

"What?" said Moni. She turned in desperation to the person behind her in line, a young man with tattoos on his slender arms, and rings in his eyebrows, nostril and lip.

"Do you speak English?"

"Of course," he said, raising a brow.

"Can you tell me what she just said?"

"She said the cardinal is in room 800, but that there's a police guard at the door."

"Did she say why?"

"No, but I'm sure it's because of the investigation; don't you read the newspapers? Oh, that's right, you're an American."

"Touche´," she grimaced.

He grinned back.

"They now think there might have been foul play involved in the accident, so until they rule it out, Cardinal Magliano has been put under police protection: No one except medical personnel in or out."

"Oh. So room 800..."

"Would be on the eighth floor: Intensive care."

"Maybe I'll just stand outside," she said, adding; "I wanted to pray for him."

"As do we all," the youth said. "Here, take this; call me if you need any more translations."

The business card said _Giovanni Aguirre, Riparazioni computer_ and gave a number.

"I'm also an excellent artist, but one has to make a living, no?"

Moni took the elevator, but as it ascended she had the sudden inspiration to push the button for the 7th floor, getting off there instead. She walked down a long hallway, glancing at the doors, looking for something that might have what she needed. As she turned the corner she spotted a laundry cart halfway down the next corridor and hurried toward it. Near the top of the pile of soiled linens was a white lab coat that still looked passably clean, and the previous wearer had serendipitously forgotten to remove her ID badge. The picture beneath the name, Beatriz Antonino, Tecnico di laboratorio, even looked enough like her to pass if she just tied her hair back.

"What are the odds?" She thought as she slipped the coat on and knotted her long dark hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. "But then again, what are the odds that I would go visit a Cardinal of the Catholic Church in Rome, when I should be hiding in my room waiting to die?"

It was not, she realized, her hand that was moving things along here.

At the end of the hall she took the flight of stairs to the eighth floor, and walked purposefully towards the well lit room at the far end, which she could see had a uniformed police officer stationed in front of it. As she neared she could see the number on the door: 800. Yes!

But what the hell was she going to say? Her Italian was atrocious, and she couldn't very well strike up a conversation in English, he'd know immediately she was an impostor.

As she hesitated by the drinking fountain, thinking furiously, she heard the man's cell phone ring. The second he answered she smiled, for there was a loud excited flurry of Italian phrases coming over the other end in a decidedly agitated, decidedly young female voice which he kept trying unsuccessfully to reason with. She walked by the guard with a little wave of her hand, which he nodded at, completely distracted.

Within the room there were only monitors attending to the comatose cardinal at the moment, and those she didn't have to converse with. She walked up to the bed and looked down at the man lying there, his mouth and nose covered by an oxygen mask, his head and neck confined by a surgical brace.

"Cardinal Magliano?" She whispered.

Instantly his eyes shot open. He pulled away the oxygen mask and grabbed her arm, squeezing it with more strength than she would have imagined possible.

Had any doctor been present, he would have said it was a miracle, not just the sudden awakening from the coma but the fact that he could move his hand and arm at all: The prognosis had been that, if he even recovered, he would be a quadriplegic.

"Find Muldoon and Bertini." He told her as he gasped painfully for breath, adding: "Get Joe to help."

"What do I tell them?" She demanded, leaning closer. "And who's Joe?"

But that was all the little Italian had. He lapsed back into his twilight sleep and there was no rousing him again, so she put his oxygen mask back over his mouth and nose, and quickly left the room. Outside the guard was still arguing with his girlfriend, but a doctor and nurse were heading towards the room from the main corridor. She turned down the side hall and slipped into a nearby restroom before they could get a good look at her. Inside the stall she removed the lab coat, unknotted and fluffed her hair and, peeking out to be sure the hall was now empty, hurried toward the bank of elevators at the far end.

Back in her hotel room, she pulled out her iPad tablet and went online; but before she started checking the search engines she decided she'd better scrub anything that could lead back to her. She deleted all her email accounts and anything else that had her name on it: Amazon, Pay Pal, Victoria's Secret, her anti-virus programs... She'd never realized that she had so many ways the government could check up on her and find her location if they wanted. It was almost two hours before she was satisfied that she was untraceable, and even then she wasn't one hundred percent. But time to move on. "Find Muldoon and Bertini," the cardinal had told her...whoever the hell they were. And worse, all she had for the other guy was a first name.

However it didn't take nearly as long as she thought it would. Bertini, it turned out, was another Cardinal Bishop of Rome, presently nuncio to Algeria, so she felt pretty sure she could track him down via the Vatican. There was no link between him and anyone named Muldoon, but after a few more tries she was finally rewarded by linking Muldoon with the word Catholic: It turned out he was the monsignor of a church San Francisco, and with a little more searching she discovered that Cardinal Magliano was the head of that same archdiocese. Moni felt the pieces of a puzzle beginning to click into place.

Muldoon, she also discovered, had been temporarily excommunicated a little over three years ago by the short-lived Pope Sixtus the Sixth, for his alleged involvement in some sort of séance that led to the death of two other people. However he was reinstated shortly after the death of the Pope, and his name was subsequently cleared by the police department for lack of evidence that there had been any wrong doing. In the same archived news article about Muldoon there was mentioned another man who'd participated in the séance, one Joe Marten. Could this be the _Joe_ the cardinal wanted her to find?

She decided to first call the Vatican to find out how to get in touch with Bertini, but that soon became a dead end: After a convoluted search through the Vatican City website, she finally found something called the Liste du Corps Diplomatique, with which Bertini was affiliated; however the person who answered the phone at the Chancellerie said that personal information about the members of the nuncia could not be given out to the public.

Moni was then going to call the San Francisco archdiocese to get hold of Muldoon, but suddenly realized she had no idea what time it was in San Francisco at the moment. It was now 3:20PM in Rome, so she quickly checked the World Time Zones site, found that it would be 6:20AM in San Francisco, and realized she'd need to wait on that a couple of hours. Maybe she could find this guy Joe Marten in the meantime. She did a people finder check, paid the fifteen dollars and got a phone number they guaranteed would be up to date or her money back.

A tired sounding voice answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Joe Marten?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is ...Beatriz," she lied. "Are you a friend of Monsignor Muldoon?"

"Who is this? What's happened?"

"Cardinal Magliano gave me your name, told me you could help."

"Liar!" he yelled into the receiver. "The newspaper said he's in a coma!"

"Not for me he wasn't," she retorted, her patience at an end. It had been a long day. "Anyway, that's what he told me: 'Find Muldoon and Bertini, Joe will help.'"

"My God," Joe said, sitting down on the sofa. "Who is this again?"

"My name is Moni, and I'm in some serious shit up to my ears. This is a throw-away phone, which I intend to do as soon as this call is over. But there's some crazy stuff going on in the world right now, and apparently you and I are part of it. So, you in?"

"I just buried my wife today," Joe said.

"Jeez, I'm really sorry," Moni replied, her voice softening. "I had no idea."

"So I'm leaving tonight. Can you meet my plane?"

"Flight number?"

"I don't want to say over the phone. Just figure it out and be there. Wear something...bright."

The phone went dead.

She stared at it a moment, took a nail file, pried it apart and flushed the electronics down the toilet. She then went back online to check all flights leaving San Francisco tonight for Rome.

She'd almost forgotten for the time being about coming down with the plague.

Chapter 15

Vatican City

And I saw a beast coming out of the see; it had ten horns and seven heads.

Revelation 13:1

The dinner meeting was to be held in the suite of the Papal Secretariat of State. Caius could have had it in his own slightly larger apartment, but he didn't like the smell men left behind, nor the inconvenience of watching a crew of workers cleaning afterwards. No, let Cardinal Bassindo deal with that, he smiled as he checked his appearance one last time in the full length mirror before leaving the pontifical dressing room. He allowed himself to be escorted down the hall to the meeting by his special Assistant at the Pontifical Throne, Bishop Francio Armandi, who previously had been assistant to the former Secretariat, Cardinal Bishop Mendice.

Armandi had one endearing quality, even back then, that made him the perfect administrative assistant: Despite his obvious intelligence, he never made waves, neither enthused over nor disagreed with any plan or proposal: He simply took orders and matter-of-factly completed them with great efficiency and near-perfect duplication of the originator's intent. Whereas most secretaries seem to possess a compulsion to leave their own little mark somewhere in the texts they are given to handle, Armandi never did. Whatever he was given to type, transcribe or transmit - whether a decree, order, mandate, proclamation, policy or simple message - it was always delivered intact and undisturbed. This quality had always pleased his superiors immensely - as a matter of fact it was why Mendice recommended his loyal deacon to the incoming Pope after he was reassigned as Nuncio to Manila. Although Caius was pretty sure the man had probably held opinions of his own on almost every important matter that came across his desk, Deacon Armandi had always managed to carefully suppress them; and since partaking of the corrupted Eucharist, he was even better at his job than before, for he now had no other opinions than those of his master: none.

The man was such a gem: obsequious as hell.

Pope Caius two was a man of tradition, and an Italian: thus even the infestation of evil couldn't completely change his nature. The five course dinner was therefore enjoyed to the last bite of dessert before the subject of the meeting was broached, and then only after the dishes had been cleared and cups of rich dark expresso served.

"So," he said to the seven men seated around the large mahogany dining table; "It is one week to the ceremony. My question to each of you is, of course, how are the preparations coming? Let's start with our guest list."

He turned to the Dean of the College of Cardinals, Bishop of Ostia Giovanni Baletori. "Have all our cardinals responded, and let you know their travel arrangements and itineraries?"

"Yes Your Holiness," Baletori responded. "And we have made arrangements for the transport and housing of each one. We have also received positive responses from most of the heads of state of the free world who, per your previous directive to me, will be housed here in our finest Vatican apartments as guests of honor."

"Excellent," Pope Caius nodded. "Keep me apprised of arrivals, and of course of any difficulties should they arise."

"I will Your Holiness."

"Which brings me naturally to the next order of business, which is the special gifts we have prepared for our guests. Cardinal Balles?"

Anastagio Balles, Prefect for The Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, whose responsibility it was to spread "sound Catholic Doctrine" throughout the world, nodded. "All is in readiness, Holiness."

"Humor me, Anastagio: A breakdown of specifics, please?"

"Of course, Your Holiness. Let's see, the new logo for Vatican City, "The Transcension of Marcus" - which is to be adopted by all the diocese worldwide as well - has been embossed onto all our stationery here in Vatican City. In addition a complementary case, along with a proof from which more can be printed by the individual churches, has been mailed to all twenty-eight hundred diocese in the world, with a note to not open the box until after the Marcus Day celebration."

"Just like when you were a child, yes?:'Do not open until Christmas.'"

The seven men laughed as one at that, at the irony embedded in the phrase.

"We also have boxes of posters, 3d postcards, souvenir spoons, coffee mugs and other such memorabilia with the same logo, to sell to the visitors, pilgrims and tourists in St Peter's square during the ceremony, and later by the worldwide churches to their parishioners."

"And the icons? Come on, Balles, don't hold out on me. How are the icons coming?"

"Thirty thousand have been delivered to our warehouses, and are waiting to have you confer upon them the transformative powers our master has ordained," Cardinal Balles confirmed.

The eight looked around at each other with a knowing glint in their eyes: The icons were key to attaining the ultimate goal of worldwide domination. They would all participate in the rites that would consecrate these to the new master. "These will be given to each visiting Cardinal and Head of State at the ceremony, and then distributed worldwide, one to every diocese and neighborhood church as commemorative gifts," the Cardinal continued. "More will be produced as the orders begin to come in from parishioners for their own personal icons after the unveiling. The factory stands ready to produce millions on demand."

"Perfect," Pope Caius smiled. "Any financial difficulties with any of this?"

"No, Your Holiness," the Camerlengo and the Cardinal Secretariat for the Economy answered simultaneously. "We're good," added the former unnecessarily.

"Cardinal Lagastari, update us on the sainthood piece if you will."

"Our committees have completed their investigation, and determined on the basis of the several miracles performed after his massive cerebral hemorrhage, including coming back from a comatose state to give directives for the continued running of the church, and of course his subsequent miraculous flight from the balcony of the Basilica, that Pope Marcus has met the criteria for Sainthood."

"Naturally."

"And his canonization will be announced at the unveiling of the statue."

"Good, no problems then." Caius stated.

"None," the prefect for The Congregation for the causes of Saints shrugged. "We were all in perfect accord."

"So it would appear all is in readiness," Pope Caius said. "The statue will be moved to the center of the square the evening before, is that right?"

"Yes Your Holiness," the Secretariat affirmed.

"Uh, Your Holiness?" It was Dean of the College of Cardinals, Giovanni Baletori

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to confirm with the other Cardinals here that we will all be present for the consecration and transfiguration of the icons tomorrow night at midnight, and everyone knows where to go?"

The others all murmured assent, nodding.

"Good, good," said Pope Caius the second, Servant of the servants of the anti-Christ. "This will be the big day, Cardinals. This is where we turn the world around."

And in the dimensionless void behind them, the demon smiled.

*********

In his dream, he was walking down a street in some unnamed city beside some unnamed sea going on quest of no particular importance, and carrying a black satchel. The only important thing in that dream was the satchel, but as he passed an open workman's hole in the street, the satchel suddenly flew from his hands and landed in the bottom of the pit. He could see it sitting there, partially hidden beneath a plain wooden chair. Part of him thought to just leave it, go on, but he knew he couldn't, he was supposed to go retrieve it. That's why it was taken from him and put there.

He stepped back a few paces, finding the entrance to the ramp that led down from street level into the hole, then slowly, nervously, he walked down the incline to where his satchel lay. He bent down, picked it up and instantly it disappeared in his arms as an intense light came down from above and filled him with a profound and frightening energy that vibrated through every particle of his being.

"Why have you forsaken me?" the Energy spoke.

"I don't know," Cardinal Mertinello said, fully awake now but unable to move, to pull out of the dream.

"You must try to come back," It said.

"I don't know how: I tried, but I don't know how."

"Try harder," the Energy said. Then It released him. The satchel was back in his hands, and Pope Caius the second awoke, shaking.

Chapter 16

Rome, Italy

The woman was given the two wings of a great eagle,

so that she might fly to the place prepared for her

Revelation 12:14

Joe, like most of the passengers on the jumbo jet, wore a surgical mask over his mouth and nose for the entire 11 hour trip, and he even went the extra mile and put a bandana over his lower face as well, preferring the look of Sundance Kid to that of Doc Holiday. He kept his sunglasses on, even in the dark, and ate only the snacks he'd carried with him. He drank nothing the entire journey so that he wouldn't need to use the restroom, but if he'd hoped to relieve himself as soon as he debarked at 6AM from the overnight flight, he was mistaken.

The day before, he'd left his adopted children - _their_ children, his and Marija's...they would always be _their_ children - at the grandmother Dolore's home in Walnut Creek. It was a tearful goodbye, long hugs and false promises to be back soon, and warnings about the plague already beginning to make its presence felt in the San Francisco bay area.

"Be careful, okay?" he told Sandy, the eldest at eleven going on thirty-five. "I don't want you or your brother going to school until this thing is over."

Eric, the seven year old, cheered loudly.

Dolores rolled her eyes at that, and began to protest.

"I'm serious, Dolores," Joe told her. "They can home school, do a lot of reading. They won't die if they miss a little formal education, but they will if they get this plague."

She opened her mouth again, something about "her life."

"Maybe you need to put 'your life' at bridge club and the hairdressers on hold for a little while, so that you actually have a life left when this is all over," Joe admonished. "Stay home, hunker down; I mean it."

Now at the end of his journey, it still took the better part of forever to make it through security: every passenger was screened for signs of illness, and had to give a complete accounting of where they had been the two weeks prior to their flight, and where they would be for the duration of their stay in Italy.

Rumors were whispered through the lines of impatient tourists, that there were cases of the plague popping up in every city, and soon the airlines might shut down altogether.

"So far Rome, it seems, is free of it I hear."

"Thank God for that: We've been planning this vacation for three years!"

Joe showed the security personnel proof of his itinerary: He had booked a room at the Hotel Domingo Fiore for a seven night stay, not wanting to draw any undue attention to himself by booking for one night only, although he had no plans to ever check in.

"I'll be returning to the states after that," he said. Luckily they didn't ask for proof, as he'd actually booked a one way ticket, having no idea if or when he'd be able to return, considering what he was here to do.

He'd done as Muldoon advised, and withdrawn every cent from his checking and savings accounts, explaining to the sympathetic tellers that since his wife had passed he needed to get away for a while, perhaps even move to a new country to forget. Then he'd managed to secure a fake black market passport and other identification, and with it to open a new bank account into which he'd placed all his funds. He'd purchased the airline ticket and hotel room under his new name with that account's debit card, before withdrawing most of the rest in cash. Even with all these precautions he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, like eyes were on his back and he needed not only to keep moving but to continuously reinvent himself, become like a chameleon in order to blend in and disappear. Beneath his surgical mask and bandana was a newly grown beard...well, the beginning of one anyway. Right now it had that scruffy unkempt appearance of a five day shadow, not yet long enough to trim into anything recognizable. His hair had also begun to grow out, and errant strands now tickled the tops of his ears, driving him slightly crazy.

Nothing felt safe anymore, not the air he breathed, not the food he ate; not the planes, trains and automobiles he'd taken to get here.

He just hoped this chick Moni was going to be , what? Non-hysterical for starters, useful would be nice, smart enough to stay out of trouble, brave enough to get in it, if need be. He shook his head, not even sure if he could trust her. She was the one that had tracked him down, but was it really through an act of God that she'd found him, or was there some other entity at work here?

"Gotta trust you, God," he whispered as he exited the terminal into the sullen afternoon light: "Not much choice left but that."

He looked around, and there was a woman wearing the brightest green dress and glow-in-the-dark orange silk scarf that he'd ever seen.

_Well, I did say wear something bright,_ he thought, walking over to her.

"Moni?"

"Joe?" She looked around, seeming as nervous as he felt. "You have more luggage?"

"Just this one bag," he said, indicating the large canvas duffle on his back.

"Good, we're taking the bus," she said, adding. "Keepin' it on the down low."

He was pretty sure she'd winked behind those huge dark glasses, and he had to smile.

"You got a room?" She asked as they walked toward the metro terminal.

"Yeah, but I don't really feel safe going there. You?"

"I have, but I'm also feeling kind of nervous since I went and saw Father Magliano. I don't think anyone's following me yet, but I don't want to stay there much longer either. Maybe one more night."

They rode the bus in silence for a time, each thinking about what to do next.

Finally Moni pulled out the business card the boy at the hospital had given her, and handed it to Joe.

"I just met this kid yesterday, but he seemed straight up. Maybe he could help us find rooms somewhere out of the public eye, you know?"

"Can we go to your hotel and call him from there?"

"I, I don't know, it's...."

"Moni," he said, taking her arm and reaching over to pull down her sunglasses so he could look her in the eye. "I just lost my wife. I loved her a lot, and it's going to be a long long time before I look at another woman that way, no offense."

"I just lost someone I love too," she said, knowing as she said it that it was true, accepting the finality that Lugol was truly gone. "So no offense taken, and yeah, you can come back to my place."

Then she put the glasses back on quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice the tears that had begun to stream down her face from beneath them.

From the bus terminal they'd taken separate cabs to the hotel so they wouldn't be seen coming in together. Moni arrived first, and as she walked past the desk the concierge looked up and called out to her, signaling her over with a wave of his hand. Her heart raced as she approached, wondering if she'd been outed as a bioterrorist, or on the other hand for her unauthorized entry into the Cardinal's hospital room.

Instead, the desk clerk handed her a small box, postmarked "Moscow."

She felt a huge lump rise in her throat, so big she could hardly stammer out her thanks as she stuffed the package into the bottom of her purse. Then she turned and fled to the bank of elevators, where Joe stood casually looking up at the numbers as they changed.

They rode up together in silence, the only passengers in the car, exiting on the third floor and hurrying into her apartment before they could be noticed together.

Inside, Moni excused herself to use the restroom and once she'd locked the door behind her she withdrew the package and, with shaking hands, tore it open. Within was a beautiful golden ring with a cluster of diamonds encircling a single perfect ruby. A note was attached.

"Dearest Moni,

By the time you get this I will have met my maker, and can only hope He is not too pissed with me. But I wanted you to have this, as it gives me comfort to know it is in your care. It belonged to my grandmother, who was a strong and beautiful woman, just as you are a strong and beautiful woman. And I loved her with all my heart, just as I truly love you with all my heart."

Tears were now pouring down Moni's face, and from her nose as well: She put a hand over her mouth to contain her sobs, as she read on.

"One last thing I want you to know, Moni my darling. You will not die, at least not from the plague. Forgive me for taking away your free will in this matter, but I couldn't stand the thought of you dying, so I slipped a dose of Alan's vaccine into your juice the morning we left the compound. It is my singular last hope and prayer that it is effective, and that - like Rose on the Titanic - you will live to a ripe old age and die as beautiful as she was, as beautiful as you are today.

Love always,

Freddy

PS: Don't worry, the ring is safe. I soaked it in alcohol and wore full PPE's when I packaged it. And then I sprayed the whole damn thing over again with enough disinfectant to kill every germ on the planet."

She appreciated the sentiment, but none-the-less placed the ring in a small water glass on the lavatory stand and filled it with rubbing alcohol, then put the package and note in the sink and poured in the rest of the bottle to cover it.

"Fifteen minutes should do it," she muttered, then called out through the door to Joe: "I'm taking a shower, make yourself at home."

Joe looked in the refrigerator, found an ice cold beer, and did just that.

Chapter 17

Maui

Be always on the watch, and pray that you may be able to escape all that is about to happen.

Luke 21:36

Charles Hemmings took a cab from the airport to his friend's apartment in Kahalui where he had stored his car before flying to the EarthRight compound: He'd only left ten days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. All he wanted was to get back home, kick back on his lanai, crack open a cold one and stare at the ocean for a while. But now, as the cab neared the four story apartment building, something made him hesitate.

"Go on up to the mall instead," he told the driver." I just remembered I have to pick up some things."

"Whatevah, bruddah," the cabbie said.

The driver hefted the large suitcase from the trunk and set it on the curb in front of the huge shopping center, looking at Hemmings as if he might be a little pupule.

"You sure?"

"Yeah yeah, thanks, eh?" Hemmings said, giving the driver a twenty for the twelve dollar ride.

He found a pay phone and called the friend's apartment.

"Brian, it's me."

"Uh, yeah, this isn't a good time," the man on the other end said.

"Someone there looking for me?"

"You could say that."

"Shit. Okay, our spot later?"

"Got it," Brian said, and rung off.

Well, he wouldn't be going home tonight after all, it seemed.

He'd been checking news reports on the internet all the way back from Australia, and knew that Interpol and other international law enforcement agencies and anti-terrorist units were rapidly narrowing the search for who was behind the bioterrorist acts that had unleashed this super plague on the world. But he hadn't realized how close they were until now: they must have been playing some of their cards a lot closer to their chests.

Which means they probably would have picked him up at the airport if he hadn't used the false passport he'd had made three years ago, when things looked like they might be heading this direction. But they still knew who he was and where he lived. Luckily his compound on the big island had been purchased under the names of a number of corporate entities, the true ownership so well hidden it could never be traced to him. Now he only had the problem of how to get there.

Inside the mall, he found the customer service center where he could rent a couple of large lockers in which to store his suitcases, then went to have a cold beer in the pub at the top floor and think things through.

He'd need to buy several throwaway cell phones, a satellite receiver for his iPad and a new shortwave radio to reach Linda at the compound: there was no way he could go back to his home in Lahaina to retrieve that. And he'd better start thinking of how he could get to the big island and from there to the valley north of Waipio where his biosphere compound had been built. Linda had taken the trimaran already when he told her to leave, but that still left his Hobie cat, which he'd planned to sail over when the time and weather was right.

Now there was no chance of that: They would definitely have eyes on the Lahaina harbor 24-7, just as much as on his house. He also couldn't chance flying over on an island hop: they'd surely have sent his photo to the local airport security office, if not now then very shortly. He decided his best option was to lay low until things died down a bit.

Brian showed up at the bar around 8pm. He assured Chuck he'd taken a roundabout route that no one could have possibly followed, and even then went through 5 different shops at five different levels of the mall, browsing like a tourist until he was sure no one was tagging him. None-the-less they sat at a rear table near an exit with their backs to the wall and eyes on the entrance as they talked.

"So what the hell did you do, Chuck?" Brian demanded.

"Can't say, buddy. But I'm in some kinda deep shit, I'll tell you that."

"Yeah, I gathered as much when 6 suits showed up at my door and started badgering me about your whereabouts. They wouldn't say why they wanted you, but one of them started coughing like crazy and said something about...when I get my hands on this guy I'm takin' him out personally."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So I'm wondering, did you have something to do with the bioterrorism thing?"

"Nah, nah, nothing like that: Just some guilt by association thing I guess," Charles assured him. _Crap,_ he thought privately; _I've probably killed my best friend with this! How could I have gone along with Alan's plan? What was I thinking?_

But he wouldn't let the turmoil and the guilt show on his face: He still needed to get away, get somewhere safe and find his way to Linda and the kids, that was priority one. And he needed Brian's help to do that.

"So here's what I need you to do, if you will," he said aloud. "Here's the pink slip for my Bronco: I've already signed it over. Just take it to the nearest car dealership and trade it for whatever you can get that is an even trade. I don't care what it is or what it looks like, as long as it's running. Put it in your name, okay? Then leave it in the mall parking lot and call me with its location and description. Leave the keys on the front tire, driver's side. Got it?"

"Yeah," Brian said.

"You okay with this?"

"Yeah, I guess: You sure you didn't have anything to do with the plague?"

"No, Brian, I told you I didn't. But maybe I know some of the people who did, that's all; okay?"

"All right then. So where you staying tonight?

"I don't know, I'll take a cab somewhere. No worries, ok?"

"Right. No worries."

By early afternoon of the following day, Hemmings had loaded his new car - a ten year old Subaru - with his luggage, four cell phones, a satellite wi-fi receiver, shortwave radio, a ton of batteries, a small solar generator, camping gear and several bags of groceries. He was on his way to Hana, and beyond that he hadn't a clue.

Chapter 18

Rome, Italy

Come out of her my people, so that you will not share in her sins,

so that you will not receive any of her plagues.

Revelation 18:4

Giovanni answered on the second ring: "Aguirre Qui, i computer e arte."

"Hi, Giovanni? It's Moni, the lady from the hospital? You gave me your card."

"Ah, the beautiful American signorina; what took you so long to call?"

Moni smiled. He was cute, but not that cute. And, after all, she _was_ still nursing a broken heart over a recently deceased lover.

"I need a favor," she said.

"Anything: I am at your service."

"I need to find a room somewhere out of the mainstream, some place, uh...discrete, you know?'

"I have the perfect place: My apartment," he said, and she could just imagine the shark-like grin bending his full pierced lips into a wide toothy U.

"No, really, Giovanni. I need to find a boarding house somewhere."

"My aunt runs a small boarding house in the northeastern part of the city; cheap, clean, and she is afflicted with terminal ennui. I'm pretty sure she has a vacant room left."

"Great," said Moni.

"Actually it's where I live."

She sighed. Well, what the hell. She didn't have a lot of options. "Are there two rooms, or at least two beds in the room?"

"You are freaky!"

"Hardly. But there will be someone else staying there with me. A man," she added pointedly.

"Ah, my heart," Giovanni sighed dramatically.

"He's a friend, Giovanni; a business acquaintance, actually. So, you think she has a room I can rent? Two beds?"

"I'll check and call you right back," he said, then: "Wait, hold on, I see her going out for the mail: Zia Vittoria, Avete ancora una stanza in affitto?"

There was a muffled reply in the background, then Gio came back on. "She does. Shall I tell her to hold it for you?"

"Yes, yes, thank you. If you give me the address, we'll be over in a couple of hours, or less."

Once she'd rung off, she told Joe where they'd be going.

"So how do we do this so we don't draw attention to ourselves?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you want to officially check out of your room here?"

"No, that's not a good idea. If they're looking for me I don't want them to know I've gone: Let them think I'm just out on the town or taking a trip to the countryside for a day or two; that will buy us a little more time."

"Why would anyone be looking for you, Moni?.... just because you visited the hospital?"

"You don't know everything, Joe," she replied. "Not yet. You'll just have to trust me on this."

"Then I'll have to get your bags downstairs without you and take a cab to this new place alone, and you can come later."

"Take two cabs Joe, two or three. Maybe go to different hotels, in one door and back out the other: Let's check the internet to see where there's a close-packed concentration of hotels so you can pull this off."

He looked at her in admiration, then nodded.

The highest concentration, they discovered, appeared to be in the area surrounding the Piazza Barberini, with 17 major hotels within a tenth of a mile of each other.

He'd go there.

Fifteen minutes later he was walking out of the elevator carrying his duffle bag on his back and pulling Monique's brown leather suitcase behind him. She gave him a twenty minute head start, time enough to pack her cosmetics, toiletries and iPad mini into her oversized purse, then began her own sojourn around the city sights by the most convoluted route she could devise before heading to her new apartment.

********

Mike Muldoon couldn't believe his eyes.

He'd been staring out the window, disconsolate and alone, with no one to talk to and nothing to do but wait for Bertini to contact him, when he saw the cab pull up outside and a familiar figure emerge.

"Father God, Jesus the beloved Christ, thank you, thank you thank you!" He cried.

The hand of God had done this, and suddenly the priest knew he'd not been deserted, that the battle was still on.

"Bring it," he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks and over his smiling lips.

He waited, peering out a crack in the door, until Joe had finished negotiating rent with the landlady, paid his bill, and was walking up the stairwell, lugging a brown leather suitcase behind him. Then he peeked his head out.

"Pssst, Joe!" He whispered.

The other man looked for a moment like he would bolt and run, that or have a heart attack on the spot. That was until he saw where the whisper had originated, and then his face split into a smile so wide it threatened to crack his head in two.

"Oh my God!" he said, unbelieving.

"My words exactly," said Muldoon, stepping out into the hallway to give the other man a bear hug that pushed most of the residual air out of his lungs.

"My room is one floor up," Joe laughed, once they'd separated from the embrace and he'd got his wind back.

"Let me help you with that thing," Mike said, grabbing the suitcase.

Once inside Joe's apartment, they sat - Joe on the one twin bed, Mike on the other - just looking at each other and shaking their heads.

"So how the hell did you find me?" Muldoon asked at last.

"I didn't. I had no idea you were here," Joe said. "There was this woman named Moni..."

He proceeded to tell him about the phone call, how Moni had felt compelled to visit Magliano, and how he'd come out of his coma momentarily to give her three names: Joe, Bertini and Muldoon.

"Somehow she tracked me down via the internet," he said; "and then met my plane and took me to her hotel. Later a kid she'd met at the hospital told her about this boarding house, and here we are."

"So where is this Moni now?" Mike asked.

"On her way: We thought it would be safer if we came by separate routes."

"Yeah," the priest nodded: "I had to do the same cloak and dagger routine myself getting here."

Thirty minutes later there was a knock on the door, and a beautiful dark haired woman with green eyes stood there with a bottle of wine in her hand and a surprised look on her face.

"Moni, meet Monsignor Muldoon. It just happens he has the flat directly below ours," Joe said by way of introduction.

"Holy shit," she replied: A true understatement.

They got three dusty juice glasses from the cupboard, rinsed them out and filled them with the wine she'd brought.

"To God," Joe said, lifting his glass in a toast.

"May He continue to guide and protect us," Mike added, lifting his own.

Moni just nodded and took a big swallow.

"So," she said after they'd each had a sip or two. "Maybe it's time we all talked about what's going on here."

Just then, however, there was another knock at the door.

She shook her head ruefully, knowing exactly who it was.

"Come in, Giovanni," she called.

The door opened and the bright inquisitive face of the handsome young Italian poked through.

"Am I intruding?" He asked.

"No, Gio; I have the feeling you are meant to be a part of this somehow."

"Good," he smiled, walking in. "Because I have brought more wine!"

Mike and Joe went first, and it was more than an hour before they had finished telling their tale, starting with the possession of Marija, the trip to Rome to stop the plot of Sixtus and Marcus, and their subsequent role in their assassinations.

"But there's more, isn't there?" Moni asked. "There's something going on now that has brought you back?"

Muldoon was the one to answer.

"A confluence of events, actually," he said. "Marija, Joe's wife, was suddenly stricken with a stage four uterine cancer that spread like wildfire. As she died, we saw the same demon that had possessed her three years earlier come back to take her. "

Moni glanced over at Joe, whose head was down. She could see his shoulders slump as a quiet tear dropped slowly into his lap.

"And then?" she asked Muldoon.

"At about the same time, Cardinal Magliano, which is head of the diocese where I have my church, called to let me know he'd been summoned to the Vatican for the unveiling of a great statue in honor of Pope Marcus - whom we'd known to be possessed by Satan before we pulled the plugs. This new statue would essentially declare Marcus the 'second coming of Christ'."

"Good lord," Moni whispered.

"Obviously we hadn't gotten rid of Satan's hold on the church like we thought we had. But it gets worse, much worse."

Joe looked up at Muldoon, an inquisitive frown creasing his forehead.

"Cardinal Bertini got in touch with me after the limo accident that killed the two Cardinal Bishops and put Magliano in a coma. He brought me here and showed me a video clip taken by a boy who'd helped with communion during the high mass that followed the coronation of Pope Sixtus.'

He shook his head and shuddered at the memory of what he'd seen, taking another sip of the red wine before he could go on.

"The chalice of wine, representing the blood of our savior, had been transformed into something full of evil, the blood of Satan himself. And by the act of every cardinal in the world partaking of this unholy Eucharist, the entire ruling order of the Catholic church had become infected by that evil, turning them into slaves of the anti-Christ."

"You fucking kidding?!" Giovanni blurted out.

"Every cardinal except those who officiated at the mass was made into a minion of the devil. And when they went back to their own diocese around the world, they spread this spiritual disease to every parishioner to whom they subsequently gave communion, consecrated to Satan through their own unholy gift."

"And the cardinals who weren't infected: Who were they?" Joe asked.

"I think you can guess," the priest said. "Magliano, of course is one, as he wasn't yet a cardinal; Bertini, Falliano, and Mendice were the others. Two of those are now dead, and one incapacitated."

Suddenly all eyes turned to the young artist seated in their midst.

"Giovanni," Muldoon said, looking him in the eye; "are you a practicing Catholic?"

"Well..."

"The truth, Giovanni. And we will know it when we hear it."

"Okay: Catholic yes: practicing, not so much."

"Have you taken communion lately?"

"No sir; not since I was thirteen and my mother and father divorced. I guess you could say I lost my faith."

"Good," sighed Muldoon.

"Good?" the young man asked. "But you're a priest; how can you think that's good?"

"Haven't you been listening?" Moni told him, punching his shoulder. "If you had been taking communion, that would mean you're a minion of the devil, and we'd be forced to kill you."

"Oh, well in that case, good!" he agreed, toasting them with uplifted juice glass.

"So, will you join us?" Mike asked.

"Yes, sure," he replied without hesitation.

"But there's something else you should know, all of you," Moni said after a moment. "Something that may make you all change your mind about me."

She looked around the room at the three men, pursing her lips. This wasn't going to be easy.

She took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell them the story of the plague, leaving out nothing other than the names of the perpetrators; just in case any of them were still alive, and it turned out someone in this room could not actually be trusted.

"I found out a couple of days ago that I'm immune to the disease: my, uh, Lugol, he secretly put a vial of the experimental vaccine into my juice just before we left headquarters, and apparently it worked: I haven't had so much as the sniffles, and I'm well past the incubation period."

"Well, if you're looking for absolution..." Muldoon began.

"I'm not," Moni snapped. "I'm not proud of what we did, but I'm not entirely sure it was wrong either. We've been killing ourselves along with the entire planet for a hundred or more years now: All my group did was speed up the process, in the hopes that at least some species - including the human one - could be saved before man wiped out everything. From a human standpoint, though, I feel less good about it."

Joe looked at her, saw the pain and conflict, and understood. Giovanni took a step back, his mind in the process of reevaluating his biologic attraction versus his mental repulsion.

"The main thing is, you all need to stay put for the time being, to keep safe not just from the machinations at the Vatican but also from the plague. It apparently hasn't begun to spread through Rome yet, but it will, I guarantee you, and when it does it will be fast and deadly. There is no cure," She told them. "All you can do is avoid being infected. So, I will be the gofer for this little band: I can go out and get food, water, medicine, surgical masks, and any other supplies we need. There will likely be power outages, possibly lasting for days or weeks, so we need to make a list of supplies to have on hand and I need to begin shopping for them immediately before the plague hits and they are no longer available."

The men nodded agreement. Whatever else she was wrong about, she was right about this; and if God had sent her to them for some reason, this was surely one.

"We need to get hold of Bertini," Muldoon said. "He needs to hole up here with us if he hopes to stay alive."

"I can go get him now, while you make that list," Moni volunteered.

Muldoon wrote the Cardinal's address on a slip of paper, adding a brief message which introduced the woman and told the Cardinal that he was to trust her and do what she said.

Monique finished her glass of wine, then picked up her purse.

"I'll walk there, if it's only a few blocks," she told them; "We should be back in an hour. And save me a glass of wine for godssake."

Chapter 19

Rome, Italy

It was given power to wage war against God's holy people and to conquer them.

Revelation 13:7

They began arriving today, the more distant in private jets: The few from nearby countries preferred having their own private chauffeurs in their own thoroughly sanitized limousines carry them from their government headquarters or private residences to the Vatican, but this only included Spain, Italy, Greece and Portugal. More than a few countries had declined the invitation outright due to fear of the deadly plague now sweeping the world, but none of these were from the major Catholic countries. Delegates from these would not have dared such an affront to his Holiness - if not so much for religious reasons as for the political backlash it would have caused in the next election from their devout countrymen.

Any country with a Catholic population numbering in the tens of millions were certain to come to this conclave of political leaders, sent for by special invitation of the Pope: These included from the Americas the countries of Brazil, Argentina, Venezuela, Columbia, Peru, Mexico and Ecuador; as well as the United States and Canada. From Europe they could count on attendance by heads of state from France, Germany, Spain, Poland and Italy; the African continent would be sending representatives from Uganda, Tanzania, Nigeria, Kenya and the Congo, and from the East would come the government heads of India, and the Philippines. Even if none other than these key states showed up, they still represented over 750 million practicing Catholics world-wide: Quite a one-day haul for the prince of darkness.

Brilliant, thought Pope Caius, as he sipped his orange juice. Just brilliant.

Most of the heads of state would not attend personally, naturally: choosing to send their Secretaries of State or Vice Presidents rather than putting their own necks on the line. Who would ever miss a Vice President anyway? They were really only important to add a particular charm to the election, after which they were essentially useless unless - god forbid - something should happen to the president.

Fleets of Vatican limousines, thoroughly scrubbed, had been picking up diplomats from the private airstrip on the outskirts of the international airport since dawn, and delivering them to their private apartments in the Vatican Palace: more would arrive tomorrow. Even with Papal assurances that the cars and their quarters were perfectly germ free, many of these still chose to wear surgical masks, gloves and eyeglasses, not just as they toured the Vatican Library but even in their own quarters, several going so far as to request that their meals be brought to them in their rooms rather than dining with the rest in the large hall. And at the dinner that night, the Vatican had been informed by a self-appointed spokesman for the group that none would be staying for the unveiling of the statue in Saint Peter's square on Sunday; the Vice President of the United States stating flatly that it was "irresponsible" to bring together a crowd of this magnitude at this time, considering the danger of mass infection.

"You're from Texas, aren't you?" the Secretariat had asked mildly.

"Yes, but I don't see what that has to do with it."

"Then you are not Catholic?"

"Southern Baptist, sir, and proud of it."

"That being so, perhaps you don't share our certainty that divine powers are watching over us as we complete what he has asked us to do?"

"By _he,_ you're referring to God?" The Texan asked.

"Of course," the Secretariat smiled. "Who else?"

That night an emergency meeting was held in the Papal Apartments between Pope Caius and his curia.

"If the heads of state won't stay for the unveiling of the statue in the square, we're going to have to move things up a bit to accommodate them. The important thing is to get those icons into their hands," said Pope Caius.

"And into the hands of the Cardinals as well: This is how we will spread _his_ power and influence around the world," added the Secretary of State.

"The Texan actually had a valid point," suggested the Dean of the College, Cardinal Baletori. "We need our Cardinals alive and well to carry the icons back to their churches and promote the sale of the miniature versions to their parishioners. Perhaps we should have a private conclave for them as well?"

"Why not put both groups together?" Suggested Cardinal Balles. "The new Synod Hall certainly has room for everyone. We can show photographs of the Marcus statue, and give them their replicas at that time. All of them can fly safely home before the formal unveiling on Sunday."

"But they should be present for the unveiling. What will the pilgrims in the square think if there are no cardinals present?" Caius worried.

"What will they think if they're all wearing masks?" The Apostolic Camera asked archly.

"That it's a hold up," the Camerlengo tittered.

Caius scowled at him, and the laughter dried up instantly.

"Your Holiness, you need to stay on your balcony, far from the crowds to be safe," advised Bishop Armandi.

"We all should officiate from there," Secretary of State Cardinal Bassindo stated bluntly. "Let the bishops and monsignors have the honor of unveiling the statue."

"So, we're agreed? Tomorrow evening we'll hold a joint conclave with all the heads of state and cardinals in Synod Hall, show them photos of the Statue of St. Marcus on the large screen, and formally present each one with the icon of Marcus and a box of the new stationery, right?"

They all looked back and forth at each other as they nodded, each ensuring he was in accord.

"Then we had best get about the business of consecrating the icons. Armandi, call for two limos to meet us out front in ten minutes. We're going to the warehouse."

********

The seven heads of the church - five cardinals, the bishop servant and the Pope - filed unobserved into the rear of the old warehouse at the northeastern quarter of the city-state. Each carried a large sealed bottle of clear liquid, a silver asperorium - in this case a simple bucket with handle - and an aspergillium, the brush they would use to sprinkle the consecrated water onto the statuettes of Marcus. With thirty thousand to be transformed this very night, it would be a long one. The icons were arranged in double rows, each row one hundred statues long with narrow aisles between, just wide enough for a man to pass.

"We will align ourselves so that we all proceed down a set of seven double rows at the same time, sprinkling the icons to our right. Then we will move down to the next set of seven rows and repeat this, until we have transformed all thirty thousand. I compute that if each row takes us fifteen minutes, we will have completed this in about five and one half hours," Cardinal Balles, Prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, informed the others.

Audible groans were heard from several of the elderly men.

"If you don't like it, move faster. If we can do it in 10 minutes per row, it will only take 3 and one half hours," admonished the Pope. "But first, of course, I must consecrate the water. Dim the lights please."

Armandi complied, leaving only a set of lights on at the far end of the warehouse, then returned to the circle of men standing around the seven jugs of water.

"Abaddon, Apollyon, Angel of the Abyss, destroyer of mankind, ancient serpent called Satan by some, Havohej by those with greater understanding, we serve you and your will. Take this water and turn it into your unholy spirit, fill it with the powers of darkness, so that it may bind all who behold the icons on which it is poured out as a curse: Let it transform them to your will, make your desire their desire, your goal their goal."

The room darkened further, the last vestige of light went out and the air began to vibrate around the seven standing there, the ground to tremble beneath their feet. Pope Caius began to speak in a different voice now, saying words which none understood, an unholy tongue that had the guttural roar of a beast buried within it. As he continued his liturgy the shaking grew worse, the walls rattled and swayed, windows cracked audibly, and the icons themselves teetered back and forth, threatening to fall like dominoes. Then the liquid in the seven glass vessels began to glow with an eerie green light, brighter and brighter until it was blinding to the men standing near. In each one an eye appeared, oval and reptilian in nature, winked once at the cardinal beside it, and went out.

The quaking stopped, icons righted themselves, lights came back on.

"It is done," announced Pope Caius. "Let us begin."

They were finished by 2AM. The limousines took them back to their apartments in the Vatican, there to sleep as dreamless as the dead until the morning.

Chapter 20

Rome, Italy

It ordered them to set up an image in honor of the beast

who was wounded by the sword and yet lived.

Revelation 13:14

Joe was having trouble sleeping. Perhaps it was discomfort at sharing a room with another woman, a sense of disloyalty to the memory of his wife who had died less than a week earlier. Even though he was doing nothing wrong, had no intention of doing anything with Monique, he was none-the-less here, sharing a single room with a beautiful stranger, listening to her breathing in the night, to the deep soft snores of her sleep: There was something so intimate about that, it was enough to hold his own sleep at bay, to keep his soul restless and mind alert for some secret danger that had no name or form.

Then again, perhaps it was actually the greater situation her presence here represented to him, that kept him tossing and turning on his hard little cot: God knew there were enough troubles in the world to keep any sane man awake. Not only the evidence - growing stronger by the day - that Satan had succeeded in his plot to take control over the heads of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and through them to ultimately take possession of the souls of tens of millions of Catholic parishioners around the world; there was also this horrific plague sweeping the globe to worry about. While Satan extirpated their souls, the plague decimated their bodies. He reached a hand out towards the bedside table, found his Bible and brought it to lie on his chest. He didn't turn on the light, not wanting to waken Moni, but just the feel of its presence lying over his heart brought comfort.

He thought about the two Catholic priests, Muldoon and Cardinal Bertini, lying in their own beds directly below on the second floor, and wondered how they were sleeping tonight.

Monique had made the trek last night by foot to Cardinal Bertini's secret apartment, about six blocks away, carrying a handwritten note from Monsignor Muldoon that introduced her. She'd urged the holy man to stay with the others in seclusion so that he would remain safe from the incipient plague, and wait to do his work once the danger had passed. Once she had his agreement, she'd insisted on carrying his luggage back to Muldoon's apartment, in deference to his age and esteemed position. The two teenagers that were sharing the apartment with him refused to come along, protesting that it would be too crowded in the new flat. She finally gave up, but made them promise not to go out, telling them she'd bring them food in the morning. On her return to the apartment building with the Cardinal, she'd only rested long enough to have her glass of wine, then assessed their meager supplies, and left to go shopping. Three hours later she'd returned with groceries, and would have set about preparing the meal as well, if Joe hadn't gently but firmly pushed her into the one comfortable chair in the room and taken over the chore himself with the help of Giovanni.

No wonder she's sleeping like the dead, he thought, glancing over in the dark to the vague lumpy outline of the person under the covers on the other bed. He felt a fondness for her spunk, even if she was guilty of mass murder. He closed his eyes, thinking of Marija, and drifted slowly into sleep.

Suddenly he was being swept along by swift currents in a swollen black river, struggling helplessly against the swirling eddies, drawn by a powerful undertow that pulled him towards a vortex in the center of the wide waterway. Now he was spinning around the outer rim of the whirlpool, while in its center, at the depth of its nadir, was Marija - alive, beautiful, her luminous hazel eyes wide with terror, her arms reaching up to him as he circled and circled and circled.

The scene changed: the waters had widened into a vast stormy sea. Joe's arm was wrapped over a wooden spar which supported him, while he used the other arm to paddle forward, still trying to reach Marija who bobbed in the water in front of him, holding out her arms to be saved, but always just out of reach. He thought he might be able to get to her if he let go of the wood and swam, but as he moved his arm the spar flipped over, and he realized it was a huge wooden cross, with the body of the dead Jesus just beneath his armpit, the face of the crucified Lord bent over to the side, inches from his own, the painted eyes suddenly open and alive.

He screamed, and Marija screamed back and the Christ image on the wooden cross screamed. As the screams faded Marija began to accelerate away from him, drawn towards a huge maelstrom that had just appeared in the center of the stormy sea. He could only watch helplessly as she began to whirl around its vast circumference, slowly drawn into the vortex lower and lower, as if she were human waste being flushed down the vast toilet of the world into some hidden cesspool at the end of everything. Her one arm continued to reach up, still hoping to be saved until, at the very end, when fate was inevitable, she folded down the outer two digits so that only the one in the middle remained pointing upward.

He woke, gasping, reliving the dream, trying to form memory, trying to find meaning in the symbols until the dream began to fade, bit by bit, and only that one last image of the middle finger in final salute, remained. As that too slipped away, Joe fell back asleep, and almost at once another vision overtook him.

Her voice entered his mind first.

"Joe," she said, and his eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. At least he _thought_ his eyes flew open.

She was standing there in the dark little room: Above her head a full moon glowed through the window panes, illuminating her in a mystical aura. She was naked, but it was a simple, natural nakedness, suggesting nothing.

"I'm all right, Joe," she said, then seeing him start to get up she held out her hand in warning. "No, you mustn't try to touch me."

He sat back down, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Don't cry babe, I'm okay, really. He didn't take me; he couldn't. I already belonged to God. But he wanted you to think he had. I'm simply waiting now for all this to be finished."

"Where are you? What are you?" he asked, in his mind.

"I don't know. It's no place and some place at the same time. I just know I'm still me, and I'm safe for now, but a lot of that still depends on you: You, Mike, and the others. And I've come to warn you about tomorrow."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Pope Caius and the other cardinals have infested thousands of statues, replications of the Pope Marcus statue, with demonic powers. They'll be giving these to every cardinal on the planet, as well as to the heads of state of every catholic nation. Anyone who has one of these will come under the direct influence of the powers of darkness, and be unable to resist his unholy will. This is just the first step in his plan to rule the world."

"What can I do?" Joe asked.

"Probably nothing," Marija admitted. "But they will be taking one to Magliano as well, to his hospital room. This you must stop. You need him if you are going to be able to stop Satan in the end. You can't allow him to be taken to the other side."

Then she was gone, leaving only the moon staring in through the dirty window, its glow strangely hypnotic, drawing him into its light and down into its darkness. His eyelids drooped heavily, strained open, then drooped again, pulling against their own weight until finally letting go of the effort, as he fell back into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter 21

The Vatican

The second beast was given power to give breath to the image of the first beast.

Revelation 13:15

The new Synod Hall was full nearly to capacity, as the last of the Cardinal Deacons took their places in the upper rows. At the very front of the large auditorium, the nine Cardinal Bishops of the Holy Roman Catholic church were seated in their places of prominence, filling the central seats of the first row. On either side of these heads of the church were the heads of state of Brazil, Italy, France, The Philippines, The United States of America and Mexico, those six countries with the greatest populations of practicing Catholics. Behind them, taking up the entire second row, were the representatives of the governments of eighteen other major countries, here to pay homage to the Pope and take a nice gift back to their respective leaders.

In the remaining twelve rows were seated the one hundred sixty five cardinal priests and thirty nine cardinal deacons that comprised the entire governing body of the Roman Catholic Church, the college of cardinals. They too would be honored with a small token of esteem from the head of the church, who even now waited in the wings, anxious to proceed with the evening's ceremonies.

"Let's do this," he whispered to Bishop Armandi.

The man nodded, and strode out onto the podium, waiting for those in the room to stop their chatter. It took a full two minutes of staring at them sternly for everyone to notice and quiet down.

He shook his head, a small but perceptible admonishment.

"All Rise: I present His Holiness, Pope Caius the Second."

The cardinals at the ends of each row stepped out into the aisle to genuflect, while the rest bowed respectfully from the waist. The government representatives, looking around to see what to do, bowed as well, although none knelt. Then the pope signaled them to be seated, and two hundred thirty seven elderly men sat gratefully back down in the plush cushioned seats.

On the stage behind Pope Caius were four rows of identical objects, each exactly thirty inches in height and covered in a red velvet cloth. He stole one quick glance over his shoulder at the treasure, then turned back to his select audience and began his prepared speech, a reminder of the miracle of Pope Marcus three and one half years earlier, and what that meant to the church. As he did so, Bishop Armandi discretely picked up the icon at the end of the last row and quietly left the hall by a side door.

********

Five miles away, a pretty woman got into a cab and asked the driver to take her to the Hospitale Universita di Roma.

She wasn't nervous, she was terrified. At the same time, she felt there was no choice.

Moved along by invisible hands, her own or others, she'd sought to destroy the world and now, perhaps, she was hoping to save it, or at least the best of it. Was this her penance? Her karma? Was she making amends, or just continuing the play. Either way, she had no choice.

When Joe had called them all together this morning to recount his dream, to tell them of Marija's warning about the icons, about saving Cardinal Magliano, she found herself saying "I'll go."

She hadn't meant to say it, it wasn't an act of conscious bravery or self-sacrifice or propitiation: It just came out. A statement of fact: _I'll go_.

Of course they argued, men always argue.

Joe insisted he should go. "I'm the one that had the dream."

Muldoon also wanted to go: "He's my best friend, the head of my diocese; I should go."

Bertini, of course, insisted that as a fellow Cardinal he was the one that must take responsibility to save Magliano.

Giovanni wisely kept quiet.

"You all are forgetting one little thing, called Bubonic Plague," Moni reminded them. "I can't get it, you can."

"I could wear protective gear," Joe countered.

"Sure, that's not conspicuous," said Moni. "Anyway, I know right where his room is and the best way to sneak in there without being seen, you don't."

"Signorina?" Giovanni interrupted, but cautiously.

"Yes. What?"

"Are you also immune to the icon, the devil himself?"

That had stopped her cold. She hadn't even considered it.

"If she gets infested by this evil, we will all be lost," Muldoon sighed. "Who will be able to bring us the things we need until the plague has run its course."

"I can bless her," said Cardinal Bertini. "I can consecrate water, right here; make it into holy water and sprinkle it all over her for protection."

"But will that be enough?" asked Muldoon, thinking back to their own encounter with Satan when he, with Joe's help, had performed the exorcism on Marija. It had taken more than just holy water to free her from his possession.

"My Cross," Bertini said, touching the large silver crucifix that dangled from a heavy chain around his neck. "It was worn by our beloved Pope John the twenty-third for many years, and I believe it is filled with his own spiritual power. Monique could wear this when she visits Cardinal Magliano, and I believe it will guard her from all evil.

"Believe," she thought now, as the cab pulled into the hospital driveway to let her out. " _Believe_ is good, but if he'd said _certain_ I'd feel a whole lot better."

********

Back in Synod Hall, the recap of Pope Marcus' miraculous flight over St Peter's Square had been completed, and an artist's depiction of the Statue that would be unveiled in the Square to commemorate that event shown on the large screen behind Pope Caius.

"It is a shame that you will not be present for the unveiling ceremony this Sunday, but with this terrible plague bearing down on us, it is wise for you to avoid such large crowds. Therefore the gifts which we would have given to you at the event itself will be presented to you now: Replicas of the statue itself for you to take back to your leaders," he said with a nod towards the government delegates; "and your diocese," he inclined his head toward the body of cardinals.

With a small flourish, he removed the red velvet shroud from the first statue, revealing a breathtaking piece of art done in marble and gold leaf, which depicted a graceful angelic looking Marcus atop the white obelisk, his outstretched arms reaching up towards heaven, his cassock flowing out behind in gentle folds, the golden three tiered tiara of the papacy on his head surrounded by a byzantine spray of golden radiants comprised of ten larger points, seven shorter.

Gasps of delight and awe were heard from the cardinals, grunts and murmurs of appreciation from heads of state.

"In addition to your own icons, my fellow priests," he said, "each of you will be given a box of icons to ship home, sufficient to distribute to every parish in your diocese. And later, smaller versions of these statuettes will be available for purchase by your parishioners as well."

"Now, with the help of my curia, we will begin distribution of the icons If you will just come forward one at a time, beginning with the first row, we will bless you and your statue as you receive it."

********

Monique took the elevator to the seventh floor, and the stairwell up to the eighth as she had done before. Not wanting to trust finding another uniform in the laundry bin this time, she'd stopped on the way over to purchase scrubs and a nurse's cap, which she changed into in the public restroom, hoping that it would be enough to get by anyone who gave her no more than a casual inspection. She peeked around the corner of the long hall: With no one in sight, she hurried down the corridor towards the room at the end in which Magliano was housed.

Cautiously she opened the door, then slipped inside. Sitting by the bed, holding a large marble statue threateningly over the cardinal's head, was a man wearing a bishop's purple cassock. At her sharp intake of breath, he turned his head towards her and smiled, an evil upturning of the lips that filled her with an unreasonable dread.

Armandi lifted the statuette of Pope Marcus towards her - an offering - and the woman felt a sickening wave of power wash over her, at first repulsive and disgusting, but quickly becoming strangely magnetic, seductive, sexual. She closed her eyes, gasping, shaking; while one hand impulsively grabbed the silver cross around her neck, the cross of Pope John the twenty third, and held it out in front of her, eyes still shut tight. Immediately she felt the power begin to recede, and when she chanced a look, she saw the cross was glowing with a brilliant white light. She stepped forward more boldly, still holding the sacred symbol in front of her, and Armandi snarled, withdrawing the icon. As she took another step, his face changed, becoming something inhuman, something dark, reptilian. A black tongue, slender and elongated, snaked out from his open mouth, and he dropped the icon on the bed beside Magliano, fleeing the room with a curse and a promise.

Moni stood looking at the icon, at the cardinal lying unconscious next to it. She dared not go closer.

"Cardinal? Cardinal Magliano?" she called softly.

The little Italian priest didn't move.

"Cardinal Magliano?" she said a little louder this time.

The man's eyes shot open, first staring straight up at the ceiling. Then slowly they turned to focus on the woman at the end of his hospital bed.

His eyes were red, blood red, with vertical slits for pupils.

One scream, that's all: then she clasped her hand over her mouth and ran for her life.

Chapter 22

The Vatican

The second beast was given power to give breath to the

_image of the first beast, so that the image could speak_.

Revelation 13:15

Moni wanted to run all the way back to her room, to crawl under her covers and hide there forever. The core of her being, however, was not gold, but carbon; not glowing, radiant, and malleable but dark, common and tough. Apply enough pressure and she would turn into a diamond.

She took three taxi's and two buses, and walked at least a mile before assuring herself she was not being followed. Even then the memory of those horrible red reptilian eyes haunted her, compelling the woman to turn around every few minutes to scan the sidewalks, roadways and even the sky above.

That night and all the next day she refused to leave her bed, shaking and shivering with an ague that was - she knew - far more psychological than biological in nature. Her body temperature remained stubbornly efficient at 98.2 degrees Fahrenheit no matter how feverish she felt. By Saturday evening she gave up on being sick and decided to rejoin the group.

"The unveiling is tomorrow," Joe was announcing. "It was in this morning's newspaper."

"You didn't go out, did you?" Moni said as she rolled out of the narrow bed.

"She lives!" Declared Giovanni with a grin. "I knew she was faking her demise."

"I didn't," Joe responded. "The newspaper was in the front hall, on the table for mail."

"You shouldn't even go that far," Moni admonished. "You have no idea how bad this bug is. Just stay in your rooms from now on: I'll get you what you need....sorry I wasn't on it today, but I'm back, okay?"

"Are you ready to talk about what happened?" Mike Muldoon inquired gently.

"I was too late," she shrugged. "Like I already told you; someone in a purple robe was there with one of the statuettes. He ran out, and when the cardinal opened his eyes they were, they were..." Her voice broke, and she found she couldn't go on.

"Possessed?" Giovanni suggested helpfully.

"Red," She said: "Bright red, like arterial blood; with dark slits for pupils. I've never been so scared in my life."

"But you're okay now?" Joe pressed.

"Yeah, I guess...why?" Moni asked, nailing him with a look .

"Because we need eyes at the unveiling," Cardinal Bertini interjected. "We have to know what goes on, how the crowd reacts, anything that will give us a clue as to what his next move is."

"Whose?" she said.

"Satan's."

She looked at the floor, shook her head, wagged it back and forth, back and forth.

"What time is it?" she asked finally.

"What time is the unveiling?" Joe queried.

"No, what time is it right now."

"Four ten."

"Good enough: Can someone pour me a glass of wine?"

********

The next morning Moni, dressed simply in jeans, white t-shirt and a blue cotton hoodie, slipped out the front door of the apartment before Joe was awake. As she tiptoed past Giovanni's room on the second floor, the door opened and the young Italian peered out, ruffled hair and sleepy eyes somehow sweetly appealing in the early morning light.

"Signorina; I just wanted to say be careful, per favore. Go with God today," he said.

She smiled with a melancholy affection, touched his cheek gently with her palm, then planted a big kiss right on his lips.

"I'll be back," she said.

He smiled broadly, shaking his head. "American women," she heard him mutter.

Monique took her time getting to the square, walking a mile through the streets before even trying to find transportation. She finally bought a ticket from a corner newsstand for the metro, and took it as far as the Colosseum, walking the rest of the way to the Vatican on foot among an ever-thickening crowd of curious tourists, pilgrims and the local devout.

As she edged through the claustrophobically packed crowd, she heard Pope Caius' voice cutting through the clamor by way of loudspeakers placed strategically along the top of the massive colonnades. He was in the middle of recapping the history that had inspired this day of celebration, reminding them of the deadly aneurism that had brought Pope Marcus to a state of virtual death, his body kept alive by life support machines, his brain a flat line with no visible activity, no sign of life. All seemed hopeless: Then, Caius declared triumphantly, a miracle occurred: the Pope awakened - even though, to medical science, he could not have - and called his highest church officials to his bedside to give them God's new plans for the Roman Catholic Church; assuring them that he was speaking in the voice of God Himself.

Murmurs now from the crowd around Moni; some were skeptical, some re-affirming this history with tears and acclamations.

"You all know what happened next," Pope Caius declared. "On the day of his successor Pope Sixtus's coronation, Pope Marcus appeared on the balcony above the great Piazza di San Pietro, and performed a second miracle, a miracle of flight: A hundred thousand witnessed his frail body lift off from the balcony and float across the square to the obelisk in its center. Thus having met the criteria for canonization, as determined by the Congregation for the Causes of Saints, we are here to first of all announce the sainthood of Pope Marcus the Third, and to declare this day a religious holiday henceforth.

The crowd roared its approval; but Moni noticed that in amongst the yells and cheers there were quite a few that dissolved into a fit of coughing. She looked around, her heart beginning to beat a little faster. Several feet to her right, a man with a handkerchief pressed to his lips endured a bronchial spasm that left him gasping for breath when it finally passed, a red stain on his white linen napkin. And to her left, a child cried out, vomited on someone's shoe, and cried again weakly.

"It's arrived," she whispered.

"Next," Pope Caius's voice carried stridently above the noise of the hundred thousand gathered in the square below; "we will unveil what is to become the new symbol of our faith, a reminder of the power and purpose of the Roman Catholic Church as it moves into the new era of the twenty first century and beyond, following the will of God that was revealed through the vessel of Pope Marcus. I give to you, Il Papa è Il Figlio.

On cue, a wedge of six men wearing the purple vestments of their office strode importantly down the front steps of the basilica to the tall object at their base, which was cloaked top to bottom in a white velvet cloth adorned with golden tassels. This mystery object stood in direct alignment with the red obelisk at the center of the square, but its placement at the bottom of the stairs into the great cathedral gave it a position of prominence. Affixed to the velvet shroud were six ropes made of golden thread, which the archbishops now lifted dramatically above their heads.

From the loudspeakers around the square, the voice of Pope Caius the second: "I give you the new symbol of our faith, The Transcendence of Pope Marcus the Third: The Father becomes The Son!!"

With that declaration, the six archbishops dropped their arms, pulling on the golden ropes to release the velvet cloth and reveal the statue beneath. At the same moment a whirring noise filled the air, as thousands of snow white doves were released from cages hidden behind the great statues of the saints along the top of the colonnades.

As the cloth slid away from the new statue, a great sighing was heard from one hundred thousand lips: The statue, Moni had to admit, was breathtaking. Its base rose some twelve and one half meters above the plaza floor: made of bronze it was a deep reddish color, a half scale replica of the red granite obelisk in the center of the plaza. Poised at its apex was a statue of Pope Marcus beautifully carved from the finest white marble, at twice the actual height of the Pope himself. The artist Rowena had taken great liberties with artistic license in the recreation of Marcus' miraculous flight. The three meter high figure was not gnarled with the tetany of useless muscles nor withered by death's appetite for flesh, but tall, straight and vibrant in appearance, with outstretched arms reaching toward heaven. His cassock flowed in bending folds behind him; the golden, three-tiered tiara of the papacy glowed upon his head, the byzantine spray of golden spikes, like a golden crown of thorns, radiated in an arc around his countenance - ten larger points and seven smaller ones.

It was beautiful, impressive, and Moni shuddered as if someone had walked across her grave. It was wrong, somehow: not just the lie it proclaimed, but wrong in and of itself, as if it had been bestowed with some kind of innate immorality: A lovely, glowing beacon of evil. And placed where it was, guarding the entrance to the great basilica like a lighthouse, what did that signify? What could it do?

A change came over St. Peter's Square: a perceptual sharpening of the three dimensions, someone adjusting the focus of their world to surrealistic clarity. Shadow and light - even under the blurry reddish gray canopy of the smoke from the Gulf fires - took on razor edges. The portico of Saint Peter's Basilica grew overpowering, immense, yet was at the same time etched in minute detail in their collective vision. A hush fell upon the crowd - absolute silence in a mass of people too great to be counted. The three dimensions had grown so perfect they approached the fourth. More than one hundred thousand people stood entranced by a statue that captivated all their senses: The taste of marble, the touch of grey sky, the smell of bronze heated by the sun. They could see the atoms sparking through the air, the aura of energy emitted by the strain of solid objects trying to keep their atoms from escaping. They were standing, as one, on the precipice of absolute present time. One step further would hurl them out of their known universe altogether, out beyond the perfect balance of time and space and form and into the void where none existed.

The sound of the crowd's combined breathing was one constant pulsating wind: The water spraying from the two fountains near the center of the plaza created a symphony of individual droplets falling. Many now, unable to confront such sensory onslaught, fainted dead away: others wept, still others laughed in a strange hysteria. All at once music erupted, a chorus of high, unearthly voices singing in tuneless harmony, a Gregorian chant, which fell upon them from above.

Moni craned her head upward; thousands of others looked as well, scanning the sky for angels, demons, whatever the source of the ethereal music might be. Then movement atop the colonnade caught their eyes, as the great marble saints positioned at the top of the structure unfroze, turning on their stone pedestals to look first down at the crowd and then around at each other, dazed like sleepwalkers aroused from some ambulant dream. Was the music coming from the statues, or had it awakened them?

The singing increased in pitch and volume, the statues' heads tilted back in a howl until the sound of their combined outrage became more like a doppler effect of oncoming emergency vehicle sirens than anything resembling music. At its peak it abruptly ceased: One hundred forty life-size reanimate marble saints turned as one toward the entrance to the Basilica, one hundred forty bone-white fingers pointed towards the two granite fountains that flanked each side of the red granite obelisk. All human eyes followed.

The sparkling silvery blue waters cascading from the fonts eight meters above their granite basins suddenly grew dark, taking on the pinkish-orange hues of a vivid sunset. Gradually this color deepened, darkening into the hue of an old wound, the color of venous blood. Even as the senses reeled from this gruesome marvel, a rippling sound was heard overhead, a hissing and sputtering. The sky filled with a whirling tempest of flames, separate fires that came together in a spinning dance, then separated back into smaller fires, shooting off in a dozen different directions, splitting into five hundred tiny flames and then whirling and looping and spinning back together across the sky.

People all around her were falling to their knees in prayer and supplication, terrified and awestruck at the same time. Moni was merely mystified. For what she saw was fountains colored pink by sunlight refracted through the smoky sky; and the returning doves, lit perhaps by the setting sun into soft pink coloration, but nothing more. Nothing more, she assured herself, although in and out of her vision flitted the other, the dancing vortices of fire, the fountain of blood. As she fought these back, she glanced down at Bertini's cross, hung around her neck. It glowed with an inner fire of its own, its protective aura surrounding her.

Now all eyes were drawn to the new statue, and the likeness of Pope Marcus at its apex. For the statue had begun to speak.

A cheap trick, Moni thought: no doubt some microphone embedded in the statue somewhere: Why couldn't they see through it? But to a crowd already primed by mass hysteria to accept the miraculous, all powers of discernment were shut down, so as the voice of "Marcus" came forth from the marble image, the crowd began prostrating themselves on the ground, weeping and bashing their heads against the bricks, rolling around in an agony of ecstatic religious fervor.

"My children," the voice said; "you have been born into great and wondrous times, times of true miracles. I have come to reclaim my world from the Great Deceiver. If you want to be counted among my own, you must prove your commitment to me by adopting these new symbols of my power and authority, taking into your home and workplace the replicas of this statue which symbolizes my miraculous hand at work. Obey the mandates of my true servant, Pope Caius the Second and his cardinals. Believe in the miracle of the transcendence of Pope Marcus, believe that he is the true heir to the place at the right hand of God the Father, Il Papa è Il Figlio.. You must worship and bend your knee to his will, by following without question the mandates of Pope Caius, his faithful servant."

This said, the statue suddenly came alive, lowering its arms from their reach toward heaven to look down upon the crowd as if searching, one long bony finger pointing accusingly as it scanned. Spotted, Moni cringed, ducking behind a pillar, not believing what she'd seen.

"Viva il Papa," a voice cried out weakly.

"Viva il Papa," a chorus of voices responded.

"Vival il Papa! Viva il Papa! Viva il Papa!" the anthem grew, louder and stronger, with more and more voices joining in the accolade until 100,000 strong they worshipped their new god, tears streaming from their eyes.

Moni too was crying, but hers were tears of horror, of terror, of guilt and despair as she fled from that accusing finger and all it represented, running from the great piazza and all that was so terribly wrong there.

Chapter 23

Rincon Beach, California

.... _.and_ _the sea turned into blood_

Revelation 8:8

As the great statue of Pope Marcus was being unveiled in St. Peter's Square that afternoon - along with the distribution of over ten thousand satan-infested icons and a similar number of yersinia pestis cases - over 6200 miles to the west a handsome if slightly misused looking man with unkempt long brown hair and mischievous blue eyes was getting out of an aging SUV at sunrise on a pretty white sand beach in Central California.

Buzzy Bent - Bernard only to his parents and an elderly aunt - hadn't surfed Rincon in too many years. It was primarily a winter break, and that meant that when the waves were breaking you had to brave water that was typically below 50 degrees \- way too cold for an old man of thirty nine and counting, he'd decided a while back. He'd first surfed the spot when he was a 14 year old grom, ditching school to hitch a ride with the old timers of twenty-something to discover what many still claimed to be the perfect point break. But as the years had slipped by to twenty, then thirty and now closing fast on the next decade, he'd found he didn't have the body tone and energy left to ward off the penetrating, incapacitating chill that began to set in after 15 minutes in the frigid water, even with a good wet suit.

However today, he decided, he just might make an exception. For one thing, it was already late March, and yet there was a nice head high swell coming in: Even better, the water temperature was an unheard of sixty-eight degrees, which was rare even in late summer this far north. Score one for global warming, he supposed.

First, he'd have to paddle out with the two plastic jars that were his real purpose in coming - which was to collect his monthly ocean samples from a section of shoreline that ran from Santa Barbara to Santa Cruz, part of some long term study of ocean quality his old surfing buddy Chuck Hemmings been doing for the past decade. The science of it was a bit over Buzz's head, but he knew it was important to Hemmings, and besides, the prof paid him a couple hundred bucks plus expenses for each set of samples he sent him.

It was Sunday morning, barely six am and still a week before most schools let out for spring break, none the less there was already a sizable crowd of young truants dancing maliciously across the curved 5 foot walls of grey-blue glass, ripping apart their natural beauty on those ridiculously short, prick-shaped pieces of foam they laughingly called surfboards. Buzzy refused to give up the grace and muscle of longboarding for the hot dog style of the short boards; it just wasn't his style.

Besides, you couldn't carry jars of water samples on those things that barely floated their riders as they sat waist deep in the ocean, waiting for a wave. He grunted and knee-paddled past the stares and snickers on his old nine foot three thruster, the jars secured to his chest in their homemade carrier - a vest made of webbing and straps - and protectively wrapped in several layers of foam. He studiously ignored their lean, deeply tanned bodies as they hooted to one another, raking up points on the inside waves, their unlined faces grinning over perfect white teeth. Punks: he just hoped his softening belly muscles and pasty skin was disguised by the girdle-like tightness of the wet suit. He headed out towards the point where the occasional bigger sets were breaking. Once he'd gathered the water samples he'd wait for a big one, knowing that his oversized, awkward-looking board could rip through a concave peak from the far side and make it through a maximum barrel faster and cleaner than any of their flimsy little potato chips could ever hope to; that he'd be able to redeem himself with a reverse cut back and stall, a deep bottom turn and a long planing nose-ride clean across the entire cove on a glass-walled seven or eight footer. What might look right now as an old and hopelessly outdated machine to these sneering teenagers could, under his experienced guidance (and with the right conditions) impress the living shit out of the little fuckers.

Yeah, he decided; after he'd collected and secured the water samples from just beyond the break, he'd wait for the big set, and when it came, that one perfect wave would carry him past their smart-ass smirks and bugger their eyes out in open-mouth admiration as it took him toes on the nose all the way to the shore break.

He only wished it would take him all the way up to the highway and throw the board in the back of his SUV as well.

He was still gazing out to sea, watching the horizon for the dark swelling lines that would signal his deliverance, when he saw something that set his adrenaline racing like a huge set never had.

The water two hundred yards beyond the point seemed to be bubbling, frothing, boiling in a straight line that stretched southward parallel to the coastline for as far as the eye could see.

"What the hell!?"

He hadn't meant to shout, but his voice carried across the still waters loud enough that a couple of the surfers nearest him turned curiously to look in his direction.

His first thought was that the San Andreas fault was acting up: the old nightmare of being caught by a gigantic tidal wave sprang to mind, making his heart race even faster. Then he realized that the line of unseen disturbance was moving _towards_ him, drawing rapidly closer and closer; it seemed to be accelerating toward the shore in a straight line, with him caught between.

Damn!

He swung his board around and starting paddling hard, up on his knees, his long arms reaching deep into the cool blue water, pulling back in long strong strokes that pushed his board rapidly towards the distant beach: As he swept forward, he continuously kept glancing back over his shoulder at the approaching, unidentified menace.

His last backwards glance, before the pain hit and he needed to look back no more, revealed that the source of the boiling waters was fish - thousands upon thousands of them - shimmering silvery streamlined bodies of all different shapes and sizes. There were ocean perch, anchovies, opal eyes, herring, mackerel and God knew what else; all leaping and churning and boiling through the water in a frenzied foaming broth of scales and fins and sharp tiny needle-point teeth.

The flashing fins and curiously-flat staring eyes he saw from twenty feet away; the teeth he became aware of when the stinging, tearing pain hit his frantically pumping arms.

"Jesus!" He yelled, pulling his wounded appendages out of the water to shake off the three or four small fish still clinging to his bloodied flesh, their little jaws still gnawing relentlessly toward bone. He looked around, wild eyed, seeing his board surrounded and under siege.

Buzzy had already passed by most of the younger surfers in his mad dash for the beach before they were even aware that there was a problem. Now, thirty feet to his rear, their frightened high pitched curses echoed his own. Suddenly the swearing turned into hysterical screams. Still paddling desperately for shore, he turned to look back, just a quick jerk of the head, in time to see a huge wave bearing down on them: Already crested and breaking, its white rolling sea foam was teeming with millions of writhing fish that smothered the hapless surfers in a soup of viciously snapping jaws.

The older surfer proned out on his board, throwing himself onto his belly. With just enough time to take three long hard strokes - ignoring the instant agony of the voracious attack on his arms - he set his board into a forward motion before the enormous breaker buried him as well. Then he was shooting forward just ahead of the roiling mass of predators, out into the clear green water ahead of the wave, his straining arm muscles digging and pulling, propelling him rapidly toward the rocky beach just ahead.

The fins on the bottom of his surfboard, struck a small submerged boulder fifteen feet from shore, throwing him into the foot deep water. Ripping free of the leash and abandoning the board, he ran the rest of the way to safety, cutting his feet, stumbling over the sharp rocks, too scared to even curse. The fastest of the pursuing fish had a chance at his feet and ankles, but he reached the waterline before they'd gotten much of him. Even then they refused to give up, battering their way through the lifeless air, flipping and tossing their bodies up onto the rocky shore, their little jaws still snapping and grasping at their escaping meal.

He clambered further from the water as the remains of the big wave churned over the rocks below, coming up the steeply sloping embankment. When it receded the beach was littered with a thick wriggling silver carpet. Buzz looked around, dazed.

Four of the younger surfers were now struggling onto the beach as well - three still carrying their tiny short boards - and weeping openly as blood poured from their bodies from a multitude of wounds that covered their arms and legs, their tanned shoulders and firm flat bellies...even their faces.

But there'd been more than four out there in the surfline, at least eight or ten he was sure! Buzz began straining out at the water, pacing back and forth, - three steps right, four left, six right, five left - his expression as anxious and scared as he felt. But he saw no sign of the missing boys. The water still teemed with a boiling mass of fish gone mad, tearing each other apart from shore to visible horizon, the froth of their activity now pink with dilute blood. Still, no boys, no arms waving up out of the reddened broth, no calls for help.

Farther down the coastline he spotted a couple of brightly colored bullet shaped objects bobbing near the shore, the leashes still attached to the tails of the boards, but no feet attached to the other ends.

"Ah Jesus, oh no, please God no," he said, his voice a half sob of fear and despair. His own board had been deposited by the waves ten feet up from the water, surrounded by a mat of beached fish that gasped and thrashed and bit each other as they died. He had to go get that board, go back out there and find those missing kids: He had to! Didn't he? Because if he didn't, if he didn't at least try, how would it look, what would people say about him? What would he say about himself when he looked in the mirror? Old Buzzy Bent, washed up has-been, over the hill chicken shit, afraid of some goddam sardines!?

Then he saw the first large fins moving in among the harvest of smaller ones; bigger predators circling around and then charging through the clot of bodies like threshing machines, leaving large rents behind in the concretion that instantly filled with blood.

He realized now that the stampede of smaller fish had been only the first wave of a hunger-driven onslaught, a feeding frenzy of unimaginable magnitude. These first fish were now pursued by the next link in the ocean food chain: the blue and yellow finned tuna, tarpon, dolphin fish, big mouthed sea bass, angry, sleek-bodied black sharks.

Bernard Buzzy Bent abandoned plans of rescue and crawled further up the bank, leaving his board where it lay. It didn't matter: He very much doubted he'd ever use it again.

Even larger fins now appeared: he could see sailfish whipping through the water, dolphins and seals leaping after fish, and more and more triangular fins slicing through the water, hundreds of them. Occasionally a huge shark would breach its body entirely out of the water, a fat sea lion -still gulping down its own meal -between its jaws. Buzz could see it all the higher he climbed up the little dirt path toward the top of the bluff where his car was parked. He could see too much.

Huge fins now, big black pointed fins that looked like fingers accusing the heavens as they slashed through the water; with rows of white teeth in enormous mouths slashing and tearing in a senseless orgy of slaughter. The killer whales were not even taking time to eat much of what they rendered lifeless flesh, as if their actions were motivated by some other driving force than mere hunger.

A wave set formed in the distance, building off the outside reef and looming up in a series of great green crescents. Inside the thinning ridge of the nearest wave Buzzy could see the big dark shapes churning and thrashing amidst a myriad of smaller ones; killing and eating, eating and killing, everything out there eating everything else as fast as it possibly could.

And when the crest peaked and broke, peeling off down its face, the foaming spray of its destruction was not white anymore but bright red with blood.

"Jesus," Buzzy said, tears streaming down his face.

He said it over and over and over. It was not a curse, it was a prayer.

Chapter 24

Rome, Italy

The woman fled into the wilderness

Revelation 12:6

The woman ran sobbing through the crowd, yet no one noticed, not one head turned. They were all still staring transfixed at the statue of Pope Marcus, who stretched his white marble arms out benevolently over the crowd, as vendors made their way through the weeping masses selling icons right and left at $30 euros a pop.

Her mind was dysfunctional, random; heart pounding from fear and exertion in equal measure. Her feet did the thinking, leading her to the central train station.

She looked at the map on the wall, picked a city north of Rome, and asked the ticket seller what train would get her there.

"Take the F1 line to Orte: it leaves from platform 7B in about 15 minutes," she was told in perfect English.

"Great. One ticket please," Moni said, and handed over a wad of euros which she hoped would be sufficient fare. The agent handed most of these back, plus a few coins.

It was already dusk, the first stars beginning to cough their way through the pall of smoke that had become Rome's new atmosphere, by the time the train for Orte left the station. This, it turned out, was the commuter train, with stops all along the route. None-the less, after twenty-five minutes they were out of Rome proper, and as she left the city behind she felt her pulse begin to normalize with the increasing distance between her and the nightmare that had taken over the Vatican. Countryside began to appear in patches, its pastoral quiet pulling at her. When the train stopped at a little town by the name of San Martino-Sant'anzino, only about 20 miles north of Rome, she impulsively grabbed her purse and left the train. It pulled away leaving her standing alone on a dark platform, with only a wash of neon from the distant, block long main street of the village providing light. Between the station and that main street stood rows of somber white-washed apartment buildings that looked like the public housing complexes in most urban American cities. For a moment she just stood there wondering what the hell she'd been thinking. Then she blew out a breath, put back her shoulders and started walking.

The first place she stopped was at the Bar Della Fortuna, where she settled for a glass of wine when what she was actually craving was an ice cold beer. She sat at the bar in order to strike up a conversation with the bartender, but he had no patience with her attempts to translate her American thoughts into Italian with the help of her fancy phone, and just kept asking "You wannanother drink or what?"

Finally a man in his sixties - hopefully too old to be seriously hitting on her - moved over to sit next to her.

"I speak a little English," he told her. "Perhaps I be of service?"

"I'm trying to find out if I can..." she started, then seeing the confusion on his face held up her hand, took a breath, and started again at half the speed and half the verbiage. "I need a room," she said.

"Ah, well, there is always my place: A little small but comfortable," he smiled. "Warm."

She wondered if this guy might be Giovanni's grandpa. Her expression must have said as much.

"I am just teasing," he laughed aloud. "But yes, there is a small hotel nearby; cheap and clean."

"Oh, thank God," she exclaimed. "Can you tell me where?'

"Go to next block, turn corner, it's third building, can't miss. Villagio del Pollo."

"Chicken Town?"

"It used to be a small poultry farm," he shrugged.

Moni laughed. "Grazi," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek as she picked up her purse and left, determined to get a place to sleep before worrying about dinner or anything else.

The concierge, a beautiful Italian woman who would probably never pass her prime, looked at Monique with an eye of suspicion.

"No suitcase?"

"No. I left in a hurry."

"Escaping some brute of a man?" The woman smiled sympathetically, handing her the key.

Moni nodded, doing her best to look sad: It wasn't wholly a lie, after all.

That night she lay on the thin mattress, the residual odor of chicken feces playing lightly on the breeze that fluttered the faded blue organza curtains, and thought and thought and thought.

"What the fuck have we done to our world? What the fuck, what the fuck what the fuck.

And what has it done to us?"

The latter, the things that she'd see in St. Peter's Square, the matters of the spirit realm, she simply wasn't ready to tackle yet, not even in her mind. She put them aside in their own compartment marked "later."

But there were other things she couldn't shirk, things that had to be met head on, her atonement rested on how she dealt with them. It. The plague.

There were two monsters in the Vatican today, she thought. One was the Pope - or His statue, his demon infested spirit - and the other was the Plague. She had no power to control or outfox the former, but the latter was something that hopefully she could deal with in a constructive manner. She needed to get provisions back to the guys, lots of provisions. They were going to be in for a long siege, and it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. Soon she wouldn't be able to go to markets every other day or so to get supplies, as she had been; soon the markets would close, as the trucks, ships, rails and airlines stopped being able to transport freight any distance due to personnel being out sick. Or dead. Then public services: water, phone, electricity would begin to fail.

"Without a vehicle, how can I get the supplies we need in sufficient quantity when they come available?" She asked herself. "And how safe is it in the city anyway? People will rob what we have if they know we've got it."

Moni began to formulate a plan, a concrete one. She wasn't one to pray, but she did anyway: it seemed appropriate, as she would certainly need more than her own moxie to get done all that had to get done.

Next morning she had two questions of everyone she met: First, do you know anyone who is selling a vehicle? And second, do you know of any house for rent?

The first need was met in remarkably short order, for it seemed everyone knew about the old FIAT truck a local farmer had for sale, although how to get to where it was or locate the seller was more problematic. The fourth person she talked to, a local vendor who was setting up his produce booth for the farmer's market to be held that day, told her the man would be coming to town to set up his own booth shortly.

"Ok if I wait here so you can point him out?" She asked, translating as best she could into Italian.

"Yes, but please stop butchering our language," he told her.

"Sorry," she said.

After a few minutes of watching him struggle to set up his tables, she walked over and began to help. He gave her a smile and a nod, so she continued, carrying the trays of fresh produce from the back of his old station wagon but letting him arrange them according to his usual fashion. They had just finished when he gave her a tap on the shoulder. He pointed with his chin: "Him. He has the truck."

The other farmer had been there for fifteen minutes already, two stalls away. Moni just smiled and shook her head, walking over.

The elderly man looked her up and down and said "One thousand euros."

She looked him up and down, and said "Five hundred."

They settled at $700, cash. She added, "provided it runs okay."

"Runs fine," he said. "Like a kitten."

"When can I see it?"

"After market: I drive you there."

"I'm going to buy some things here at market."

"We take, no worry. You gonna love the truck."

She spent the rest of the morning shopping for supplies to bring home, including sun dried tomatoes and mushrooms, tons of garlic, 2 bricks of parmesan cheese, fresh and dried pasta, basil, rosemary, and thyme as well as peppers and other vegetables which she intended to sun dry. She also purchased several pounds of dried fish and 3 live laying hens plus their feed. The person who sold them assured her that right now the eggs the hens laid would be fertile, so she should let at least 3 of them hatch if she wanted to continue raising chickens, because after a while, with no rooster to do his part, the eggs will never develop. She also purchased a cage, which was not really big enough for them to live in, but it would have to do for now.

Every vendor she went to and person she struck up a conversation with she asked about houses for rent, but came away empty each time. There were apartments, yes, in those ghetto style complexes, but that wasn't what she had in mind. It needed to be separate, self sufficient, and isolated.

It wasn't until she was driving with the farmer to his little place outside of town to check out his truck that she finally saw the answer to her prayers. It was set back from the road, a white stucco home with a white stucco wall surrounding the yard, and a for sale sign attached to the front post.

"Oh, can you stop a minute please?" She begged.

He did.

"Do you know anything about this home?" She asked, getting out and walking into the yard.

"Been for sale long time," he said. "Widower, died about two years ago. One son live in Naples, wants too much for it: daughter in Milan rich enough not to care."

"Do you think they might rent it out?"

"Can't hurt to ask," he shrugged. "Number's right on sign; so call?

"Can you help me?"

He made a face, shrugged again, and took her phone.

Fifteen minutes she had deal: the owner agreed that she could rent the place for 1000 per month American, minimum of 3 months, paid in full up front.

"No check, he want cash," the farmer, whose name she'd learned was Federico, told her. "Wire to this bank." He handed her a piece of paper on which he'd written the bank number in an almost illegible scrawl, which she had to go over with him enough times to make him irritable.

She didn't have that much money left in her own bank account, and could only hope the other men could make up the difference. But she didn't let Federico know that.

The old FIAT truck turned out to be bigger and in better condition than she'd dared to hope. It was a 30 year old small builder's truck, with metal sides and a cab that looked a bit like an old VW van, only bigger. It started on the second try, and after coughing out a cloud of diesel fumes and a brief sputter, it remembered who it was and idled smoothly.

"Like a kitten," the farmer smiled.

"Show me how to work the gears," Moni said.

They ran through the particulars on the vehicle, all its little idiosyncrasies, its maintenance and basic needs. Then she drove it around and around his farm roads for twenty minutes, before returning with a big grin on her face and $700 euros in her hand.

"Deal," she said.

He helped her load her chickens and groceries on the flat bed, tying a canvas over the top of everything to keep it from flying away.

"Stay on the Via Salaria, the SS4, all the way back to Rome," he told her.

********

Monique banged against the door with her hip, both arms full with bags of produce. The door flew open on her second hit and she tumbled forward, only the strong arms of Giovanni preventing her fall. He grabbed the bags of groceries from her arms, set them on the floor and hugged her so hard she couldn't catch her breath.

"Where have you been," he demanded once he let her go. "We've been frantic."

"Shopping," she said archly.

"You should have let us know," Joe said. "You've been gone almost two days."

"More like 30 hours, and you know I can't call, they could trace us here."

"None-the-less,"....

"I've got more bags to bring up from the truck," she said. Save your chastisement until I've finished, will you?"

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her before anyone could answer.

"For God's sake, I'm spending my last dime and bit of energy trying to save them and all they can do is bitch me out?" she fumed, grabbing three more bags and stomping up the two flights of stairs.

She set them by the door and went back down for more, not wanting any confrontations at the moment.

By the time she'd brought everything up she was too winded to argue any further. Anger had been replaced by exhaustion. The last thing she carried was the cage with the three fat hens, and as she entered the room with her prize Giovanni saw what was in her arms and balked.

"My aunt Vittoria will not allow livestock in these rooms, Moni."

"It's only for a night or two," she told him. "Then, God willing, we're moving to the country."

That stopped the conversations in the room cold.

"Maybe you should sit down, have a nice glass of wine, and tell us what exactly is going on," Joe suggested, pulling out a chair. Giovanni hustled to get her the wine.

"What happened at the Vatican, Moni?" Mike Muldoon asked gently. "Is that what has you going off like this?"

"I don't want to talk about the Vatican just yet, at least not the part you want to know," she said "First we need to talk about the plague."

She told them about the crowd in Saint Peter's Square, the number of obviously sick people around her.

"At least one out of a hundred was coughing, and not just a light hacking cough but deep bronchial spasms," she said, looking around at the men. "In a crowd of one hundred thousand, that means one thousand were already infected with the plague. And each of those must have spread it to at least four or five other people around them, the crowd was so tightly packed. That means that within a couple of days there will be at least five thousand sick with the plague, and if each of them infects five more people at school or work the number of sick will be twenty-five thousand one week from today, six hundred thousand within another week, and over 3 million sick and dying in Rome alone within three weeks."

"My God," said Mike.

That's why I had to get out of town, I had to think about what to do, how to save us....you," she said. "So I took a train to the country, heading for some place called Orte, but when it stopped to let people on in this little town along the way I suddenly found myself getting off."

"What is the name of this village?" Cardinal Bertini inquired softly.

"San Martino-something."

"Ah, San Martino-Sant'anzino," he said. "It's small, true, and underdeveloped, with nice farmlands to the north and south, but there is a major industrial center of Monterotondo just to the southwest.

"It is only about 20 miles north of Rome," Monique told them. "And so far the people there seem healthy. I didn't see much evidence of tourism. I think we can survive there much better than here," she argued, though no one in her little audience was disputing her. "Once this plague is rampant, which can happen in less than two weeks, the infrastructure will start to collapse. Stores, banks and other facilities will begin to shut down, with power outages, food shortages and lack of potable water. We need to get our money out of whatever banks it is in, and get out now."

"And you are suggesting this place, this San Martino?" It was Joe's turn to query.

"I found us a house, Joe," she said." A safe house."

She told them about the little house on the outskirts of town that was for rent, with its fenced yard for the chickens, a small vegetable garden that needed some tending, a goat shed at the rear, a couple of lemon trees, and its own well.

"Cardinal, you know the area better than any of us: what do you think of this plan?" asked Muldoon.

"I think we should trust God's hand in this: I believe He sent us this young woman, and He then directed her to this village, and to the house she found for us,"Bertini responded carefully. "Do any of you doubt this is so?"

The men looked one to the other, and shook their heads. They then agreed to each pay a share of the rent according to their ability, as well as to withdraw all the money they could from their accounts in case there was a collapse of financial institutions - though this would require visiting the banks in person: a dangerous move with the deadly plague now beginning to march through the city like a rampant army.

"I'll go tomorrow morning, find a hospital supply outlet, and buy the best antimicrobial masks I can get," Moni assured them. "Those, plus eyeglasses and surgical gloves should keep you safe: Just don't get upset if people look at you funny or imagine you're about to pull a gun."

Joe raised a brow, Moni responded with a face, and went on: "Each of you should have your share of the $3000 wired directly to the owner's bank account, and then withdraw as much of your balance in euros as you can without causing undue attention. As soon as we have the rental secured we can pack up the truck and leave, hopefully within the next couple of days."

She looked around the room at the men: "Okay?"

They all eyeballed her expectantly. She shook her head ruefully.

"Can we have dinner first?" she said. "Then I'll tell you all about what happened at the Vatican, okay?"

********

"I'm having a hard time with this, with what I saw," she confessed by way of introduction. "I'm going to start by putting on my skeptic's hat, okay? My scientist persona that says it had to have been mass hysteria and hallucination because inanimate objects simply don't do what I saw them do."

Her audience of four simply waited for her to continue.

After a pause, she went on to tell them everything that had occurred, from the unveiling of the statue and release of the doves, to the weird Gregorian chant that began to fill the air - all easily explainable to that point, she said. But then when the statues on top of the colonnade began to move, the waters of the fountain turn blood red, and the returning doves morph into whirlwinds of fire, that's when it all went south.

Moni stopped again for a while, gathering her thoughts, controlling her emotions.

"I told myself it wasn't possible, it was mass hallucination, and I was able to un-see it for a moment, see the fountain as simply reflecting the color of the setting sun, the firestorm simply the returning doves caught in the same dusky glow. But they kept reverting back again, and the sense of losing control terrified me beyond all reason. And then Pope Marcus - the statue of him - came alive atop that obelisk and it seemed as if he was pointing an accusing finger right at me."

The woman broke down then, putting her head on her arms and sobbing. Giovanni laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, Joe and Mike came forward to do the same.

"I'm sorry," she apologized as her sobs subsided, regaining control. "I know with my mind that it had to have been simply mass hysteria, a group hallucination; that's the only rational explanation for what happened, what we all saw and felt that day. But ..."

"But it doesn't really matter in the long run, does it," interjected Cardinal Bertini gently. "Even if it was simply that, mass hysteria, a grand scale manipulation of minds, souls and psyches, does that make it any less real, any less damaging to the observers? Satan can work "miracles" by manipulating and bending the physical environment to his will - or the mind of man to believe it is happening - but this can also be done by some Shamans and healers, and was actually a gift of the disciples, once they learned its essential nature. Even some ordinary men have innate gifts to move inanimate objects with their minds. What makes the difference is how this power is used, to what end? If it is to make man better, freer, closer to God and their own spiritual core, then it is called miraculous. If it is to deceive and entrap men, to bind them to this world and to glorify oneself rather than one's God, then it is evil."

"I don't know," Moni responded, shaking her head. "I just don't see how it is possible, any of this."

"What you think of as reality is all a matter of perception anyway," Joe interjected.

"It's all in my mind?" Moni countered, with a little smile.

"Pretty much. So if someone can control your mind, your perception of the world, isn't that the same as controlling the world itself?"

"I need another drink," Moni said.

"We told you about the tainted eucharist, the video clip that showed the evil spirits that replaced the blood of Christ in the bottom of the Chalice during the mass following Pope Sixtus' coronation: Would it help your belief to see that video with your own eyes?" Bertini asked.

"I suppose it might."

Then, would you be willing to go fetch the boys that took it? They are still at my old apartment."

"I know where it is," she nods. "Hopefully they are still well; if not, I'll have to leave them there.

Moni chose to walk the six blocks, rather than use her new truck, which she patted fondly as she walked by it. "Stay healthy, little FIAT. We're going to need you tomorrow."

At the flat, her knock is answered by the older of the two former altar boys, Dante

"Hi," she said; "remember me?"

"Yes. The lady who fetched Cardinal."

"He sent me to get you and your friend and bring you to where he is staying. He wants you to show me your video. But first I need to know how you are feeling."

"I'm ok, I haven't left this room since we got here, just stayed in playing video games. I was starting to get a little hungry though, and was afraid maybe you'd forgotten me."

"Sorry. There's been a lot going on, and I went out of town for a couple of days. Is Mateo okay too?"

"I don't know, he left two days ago, had to go take care of his mum, who wasn't feeling so hot. I can call him."

"Do."

Dante calls the other boy, but the conversation is brief and Dante's face tells it all:

"He can't come; he's got the flu or something he says."

"I'm sorry," she replied, for they both knew it wasn't the flu. "Will you come with me?"

He nodded.

"And pack all your stuff, you'll be staying with us now."

Chapter 25

British Columbia

And you have given them the blood to drink as they deserve

Revelation 16:6

Alan Forsythe checked the stats from the WHO, the CDC, and other such health ministries around the globe, those agencies responsible for trying to stem the tide of infectious diseases within and beyond their borders, and - that failing - to keep a body count.

By now, a little over 4 weeks since the favored few of Earth First were sent out on their missions to infect the globe with his genetically modified strain of Yersinia pestis, the disease had become rampant in most of the four corners of the earth - that is, if the world were not round.

The Far East was decimated, the progress of the plague from its origins in Tokyo, Beijing Seoul and Singapore amplified and accelerated beyond the anticipated norm by the continent's overcrowding, pollution and generally inadequate health care. The number of infected had grown exponentially each day: this day's total stood at approximately 200 million. Similarly the entirety of India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh were under siege, with similar numbers of infected reported, and a cfr of 67.5%, which would certainly rise as the already strained health care facilities collapsed under the burden.

Other cities in the industrialized nations were fairing slightly better, with body counts in the tens of millions rather than hundreds, but it was still relatively early in the game. And despite cleaner conditions and better emergency medical services, the cfr was none-the-less an admirable 46%, meaning that despite all interventions almost half of the people who came down with the plague were succumbing to it within a week.

For these countries as well, Alan knew, as the numbers of infected continued to rise the ability of hospitals and clinics to cope would become less and less effective, and thus the cfr would continue to rise as well.

Nothing could stop it now. His masterpiece, his final symphony and gift to the planet would be played to its final note.

"The earth has been saved from the cancer that is man," he told himself.

It was both a terrible and wonderful thing he had done. He was just very very very glad he didn't believe in God, for if that entity did exist, he had just killed off His most prized possession and accomplishment and for that he would surely be damned to the end of time.

"Mother would not be pleased," he thought, pouring himself a scotch, neat, and downing it in one gulp.

"But then again, mother dearest," he said aloud, pouring himself another. "What of Noah and the great flood? Didn't God himself decide that it was time to get rid of most of his mistake and start anew with the few good ones he had left?"

If there is a God, then maybe I'm doing this for Him, His will.

Except for the fact that I'm no Noah.

He went into his lab, drink in hand, and opened the heavy doors of the cryo freezer. Within there was a single vial of frozen nutrient broth, in which the remaining spores of Yersinia Pestis lay waiting to be re-animated.

He warmed the vial slowly in a vat of lukewarm water, and when it was liquid he shook it well to distribute the contents evenly, then punctured the rubber stopper with the long hypodermic needle at the end of the syringe he held, and sucked the amber liquid up into the glass tube.

He flexed his arm twice to make the vein on the inner part of his elbow pop up, and slipped the needle into it. It went so easily. Then he pushed the plunger on the syringe slowly down, emptying its contents into his bloodstream. He pulled the plunger back, sucking some of his own blood back into the vial, admiring its lovely dark ruby hue.

"Good to the last drop," he smiled, pushing the plunger back in so that every last drop of his blood, along with the deadly plague bacteria, was back where it belonged.

He thought about leaving a note behind, then decided against it. Who would read it, who would care? He wouldn't try to justify his life or his death with some final platitude: He'd done what he felt was right, and that was the end of it.

Instead, he gathered up what he would need: a couple of bottles of scotch, his old nor'easter jacket, an MP3 player loaded with all his favorite music from the 60's to the 80's \- no sense in going beyond that, nothing worth listening to - plus a selection of classical music, mostly stringed instruments or piano, some chocolate bars. And the Upanishads.

He started to close and lock the door to the complex behind him, then asked himself why, and left it open to bang in the wind, some kind of final statement he supposed. The private boat dock lay bathed in the weak afternoon sun: He walked toward it as one determined not to weaken, whistling tunelessly, his backpack full of scotch, extra batteries, a couple of drinking glasses and the chocolate bars.

Without stopping to look back, he boarded his sailboat - a modest twenty-one foot Bermuda sloop - tossed the backpack carelessly into the small cabin, untied the moorings and motored out into the sound. Once beyond the rocks, he set the sails full into the wind and headed north.

********

Twenty five hundred miles away another man sat contemplating the sea, the distance across the water from where he was to where he longed to be temptingly short, yet unreachably far, deep, treacherous with deadly currents and hungry, gape toothed sharks.

He'd been living out of a tent in the jungles of the Hana coast for nearly a month, coming into the small town only rarely to check emails and news at the one small internet cafe. From what he could glean from this source and local gossip, the plague was taking a mean toll on the islands, and all major airports and most shipping had been shut down for two weeks now, which absolutely killed the island's economy.

"It's tough, brah," the local running the cafe told him. "We lucky we heah, got plenty papaya on da trees, fish in da sea. Could be worse you know."

"No visitors to Hana?" Charles asked.

"No man, we block the road: On'y one way in and out. We safe here as long as no one get stupid."

"What about fishing boats?"

"Coast guard won't let no one go more than 2 miles out, but it's a big ocean, know what I mean? They can't watch everything."

That statement set Hemmings thinking. There might yet be a way to get to his compound on the Big Island's northeast shore, to Linda and his boys.

********

The first symptoms began to appear late afternoon the next day. It began with a headache that rapidly became thick and pounding, making every movement a jolt of electricity through the brain. The fever quickly followed, racing hand in hand with the pounding migraine: Even what little light remained from the setting sun was painful to his eyes, yet he wouldn't look away. He felt gingerly under his jawline, found the beginning of the buboes, and smiled in grim satisfaction.

By the time the moon rose he had barely the strength to hold the tiller: With the last of his resolve he lowered the sails and tied them to the beam, then lay down on his back to watch the stars. It was a soft night, a gentle night, the darkness welcoming. A good night to die. His cough was the only thing disturbing the peace, that and his body's unwillingness to stop trying so damn hard to breathe.

"Let go, damn you," he whispered to his cells; then coughed again, this time so hard that his airways collapsed momentarily and he strained in a panic to catch another breath.

When the spasm passed, he lay back again for a moment, contemplating the universe, his miniscule place in it, hoping he had done some good somewhere for something. Then he painfully dragged himself up to the gunnel, and with the remainder of his strength and no hesitation, heaved himself over the side into the dark waters of the sound.

The shock of the cold water against his burning skin was beautiful, wonderful. He lay on his back, enjoying the respite it gave, the peace it afforded as it wrapped it's arms around him and slowly pulled him back into the womb from whence he'd come.

Chapter 26

Rome, Italy

_It was given power to wage war against God's holy people and to conquer them._ Revelation 13:7

"Nessun cambiamento nello stato," he heard the nurse tell the footsteps that had just entered the room and noisily picked up some papers from the foot of his bed, ruffling through them like leaves blowing in an autumn wind.

"Vedo," replied the doctor.

"But I have changed," he wanted to shout at them. "I'm awake now, I'm here!

Yet he couldn't tell them. He tried, but he couldn't open his eyes, his mouth; couldn't make his body do what he asked no matter how strong his will. Locked into this silent, heavy, immobile tomb, he felt like he was encased in stone.

A tear slipped out from under his thick dark lashes, but no one noticed its source; it just merged with the sweat on his face, indistinguishable from the other primitive involuntary actions his limbic brain oversaw to keep the meat alive.

Footsteps left, the door opened and closed with a wheeze; all that was left was the clicking and whirring of the machines that ran his body and tracked their success with the task. He drifted back into sleep, into dreams that had become his only reality.

Luigi Magliano knew he was in trouble when the bed started shaking underneath him. He awoke, heart pounding, eyes still closed.

"Who's there?" He called out, but the cry never left his mind. And there was no answer, no noise in the room to suggest a human precense at work. His bed shook again, harder; the metal frame vibrating, jumping and jittering about on its stiff iron legs. He prayed that it was only an earthquake - even if it was the worst earthquake in the history of Rome, he hoped it was only that.

A pulsing light formed in the center of the hospital room: Even with his eyes closed, he could see it clearly, a reddish violet glow that deepened with each pulse, gradually growing larger until it filled the entire room with an eerie spectral violet light.

"You shouldn't have fucked with me, Magliano," a deep voice rumbled out of the misty aura.

The Cardinal felt his wildly palpitating heart stop dead. Beads of icy perspiration broke out on his forehead. His heart began a tentative beat, slow and cautious as if afraid to be heard.

In the middle of the glowing purple fog two bright crimson eyes the size of footballs materialized. They were flat ovals, like a snake's eyes, with vertical slits for pupils, lifeless and cold. Beneath them an enormous mouth hung open, exposing row upon row of daggerlike teeth. Behind these teeth the gullet yawned, a black wet cavern down which lay an infinite, dimensionless black abyss. The voice echoed up from this nowhere.

"You miserable, sniveling hypocritical little puke, you tried to stop me once and failed, and now I have stopped you. So simple to lay you out when you are stuck in that fragile meat body, isn't it? One little failure of your vehicle's steering column, so easy to accomplish, and whoopsy-daisy, dead cardinals all over the asphalt!" The demon laughed, a wicked bestial roar.

"Of course you were supposed to die as well, but no matter, you're as good as dead in that non-functional carcass you're trapped in. I know you're in there, Magliano, and I know you're awake, I know you can hear and understand. But no one else does, do they? You have no way to communicate at all. So that allows me to have a little fun with you, it turns out."

The little Italian shuddered within: without he was still as stone. The monitors continued to whirr and click, their rhythm undisturbed, no sign at all of the shrieking tempest going on inside the man.

"You came to Rome with your buddy, that cheesy priest from San Francisco, hoping once more to stop my plan without the slightest idea of what it was. Well now I 'm going to satisfy your curiosity, fat boy. I am going to tell you everything: You will be the only human being on the face of the earth to know exactly how I intend to assume control over every soul on the planet. And you won't be able to do one thing to stop me, won't be able to utter one word of warning to anyone else: Isn't that just the most delicious torture you can imagine?"

Then, as Cardinal Luigi Magliano lay helpless to shut out the voice from within, the dragon proceeded to tell him the future of the world.

When he was done, he vanished with a final terrible laugh, sucking himself into the abyss and disappearing down his own throat.

Now Magliano knew everything, now he alone understood the scope and nature of the deceits already underway as well as those yet to come. In his hands alone rested the chance to stop Satan from accomplishing his coup and dooming all mankind to eternal condemnation, misery and death. There was only one problem: He could neither speak nor move, not one voluntary muscle in his entire body was under his control. He could not so much as blink an eye under his own will.

He could think: Oh yes, he was absolutely and intensely cognizant of who and where he was, and what he knew. He could definitely worry about it, consider and envision it, imagine a million ways to try to stop it. But he could never communicate any of this to another living soul. That was his punishment, that was his personal hell: to know, to watch it happen, and to be completely helpless to do a thing about it.

That Havohej was a real jokester.

Chapter 27

Rome, Italy

Woe to the earth and the sea, because the devil has gone down to you.

Revelation 12:12

Monique spent most of the day driving the men in their cadre around Rome to various banks, where they transferred funds from their accounts to the property owner of the little farm they would be renting. Joe had been able to give her cash, since he'd already taken most of his funds from his fake bank account before boarding the plane from San Francisco. She took the rest of the men out one at a time, not daring to expose all of them at once to the dangers of the plague, nor to what or who from the Vatican might still be looking for them.

Besides, the cab of little Fiat truck only fit two people comfortably, three in a pinch.

By the end of the banking day all of the men had managed to transfer enough money collectively to secure the rental, and had as well withdrawn a substantial amount of cash to get them through the upcoming months. Once that was taken care of, Moni left them back in the flats and returned to the shopping district to purchase the kinds of supplies she feared might not be available in the smaller town where they would be staying: These included more antimicrobial masks and gloves, water purification tablets, solar powered radios and flashlights, rubbing alcohol, propane lanterns, batteries, extra canisters of propane, and additional food staples.

In the checkout line at the grocery store, a newspaper headline caught her eye.

Peste Colpisce Roma, Ospedali Ribobinatura

The English Version read, "Plague Hits Rome, Hospitals Reeling."

She grabbed the paper and threw it on top of her bags of grain, flour, sugar and vegetables.

Once back in her truck she opened the paper and began to read with a sinking feeling. They had to get out of here soon: According to the article, already the hospitals were overcrowded, shops and services were shutting down or reducing their hours as people stopped showing up for work, and brownouts were being predicted to begin within the week.

She turned to page 8 where the article continued, and when she'd finished that she noticed another story near the bottom of the page: It was a reprint of an AP wire from Los Angeles: "Three California Surfers Missing After Mass Shark Attack."

As she read the article, she found her heart beginning to accelerate as a feeling of dread spread through her like sickness. Hadn't Chuck Hemmings predicted something like this happening once the oceans reached their tipping point? She read the article again. According to witnesses, the incident began with a massive fish swarming, when hundreds of thousands of smaller fish were chased towards the shore by larger and still larger predatory fish, culminating in the arrival of hundreds of apex predators, including sharks. Three unfortunate young surfers were knocked off their boards and eaten in the melee. It was such a horrific feeding frenzy that, according to one of the surviving surfers - a man identified as Bernard "Buzzy" Bent - the sea literally turned to blood.

She shuddered, gripping the paper into a crumpled wad: That phrase, wasn't that from the Book of Revelations?

Reading on, another synchronicity: "Mr. Bent reported that at the time of the attack he was out in the water collecting samples for a water purity study by well known oceanographic researcher and environmentalist, Charles Hemmings - who, it turns out, is wanted for questioning by Interpol in connection with alleged terrorist acts involving the current plague pandemic sweeping the globe. Bent claimed to be unaware of this fact, and denied any involvement."

"He knows Hemmings?" This was too strange to be a coincidence.

Her mind was reeling with disparate thoughts as she drove home: The plague which left blackened sores on people's skin before drowning them in their own blood; the strange happenings she'd witnessed at the Vatican - maelstroms of fire and fountains like blood, statues of saints coming alive - the blood red eyes of Cardinal Magliano, and the horrifying video she'd watched last night which showed the chalice of consecrated blood filled with evil slithery things. And now this, _the sea turned to blood._

She suddenly felt the overwhelming need to get hold of a Bible.

Once back at the apartment, she borrowed Giovanni's computer and sleuthed the internet, trying to find an address for Bernard Bent. The best she could do was to locate what city he apparently lived in, this from a slightly longer article in the local California newspaper: Sand City.

She Googled that, found it to be an affluent little town on the Central California coast with a small enough population that she might just be able to get something to him via General Delivery....God willing.

Grabbing a pad of paper and pen, she began to write.

Chapter 28

Rome, Italy

These are the words of him who holds the seven spirits and the seven stars.

Revelation 3:1

"We can't just leave him." It was Cardinal Bertini speaking.

They'd been discussing their move to the little farm in the country: It had to be done within the next day or two at most, Moni told them: The plague was moving so fast now that soon things like petrol for their vehicle might become scarce, and they would be stuck here. Yet there remained the question of their friend and comrade in this great spiritual war, Cardinal Magliano.

"He's been with us in this from the start," Muldoon agreed. "If he hadn't helped Joe and me get into the Vatican infirmary to turn off the life support systems, Pope Marcus might still be alive today, giving orders directly from the prince of darkness and pretending to be the Word of God."

"From what I observed last Sunday, he still is," Moni called out. She was still at the little desk in the room, finishing her letter to Buzzy Bent.

"But not with the power he might have evoked if alive; certainly not with the frequency," Joe countered. "As far as I know, this is the first "supernatural" appearance of Pope Marcus since his death more than three and a half years ago, and this was as a talking statue, not the real man."

"Cardinal Magliano may have been your comrade and ally back then, but are you forgetting what I saw when I visited him last time, the demon eyes that looked out from his own?" Moni said, putting down her pen and walking over. "If he's possessed by Satan, do we really want him with us?"

"That may or may not be the case," said Cardinal Bertini gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "The devil is capable of illusion, of making us see what he wants us to see."

"Maybe," she said, her voice and expression doubtful.

"And it may be possible to exorcise the demon even if he has infested the Cardinal," added Muldoon. "We did it with Joe's wife."

"But to me it's not just a matter of loyalty to an old friend," Bertini continued thoughtfully. "Right now we have six: Myself, Monsignor Muldoon, Joseph, Monique, Giovanni and Dante. In the Bible, the number six symbolizes man and human weakness, the evils of Satan and the manifestation of sin, whereas the number seven is the foundation of God's word. Seven is the number of completeness and perfection."

"So we need Cardinal Magliano to complete us, to make us seven so that we may do God's work," the Monsignor said.

"This is not going to be a walk in the park, guys," Joe cautioned. "How do we expect to get by all the hospital personnel and protocols to see him, let alone get him out of there."

"Perhaps we could say we have been sent by the Holy See to return him to the Vatican infirmary for his care and rehabilitation. I still have my Vatican credentials, and am well-known and recognizable to the faithful in this city," Bertini suggested.

"That might get us to the door, even to the room, but what will they say when they see us dumping Magliano into the back of an old pick up like a sack of garbage?" Joe argued.

"Is it possible to hire a private ambulance here in Rome?" Moni asked.

"Google it," said Giovanni with a wink. "You've found everything else so far that way."

"You," countered Moni. "You at least understand the language, eh?"

They found five. They would call them in the morning to reserve one if they could.

"So, presuming we are able to rent the ambulance, then what? How do we do this?"

"Obviously Cardinal Bertini and Monsignor Muldoon should be the ones to go to the hospital administrator in charge of admissions to handle that part: Joe and I will be the "ambulance attendants," suggested Giovanni.

"I agree: I can present my pastoral identification and Vatican credentials, and inform them that the Cardinal is to be transferred to the Vatican infirmary where he will receive ongoing palliative care, as well as rehabilitation, if and when he awakens from his coma."

"Well, I can pick up the proper looking scrubs for you two," Moni nodded toward Giovanni; "but will the hospital just allow you to take a critically ill patient away, discharge him from their care simply on your word?" She wondered aloud.

"Crap," said Joe.

"Probably not," admitted Muldoon.

They all sat down with a common sigh.

After a moment Bertini said: "If we could get a sheet of Vatican stationery, I could write a letter authorizing his release to us: I still have my stamp with the official seal of Vatican City."

"Maybe this could help," Muldoon said, withdrawing from his pocket the set of keys with the Vatican insignia that he had found among Cardinal Magliano's personal effects in the hospital bedside table after the accident.

"Let me see those." Bertini took the key from Muldoon and held them up to the light. "These are keys to the Vatican apartment building, the _Domus Sanctae Marthae_ : Cardinal Mendice must have given them to Magliano when they picked him up at the airport."

"Would there be Vatican stationery there?" Joe asked.

"Every suite has a desk with writing materials and stationery for the visiting cardinals, yes," Bertini nodded. "I've stayed there many times myself."

"So, where is it exactly, and how do I get in?" the younger man said with a grim little smile.

"Not you, Joe, me," countered Muldoon.

"But..."

"No, if someone stopped and questioned you, what would you say? You don't know enough about Catholicism to respond correctly."

"And _you_ don't know Italian," said Bertini. "Nor the specific nature of Vatican protocols. It has to be me."

"But what if you are caught, arrested or worse?"

"Then you go on without me: five is a better number than six."

********

It was after ten pm when he arrived, walking from the last bus stop on Via di Porta Cavalleggeri and up the Via Della Stazione Vaticana to the border of the city-state, a twenty foot high concrete wall with a six foot wrought iron fence on top of that. There was an iron gate across the fifteen foot wide entrance road that ran alongside the Vatican residence house: Unfortunately it was closed and locked.

"Padre Celeste, mi aiuta oltre questa barriera," the Cardinal prayed under his breath, as he searched through the set of keys Muldoon had given him. Most he recognized as ordinary door keys, but one was slightly different, older and more ornate. He tried it in the lock of the gate, and with a little jiggling back and forth, it turned.

"Grazie, Gesù," he said, crossing himself as he slipped quietly past the gate and closed it behind him, leaving it slightly ajar.

He hurried up the narrow street, staying close to the base of the five story apartment building. As soon as he was inside the city walls he felt the evil, like something in the air itself, or in the space behind it. It was the essence of that entity he'd witnessed once before, when he and the other Cardinals saw Pope Sixtus transform into the demon, at the moment of Marcus' death. And later, the ugly fury of it when four of them \- He, Mendice, Falliano and Patriarch Synarus - came back into the Papal apartment that night to put an end to Sixtus' short but dangerous reign. Only now the feeling was more intense, the evil more widespread, as if the eyes of demons were everywhere, looking around, looking around, looking for him.

When he got to the far corner of the domicile Bertini peered around the side of the building to see if the entrance was guarded at this hour. He knew, having stayed there on numerous occasions, that the staff taking care of normal operations in the Domus was directed by an Italian priest and staffed by five nuns and 28 lay people. The priest had permanent residency in the Domus, the rest did not. Whether or not Swiss Guards would be posted was, however, uncertain: During a conclave they were there twenty-four seven to ensure that no unauthorized persons would enter and potentially corrupt the requisite isolation of the Cardinals while they made their decision on the next Pope. But under ordinary conditions, he hoped no such guards were deemed necessary.

Right now he saw none. Another silent prayer, a deep breath, and he walked up the path to the entrance as one who knew who he was and what he was doing.

He let himself in through the broad glass doors of the main portico, and took the elevator to the fourth floor: The room key was engraved 415. So far he had encountered no one: By this hour the few visiting cardinals, bishops and priests were probably sleeping or at evening prayers within their rooms: Most of the lights in the apartments were out: only a dim line of incandescence slipping from beneath a closed door at the end of the hall gave sign that there was any one else on this floor but he.

Within the small austerely furnished suite there was a small vestibule with a writing desk as he knew there would be, and within the desk a sheaf of stationery and envelopes embossed with the seal of Vatican City. He grabbed a handful of each, not knowing whether there might be another occasion when they would be needed. These he stuffed into the small backpack that was hidden beneath his cassock of office, donned as he'd made his way up from the bus stop to the Vatican City gates.

As he exited the apartment, the door at the end of the hall suddenly opened and a Swiss Guard stepped into the frame, illuminated by the light coming from behind him in the apartment.

"Arrestare. Identificarsi!" He said, striding forward.

"I am Cardinal Bishop Paolo Bertini, back from my tour as Nuncio to Uganda for a brief visit," Bertini responded in Italian.

"Si hanno le prove?" The guard said. His manner was surly, full of distrust and dislike. This was not at all the usual manner of the Swiss Guard. Bertini felt his hackles rise. He pulled out his identification cards and handed them to the Guard.

As the Guard looked them over, he said: "And why would you be arriving so late, and then leaving again so soon?"

"I am about God's work, and answer to Him and Him alone," Bertini countered, assuming the role of affronted authority. "This is the room I was assigned; I just flew in this evening, and after a little walk around the gardens to get circulation back in my legs, I intend to get some rest, thank you very much. "

The guard submitted with a little bow, handing back the documents; but there was a look in his eye that told the Cardinal it wasn't over. Bertini entered the elevator with a curt nod at the man, as the Guard continued to stare at him suspiciously; then instead of getting off in the lobby he took the car all the way to the laundry room in the basement. He spotted an outside door and exited, walking silently up the outside stairs from the basement to street level. As he neared the top of the stairs he saw a phalanx of six Swiss Guards, looking like colorful but angry wasps, hurrying into the building's main entrance. As soon as they were out of sight he slipped around the side of the building and ran to the city gate, closing it behind him with a small clang. As he ran down the Via Della Stazione Vaticana he slipped off his cassock, revealing simple street clothes underneath, a pair of jeans and a navy blue hoodie. He stuffed his cassock and other accoutrements of office into the backpack that held the Vatican stationery, and jumped on the next bus to come by, even though it was going the opposite direction of where he wanted: Anything to get away as far and as fast as possible from the evil that had taken over the former holy city of his God.

********

Next morning the men drove to the hospital in the rented ambulance, parking it in the space for emergency vehicles. Bold, they had decided, was the order of the day. No hesitancy, no uncertainty, no unnecessary please and thank you. It was all business: They were important emissaries of the Vatican, here to carry out the wishes of that holy state. Period.

The first part actually worked without a hitch: Cardinal Bertini's credentials were unquestioned: The hospital administrator as well as the nurses and other personnel all recognized him - or if some did not they said they did, whispering to each other as he passed - and he was given reverential celebrity treatment. And if he, Muldoon and the two "attendants" were all wearing antimicrobial masks, it never raised a brow: So was pretty much everyone else on staff as well as most of those in the waiting rooms.

The hitch came in the hospital room itself. The little cardinal was still attached to machines to aid his respirations and heart rate, and was - as far as anyone could tell \- still completely comatose and immobile. The latter was true, the former not so much: and if Cardinal Bertini had hoped that the signs Moni saw of his possession by the satanic icon were mere illusion, he was wrong.

But it was odd, this possession.

The good man beneath lay unaffected, still himself. This was the man that strained to move, to communicate, but was unable to make himself known. Yet the demon that had taken control of the physical form overlay the cardinal's soul, and it was this monster that opened his bright red dragon's eyes to greet the men as they approached the bed, he who opened the mouth to speak evil threats and blasphemies.

_It's not me, it's not me,_ Magliano cried out silently as the demon roared.

"Get the fuck away from me, priests! Who the fuck do you think you are, coming here! He is mine now, and you will be next!"

"Quickly," said Bertini. They had been expecting this, or at least anticipating the possibility. As he held a wooden cross above Magliano's head, from a large plastic bag the other three men pulled a sheet that had been soaked in holy water the night before, water blessed by the Cardinal himself through lengthy ritual prayer. They threw this sheet over the writhing, cursing man; and with one last pitiful wail the sounds and struggles died away, at least for the moment. Then the bed began to shake, at first a minor tremor, then rapidly accelerating into more and more violent movements, as Cardinal Magliano's paralyzed body began to slowly rise up off the thin mattress. To the side of the bed, the icon was glowing with dark radiance.

"Get the bottle!" cried Muldoon as he and Bertini tried to hold onto the possessed man and keep him from rising. Joe pulled out a liter jar filled with more of the sanctified water. With a nod at Muldoon, he poured its entire contents over the luminescent icon.

There was a shriek from the metal itself as the water hit it, and steam issued forth in a great cloud. Vapors of different hues were seen rising in the steam, like spirits tortuously writhing upward, their colors dark purples, reds and violet shades, twisting and turning as the icon continued to scream, a sound slowly fading. When the mists finally cleared, the icon was melted into an unrecognizable blob on the table, and Magliano had stopped rising and now lay deathly still on the hospital bed.

"We need to take him off the machines to move him," Bertini said.

"But doesn't he need them?"

"We must take that chance: Hurry now, before someone comes. I told them we would be doing sacred rituals to prepare him for transfer, and that we were not to be disturbed, but this kind of noise is sure to be investigated."

Once again, Joe stepped forward and pulled the plugs. He looked over at Mike Muldoon and shrugged: _Someone's gotta do it._

The cardinal was still attached to the monitors, and for a moment after the heart/lung machine was turned off, there was no heartbeat, no blip on the screen, just a long flat line with a long flat sound to accompany it. Then the heart started again, the comforting rhythmic blips that showed the man was still alive. Beneath the sheet there was a slight stirring, and when Mike pulled back the sheet from his face, the Italian's eyes opened, nice warm brown eyes that blinked their love and gratitude at him.

Mike smiled back, tears filling his eyes.

"Hello, little father. We've got you."

Chapter 29

The Vatican

..the number of the beast, .... is the number of a man.

Revelation 13.18

"Wake up, Caius."

The deep, hollow voice thrust violently into his sleep, wedging itself between the Pope and a pleasant dream, something to do with nuns.

The man groaned, pulling the covers up more tightly around the back of his neck, trying to recover the quickly fading fantasy.

Now the bed began to shake beneath him; the covers flew off - he could feel an actual force pulling them from his grip - and then, as he opened one reluctant eye, he saw them lifted into the air by invisible hands and discarded in a sorry heap on the white marble floor.

He got the message and sat up.

"If I tell you to wake up, I mean wake up. **Now!** "

Caius mouth dropped open: "What the hell....?"

"Precisely," the man standing in front of him smiled.

The deep satanic voice, like an echo from the depths of a bottomless well, was no longer present - except perhaps as a shadowy tremor beneath the overlay of cultured, melodious baritone. The man standing in the center of the room was perfectly normal in every respect except for, possibly, being just a little too perfect. He was tall, tan, with wavy blond hair just starting to go a distinguished grey around the temples. He might have been a well-preserved former quarterback from the NFL, a Shakespearian actor, a captain of the space shuttle, or of industry, an unhurried tycoon who had it definitely and irrevocably made. He wore self-confidence, leadership and success as clean and well fitted as his three piece silk Armani suit.

"How do you like the new me?" He said, turning around and back, posing like a runway model and smiling a three thousand dollar flash of perfect white teeth at the bewildered Pontiff, who sat with a sheet pulled over his privates, rubbing his eyes with the heel of the other hand in disbelief.

Caius started to titter, but quickly swallowed his mirth when he realized his mentor was dead serious.

"I'll tell you when to laugh," the apparition warned, the icy threat inherent in his voice all the more frightening for the unchanged, pleasantly smiling face from which it came.

Then the demon loosened up again, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress and crossing one razor-creased pant leg over the other, drumming his manicured fingernails against his thigh and whistling tunelessly.

The moment stretched, until Caius' nervousness got the better of him.

"Master?" he enquired with what he hoped was the appropriate degree of tentative servility. Getting neither resistance nor response, he probed again. "What is this about?"

"Just one of my identities I've been building abroad for a while, over in the damnable US. We're going to need more than your pathetic Papacy to pull this off, you know."

He rose abruptly and walked over to the huge, gilt-framed dressing mirror to preen. "And get dressed for gosh sake. At least throw on a robe or something: I can't have a decent conversation with a man who's got so much attention on hiding his paltry genitals that he can't even look me in the eye. I won't peek, if that's what's bothering you," he added, smirking over his shoulder at the Pontiff.

Caius sprang from the bed at the devil's command, grabbing his black silk papal robe from the nearby rack and wrapping it around his naked, shivering body. He slipped into a pair of matching monogrammed slippers and stood waiting uneasily for Satan's next move.

"So, what this is about - as you asked - is to make you aware of this particular identity of mine. You'll be needing certain inroads to the upper echelon of world financial power in the coming year or two, and I - as Timothy Edwards Hurtwell -" he grinned, sticking his thumbs flamboyantly into the lapels of his thousand dollar suit; "Owner and president of Edwards Oil and Shipping conglomerates, by virtue of my dear departed mother's last will and testament; and CEO of the Hurtwell Banking empire by default of my senile, eighty-seven year old father - will provide you with your very own key to the magic kingdom."

"I see," said Pope Caius, although he didn't, not really. He produced a polite smile to bend the corners of his lips, while his eyes remained clouded with uncertainty. Then he mentally composed himself, drawing the robe closed to cover his nakedness while symbolically drawing upon the prestige inherent in the position he held, reminding himself it was one of the most powerful in the world, that _he_ was one of the most powerful in the world. Hadn't he just been praised by his cadre for how successful their campaign to infect the world was already: just two short weeks since the unveiling of the Statue and they'd already had orders for more than three million icons! And wasn't that at least in part due to his own clever manipulation of the social media, planting stories and rumors about how the icon was helping to cure and prevent cases of the deadly plague? He didn't need to grovel to this beast; they were partners in this endeavor weren't they?

"Never," The handsome, fiftyish business magnate snapped, his eyes glowing a sudden bright crimson. "You are the servant, always: _My_ servant. And I am the master. Never, ever forget it."

Caius felt his knees let go, and a little of his bladder. He sank into the chair nearby, head bowed in penitence. "Sorry," he muttered, looking down the floor between his legs.

"Okay, okay, for shit's sake don't grovel...just don't get uppity and full of yourself either. Now, here's the plan I have for the future; our future. You're gonna like this," he grinned.

Chapter 30

Sand City, California

Whoever has ears, let them hear.

Revelation 13:9

The tall man with bloodshot blue eyes and slightly gone-to-seed good looks pushed himself up from the cheap leatherette recliner to get another beer, still clutching the sheaf of papers he'd received two days earlier in a manila envelope postmarked Rome.

He ambled barefoot and slightly drunk across the stained budget carpet toward the tiny kitchenette at the other end of the little studio, his free hand running distractedly through his long, unkempt dark blond hair that was fifteen years out of fashion: At his age it made him look more like an apprentice derelict than the free-spirited young surfer he'd once been.

He was semi-permanently out of work since the plague hit, unemployment benefits now a thing of the past as the government lost more and more revenues due to the infrastructure collapse, its demise manifested as a slow rolling blackout of services strangely parallel to the cyclical dysfunction of electrical service in town over the past 6 weeks or so. Well, a bum is a bum is a bum, never mind the reason, he chuckled humorlessly, getting himself another beer out of the refrigerator. He'd been building a pyramid out of the empty cans for the past two days, stacking them carefully along the wall beneath the six foot picture window. The aluminum structure was already halfway to the bottom of the sill, and rising fast. Maybe he'd resin the whole thing together once it was complete, make it a permanent commemorative to the event.

If he could just figure out what the hell he was commemorating.

He flopped back down in the hard, misshapen chair - "easy chair" the landlord had laughingly called it when he'd rented him the furnished apartment a few months back. Buzzy had come to this small community in the Monterey Bay area hoping to make a living shaping and selling surfboards with colorful graphic designs that suited the artistic temperament of the village. In the summer he'd figured to give surf lessons to the tourists: the water was so cold no one would want to stay out in it more than a half hour, so it was easy money. Then the plague had hit, and the city fathers had wisely, if conservatively, shut the town to all traffic.

Sand City, it turned out, had one commodity that at some point people would be willing to kill for: fresh water. It was one of the first towns in the United States to construct a functioning desalination plant big enough to supply the needs of the entire community for fresh potable water. As soon as reports of plague outbreaks in Los Angeles and San Francisco began to surface, a secret town council meeting read the tea leaves, and realized that if this thing got out of hand, one of the first vital resources to go for the rest of the state would be fresh water. This was especially true for Southern California, including the San Joaquin valley, all of which was essential an arid desert and totally dependent upon piped in water from Colorado and Mono Lake for all its needs. When the aqueducts and municipal water plants stopped functioning due to laborers being out ill - or dead - fresh water would be unavailable for millions of residents.

"When they find out we've got water," the mayor had said, "they'll come here. Move in like a bunch of squatters, taking what we need for ourselves, and bringing their disease with them."

They'd closed the town the next day: put up twenty-four hour road blocks, so that the only people in or out had to show proof of residency, or be an authorized visitor. Later that last category included army supply trucks, bringing in food and other scarce commodities as the infrastructure beyond their borders became more and more fragmented.

"And there went my business plan," Buzzy Bent sighed as he cracked open the pop top. He took a long draught of the cold bitter amber, belched loudly, then tried reading the typewritten pages again.

He was handed the envelope this morning by an anonymous mail clerk in full PPEs when he went on his once a week trek to check his mail. There was no door to door service anymore, not even for the rich: they'd all instead been assigned specific days and times to visit the Post Office. Usually he got nothing except old bills from creditors, so when the clerk handed him the envelope - sent Air Special, Registered Mail no less - he'd barely walked outside before tearing it open and beginning read it, primarily because it struck him that anyone who'd pay over fifteen bucks to have a letter delivered must think he had something pretty important to say.

Inside the envelope were six typewritten pages, and they'd knocked him on his ass.

At first he'd read the letter through the dark glass of skepticism, condemned it as pure unadulterated crap, and tossed the pages on the top layer of his overflowing trash bin at home. But a half hour and two beers later he'd retrieved them, wiped off the butter stains and cigarette ash, and reread them more slowly.

"Bull shit!" he'd yelled angrily after the second read through. Yet he'd set the letter carefully on the floor beside his chair this time, then proceeded to get shit-faced. He'd reread the missive an uncertain number of times since then, and through various conditions of sobriety: alcoholic haze, pass out stupid, hangover and repeat beer buzz.

In between he'd slept, and each time he did he'd had the same unsettling dream.

It began in a kind of euphoric, golden-hazed light, with himself cast in the lead role of a biblical leader or pastor of some sort. He was pleading his case to a gathering of faceless men, women and children on the shores of some vaguely familiar beach. As he was preaching the tide began to rise up, the ocean murmured ominously, and the golden day faded to a somber twilight hue.

The surf grew higher, angry waves now lashing at the shore; and he began to lead the little band of supplicants up a narrow footpath that ran along the face of a sheer cliff high above the pounding surf.

As they picked their way across the slippery ledge single file, the ocean surged and roared, leaping hungrily toward the terrified followers, each wave reaching higher still. The water began eating away at the granite wall, crumbing pieces of rock from the path beneath their feet; and as they progressed some of the members were lost, falling silently or screaming into the sea. A few even jumped. The rest he led on towards a far promontory of rock which jutted out belligerently into the tumultuous ocean. At its flat top squatted a proud mansion, all glass and arcing steel girders: Their promised place of refuge.

Just as the weary troop reached the safety of its portals and slipped inside, Buzz saw a wave on the distant horizon suddenly soar up and move toward them like a freight train, rising until it towered like a wall above the surface of the sea, a great green crescent, like a giant hand about to strike. It hesitated there, poised in the stop action manner of dreams which allows the dreamer time to contemplate his fate before the inevitable conclusion. He knew in that instant that the wave would come roaring down on the refugees, sending them all back into the water that had spawned them.

He slammed the outside door behind them and looked around frantically: The great glass mansion they were in turned out to be a library: Books were stacked everywhere, on tables, desks, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves - all the knowledge in the world was here, yet none of the wisdom. And still the giant wave remained poised just above the window walls: He saw it through the glass; it seemed to be giving him a chance, but for what?

Turning, he saw a stairway leading upward to a small back door: Beyond that door a narrow graceful bridge arched back into a cloud of mists to an uncertain end. Yet whatever that end might be, it was better than the certain one he saw for them if they remained here. He tried to urge his followers up those stairs, but many refused, opting to stay with the books, the promised safety of their crystalline refuge.

None of them seemed able to see the great wave waiting just outside the walls as he did; yet a few heeded his exhortations regardless, so that by the time he at last gave up trying to convince the rest, these faithful few were already up the stairs and halfway across the bridge.

Then as he, now _their_ follower, ran up the stairs to the back door the tremendous wave began to come down. He'd just reached the foot of the bridge when he heard behind him a cacophony of breaking glass, wrenching metal, the screams of the lost and the crashing roar of that great green hand.

A terrified glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears: There was now no mansion left, just the roiling mass of sea foam broken here and there by limbs of twisted metal, great shards of glass sticking up from the water like gigantic shark fins, thousands of multi-colored books dancing in the tumultuous ocean like pieces of bright confetti, and the occasional groping, upheld arm of the lost.

He sprinted up the high narrow archway of the fragile bridge, the treacherous surf leaping just behind his heels. Those who'd preceded him had already disappeared into the thick bluish mists at the far side of the bridge, while behind him the sea was rapidly eating away the earlier part of the structure. He was all alone, running for his life.

It was at that moment, each time he'd dreamed the dream, that he'd been jerked back into wakefulness, never finding out if he'd managed to escape, and if he had, what end awaited him in the mystery shrouded other side.

Now he awoke from the same dream for the fourth time, sweat pouring from his half-naked body, heart pounding. It was already early evening. He hadn't noticed himself falling asleep, so he must have passed dead out again. The beer he'd been drinking was still clutched in his right hand, disgustingly warm. The letter from Monique Vasquez was still in his left.

He considered getting a fresh beer from the ice box but the idea made him suddenly nauseous. After a cool shower, a quick text message, a clean pair of cord shorts and wrinkled Hawaiian print shirt, he went out for a while, leaving the letter behind.

An hour later he returned with a small plastic baggie one quarter full of finely-cut, greyish green leaf, a packet of thin cigarette rolling papers, and a small brown paper sack full of black market "munchies."

Closing the venetian blinds, he rolled a thin tightly packed joint, sat cross-legged on the floor amidst his bags of potato chips, beer nuts and chocolate chip cookies, and lit up.

The first long toke cleaned away the residual throbbing pain and fuzziness of his hangover; the second and third lifted him to a tingling state of heightened awareness. Bud always had that effect on him, turning him more "on" than "off" unlike most people. He set the marijuana cigarette carefully onto a small metal ashtray, wetting his fingers before pinching out the coal, then picked up the letter, and began to read it again line by line, savoring each word, letting the pictures of what she related blossom in his senses like a holographic home movie. Until it all became way too real.

"I need to tell you a story," the letter began; "but before I start, I have to admit that if anyone had told me this a month ago I would have laughed in their face and walked away. Things change."

"My name is Moni, and I'm a scientist: I'm actually an acquaintance of your friend Hemmings, but we'll leave that for another time. I decided to write you when I heard about your fish experience, because I think it all ties in with what I have experienced, some really strange shit that's going on. So, here goes."

She had described in detail a sequence of events which she claimed held great portent: The attempted overthrow of the Catholic Church by Satan - the great red dragon - through the demonic possession of the last two popes, and their subsequent assassinations at the hands of certain unnamed cardinals and priests three and a half years ago; the tainted eucharist through which the entire college of cardinals had actually been taken over by Satan, including the new Pope; the mysterious mass-hypnosis induced "miracles" during Pope Marcus Day ceremonies six days ago, and the great drought that had begun about the time the new Pope, Caius the Second, took office. Then, of course, there was the ongoing pneumonic plague that had already wiped out a tenth of the world's population. Each of these, she said, could be related to certain biblical passages found in the Revelation of St. John the Divine, the book of prophecies related to the end of the world. Of course, she'd quoted each one.

Each of these incidents evoked powerful images in his mind, especially under the influence of the mild hallucinogen of choice; but it was the great dragon which the American men had seen which filled him with a particular horror. He kept returning compulsively to those parts of the letter that described this demon, the vision of horror growing more intense every time he read it. Finally he got up to lock the door and windows and turn on all the lights. Even so he had to fight the urge to glance uneasily over his shoulder every few minutes once he'd returned to his seat on the floor.

The pungent cannibas cigarette was out, so he relit it, taking several more deep inhalations of the mind-altering smoke before returning to Monique's letter. As he read on, his unease, the sense of great powers at play, increased.

"But it was your experience that made me decide to write you, especially when I learned that you also know Hemmings. How can that be mere coincidence? I believe that Hemmings' research and your own experience bear a direct relationship to the biblical prophecy about the sea being turned to blood, in the final days. It's one more piece of the puzzle, one more fulfilled prophecy, we can't afford to ignore."

He shuddered, took another toke of the grass, and closed his eyes. The dream began to come on him again, this time only the final scene: the great green wave crashing down upon the glass library of human knowledge, burying it in a sea of foam. But now the churning white water transformed into a bright crimson froth of blood, and where there had been shards of glass amongst the groping hands of the victims, there were now .gigantic black fins slashing angrily through the red waters looking for their prey. And he was in that water, watching death approach.

Buzz came back to consciousness screaming.

Forty minutes later he pushed "send", transmitting to Charles Hemmings a transcribed copy of the letter he'd gotten from Monique, with a question or two about who she was, how he knew her, and what did he think about what she'd written.

Then he crawled into bed and slept until noon the next day.

Yet for the first time in days, he didn't dream, not about anything at all.

Chapter 31

Sand City, California

They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword,

famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.

Revelation 6:8

The e-mail from Hemmings began without preamble

"You been smokin' those funny cigarettes again Bent?"

Buzzy grinned, looking embarrassed, brushed the hair from his eyes and sat down on the edge of the unmade bed, still reading.

"You know I've never been a Bible-thumper, but I've got to admit that letter you sent me from Moni hit me pretty much like you say it hit you, with chicken skin and electric prickles crawling around the old rapidly retreating scrotum, eh buddy?"

"First of all, how I know Moni I can't really get into, not over the internet. But I will say she is a strong, intelligent woman, and as far as I know of sound mind and straight up. Of course these times we're going through could bend anybody out of true, but in general I would tend to trust her judgment."

"The thing is, there's a lot of shit going down on this old planet of ours right now that would knock your socks off, if you ever wore any; things that have, thus far, been restricted from broad public knowledge for the sake of that old standby cop out, National Security. It was these things, it might surprise you to know, that led this particular aging agnostic to go out and purchase a second hand bible last week, before you even wrote.

Buzzy stopped to light a cigarette; his hands were shaking so badly it took him three tries. He smoked it for a while before continuing.

"I could go into a fairly detailed rundown on most of these things, but I haven't really got time to write another diatribe on "The Late Great Planet Earth" right now. I'm too damn busy just trying to survive. Instead let me give you a brief synopsis on the problems we face and how they interrelate; then if you have the wherewithal, you can do your own digging if you want to know more.

The man on the bed rubbed his forehead, once again pushing back the damp strands of brown hair from his eyes. He was chewing nervously on his lower lips, and couldn't seem to make his hands stop shaking.

"So, here goes: What we've got is a synergistic effect from global warming that has set into motion a perpetually increasing causal chain. The earth hit a critical point of no return regarding levels of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere about 4 years ago, at our best estimate. Much of the greatest concentration, and thus the greatest effect, is in the polar regions, where these heavier gases are drawn by the earth's magnetic field and the coriolis effect. It is now so concentrated above the 60th parallel at both poles that it has caused a superheating of the lower atmosphere, melting the glaciers and sea ice at an ever increasing rate. As the ice melts, there is less and less albedo effect going on - that is, less and less reflection of sunlight from the white surfaces of ice and snow, and more and more absorption of heat by the dark land masses and ocean waters. This in turn causes even greater melting, and this in turn less albedo...you get where I'm going with this."

"Now the warming of the artic oceans has the effect of changing the major ocean currents, and with the change in currents comes changes in global weather patterns and climate, including a stagnation of air currents between the 30th and 60th parallels. With these changes in air currents above the temperate zones that are, in essence, the world's breadbasket, come great droughts, and with the great droughts come loss of food and mass extinctions, including human.

Whether or not one wishes to explain this all away with scientific conjecture, one still has to wonder at the multitude of coincidences all occurring at the same time, and how they all seem to fit so well with the Biblical prophesies of end times that Moni mentions. Me, I check all sources: meaning if you don't have the money for a bible, enduring an hour or so of gibberish from a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses will get you one for free.

Buzzy smiled ruefully, patting the green-jacketed book on the bed beside him: He'd gotten rid of the JW's in less than half an hour: All he'd had to do was pull out a joint and offer them a hit...although one of them looked like he might have said yes if the other weren't with him.

He opened that Bible now and, turning to the last section, thumbed through the verse, trying to find the ones that mentioned a drought. "They have the power to shut up the heavens so that it will not rain," he read; and "a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up."

_Well damn, we'd already burned down over half the rainforests and old growth forests in the world years ago, so that part was done._ He lit another cigarette, went into the bathroom to relieve his bladder, and then forced himself to read the rest of the message on the computer screen.

"To continue with Dr. Hemmings' marvelous earth-system-science causal-chain-reaction end-of-the-world scenario," he read, "Not only is the stagnant air mass over the northern hemisphere responsible for the prolonged drought, it has also resulted in increasingly toxic concentrations of airborne pollutants piling up over cities, creating second and third stage smog episodes which have caused serious health problems among the citizens, especially young children. You've read of course of killer smog in cities such as Los Angeles, Denver, New York, London, Paris, Leningrad, Mexico City and Beijing?

At least as ominous as the killer smog at ground level is what's happening to the ozone in the higher levels of the atmosphere above these populated areas. It turns out that the blanket of greenhouse gases that cause warm air to be trapped in the lower atmosphere has the reverse effect in the upper layer, causing the stratosphere to supercool. And as it does, ice crystal clouds form on which the ozone destroying reactions can take place, right above our most populated land masses. As the ozone is layer is depleted - or more accurately deactivated - higher and higher levels of harmful UV radiation is being measured at ground level, already causing a noticeable uptick in cases of skin cancer, cataracts and weakened immune response among the general public."

"Okay, I'm gonna finish before you go off and drink a case. Just hear me out on a couple more things, then I'll shut up. First is that feeding frenzy you witnessed last month, the reason Moni wrote you. I too saw that on the internet, the little I've been able to go there the past few weeks .Since then there's been some very toned down reports, mostly on social network sites, regarding more recent instances of what is being called 'marine swarming' - the term they've given to what you saw at Rincon - in such diverse places as Mexico, Brazil, South Africa, Australia and the east coast. Voila, Buzz the bent is vindicated from the scoffers!"

The fading man in the faded Hawaiian shirt grinned, then realized that there wasn't really much to grin about.

"So," Chuck concluded; "there are doubtless innumerable interrelated catastrophes in the works, but I'll leave it to your own imagination to extrapolate what these might be. (Is that enough five dollar words for one sentence?) For myself, when I get done with this letter I'm finding my way to Eden, where my own little Eve, and her two mini-mes await. I am hoping we can survive and - like Noah - re-populate the world with our own more-or-less intelligent gene pool. Or have fun trying. You still have those blueprints I gave you on how to build a survival compound like mine? I sure hope you didn't throw them away, 'cuz they just might come in handy now. You'll need to find a suitable place, possibly somewhere in the Northern Pacific, near a large unpolluted river if possible. Anything in the eastern half of the nation is too contaminated by industrial wastes to be viable, and anything in California south of San Francisco is essentially reclaimed desert which will return to its natural state within a year or two of infrastructure collapse...dust to dust as the bible says.

Sorry you aren't able to be with us, Buzzy, and I sincerely hope you can find a place to do the same, and someone nice to do it with. Aloha, Hemmings."

The thirty-nine year old smiled, not a happy expression. He was remembering the meeting they'd had 7 years ago at Hemmings' home in Maui: He and a group of other like-minded people, all couples, worried about the future. He'd had a wife back then, his second try at the institution. Unfortunately he wasn't any better at it than the first time, and a year later had to opt out of Hemmings' program when he opted out of his own: The compound was couples only.

He sighed: If taking a wife was prerequisite to salvation, he was doomed. It didn't seem much of a choice: eternal damnation one way or the other. But he still had the documents and blueprints that Hemmings gave him, tucked away neatly in a plastic bin, like he knew they'd come in handy someday.

He glanced up at the cheap plastic clock on the wall: 11:30 AM. Yeah, it was late enough to get plastered; had to be noon somewhere.

Chapter 32

Hawaii

Come out of her my people, ...so that you will not receive any of her plagues

Revelation 18:4

They left during the dark of the moon, on a cloudless night. The twenty-foot fishing boat slid down the little cement boat ramp into the bit of shelter from the surf afforded by the short spit of land on the north side of the beach. The only thing Hemmings took with him was his shortwave radio, a couple of bottles of water and enough cash to buy a small kayak once he got to the north end of the island. Presuming they made it across the ʻAlenuihāhā, at all. This treacherous 26 mile wide channel which separates the island of Hawaiʻi) and the island of Maui. is over a mile deep, and because it lies between the high mountain ranges on both islands, the trade winds are funneled through the narrow opening, magnifying their strength and creating dangerous currents and high seas, even on a relatively calm night such as this.

But it was time. He needed to get home, back to his wife and children, back to the compound they had built with every last cent of borrowed funds they could scrape together in the hope that they would survive the inevitable demise of civilization which he and his mentors had predicted for years.

"I can't tell you where it is, at least not exactly," he told Kalani, the old fisherman who he'd convinced - not just for the money, but out of the friendship, respect and empathy they'd built over the last 6 weeks he'd been hiding out in Hana - to take him across the channel to the northwest side of the big island, so he could get back to his family. "But if you can figure it out on your own and make it to us, you are welcome to stay."

"I'm good here, braddah," the man said. "I got evating I need: fish in da ocean, papaya on da tree, and a good wife to rub my back ...and udder tings too, yeah?" He grinned. He was missing two front teeth. "But you can still tell me about it, eh?"

"Okay, well, the compound is on 120 acres of tropical marshland and grassy hills in a deep secluded valley on the northeast side of the big island, up from Waipio valley.

"Honokane nui valley?" Kalani asked, steering out into the swell.

"Close enough," nodded Hemmings.

"It's accessible only by boat, with a small deep cove only suitable for shallow vessels with low keels like my triple hulled outrigger: That's the one my wife took. When I first decided to build it, I had to consider where. So, I knew that despite droughts elsewhere, Hawaii would probably still remain one of the consistently wettest places on the planet. It has a year round growing season, and is far enough south to be out of the area of stagnation, which starts around the 30th parallel at the intertropical convergence zone."

"Braddah,. Braddah, speak English. The what?"

"Not important," said Hemmings. "The point is, it is less likely to be screwed up than just about any place else on the planet. The compound is designed to provide not just food, water and shelter, but a unique, fully contained ecosystem in which to survive the loss of free atmospheric oxygen when the pollution in the ocean passes its life lethal limit and the phytoplankton begin their massive die off."

"I don't know what you mean, but you're starting to worry me," frowned the fisherman, his eyes on the sea.

"We get most of the oxygen we breathe from little plants in the ocean: If the pollution kills them, we start to lose air."

"Could happen?"

"I hope not, but yeah, could."

"Den you best draw me a map to this place of yours, no hold out, eh?"

"You got it, Kalani," said Hemmings with a grin, touching knuckles.

"Anyway, the design is pretty cool, and there's plenty of room: We've got a greenhouse made of clear fiberglass sides with aluminum supports covering 12 acres. It's twenty feet high on the sides, going to fifty at the center to allow drainage into rain catchment systems that serve as reservoirs for drinking water, fish hatcheries, and irrigation. Approximately 10 acres of that is for vegetable gardens and dwarf citrus and other trees, one acre is a talapia fish pond, and the remaining acre contains a community meeting room, dining hall and kitchen. Chickens and rabbits will be caged in rows between plants so that droppings can be used for fertilizer. There are six other smaller domes connected to the main dome, each about 5000 square feet. These serve as private living quarters with their own veggie gardens, smaller ponds and chickens. Each one is individually self-contained and self-sustaining. They connect to the main compound by enclosed hallways so that all the oxygen produced by the plants stays in the compound. It's designed to be able to support at least five or six small family units - 15 to 20 people - and right now there are only eight, nine when I get there."

"Watch it," Kalani said suddenly, as a large wave slapped into the side of the boat, knocking it around. Hemmings clung to the side of the cabin, his heart accelerating. "Wind's picking up," the other man explained unnecessarily. "So what else you got, that it?"

"There's another large greenhouse of about 10,000 square feet that will be used for storing, drying and preserving the harvested crops using solar and wind power The perimeter beyond the domes is, for now, planted in Papaya, banana, sugar cane and pineapple, and the lower marshland at the entrance to the valley in kalo. Once oxygen depletion becomes too severe we may not be able to harvest these crops any more, although we did stock a supply of scuba tanks and masks for this purpose... for however long they last."

"Why you doin' this, doc? You really think this is necessary?"

"Kalani, there is no way to know the extent of the damage we have done to planet earth, nor how long it will take to right itself again, for the oceans to return to life, for the ozone hole to be restored and the free atmospheric oxygen to return to levels that can sustain life. I don't know if it will get that bad, and I don't know - if it does - if it will ever heal itself. But we can only hope and act, so that if it does we or our progeny will be here to rebuild."

"That's some shit," the fisherman said, shaking his head. And he didn't say another word the rest of the voyage.

They were supposed to make land at Kawaihae Harbor, but running with the wind and current, they ended up in Kiholo Bay, about 12 miles south.

"It gets rough, you come join me, okay?" Hemmings said as he climbed over the side of the boat into the shallow water of the lagoon just before dawn.

"Honokane nui valley," Kalani nodded.

"One valley north," corrected Hemmings with a smile.

He shook the fisherman's hand, then embraced him in a big bear hug.

It was the last time he ever saw the man.

Two days later he paddled into the small bay at the north east end of the island, and from there up the stream and into the welcoming arms of his wife and sons.

The Final Judgment
Part 2:

Seven Angels With Seven Plagues

Chapter 33

Walnut Creek, California

Four Months Later

Who will not fear you Lord, and bring glory to your name?

Revelation 15:4

Eight year old Eric lay in his bed, listening to the sounds from the other room. There were grunts, a squeal or two, and a rhythmic thumping as something hard kept bumping gently into the adjoining wall. His sister Sandy, on the top bunk, rolled over with a groan.

"What's that noise?" he whispered.

"You don't wanna know."

_"I_ know. I just wanted to see if you did."

"How can you, you're just a kid."

"Hey, we had the lesson with Mr. and Mrs. Frog already, first part of third grade."

"Well for your information, frogs don't really have penises and they don't do it that way."

"Then why did the teacher show us that if it wasn't true?"

"Because teachers are lame and embarrassed."

"So how _do_ they do it?"

"External reproduction: the male frog squirts his seed on the female's eggs in the water."

"So is that what _they're_ doing now, cuz I don't hear any splashing?"

"You ask too many questions. Anyway, it's disgusting: they are both way too old to be doing that."

The noise in the other room reached a sudden crescendo and then stopped.

They listened to the silence for a minute.

"Do you think he's ever coming back?" Eric asked.

"Who?" Said Sandy, although she knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Uncle Joe: Is he going to come back for us, or is he just going to stick us here forever with _them_?"

"Call him dad."

"He said it was okay to call him Uncle Joe."

"Well, I don't know if he's coming back. I think he will if he can."

"I hate it here. Especially _him."_

"Who, dad?"

"No! Him, that ugly cop. He's so mean, bossing us around all the time, like he's showing off for Grandma."

"Yeah, well..."

********

It had been over four months since Momma MJ had died and Joe left them here with their grandmother. She might have been bad enough to endure, with all her fussing and sighing, but her boyfriend "Uncle Paul" was a total dick.

For a while it wasn't too bad, he mostly just came on the weekends and was on his best behavior. But after everything broke down, and keeping any semblance of social order was impossible, most of the officers in the SFPD were told to just go home and hunker down, and hope for the best until the epidemic was over. No pay, of course.

So having no place else to go and no one to go there with, he'd withdrawn his savings, bought a bunch of survival gear and moved in. Granted the things he'd brought made it possible for them to survive: connecting a small above ground swimming pool to their rain gutters to make a water catchment tank was probably the cleverest of it, plus extra tanks of propane for their grill, chlorine and first aid kits, and lots of canned goods, dried beans and rice.

Unfortunately the gifts had strings, and the main string was attached to Paul Grogan, who now felt he had the right to tell everyone what to do, when to do it and even how to think.

And Grandma Delores backed him one hundred percent, even when he was dead wrong and being a complete asshole.

So saith Sandy, who was after all eleven going on thirty five and who thus could see right through phony and knew when she was hated. She was quite sure that if Grogan was not constrained by law, he would happily dump her and her brother in the middle of San Francisco bay and not look back as he rowed away in the dark.

"There's something you should know, li'l brother man," she said now.

"What?"

"I overheard him and Grandma talking earlier. She said she's sick of us, and wants him to go find Joe and make him come back to get us."

"Way cool!" said Eric.

"But I don't think they can find him; I don't think they even should."

"Why?"

"I didn't tell you this before, but he's been sending me letters."

"He has? What'd he say? Where is he?"

"That's just the thing: He made me promise not to tell, and besides, he didn't leave a return address, just mailed them from somewhere in Italy. I burned them after I got them, because that's what he said to do. But he told me that it was Satan that killed Mama Marija, and that Satan is now trying to take over the world. He said that he and his friends are the only ones that can stop him: Then he told me to get hold of Grandma's Bible and read about it in the Book of Revelations, so I did. It's really scary Eric."

"Do you think Mr. Grogan can find him and make him come back?"

"I don't think so: I don't think God will let him. But I also don't think we should stay here any longer, cuz if he and grandma hate us now, just think how much more they are going to hate us after he comes back empty handed."

"So what are we going to do, Sandy?" the little boy said, starting to cry.

"Don't worry li'l brother man," she said, climbing down into the lower bunk to gather him into her arms. "I'll think of something: I always do."

Chapter 34

Kennedy International Airport, New York

And he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.

Revelation 6:2

Lieutenant Paul Grogan had been reduced to sour grumbling, leaning up against a cold marble wall beside the small blue security booth which flanked the check-in for international flights.

No amount of badgering or bellowing had been able to faze the detached composure of the tall skinny black girl operating the x-ray and metal detection devices at the entry gate. She now held his .38 police special casually in one hand like so much dog shit. His SFPD badge had made about as much impression on the dumb fuck broad as a Dick Tracy dime store model presented by a five year old.

As a matter of fact, she'd _treated_ him like a goddam five year old, the high ass bitch!

"I'm sorry sir, I'm just following regulations sir. Now if you will kindly step to one side, someone from security will be with you shortly, sir."

That was all he could get out of the cunt, a goddam recorded message in a thick-lipped, brown sugar drawl.

At least there wasn't the endless checks for disease symptoms to endure anymore, he told himself. After the third month the plague had begun to show definite signs of favorable mutation, becoming less and less virulent as well as less transmissible. Since it was already genetically engineered it was intrinsically unstable, epidemiologists explained in news broadcasts around the world. By now the disease was rapidly dying out, affecting primarily the very young, the very old and those who were chronically ill, the majority of cases now suffering relatively mild, flu-like symptoms. As a result, travel bans had been lifted and the WHO's state of emergency officially ended.

Of course the residual effects on the infrastructure and economy of the world would remain for decades, with more than one-third the world population dead and incipient collateral diseases beginning to magnify and take their toll. Only recently were airlines beginning to fly again with any regularity: Grogan should have counted himself lucky to book this flight at all, although it had cost Dolores more than $5000 to do so. Good thing she was well off.

The head of security finally arrived, flanked by two very young, very green-looking New York City Patrolmen - probably new recruits, which were being hired by the hundreds in all the major cities to make up for the loss of so many of their corps. Each of the men in turn carefully inspected Grogan's badge and ID, which he'd perfunctorily extended with the disdainful air of one expecting immediate and profuse apologies.

Instead of a _mea culpa_ , one of the pair, an oily little Italian, instead took off with the badge and identification papers clutched in his sweaty palm. Grogan's jaw dropped open, so wide that the chewed-over, unlit cigar he'd been clenching in his mouth almost fell to the floor before he caught it and shoved it back in, clamping down on it with an audible growl.

"Where the fuck is he going with my goddam stuff?" The detective demanded loudly, his heavy jowls shaking in outrage.

"Relax, Sargent Grogan; Mick's just gonna run a quick check, make sure you are who you say you are..."

"You mother-lumping little punk, I'll have your badge for this!" He fumed. "And that's _Lieutenant_ Paul Grogan, asshole!"

"Lieutenant Paul Grogan, asshole," the young, sandy-haired officer mumbled to himself, smirking.

"What'd you say?!"

"Oh, nothing lieutenant; just repeating your title to make sure I get it right next time."

Fifteen minutes later the other blue-uniformed cop was back. "Okay, Lieutenant, you check out. You can go," he said. "Sorry for the delay."

"Yer fuckin' A," the San Francisco detective agreed, grabbing his badge and papers rudely out of the other man's hands, his police issue from the grinning black girl, as he stalked through the shrieking metal detectors and hurried toward the boarding gate.

Four years earlier he'd been ready to arrest Joe Martens and his cohort - that phony priest Muldoon - for the brutal murders of two people during a sham séance in San Francisco. The problem was, he grumbled, squeezing his oversized rear into the undersized airliner seat and lengthening the safety belt to reach around his ample girth - that he simply hadn't been able to come up with enough good solid evidence to convince the judge to indict. Only the men's presence at the séance where the medium and her assistant had met violent death, was certain: but the means and motive remained a mystery, so charges were dismissed.

In the course of his investigation, of course, he'd met and subsequently hooked up with Dolores, and though she wasn't exactly a bedroom athlete - not like the whores he used to visit pretty regular down on Market Street whenever he was in the mood - there was something about her restrained prissiness that excited him. So later when Joe reappeared and married her daughter, he'd just let bygones be bygones...no sense screwing up a good thing.

But then the daughter Marija died, and Joe had dumped those two brats on the older woman for an indefinite stay, screwing up everything he had going on. They were always nagging and whining for something, and arguing about everything he told them to do, giving him dirty looks about it whenever Dolores wasn't there to see. For some reason they seemed to hate his guts - not that it wasn't mutual, he'd never cared much for kids and never would - but he was really sick of them. Now that the plague was over so he and Do' could go out and do things, maybe take a little love trip down to Mexico - on her dime - he didn't want them keeping her tied down.

Grogan checked his watch: two-fifty-one pm, Eastern Standard Time. That would make it - he groped through the mental calculations - nearly midnight in Rome. By the time he arrived at the international airport outside of Rome proper it would be nearly eight o'clock Sunday morning, Pizza man's time. He'd use his badge to get some local police help to track down Joe, guilt trip or threaten him into coming back to take care of his own damn kids, and that would be that.

With nothing else to occupy him for the next eight hours, he tilted his seat back, pulled his battered fedora down over his eyes, put the well-chewed plug of old cigar into his shabby topcoat pocket, and almost at once began to snore, totally oblivious to the horrified sniffs of the plump old dowager seated next to him.

Chapter 35

Walnut Creek, California

When he opened the fifth seal, I saw...the souls of those who had been slain ....

Revelation 6:9

Sandy could tell from her grandmother's expression and tone that whatever she was hearing on the other end of the phone line was not making her happy.

As a matter of fact, it seemed to be bringing her close to tears, her responses propitiative as she tried to appease the angry voice coming through the receiver, audible even six feet away. The girl got up quietly from the kitchen table, hoping to slip away, but a sharp gesture from the elderly woman sat her right back down, heart thumping.

When Dolores hung up, she turned to Sandy with rage in her eyes, and screamed for the younger brother.

"Eric! Get in here NOW!" She hollered. Sandy cringed.

"That was Paul on the phone: He says he can't find your father anywhere, and the police in Rome are unwilling to help...too busy trying to get order back into the streets of Rome to hunt down a mere wayward father is how they put it."

"Oh," said Sandy. It was all she could think of to respond, and it seemed safe enough.

" _Oh_ my sorry ass," Dolores screamed. "I spent over $5000 in airfare alone, not to mention the hotel room and rental car, just so I could get that pathetic excuse for a man to do what is right."

"Uncle Joe or Uncle Paul?" Eric inquired, innocently enough. Sandy suppressed a smile: he was an idiot, but she loved him.

"Your fucking Uncle Joe!" she yelled, turning on the boy.

She's picked up some interesting new language from "Uncle Paul" thought Sandy, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. This was not the time.

"I know you two must know where he is, so time to give it up," the grandmother said, narrowing her eyes and leaning forward towards the two children, her hands planted apart on the polished oak kitchen table.

"We already told you we don't," Sandy retorted, rising in sudden pre-pubescent outrage. She slapped the Teen Romance magazine she'd been reading on the table for emphasis. "Why won't you believe us?"

"Don't you talk back to me young lady, you're not too old to spank. And I wish you wouldn't read that kind of trash in my home! Eric?" She turned now to the eight year old, who was trying to quietly slide down from his chair to a safe spot under the table, changing her voice to one of reason and calm: "I know you'd like to help grandma please your Uncle Paul, wouldn't you? And help get your Uncle Joe back, right?"

Eric looked at her blankly, then over to his sister for help.

"And you do understand that Uncle Joe - who is your **legal** father and guardian - has broken the law by deserting you like this: Did you know that?"

Sandy scowled, opening her mouth to defend her adopted father but grandma silenced her with a deadly look.

"Now Uncle Paul is a policeman, and he has the right to arrest your dad for breaking the law; so if you know something and are withholding information, you could be charged as an accessory and **thrown - in - jail!** "

The last three words were yelled with such emphasis that poor Eric burst into tears.

"I just know that he's somewhere near Rome, cause he wrote Sandy and told her not to tell!"

"You little rat fink!" Sandy hollered, turning on him.

"Where are the letters you ungrateful little bitch?" Grandma Dolores demanded.

"I burnt them."

"Where were they mailed from?"

"I don't remember. It was in Italian, I don't read Italian."

"Go to your room, both of you...hateful, ungrateful little brats." Her last insults were aimed more at the kitchen walls than the children, who both jumped from their chairs and hurried to the bedroom, locking the door behind them; while Dolores reached for the bottle of scotch on the pantry shelf.

"You're a moron, you know it?" Sandy said once they were safely inside.

"But I couldn't help it, I don't want to go to jail."

"They can't put dad or you in jail for this: Grandma agreed to take care of us when he left...that's not desertion, stupid. She was just playing you."

Eric paused to think this over for a minute. "So, what now?" He finally asked.

"Now that the internet is back up.-.at least part of the time - I've been reading about a lot of things that are going on in the world, and it's some pretty scary shit, Eric. Remember what I told you about Joe saying to read the Book of Revelations in the Bible?"

Eric nodded.

"Well, all this stuff that's going on, it's an awful lot like what that Book said would happen."

"Like what?"

"Like the plague, first of all: Killed off almost three billion people before the thing mutated and became no longer deadly. But all those dead bodies are now causing other diseases in lots of places, polluting the water in lakes and rivers. Plus there's all this other stuff happening that's not even related to the plague, like droughts across the United States, drying up all the food crops, and solar storms messing with communications, and vandals damaging power plants and other things we need to survive."

"Like what?"

"Are you a broken record or something?" She retorted disdainfully. "Like water purification plants to make clean drinking water for the cities, and oil refineries to make gasoline, so people can get to work and trucks can get food and other supplies around, stuff like that. Some people on line are saying the end has come, whether by man's hand or God's, and that we need to get out of the cities to be safe. I read how there are Christian communes springing up around the country that will take you in if you're willing to work."

"I can work."

"So can I, li'l brother man, if it comes to that," she nodded, giving him a hug.

"So, you think we should go?"

"We'll see, Eric; we'll see. I'm not sure yet."

Both youngsters went to bed that night thinking about what was going on, what to do; wondering if Joe was a nut job or actually onto something, wondering what it all meant, if it were true.

It wasn't fair, none of it was fair, Sandy wept quietly into her pillow. First her own mother and father were killed, and then her new mom died and her new dad left, just when she was getting really close to them, just when she thought maybe everything would be okay. And now this, end of the world shit.

"What am I supposed to do about this, God?" She asked. "I'm just a kid!"

She fell asleep with the question still on her lips.

Chapter 36

San Martino-Sant'anzino, Italy

And I will appoint my two witnesses, and they will prophesy for 1260 days...

Revelation 11:3

"I have been thinking: We must go back, we have a duty," said the cardinal.

The others just looked at him.

It was early morning, breakfast time around the old wooden table in the comfortable little farmhouse they'd called home for the last four and one half months. The seven men were seated, enjoying the meal Moni had prepared.

Not that this was her usual role: it was simply her turn to cook.

They'd gotten quite used to it by now, their life in the country: Fresh eggs every morning, vegetables from the garden. Moni had even learned how to make goat cheese, after getting over the squeamishness of pulling milk from the less-than-willing goat.

"Go back to what?" she asked now, setting down a tray of hot biscuits "The plague may be over but the city is a mess; the internet news talks about riots over food and fresh water, looting of stores: Even the Vatican is under armed guard, letting no one in or out these days."

"Actually," interjected Giovanni, looking up from his tablet; "I just read that they are opening it again to visitor hours; limited guided tours only, however, and only to the Basilica and Museum."

"Guess they need the tourist dollars," Joe observed tartly.

"Whatever the situation, we must remember that none of this is by accident; it is all part of God's design," said Bertini; "or do you still doubt this is so?"

The woman sighed: She'd read the Book of Revelations, repeatedly as a matter of fact, tracing the confluence of events with a trained scientist's eye. Too much was as predicted to be mere coincidence; plus there were her own frequent visions and dreams, telling her things whether she wanted to know them or not.

"No, no doubts," she acquiesced.

"We all know it's God's plan," said Muldoon, and the others inclined their heads in agreement.

"If so then you must accept that it is spiritual warfare we are engaged in, and that Satan has a plan in this as well. This knowledge God has given us, it comes with a price: It is our duty and our destiny to do everything we can to warn the world about Satan's campaign to steal its collective soul, so that those who can be saved will be saved."

It was Bertini who spoke next: "It has been so from the start of the apocalypse, nearly four years ago now. That was when the two olive trees - Monsignor Muldoon and Joe Martens - were called to stand against Sixtus and Marcus in the great square, to speak out against them at peril of their very lives. They began their witness then, but the forty two months of their prophesying have yet to be fulfilled, for though they slew the head of the beast, the second beast arose and now reigns to exercise the authority of the first beast, and of Satan, in order to deceive the world."

The Cardinal Bishop laid his hand on the shoulder of Cardinal Magliano as he said this, whose eyes shone with pride towards the two in question.

Joe, never comfortable with the idea that he was anything special in the scheme of things, shrugged it off. He was just an ordinary man, in his opinion, caught in extraordinary circumstances and just trying to get by. Father Mike, for his part, had come to accept the role he'd been given to play, yet with no more sense of pride or being special than Joe. He was just an ordinary priest with an extraordinary job to do, it seemed. He turned to the wheelchair-bound cardinal now with an expression of deep affection. The man was not the same since his accident; he was more with God than ever before. Perhaps it was the time he had spent with Him during his deathlike coma, when they'd almost lost him; perhaps he'd brought some of that other realm back with him; or perhaps a part of him still remained there.

Although miracles were wished for, prayed for daily, the cardinal had made no remarkable - let alone miraculous - recovery in the past three months they'd been in San Martino. He was still unable to move his arms or legs, nor to talk, and although otherwise healthy, Mike often felt like there was something troubling the little Italian, something he desperately wanted to share, but couldn't. Sometimes Mike would see him in tears, his lips moving soundlessly in prayer and supplication, his eyes desperate. Knowing the Cardinal's character, he very much doubted his prayers or tears were about his condition. Although a quadriplegic, he was able to get around quite well now, with assistance from one of the men, in the makeshift wheelchair they had constructed using the wheels of an old garden cart and a kitchen chair. Though incapable of speech or voluntary movement, his brown eyes smiled his thanks at every venture into the garden or around the cottage. No, he wasn't feeling sorry for himself; it was something else.

"What do you suggest?" asked Muldoon now, turning back towards Bertini.

"If the account of Armageddon is more or less chronological, then the next thing Satan will do is to use the Vatican to force all people to receive his mark in order to buy or sell anything. We need to find out if something like this is in the works yet, and if so then we must find a way to stop it if we can," said Bertini.

"But how?" Giovanni asked. "There's been nothing on the internet about anything going on at the Vatican, and you can't just go up and ask the Pope: Hey Papa, you and Satan got plans to tattoo a six-six-six on everyone?"

Moni looked at the young Italian with one of those expressions: It was obvious the pair were now officially in love, but that didn't keep her from thinking him a bit of a fool sometimes.

"Seriously, Moni! With Vatican City on lock down except for guided tours to two confined areas, how do _you_ suggest they get that information?" he challenged her, feeling defensive. She was only five years older than him, but sometimes she made him feel like a child.

"We still have the key to the side gate by the apartments," Joe reminded them. "Maybe Mike and I can sneak in late at night and snoop around, try to see or hear something."

"But don't forget who you're dealing with," Bertini admonished. "The powers of darkness do not need to see you to know you are there and to track you down."

"Then I guess we'll just have to take our chances, and hope that God is with us," said Muldoon.

They discussed it further, thinking that the two men could take the truck into the city the following night, park it several blocks away from the Vatican gate and sneak in the gate by the apartment building. They went over the layout of the city, where the various offices were and who was likely to be in them at any given time.

"Most likely the Pope and his cadre have remained pretty much sequestered in the Papal apartment building, rather than the Domus _Sanctae Marthae:_ It's much more spacious, elegant and well appointed. They no doubt have all important meetings and planning sessions there as well, either up on the third floor in the Pope's private study, or in the library on the second," said Bertini.

"Is there any way to get in there without being seen?" Joe asked.

"Normally no; there are Swiss Guards stationed at the entrance and in the corridors at all hours. However I don't know if there is still a full contingent left, since the plague decimated their ranks. The Papal study is pretty much inaccessible, I'm afraid, tucked away on the third floor between the secretary's room, the private chapel and the Pontiff's sleeping quarters and bath. But for that very reason the Holy Father most often holds meetings in the library on the second floor, which is adjacent to the main staircase leading up from street level. If you were somehow able to slip into the building in the dead of night and then hide yourselves somewhere near the library, you might get lucky."

"Is there any way to get a diagram of the layout?" Joe asked.

"I'm already on it," called out Giovanni, who was typing something into his tablet. "Here you go."

Joe and Mike looked over the diagrams and images carefully, shaking their heads.

"I don't see any place to hide on the second floor," the monsignor said, looking up.

"Nor to sneak into the building, presuming it's still guarded," added Joe.

"What about the Passetto di Borgo?" suggested Giovanni.

"It's kept locked," said Bertini. "But there is another possibility. You've heard, of course, of the Vatican Necropolis?"

"Yes," nodded Muldoon; "But isn't that only beneath St. Peter's Basilica?"

"The part of the necropolis that is opened to the public, which has been renovated to make it safe and accessible, is under the Basilica. But there are other corridors - unlit, still unexcavated and clogged with debris - that lead from the Basilica to secret chambers beneath the Apostolic Palace. And I know of one such vault that opens from an ancient burial passage into the lower level of the Palace itself, just behind a small door that leads from Clementine hall to the corridor for the Pope's private elevator."

"And elevator shafts are great conduits of sound," said Joe thoughtfully.

"Gio, love, can you order a couple of tickets for tomorrow's tour of the Basilica?" Moni said, laying a hand on his shoulder, gently.

"Already on it," he grinned up at her. " _Love_."

Chapter 37

The Vatican

... _. they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark,_

which is the name of the beast or the number of his name.

Revelation 13:17

It wasn't as hard as they'd imagined to slip away from the rest of the tourists in their group, once inside the vast basilica.

First to go was Joe, who lingered behind the tour group, ostensibly to stare in gape-mouthed awe at the ceiling of the Systine Chapel, the accusing fingers of the scowling angels. Perhaps he actually _was_ caught up in their condemnation for a moment: Knowing what he was about, the angels did indeed seem to be pointing at him, warning those in authority in this city-state to be aware, there was a traitor in their midst.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of the thought, the question they seemed to scream into his mind: _Who is the bad guy here_? They demanded. _Are you sure it isn't you? You're no saint, no holy man, so what right do you have to judge who is right or wrong, good or evil?_

"No!" he whispered, shutting out the voices, knowing who it was they really came from. "Get the fuck behind me you monster! Get out of my head!"

Someone in the group turned around curiously, but saw only a bearded man shooting photographs of the triumph of Michaelangelo, moving about to take shots from various angles and vantage points. She turned back and, with the rest of the group, slowly moved on, dutifully following the tour guide's directions. Michael Muldoon stayed with them, keeping a low profile, as Joe continued to play rapt tourist.

Luckily there was a dearth of guards in the great church today; their ranks had apparently been drastically thinned by the plague, and most had yet to be replaced. A job of any sort in Vatican City was not simply handed out to the first able bodied man or woman to apply, he realized: There were extensive background checks required, both temporal and spiritual, before someone could be trusted to work here.

As soon as he saw the rest of the tourists head down a corridor out of sight, Joe quickly slipped down another in the opposite direction; then following Bertini's directions, searched out the access door to the necropolis below the chapel.

It was not the public gate he sought, which was presently locked, with a sign saying that no tours were scheduled for the immediate future: It was instead a private entrance Bertini had told them to use, the one accessed by the historians, archeologists, artists and workmen involved in the ongoing explorations and renovations of the underworld, last resting place of dead saints and martyrs of Jesus.

No one in the group apparently noticed that one of their members was missing except for Muldoon: The group sizes had been doubled to forty to make up for the lack of guides now available to lead them. Which such large numbers, it was easy to go missing without being missed. Soon the monsignor pulled his own similar vanishing act, stepping into a public restroom and then waiting long enough for the group to move on. When he was pretty sure they had, he poked his head out like a groundhog on February second, and after assuring himself he was unobserved, he walked purposefully back the way the group had come, and slipped through the same private door Joe had entered fifteen minutes earlier. He closed it behind him with a resounding click. Inside, the room was pitch black, filled only with the sound of his own pounding heart.

"Took you long enough," muttered a voice right behind his left ear.

Mike shrieked, but with such a sharp intake of breath that most of the sound was swallowed up inside him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Joe whispered. Mike could almost see his Cheshire cat grin materialize out of the dark. Almost.

A small flashlight beam appeared, most of its glow covered by the man's hand. He directed the light at the map, pointing out the direction they were to take. Mike nodded, then followed silently two steps behind as Joe led the way. When they reached a larger chamber, several hundred feet in, Joe stopped and sat on a stone block.

"I think we're deep enough now we can't be heard, nor our light seen, don't you?"

"As long as we keep both low. Where are we, anyway?"

Joe consulted Bertini's map, then shone the light carefully around the room to verify their location, scanning the walls, the sarcophagus-filled niches, the doorways.

"Here," he said, pointing at the map.

"And where are we supposed to end up?"

"Here," he said, pointing at another spot several inches away on the hand drawn outline.

"So, how do we know which one of these doors to take?" Mike asked, looking around at the four choices. "I've completely lost my bearings down here."

"That's why I brought this," Joe smiled, showing him a small wayfarer's compass. He held it to his chest, looking down and turning slowly. "It's that one," he said, pointing. "Due North...I hope."

After another three hundred or so feet of torturously slow progress, sometimes necessitating the two men to belly crawl over piles of rubble yet to be cleared from collapsed walls and ceilings, or to squeeze through openings that scraped the skin from their arms and chests, Muldoon called out softly.

"Joe, wait."

"Okay," the other man grunted, panting to catch his breath. "What?"

"I was just thinking, what do we do if there is no meeting tonight, nothing to overhear?"

"I guess we wait until there is. We can't come back tomorrow and try this again, we're sure to be recognized, sending up all kinds of red flags."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," sighed Muldoon.

********

The chosen few filed dutifully down the broad staircase that led from the third floor dining room, where they had yet once again been treated to a repast of chicken in one form or another, with plain brown rice and some kind of canned vegetable – tonight it had been peas; small, soft, grey-green orbs bearing a closer resemblance to ugly bath beads than to some sort of living plant that had sprung forth out of soil and sunlight. They were heading to the Papal Library conference room, one floor below.

Pope Caius, as usual, had not joined them in the meal, preferring solitary dining in his own quarters where, it was rumored, he enjoyed much more sumptuous fare...although none of the kitchen help dared come right out and say so, nor did any of the cadre dare ask directly: most of this was communicated through little jokes, innuendoes and facial expressions.

The six cardinals comprising his curia had been sequestered in the Vatican Palace ever since Saint Marcus Day, over three months earlier. From this location, safe from the ravages of the plague in a self-imposed quarantine, they'd continued to run all the Vatican City affairs by phone and wireless networks, using the vast power and influence of the Papacy to keep vital supplies coming in through the closed and guarded entrances to the City: gasoline for their generators, food, water and other basic necessities for the survivors here, transport out by government meat wagons for those not so fortunate.

Much of the present business of the world church had been focused not on giving comfort and aid to the victims of the horrific pandemic, but rather on the sale and distribution of the Satan infused icons to those still left, pushing the cardinals and archbishops of the various archdiocese to adjure their faithful to purchase these statues, hinting that their power might provide divine protection against the disease. And when the local bishops and priests pushed back, stating that their parishioners could not afford to invest in religious icons during a time when so many were dying, and most of those that survived were out of work and just trying to get by, Pope Caius had angrily signed a motu proprio, first blasting them for downplaying the religious significance of the Marcus statue – "This is second only to the cross in religious power and symbolism, nay, perhaps even before that" – and then, in a more conciliatory tone, offering to distribute the icons to the parishioners without prepayment, with the understanding that when times improved the churches would collect and forward all payments due.

Despite the near complete breakdown of international commerce during the height of the pandemic, the Vatican had somehow managed to get nearly a million of the statuettes distributed world-wide during the past three months; and now that the plague was dying out and things were beginning an attempt to limp their way back towards some degree of normalcy, the Vatican would soon be ramping up production and distribution to reach the rest of the remaining three hundred or so million Roman Catholics on the planet. At least that was the topic of discussion by the Cardinals during tonight's dinner, surmising that this was to be the subject of the after dinner meeting in his library called by the Pontiff.

It wasn't.

"Before we address the subject of this evening's meeting," Pope Caius began without preamble, once all men had been duly seated around the large oak table, "I would like to get some of your views on the present state of the world beyond our city gates. Let's start with you, Cardinal Bautista: what is your assessment of the world situation?"

The Cardinal prefect of the Secretariat for the Economy, cleared his throat: "Well your Holiness, although power is still sporadic, as are our supply lines for needed materials; and although competent workers and artisans remain in short supply, I do feel we can begin to increase the production and distribution of the Marcus Icons by perhaps as much as ten percent per month."

"That's good to know, Cardinal, but not exactly the state of the world, is it? I'm inquiring about the economic and social state of the global community as a whole, not that of our city-state. You are my chief economist; you understand these things better than anyone. I want your educated assessment on how people are doing, how the average citizen fares: Is he getting enough to eat, does he have a roof over his head, basic necessities covered? Does he have or can he find a job? And then I want your prediction on what the outlook is for the near future and not so near future for all the common people of the world."

"Truthfully?"

"Of course."

"He's in bad shape, our average man, and it's probably going to get a whole lot worse for him before it gets any better."

Caius signaled with a wave of his hand for the Cardinal to continue.

"One out of every three people in the world, on average, died from the plague over the past four months as it swept through community after community with unprecedented speed and virulence. In the less developed countries and impoverished areas it killed more than ninety percent: in affluent communities where people had ready access to medical intervention still one in five died."

"And?" The Pontiff nudged.

"And the repercussions from such a massive die off in such a short time span are literally incalculable: This pandemic has thrown the world back in time at least two hundred years. Yet the people are not ready with skills or mindset to survive in the early nineteenth century. We have grown dependent upon mass production and mass distribution of virtually every good, from grain products to toilet paper, to the clothes we wear. But now the giant agricultural coops are all shut down, the manufacturing plants vacant, the communications networks silent – or largely so. What few able-bodied workers remain have been conscripted by their governments to run power plants, water reclamation facilities, peace keeping forces and so on."

"We've already begun to see a mass exodus from cities out into the countryside, where people have appropriated abandoned farms in an attempt to try their hand at subsistence farming. Those who haven't left the city have turned to stealing what they need – if they can even find it – and riots are growing more common – and more violent – every day."

"Good," said Caius.

"Good?" responded Bautista with a look of surprise.

"Good?" Joe whispered to Muldoon.

Standing next to the elevator shaft with their ears pressed against the thin wrought-iron gates that kept one from falling into the vertical tunnel, the conversations in the library had been amplified as if through a loudspeaker.

The two men had had to wait in the darkened maze of ancient tombs beneath the Vatican Palace for over twenty seven hours. They were tired, hungry and thirsty, and had left a pungent and too human evidence of their presence over in one darkened corner of the crypt, the fact of which left Muldoon oddly shamed. They were about ready to call it quits when they'd heard the clatter of footsteps coming down the stairs, the murmur of voices as the cardinals filed into the Pope's private library, which was virtually overhead.

"Yes, good," the pontiff repeated; "because we, the Holy See, have a plan to save the world from its misfortune, and by saving the lives of Man we will simultaneously secure his soul for our master."

Soft exclamations of surprise, hope, and acclamation arose in a waver from the seven elderly ecclesiastes around the conference table.

One floor below, Joe and Mike exchanged looks of consternation.

"In two months, give or take, the seven of you will accompany me, as an official Vatican delegation, to a special session of the United Nations in New York City. This conclave will consist of political delegates from all UN member countries, plus civil rights and labor leaders, international financiers, WHO and other national health organizations. It will be called by the executive council of the Trilateral Trade Consortium. There we will present our official plan for the collection, storage and distribution of the world's surplus food supplies."

The men around the table looked from one to the other, not sure what to make of the idea. Distribution of the icons and other peripheral memorabilia was one thing, but what was this?

"And does this plan of ours have a name yet?" Interrupted the Camerlengo, Cardinal Lucio Alessi.

"It is the New World Organization for Relief from Disaster, aka _The New Word_ ," Caius smiled.

"Aaah," sighed the seven heads, as one.

"Yes, perfect isn't it? Almost as innocuous a title as that of the financial organization which will control it – the Institute for Religious Works – which is of course our own Vatican Bank, arguably one of the richest banking conglomerates in the world."

"Our project design," he went on; "must include adequate measures to ensure an equitable distribution of scarce resources to the people of the world, with some sort of fail-safe method of identifying every participant built in: This stipulation came from an earlier meeting by some of the top world leaders, who insisted we must identify and provide all needed regulatory measures in order to circumvent the inevitable hoarding and profiteering that would otherwise result."

Joe and Mike glanced at each other, brows knit in concern, eyes narrowed.

"And gentlemen, this is the irony, the beauty of it: The controls insisted upon by these world movers and shakers fits so perfectly with our own plans for absolute control and domination of mankind - and with, as well, the Bible's own prophecies about the end of time - that it is almost scary," He laughed. "Just shows who's really in control of the earth now, doesn't it?"

The two men listening at the elevator shaft simultaneously felt all the blood drain from their bodies, replaced by an enormous rage, righteous and powerful beyond measure, but black hot as liquid obsidian. Joe struck his fist against the caged door of the elevator in fury.

Upstairs Caius paused a moment, raising his palm for silence.

The self-congratulatory chatter instantly ceased.

"What is it, Your Holiness?" Bishop Armandi inquired solicitously.

"Did you not hear it?"

"No, Holiness."

"Nor I," said Cardinal Bassindo, the Secretary of State. "I heard nothing."

The others likewise demurred.

"Perhaps just the building settling?" suggested Armandi.

"No. No, something disturbed me. Bishop, go double check all the downstairs doors, make sure the building is closed and locked, and no one is prowling around. Check the restrooms as well."

"At once, Holiness," nodded the Pontifical assistant, hurrying to comply.

"Let's go," whispered Muldoon.

The two slipped back through the secret door and down into the recesses of the hidden necropolis just before the on rush of frantic footsteps directly overhead. They stayed where they were for over an hour, then slowly and carefully made their way back toward the entry door in Saint Peter's Basilica, there to wait until morning, when they could blend themselves in with the first group of tourists to come through the great chapel the next day.

Chapter 38

The Vatican

It had the wings of an eagle....and the mind of a human was given to it.

Daniel 7:4

The bedroom was a huge vaulted cavern, so vast that it sent back echoes of his own nervous breathing, magnified in his ears by the blackness and his fear.

He knew that if he switched on the overhead light – a five-tiered crystal chandelier – the darkness would be dispelled, the room revealed in all its gilded glory; but that would only increase his sense of dread rather than alleviate it.

Frescoes decorated nearly every wall as well as the high arched ceiling, a parade of saints and angels whose dead painted eyes constantly stared at him from every angle, following him every time he walked in or out of the room. They studied his nakedness when he bathed, listened in the dark with their painted ears when his breath hoarsened to an animal rasp in the occasional self-induced release; smirked, no doubt, when he farted.

Right now, even in the stygian midnight he could feel those eyes tracking him as he slipped out of bed and crept across the floor; eyes following, spying, accusing. Who was looking through those eyes? To whom were they reporting?

He stood in front of the mirror that had called him up from sleep. Though he couldn't see it, he felt its presence, the coldness that sucked at him, shriveling his scrotum; the sense of vast distance beyond its flat silvered plane; the cold, absolute, endless depth of it, like a tunnel into nowhere, a tunnel through which you could go on and on and on, and never reach what you expected to find at the other end because there was no other end, and nothing to find in the first place.

A pair of almond shaped red eyes with vertical slits for pupils opened suddenly in the mirror, directly in front of his face. Caius' heart jumped, then froze dead for a moment before regaining itself in a rapid, stuttering palpitation.

"Hello Pope," the voice belonging to the eyes said, the sound of it hollow, deep and unearthly.

"I, uh...I wasn't expecting you. Is there anything wrong?"

"You could say."

The heart palpitations edged up a notch, now on the verge of needing a defibrillator.

"I've been doing everything you said."

"As you should. However, while I am busy elsewhere, trying to set things up for my ultimate world domination, you've been letting spies in."

"What? Why no, that's impossible, I..."

"Shut it, pontiff. The other night, while you were discussing the New Word plan with your cronies, did you not sense something amiss, some other presence?"

"I thought, maybe, but no one else did...I, I sent Armandi..."

"Idiot. You had him do a cursory once over; you ignored your own instincts and took him at his word that there was no one around."

"There was?"

"The same two that fucked with me the first time, the pair that killed Pope Marcus; they were right here under your nose and you let them get away!" The demon's voice rose in simmering rage. Caius cowered and took a step back from the mirror.

"We could have trapped them here, where our power is greatest. More simply put, you could have had them arrested as trespassers by your own militia, jailed for an indefinite term, and cut off their nuts. Now they've gone back to wherever it is they're hiding with at least some idea of our plan, and that could cause problems. It is up to you to find them, find them and destroy them."

"But how? I'm the Supreme Pontiff, head of the worldwide church. I'm watched every moment by the press and public: I can hardly go chasing around like some kind of James Bond."

"Don't fuck with me Caius!" the dragon screamed, and the room turned red with his rage, the fire of his awful breath roiling about in fearsome waves across the walls and ceiling, cold yet still deadly. "I put you on that throne and I can take you down!"

The pope fell to his knees, bowing; tears poured from his eyes. "I'm sorry master, I'm so sorry. Please, tell me what to do."

"Better," said the dragon, and the flames receded instantly back into the mirror.

"I know you are, after all, only mortal, limited by your human form and material parameters. I can't expect you to keep an eye on everything, now can I....especially when you've only two and they are connected to the back of your skull. So, let me present you with another somewhat freer pair. Go to your window and open it."

The shaken pope jumped to his feet and hurried to the glass-paned double door that led onto his balcony, only too happy to get a little distance between himself and that awful vision in the mirror.

Reaching the door, he withdrew the latch and threw open the panels: At once a dark shape darted past his face in a small rush of wind, so close its feathered wings brushed against his cheek. He suppressed a scream, as a slight trickle of warm liquid spilled down his inner left thigh.

The blur of beating wings were strangely luminous in the gloomy diffuse light from the streetlamps that now permeated the room. The bird made an erratic arcing loop in the center of the huge apartment before flying straight into the mirror and disappearing.

"Come," ordered the voice in the mirror.

Reluctantly Caius obeyed, crossing the room back to the mirror. Within its dark surface he now saw a large black bird of prey perched atop the muscular, green-scaled shoulder of the beast.

"These are your eyes, Caius, the best you could ever want. He shall be your spy, the one you send out to places you cannot go, to places where your Vatican gendarme have no jurisdiction. Look at his eyes, Caius," the beast commanded; "look deep into those beautiful golden eyes."

The man complied, staring into the raptor's eyes, and immediately felt the world wobble, as if he were beginning to float upward, as if his own fleshy heaviness were dropping away. Then a brilliant electrical force surged through his mind, filling every neuron, holding him in its grip.

"Now you are joined," said the dragon. "Your mind is his, his vision yours."

As the beast spoke, the bird of prey rose up from his shoulder and with two powerful strokes came out of the mirror and lit upon the Pope's forearm with a sharp, skin puncturing grip of its talons. Tears sprang to the man's eyes.

"You shouldn't keep him here with you," Satan advised; "but whenever you need him he will come, and wherever you want him to go, your mind will automatically direct him with the thought, just as it directs your hand to scratch your balls when they itch."

The dragon amused himself with this last comment, opening his great toothed mouth in an expression that could only pass for a smile in some other dimension. "One caution, Caius: Do remember to allow the little fellow some time off to catch a rat now and then, will you? He does have a real body to feed after all."

"Thank you master," Caius said, wishing the bird would let go of his arm.

It promptly fell clumsily to the floor, landing on its back.

"Oh, go catch a mouse why don't you," he told it; and immediately it disappeared through the still-open window.

The pope turned back toward the dragon, a little of his flagging self-confidence restored by this new found power. "So when I do find the Americans and their allies, what should I do with them? Will you arrange some kind of accident, like the one that rid us of the first three Cardinals?"

"Two, you moron: Magliano survived!"

"Yes, but he's incapacitated, completely paralyzed. Useless."

"But he is also now with the rest of them. And even though his body isn't functioning, he adds his spiritual power to their cause."

"I had no idea."

"That's why I said you're a moron. You've been hiding away in this place worrying about a microscopic bacteria while your enemies prosper.... and you had "no idea"!"

The beast was suddenly angry again, the great spiked tail whipping back and forth across the infinite space inside the mirror. "No idea," it fumed, shaking its great head in disgust. "Hear me well, Caius: You will send the hawk out at first light to locate the group and find out what they are up to: Do nothing to harm them right now, just get information, is that clear?"

The dragon didn't wait for the man to answer, he simply closed his crimson eyes and the mirror became once again nothing more than a simple reflective pane of glass.

Caius stood there a moment, weak and shivering in the cold draft from the open French doors. Then he walked out onto the balcony.

"Hawk," he thought; "Let me see what you are seeing right now."

Instantly a picture flashed into his mind: a full color close-up of large bulging brown eyes frozen in death's horror, pink and grey entrails spewing out from a large jagged rent in a still-pulsing abdominal cavity. A long hairless tail flagged two final feeble beats against the bloodstained earth, whiskers twitching at either side of the pointed nose.

The pope made a wry expression.

"I'd better be careful what I ask for," he muttered.

Chapter 39

San Martino-Sant'anzino, Italy

Michael and his angels fought against the dragon,

Revelation 12:7

"We were worried sick," cried Moni, throwing open the door of the farmhouse as the little Fiat truck coughed and chunked its way noisily up the dusty drive.

She rushed to embrace them as the two weary men climbed out, but stopped a foot away, letting her open arms drop to her sides. Her expression said it all.

"Pretty ripe, huh?" Joe grinned. "Forty some hours in an airless tomb will do that to a man."

"Frankly, I'm hurt," Mike said, putting on a puppy dog face for her.

"I'll hug you both after you shower," the woman smiled.

Once they'd cleaned up, the rest of the group insisted they eat before recounting their adventure, no matter how vital the news.

"Whatever it is," Bertini assured them, his brilliant eyes awash with love and concern; "it can wait until you've replenished your bodies. It's been almost two days since you ate, has it not?"

"And just as well," Muldoon grimaced. "If we'd eaten while in the tombs we'd have left even more unseemly evidence of our presence then we already did...and I'm not talking holy water."

Though neither man felt particularly hungry – their hunger pains having vanished after the first twenty four hours without food – as soon as the heaping plates of pasta primavera along with fresh, homemade sour dough bread was set before them they were both suddenly ravenous.

Every once in a while someone – usually Giovanni or Dante – let their curiosity get the better of them, and they would ask something about the necropolis, such as "Was it really creepy down there in the dark?" and "Did you see any ghosts?"

But neither man managed more than a grunt to acknowledge the question had been heard; no attempt to answer was made until the plates had been emptied. All Giovanni received was a sharp nudge in the ribs from Moni's elbow.

"Let the men eat!"

"More?" She offered when Mike and Joe set down their forks at last and pushed back from the table.

"Not for me," Joe said, shaking his head with one hand on his bloated stomach.

"Nor me," agreed Muldoon. "I couldn't put away another bite. But it was incredible; thank you so much."

"Yes, thank you Moni," Joe smiled up at her, giving her hand a little squeeze as she picked up his plate.

Giovanni scowled, and Moni shot him a look that warned: "Don't be ridiculous!"

Now that the meal was finished, Joe and Mike proceeded to tell the rest of their group what they'd heard in the Vatican palace.

"They've already shipped a million of the Marcus icons to archdiocese around the globe, and Caius has issued orders to get them into the hands of all parishioners as fast as they can," said Muldoon.

"And they apparently intend to ramp up the volume of the shipments now that the plague has run its course and the infrastructure is starting to rebuild," added Joe.

"So, through the combined power of the infested icons and the unholy eucharist, it seems the Vatican intends to bring every practicing Catholic on earth under Satan's dominion," mused Cardinal Bertini.

"But there's even more than that," Joe interjected.

All eyes became suddenly wary, all heads turned towards the speaker. Except of course for Muldoon, who already knew what he was going to say.

"There's some new plan in the works that engages the support of all the governments, as well as the most rich and powerful men in the world. And the Vatican will run it. Caius called it _The New Word."_

"It's some kind of world-wide food distribution program," added Muldoon; "at least that's what they are proclaiming it to be: A purportedly fair and charitable means to ensure equitable distribution of the world's food surpluses, which will be overseen by the Vatican. But with Satan behind it, you know there has to be some evil purpose, some additional way to trap the souls of Man."

"You don't have any details?" inquired Bertini, his face lined with concern.

The two younger men shook their heads.

"That's all we heard."

"Then I say we tackle what danger we do know of right now," Moni said, coming back to the table with a fresh pot of coffee. "We can handle this other thing when we know more about it, but right now we need to try to stop the distribution of the icons, don't you think?"

"I agree," said Bertini. "But how? I am open to suggestions."

"Is there any way we can let the parish priests around the world know about the danger, and urge them not to accept or pass on the icons to their parishioners?" asked Joe.

"Why don't you just email them?" suggested Dante.

The elders turned toward him as if he'd grown an extra head.

"Wait a minute: the world-wide web is pretty much back up and running, with internet service being restored by all the major providers, although it's not up to full capacity yet," said Giovanni in defense of the teenager. "Almost everyone has – or had, before the pandemic – an email address of some sort. So, why _not_ email them? It's the fastest, cheapest and most efficient way to get a mass mailing out."

"Only you'd have to be careful only to send the mail in small batches, like maybe thirty at a time, or SPAM filters kick in, and if you get nailed for spamming they can close your account," cautioned Dante, speaking as one who had probably found this out the hard way.

"Okay," Joe conceded. "Let's say most of the parish priests around the world do have an email account. How are you going to find out the names of all these priests and what their email addresses are?"

"Yes," seconded Bertini. "The Vatican won't just give these out, and I doubt they are available for public access online. Privacy and secrecy have always been a priority in the Vatican."

"Not to hackers," smiled Dante mischievously.

"If it's there anywhere, we can find it," said Giovanni with a little shrug.

The rest of the group looked around at each other, brows raised.

"Okay," said Bertini. "Do it. Meantime, while you two do your questionably legal..."

"But ultimately moral," Dante interjected.

"...information gathering, the rest of us will compose the letter to the priests."

After dickering about the length and content of the missive to be sent - the men dictating verbiage while Moni transcribed all the changes, arguments, additions and deletions, driving her past her patience threshold to the point of screaming (at least internally) - the letter was finally completed.

Meanwhile Dante and Giovanni had put their combined talents to work, and in less time than it took the others to compose the letter they had located the Vatican file containing contact information for every member of the Catholic clergy in the entire world, and downloaded it into both Dante's and Giovanni's tablets

"All right," said the woman to the rest of the group. "Listen up: Here's the final version, so let me know if I got it down okay, or if it needs any final editing, all right? Here goes:"

To yada yada yada. We are now in the end times foretold by Saint John the Divine in his book of prophecies, popularly known as the Book of Revelation. Let there be no doubt about this.

In Revelation chapter 13, we are told that Satan will slander God's name and his dwelling place, and wage war against God's Holy people. We are here to warn you that he is doing exactly that right now, through the auspices of the Two Beasts who – as it says in the Bible - perform miracles in order to convince the world to _worship the beast whose wound was healed_.

And as foretold, he has _set up an image in honor of the beast who was wounded._

Brothers in Christ, the beast whose wound was healed was Pope Marcus, and the beast who commands you to worship him now is Pope Caius. He claims that Marcus is the second coming of Christ our Lord. This is a lie, which can easily be proven: Read the book of Revelation: You will discover that the return of Christ only comes later, after the fall of Babylon, in Chapter 19. Thus Marcus cannot be that second coming. He is in truth the antichrist, the beast sent by the dragon to deceive you.

Satan has taken control of not only Pope Caius, but of every Cardinal in the world that partook of the Eucharist during the mass following the coronation of Pope Sixtus, which was the first head of our church that he controlled, The wine in that chalice, consecrated by Sixtus, was infused and transformed not into the blood of Christ but into the blood of Satan by his own unholy power. And now, Pope Caius, the second head of the church acting as the minion of Satan, is trying to get an icon of Pope Marcus – which has likewise been infused with demonic power – into the home of every practicing Catholic on earth, in order to make their souls his own.

We urge you to refuse to accept these icons into your church, and to refuse to put them into the hands of your faithful. Further we must warn you against taking communion from any bishop or priest who has taken it from a Cardinal in the past four years, in order to keep yourself and your parishioners safe from this other inroad of Satanic control.

We understand that what we say herein may be hard to accept, that many of you may doubt or challenge or simply ignore our plea. We can only urge, as it says in Revelation 13:9: _Whoever has ears, let them hear._

Signed or sincerely or whatever. You guys."

"So?" she said, looking up. "Anything need redoing?

There was a brief discussion, a couple of minor changes made, decisions on the wording of the salutation and closing, and then Moni was left to type and format the final version to be emailed to all catholic clergy below the title of Bishop, the group deciding that probably most Bishops and Archbishops had by now been corrupted by the tainted eucharist and could not be trusted.

"We can send the email to them after everyone else, just to be sure those under Satan's power don't try to prevent their priests from receiving the warning" said Bertini.

While Moni typed the letter, and Dante and Gio worked on separating the email lists into groups of thirty, small enough to avoid the SPAM filters at either end of the transmission, Joe and Mike retired to one of the bedrooms for a much needed nap, and the two cardinals excused themselves for a period of prayer and meditation in the outside gardens.

Chapter 40

San Francisco

Get out of her my children, so that you will not share in her sins.

Revelation 18:4

The two children sat in the dirty bus station watching one of the tiny coin TVs from the same chair without fighting. More than anything else, this one small fact revealed their mood.

Ordinarily two kids would have been instant bait for the hungry troubles that always lurked in such picking grounds: pimps and johns and pedophiles; rheumy-eyed and semi-toothless, chin-whisker-sprouting old winos of indeterminate sex and foul breath, the younger generation homeless, begging handouts and eyeing the two overnight bags tossed carelessly on the filthy concrete floor beside them. There were pushers looking for a sale, users looking for a fix, lonely men or women looking for an ear to bend or a bed to lie in, with or without occupant.

But the pretty dark-haired twelve year old girl and the freckle-nosed eight year old boy next to her had an identical look in their eyes that, when it focused on anyone beginning to approach their space, immediately made that person pause, re-evaluate, then give the pair a wide and cautious berth, as you might a rattlesnake.

"Greyhound number 441, northbound for Eureka via Vallejo, Santa Rosa, Healdsburg, Cloverdale, Hopland, Ukiah, Willits, Leggett, Rohnerville and Eureka, now boarding at gate seven," a bored voice drawled over the tinny loudspeaker.

Both youngsters automatically clutched their tickets more tightly. Eric looked at his older sister, his blue eyes begging for one more reassurance: She responded with something totally uncharacteristic of her; she leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then they silently picked up their brand new canvas sports bags and took their places at the back of the short line just beginning to form.

As the queue moved tediously forward, Sandy saw a pair of uniformed patrolmen push their way through the glass entrance doors into the terminal. They looked so intent, so businesslike, that her heart gave a jolt, and she looked quickly away, hoping she wouldn't telegraph the terror and guilt she was feeling, certain that they could read it on her face.

Surely her grandmother couldn't have discovered they were missing yet: the movie they'd supposedly gone to in the city wasn't due out for another hour, and even then it would take another hour to get home by bus.

The line jerked forward, and she lifted her bag, nudging Eric forward with her knee. Only two more people between them and the driver taking tickets at the door: Safety. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder: the policemen were drawing closer, looking carefully along each aisle as if searching for a particular fugitive....or a pair of them!

What if grandma had somehow already found out about the two hundred dollar withdrawal Sandy had made early that morning with the woman's debit card at the nearby 7-11? She'd slipped it back into Dolores' handbag before the woman had gotten out of bed. But even if she had discovered the theft, would she really turn in her own granddaughter?

Maybe.

There: they were finally at the front of the line. The impassive-faced bus driver was taking Eric's ticket from his shaking hand. They had a story concocted, if they were asked: They were going to live with their dad, 'cause their mom was too sick to take care of them anymore, and even though dad drank too much and chased women, it was all they had.

"Pretty good," Eric had admitted when she told him what to say. "But what if I mess it up?"

"If anyone asks, just start crying and let me do all the talking," she'd advised.

Now it was her turn. Mine, here, now take mine, she thought. Yeah.

She followed Eric up the steep metal steps into the cool, dark, stale-cigarette and diesel-fuel ambience of the old Sceni-Cruiser. They moved toward the rear of the half-empty bus, found a pair of seats and settled into them, scrunching down a little so that if the policemen happened to look in through the windows they couldn't be seen.

But it was not until the bus door wheezed shut, the engines revved into life and the metal ark pulled away from the station in a series of shuddering, gear-grinding upshifts that they finally began to relax.

Still, after a moment Eric turned to her, his eyes wide in the changing patterns of light and dark that filtered through the bus windows as it sped across the city, and asked for what seemed like the millionth time that day: "Are you sure; I mean really really sure?'

"Of what, Eric?" she snapped impatiently.

"Are you sure it was Momma MJ?"

"You saw her too, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I guess, but..."

"Listen," the girl said, turning to look at him directly, and - she hoped - with a certainty that would stop all further argument; "I know it doesn't seem possible, her being dead and all, but we both saw and heard the exact same thing. It isn't possible for two people to have the exact same dream you know."

"It isn't?"

"No. So that proves it was real. And that means what she told us to do was real too, right?"

Eric paused a moment to contemplate this.

"Right?"

"Yeah." Weakly.

"She came back to warn us to leave before Grandma's boyfriend got back from Rome, 'cause he was bringing back something evil with him, something that would make us listen to Satan instead of Jesus, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember okay. But that don't mean I understand it. It's kind of weird, you know?"

"I know. But then we got that letter from Daddy Joe this morning, telling us almost the same thing, that there was some kind of evil statue being given to people to make them believe in the devil. And that pretty soon there was going to be some kind of food program started by Satan to trick people, and that we should get out of the city before it happened to us."

"I still don't know where we're going to, though," the younger boy complained.

"Oh for gosh sakes, Eric, I told you a hundred times, it's a farm commune up near Shasta. You remember when we camped up at Shasta Lake one summer, back when our real parents were still, you know..."

"Not dead?"

"Yeah. It's called alive, stupid. Anyway, I looked it up on line – actually I started looking awhile back for places that maybe we could run away to, and I found it back then."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I just did. It's called Happy Valley."

"Seriously?' he said in his best attempt at sarcasm.

"Forget the sappy name, it still sounds like a good place. They're a bunch of Christians who believe that the end times are coming, and the world is going to you know what. They grow their own food and stuff, and just stay away from all outsiders."

"So what makes you think they'll let us stay with them?"

"Because Momma MJ said they were expecting us."

"She didn't tell me that."

"Well maybe you forgot, or maybe you woke up too soon. Anyway, she said to go there, they'll take us in. _They're expecting you,_ she said: Her exact words."

"What if they don't?"

"I don't know, Eric," Sandy shook her head. "But if we're going to bother to believe any of it, then we may as well believe all of it. I mean, look around: We're on the bus, aren't we?"

"No turning back?"

"That's right li'l bruddah man, no turning back. Just you and me, to the end."

"To the end," he nodded, bumping knuckles with her.

The girl turned her head away as if to look out the window; it was really so he wouldn't see the well of tears that had just sprung to her eyes.

Chapter 41

The Vatican

... _and the dragon and his angels fought back._

Revelation 12:7

The preliminary glow of day that announced the sun's imminent arrival on this part of the world was just beginning to illuminate the dark glass of the French doors that led to the balcony, when a scratching noise, insistent to the point of frantic, awoke Caius from some dream best forgotten.

Reluctantly he opened one eye, looked toward the multi-paned door, and saw the dark shadow beating itself against the windows with feathered wings and outstretched talons, oddly luminous in the shadows.

"Shit," he swore, a most un-Pope-like expletive as he clambered out from under the warm comforter and went to let in his unwelcome guest.

Per the dragon's directives, he had sent the bird out to search for his enemies the day before, but with unclear goals or directions, he'd turned up nothing. So Caius had spent the rest of the day searching out photographs of the group...or at least the photographs of those he could identitify.

From Vatican archives he'd been able to locate fairly recent pictures of Cardinals Bertini and Magliano, as well as an older one of Monsignor Michael Muldoon. He'd then sent Bishop Armandi to the Hospitale Universita di Roma to search the hospital's security camera photo archives, and from these had obtained a very clear photograph of the woman who had twice entered Magliano's hospital room. It was taken in the hospital lobby at the information desk, and showed her conversing with some young unidentified Italian man. Bishop Armandi, who had been in Magliano's hospital room delivering the Marcus icon at the time of her second visit, positively identified her. Unfortunately the security photos of the men who had later come with Bertini and Muldoon to spirit Magliano away, under the guise of taking him to the Vatican Infirmary for recovery, were useless: all the men were so well covered in PPEs as precautions against infection by the plague - masks, caps, rainsuits, goggles and gloves - that they were virtually unidentifiable.

Now, in the early morning light, he turned on his laptop as the large black hawk perched on his shoulder, digging its talons painfully into his flesh as it tried to keep its balance.

"Bird, do you mind?" he said.

The hawk hopped off, balancing itself instead on the edge of his office chair, sharp claws ripping small tears into the expensive leather of that instead.

Caius shook his head, blew out a small breath of impatience.

He brought up the pictures of Bertini, Magliano, Muldoon and the woman one by one, fixing them firmly in his own mind before transferring each image mentally to the raptor.

"Go find them," he ordered when he had finished.

The great bird flew out the open door, its silhouette an ominous shadow against the rising sun as it flew on beating wings across the city.

*****

Past the walls of Vatican City, beyond the houses, parks, cathedrals and ruins of Rome, out into the countryside, there was a small farmhouse, where two others were awake as well, already busy at their task.

Giovanni and Moni had actually been at this since two AM, deciding that with the still limited internet service and sporadic outages, it would be best to get their emails sent in the middle of the night when there was the least traffic using the web.

They'd printed out the letter the night before, and gotten Bertini and Magliano - by proxy, with Mike doing the honors - to sign it. The group had decided that the weight of the two men's authority alone, as renowned and high ranking cardinals of the church, would get the most attention and respect, and that adding any of the rest of their names might diminish that authority and call into question its validity.

"Besides," Bertini pointed out; "We need to keep the rest of your identities secret as long as possible if we hope to stop this great evil."

"But your eminence...." Muldoon objected.

Magliano looked over at him, with a little smile warming his expressive brown eyes. "What more can they do to _me_ , eh?" His expression said. "Keep safe, stay strong. This is war."

The conspirators then scanned the signed letter back into the computer, and after a short nap, Moni and Gio began the mind numbing process of sending the letter out as an email to thirty priests at a time.

After an hour or so of this, they were noticeably slowing down, huge yawns, sleepy eyes, occasional head drops and bobs telling the story.

"Crap," said Moni the third time she caught herself nodding off. "I'd better make some more coffee."

"I have a better idea," countered Gio; "How about a game?"

"What kind of game?"

"Contest, actually. Whoever sends the most emails in one hour has to do something for the other person."

"Like what?"

"You know," he grinned, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

"Gio!" She shrieked, then quieted her voice, looking around. There were, after all, no less than three men of the cloth sleeping in the next rooms.

He just smirked, and she couldn't help but giggle.

"And if I win?" she asked.

"Your choice," he said.

"You're on."

After that, the emails flew out for the next four hours. By seven AM, each had won two rounds and lost two, and both were grinning like cats, contemplating their rewards. Between the two of them they'd managed in five hours to send out over three thousand emails.

As Gio took a bathroom break, Moni sat back and stretched. The email letter she'd just sent was still displayed on the screen in front of her.

Five hundred meters above the farmhouse a small speck grew rapidly closer, its bright intelligent eyes scanning, scanning: The large bird of prey, black as a raven's wing, saw the woman through the window, her face illuminated by the glow from the computer screen against the soft grey light of early morning. The raptor's golden eyes focused in for a close-up view: Recognition! It was the woman in the photograph. He circled closer, coming to land on the top branch of the maple tree across the dusty road from the farmhouse sixty meters away. The woman got up from the table and opened the kitchen window, wanting to let in the morning breeze, she thought.

Thirty miles distant, Pope Caius – seated at his own breakfast table – had a sudden sharp electric jolt shoot through his eyes, and as he put his hand up to rub the offending parts the image of the woman at the window came into his mind, as clear as if he'd been standing outside the little farmhouse looking at her from a couple of feet away. And just beyond her head, resting on a rustic wooden table, was a brightly lit computer screen with writing on it.

"What's that say?" he wondered; and instantly the page filled his vision, the words of the email clearly legible. As he read, he felt his fury rising: Not just _his_ fury but the fury of the demonic force that now controlled him from both within and without.

"You fucking whore! I'd like to tear your lying eyes out! I'd ruin that pretty whore's face of yours, take out your jugular and let you bleed your last into the dirt you were made of," said his rage.

Moni had time for just one glance upward, sensing the approach.

"Tear her eyes out, ruin that face, rip the jugular!" heard the hawk, the orders entering its primitive raptor brain from the madman in control, sent like a primal urge into its centers of instinct and muscular response.

The woman heard its high-pitched vocalization, a primitive war scream, just before it struck, just in time to lift her pretty face to destruction, turn her lovely wide brown eyes up to meet its razor talons and scimitar beak.

Caius could feel his claws rip through the delicate skin, tearing tender flesh from bone; could see the beautiful bright red blood gushing forth in vibrant ribbons and rivers from the white flaps of shredded skin, sending its metallic scent into his quivering nostrils from the cortical receptors of the merged brains.

He saw the useless hands fluttering weakly before him, pathetic defensive motions attempting to protect the already ruined features, forgetting to cover the vital, large blue vein bulging unprotected beneath a thin layer of skin in the taut, backward arched neck.

"Now!" he thought, his mind at one with the large feathered carnivore.

The muscular neck dipped, jaws opened; the beak snapped down at its pulsing target, lifted to him like a supplication beneath the tightly stretched skin.

Then suddenly the vision changed: It whirled and spun confusedly, erratic movements. The hawk was being yanked from its victim; large hands were closing around its neck and eyes.

He didn't have to tell the bird what to do next: Its own instinct was much faster than his. Its beak closed down upon a beefy finger, and as the heavy grip released with a shriek and a curse, the hawk fled into its aerial haven, arcing higher and higher above the bloody scene below, screaming in triumph and fury.

Other hoarse screams echoed up at it, curses and cries as the lover Giovanni looked down at the ruins of his beloved's face, and then threw up.

Chapter 42

New York City

... _they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark..._

Revelation 13:17

"But it is impossible!" The Frenchman insisted in his syrupy accent, sitting tensely forward in the leather arm chair, resting his weight on his elbows as his hands did their dance of emotional explanation. "Already the people of Europe complain of the rising food prices; the farmers and ranchers scream of their starving livestock; the agricultural unions, running out of their own emergency stockpiles of grain, clamor for the return of contributions made in prior years to the International Grain Reserve System. How can we flatly refuse these people the release of at least some small portion of their stored reserves, in view of the current dire situation?"

"Ah Georges, Georges," the old man at the head of the huge, deeply polished conference table clucked, shaking his full white mane of hair in cheerful exasperation; "you truly think we cannot handle a few pig farmers and their unions? We hold the mortgage papers on most of their land, buildings and machinery, do we not? So?" He raised a bushy black eyebrow at the smaller man, President of the European branch of the Trilateral Trade Consortium and the only non-American present at this special Ad Hoc meeting of the TTC Executive Council. "Frankly I do not see why you are making such a problem out of this."

He glanced around the table at the other three men present as if seeking their agreement: They gave it with the subtlest of nods, with a momentary bright spark from their alert, intelligent, carnivorous eyes.

At the center of the table was a black plastic and chrome box, a sensitive two-way speaker phone which was open to the sixth member of their party. Its single relay switch was open, the receiver end some two hundred miles to the south was sitting in front of a youthful looking man in his late forties seated alone at an enormous desk, the Great Seal of the United States looking over his shoulder from the wall behind.

His voice, emanating from the black box on the conference table, now joined the discussion.

"Bob, if I may just interject a comment in here?"

"Certainly Mister President," the lion-maned chairman acknowledged graciously, suppressing the flicker of a smile that played along his upper lip.

"Bob" had personally given Martino Victor Montinella - the token third generation Hispanic, Roman Catholic POTUS - a prior briefing on what objections they might expect, so the Latino knew exactly what to say at this point... and any other. And Robert "Bob" Eggleston - Director of the Atlantic-Pacific Oil Corporation and governing board president of a half dozen other multinational multi-billion dollar corporations, in addition to his extremely powerful and prestigious role as President of the TTC's North American Executive Council - had every confidence that "Monty" would present his arguments exactly as instructed.

"Monsieur Bersthon, while I can certainly appreciate your concerns," the President began in his smooth politician's voice, only slightly skewed by the remnants of his East LA Barrio accent: "we must take into account here the lessons of the past, and look beyond the present clamor to the very real dangers awaiting us in the near future."

"The International Grain Reserve System was formulated by our governments, under TTC leadership, in a cooperative effort to lend stability to the world food market, most particularly during times of crisis such as the one we currently face. Without the safeguards and controls we've built in as an extra-political, world-oriented organization, we would all be apt to bend - and most unwisely, I might add, - to the pressures of our own constituency, the arguments of special interest groups, and our own political concerns and agendas. If we allow these individual interests to have their way, we invite not only a dangerous destabilization of food commodities, with resultant wild fluctuations in price and availability worldwide; but worse a rapid and dangerous depletion of the world grain reserves. With Russia, China and most of the Far East now almost completely out of their own reserves and virtually no new production anticipated in the coming season due to the ongoing drought in those areas, and with the rest of the Northern Hemisphere grain harvests cut to about one third their normal production, we're in serious trouble. What happens if this unprecedented global drought continues another year or two, and we run out of our famine relief reserves altogether after squandering them too early? What will our constituents say then?"

"But Mr. President," the Frenchman began to protest, albeit weakly.

"Now Georges, I know what you're going to say," the voice in the black box cut him off gently. "You want to suggest that we provide at least some measure of relief, release a small portion of the stored grain at this time, in order to prevent runaway inflation on the price due to scarcity now, followed by a drastic drop in prices once the normal rainfall patterns resume...the very things the Trilateral's International Grain Reserve is designed to prevent, true?"

"Exactly, Mr. President."

"Unfortunately, Georges, it's not that simple. I've got a confidential report, right in front of me, right here on my desk, resulting from an emergency conference of American, Canadian and European government meteorologists held just last week in Toronto. And I've got to tell you, it doesn't look good, not good at all. Now, you're going to have to trust me on this - all of you men are - because I can't release the data from this report right now for reasons of national security: But the fact is that this drought is expected to last another two or three years, minimum, if they are correct in what they believe is causing this shift in global rain patterns."

"It is the opinion of the President of the United States," he continued, throwing the weight of his office in now as back up; "that the responsibility of the men sitting here today is to convince the rest of the TTC members - and they in turn convince their own governments, unions, farmers and grain consortiums, as well as the general public - to hold off on any premature releases of emergency reserves, tighten the old belts and bear with it. The people need to be encouraged to cut back on their consumption patterns, particularly beef, if the world food supply is to outlast the drought; and the quickest and surest way to accomplish that is to simply allow the prices to go up, don't you see? The old law of supply and demand. We do that, then the grain will be there to ration if and when we truly need it to stave off famine in the world."

"Yes, well thank you very much Mr. President," Eggleston answered for the group, eager now to regain his control of the meeting. "I think you've made some very valid points."

He raised his dark blue eyes, looking intensely from beneath the bushy brows at each man in turn. One of these had risen during the president's discourse and now stood with his back to the group, staring out at the enormous grey-tinted windows at the fog-blanketed New York skyline.

Eggleston shrugged, letting him be.

"Let's be frank, gentlemen: Though what President Montinella said presents a true and compelling argument for refusing to release the surplus grain, it is neither persuasive enough to satisfy a hungry public - especially since we cannot use the scientific findings he mentioned regarding the continuation of the drought - nor is it the complete picture. We need to apprise ourselves, and our fellow Trilateralists at the upcoming general meeting, of all the ramifications that taking control of the international grain reserves might have on world economics and on our own personal financial and political security during this crisis."

He turned now to the man at the window: "Mr. Hurtwell, are you ready?"

Timothy Edwards Hurtwell, the man in the classic grey pin-striped Italian suit turned, flashing a brilliant white-toothed smile which was set off perfectly by his bronzed skin, his golden grey hair. He walked over to the table with the grace of an athlete just past his prime, wearing confidence and charm as a second skin over his slightly slimy interior. Deep within the cool grey eyes an unseen fire lurked, sparking with evil amusement. Caius would have recognized him instantly.

"Certainly Mr. Eggleston," the man smiled. "Mr. President, gentlemen: The International Grain Reserve normally contains two billion bushels each of wheat, rice, soybeans and corn. However after several years of drought, this reserve was only at about 50% of normal. Then, when the super-plague first began to debilitate the Soviet Union, China and Japan last summer, we quickly released some 200 million bushels of wheat and rice to the affected countries as an emergency humanitarian aid. It was believed at the time that these stores could easily be replaced by what was projected to be a bumper crop in North America this fall." He paused, allowing an audible sigh to escape his pursed lips, a little shake of the head. Then he smiled disarmingly. "We were mistaken," he shrugged.

"Not only were we unable to replace the 200 million bushels of emergency grain reserves we'd given to the plague-ridden countries - most of which we believe is still sitting in train cars or storage silos somewhere, untouched, unrecoverable due to the complete collapse of the affected nations' infrastructures, and by now likely decimated by mold and damp rot - but we were also obligated to release an additional 100 million bushels for 'redistribution' to certain key American farmers, agribusiness giants who'd suffered substantial losses due to the drought and who we needed to keep solvent, as they are powerful and persuasive TTC allies in our dealings with the agricultural unions and farm belt congressmen."

Hurtwell paused to take a sip of water. He wasn't thirsty, just pacing himself, giving his message time to sink in before continuing.

"The same two factors which depleted our reserves have also continued to severely limit the overall world grain production this year: First there was the plague, which virtually wiped out all grain production in Russia and China due to the extremely high CFR in those countries - and which also cut the agricultural labor force in half in most other grain producing regions, severely affecting output. That was coupled with the severe drought which has affected the entire Northern Hemisphere the last four years - cutting US and Canadian production by nearly 50 percent even before the plague. The only countries still producing grain to anywhere near capacity are those in the Southern Hemisphere, where rainfall is still close to normal - primarily Argentina, Brazil and Australia. Production there is only down by about a quarter due to loss of the workforce, however none of these countries are contributing members of the International Grain Reserve, so that doesn't help us much."

He paused to take another sip, looking over his small select audience. He didn't ask if there were any questions: He wasn't through yet, and didn't want to invite any side excursions until he'd wrapped this thing up.

"If the President's meteorological advisers are right," he went on in a somber tone; "and the Northern Hemisphere drought continues another year, water rationing will become severe, cutting production in the growing season to perhaps as little as 20 percent of normal. Instead of producing 1.5 billion metric tons of grain, there might be only 300 million, barely enough to minimally sustain the remaining world population for the coming year. And if, as predicted, it continues another year or two beyond that, mass global starvation will surely begin. It is our responsibility, the Trilateral Trade Consortium's unequivocal **duty** , to take control of this situation **now** , so that this tragedy does not occur. And we need to take control over not only the world's grain, but over all produce, meat and dairy products as well, if we are to ensure equitable and orderly distribution of food to all people in all countries of the world."

The men at the table looked back and forth at each other, unsure what to think of this.

"Uh, Mr. Hurtwell," the President said, his voice issuing forth from the black box. Hurtwell ignored him.

"Here's what I propose," he said, then waited, allowing the silence to lay there long enough to become impregnated with anticipation and worry before continuing.

"Mr. Hurtwell, I have a question..." the black box again.

"First," Hurtwell said, ticking off on a long, well-manicured finger; "we must bring pressure to bear on the non-TTC member countries in the Southern Hemisphere to sell there surplus grain and foodstuffs only to our International Reserve System. Mr. Parks?" He directed his intense grey eyes on the tall, bony, aristocratic-looking man on the left, president of the Continental Chicago banking conglomerate and a major influence in the agricultural industry worldwide. "You must see to it that these countries understand there will be sanctions that would be most uncomfortable to live with should they decline. A personal visit, see what you can do to aid production, might grease some wheels."

Parks pulled at his thin mustache, nodded.

"Second," Hurtwell continued; "we need to construct a plan to buy up at fair prices all livestock in drought ravaged areas before the animals starve, then butcher and freeze or can the meat and - like our grain reserves - dole it out according to stringent guidelines during the anticipated period of world famine. Believe me, if we do not take control of these meat commodities and soon, we invite a sudden wholesale glut on the market of beef, pork, mutton and poultry when the ranchers discover they can no longer afford to feed their livestock. This would result in plunging prices, followed by hoarding of meat products by wealthy consumers and speculators, leaving the masses to later suffer from protein deficiency and starvation."

"Tim?" It was Bob Bowden, one of the original founders of the Trilateral Trade Consortium, the public relations genius behind the consortium's public policy machine, and Director of the World Peace Foundation, a Trilateralist "think tank".

Hurtwell waved him to go ahead.

"We'll have to handle this carefully: How we present it may not even be as crucial as under what auspices. That is, what organization will buy the surplus meat and produce, prepare, store and later distribute it? The TTC can't be seen as having a direct hand in all of that, particularly not if we're already taking control of all the grain commodities on the planet."

"You're absolutely right, Bob. As a matter of fact, I think even the international grain reserves should be turned over to an outside organization temporarily for management during this particular crisis...an organization universally perceived as being above reproach in motives and impeccable in ethics."

"Caesar's wife?" Bowden smiled.

"Close. I was thinking more along the lines of The Institute for Religious Works."

"The...?"

"The Vatican Bank. I took the liberty of approaching Pope Caius himself on the possibility: He was most receptive. And who could even think to question the equitable distribution of food by such a globally well known, trusted and respected organization as the Roman Catholic Church?"

"Works for me," said Monty Montinella from within the black speaker box.

Timothy Hurtwell favored his audience with a broad sunshiny grin, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the diffuse refracted light of the room. And like a shark's, only the first row was showing.

Chapter 43

Brownswell, Nebraska

... _and all the green grass was burnt up._

Revelation 8:7

Someone else was looking at death that morning as well, a very quiet death. A very quiet look.

Anna Buchanan Schwennesen was sulking over her third cup of coffee, keeping alive her anger and disappointment as long as possible. She hadn't even done the breakfast dishes yet, and it was nearly eleven. Jesse would be back demanding the noonday meal within an hour, along with Old George and that slimy little Manuel, who was always feeling her up with his eyes. Well frankly, she wasn't in the mood to play housewife to a bunch of horny, smelly farmers today, damned if she would!

The woman brushed a limp wisp of straight fine blond hair out of her eyes with strong, work-roughened fingertips. Cornsilk, that's what all the boys had once called it: hair the color of morning April sunlight. It had been her pride, her beauty...until birthing three babies inside of four years had dragged all the life right out of it; it and everything else.

Now it was as colorless and dead as the dry hazy sky above their farm, a sky that remained as devoid of clouds and hope in late October as it had every day for the last four years.

As Anna pushed up begrudgingly from the yellow formica table she caught a glimpse of herself in the cheap full length mirror she'd attached to the refrigerator door with crazy glue as a "dietary aid." She sighed heavily: More'n two years since she'd grunted out her last baby – Little Jenny Ann – and she still looked pregnant. She was carrying an extra, immovable forty pounds, and most of that on her waist and hips, once as slim and athletic as a gymnast's.

She grimaced at the ugliness of her body, suddenly feeling a lot older than her twenty-five years. Grabbing the long limp tresses with her hands, she pushed them up atop her head, turning this way and that, looking for a trace of the former loveliness.

The portable TV on her tiled counter top showed a game show host giving some perfectly-groomed, health spa slender California girl – roughly her own age - a two week Mediterranean cruise just for guessing the right price of a can of applesauce.

Anna could have cried.

Here she was, stuck on a two hundred sixty acre sheep farm in the great plains of Nebraska – God help her – facing the prospect of another hot, dry, snowless and present-less Holiday season, when that could have been _her_ flying off for a European holiday. If only....

Sometimes, sometimes, life could be a real bitch.

Not that she could really blame Jesse all that much: the drought certainly wasn't his fault, she knew that. He was just trying to be sensible, cutting back on all the "non-essentials" as he put it, until the dry spell was over and their future a little more secure. That's why he'd torn up her Christmas list this morning, she understood. But did he have to tear it up into little pieces and fling it at her as if the drought was something she'd done to him personal?

Besides, to a two, three and five year old, Christmas was not a "non-essential". Let him try explaining no presents to three kids who still believed in Santa Claus.

And if he was so damned concerned about keeping down expenses, why didn't he lay off that useless old geezer George, and the equally inept Manuel. She could help Jesse put out the hay for their hungry flocks, fill the water troughs, check the fences. That's about all they did anyway, when it wasn't lambing or shearing season. Heck, the money they'd save on just one week's wages for those two grifters could buy quite a few "non-essentials" for under the tree, enough at least to keep three little kids' dreams alive.

That is, if they had a tree.

A high pitched scream from the other room startled her out of this line of thinking: She recognized the sound of it immediately – Mikey'd gone and bit poor little Jenny Ann again, damn his mean little hide. She wouldn't mind putting a few rocks in his stocking this year.

She decided to ignore the noise, staring out the window at the sullenly defiant sky, its mood reflected in her own cloudy blue grey eyes as she looked upon the remains of her half-acre vegetable garden, most of it already harvested and put up in Mason Jars. She'd had to give up her flowers this year: Jess wouldn't allow the extra water for such "fripperies" (good old Jess), although when it came to water-hungry favorites of his, such as watermelon, he sang a different tune.

They'd had a decent enough harvest from the garden, she supposed, all things considered. Only lost about thirty percent to the extreme heat, and nothing to bugs. It was too damn hot for the bugs this year.

Now her bedraggled little flock of chickens pecked forlornly at the remains of the bed, hunting out any fallen seeds she hadn't collected for next year's crop. They still weren't laying up to par: her fifteen broody hens hadn't hardly produced enough eggs for a decent family breakfast once a week all summer, due to the oven-like temperatures; and even now with the thermometer back down into the mid-seventies – which was still unseasonably warm, to be sure – they'd not recouped to more'n half their full potential.

She shook her head again: what a bitch what a bitch what a bitch.

Jenny had come snuffling in from the other room and now clung to Anna's leg, wiping her snotty nose against her momma's shapeless cotton dress. The woman patted the top of her baby daughter's head absent-mindedly, still staring out the big dirty farm window above the sink of unwashed dishes.

Out on the brown stubble of the gently rolling hillside beyond her garden grazed a flock of some four hundred Merino ewes – like fat sailing ships on a dirty sea – while the ten Cotswald rams they'd imported from England two years ago to improve the quality of wool in their flock generated an occasional flurry of squealing excitement here and there within the ranks of the placidly ruminating ladies.

Beneath their cloven hooves, beneath the sparse brown stubble of grass that their sharp lower incisors had bitten off nearly to the roots, lay the deep dry layer of fine sandy soil characteristic of the north-central region of Nebraska. The Sand Hills of Nebraska, normally covered by thick, abundant natural grassland kept irrigated by summer rains, winter snow and the many deep wells sunk into the vast underground reservoirs – now "dangerously depleted " according to a recent investigation by the State's water management agency - encompassed some of the finest grazing land in the country, particularly for beef cattle.

However, little sheep farms like theirs were generally frowned upon by the cattle ranchers, looked down on like poor and slightly dangerous relations, and with good reason. For when the grass was killed by overgrazing or drought, which was exactly what was happening on their own farm right now – the wind could cut great holes into the hillsides. With no roots to hold the thin layer of topsoil, it simply blew away, quickly followed by great choking clouds of dusty sand which lifted up in enormous black columns to settle onto the adjoining ranchlands, smothering their grass and crops, sickening their livestock and polluting their waters.

Anna knew all about such blowouts. It had happened to her dad's own two thousand acre cattle ranch the year she turned sixteen. All the money that had been set aside for her college education blew away that year with the topsoil. A year and a half later Jesse Schwennesen, already a full grown man with his own successful little sheep ranch thirty miles to the north, had asked for her hand right after graduation. She'd looked into her father's eyes, so quietly hopeful when he told her that whatever she decided was fine with him, and of course she'd said yes.

Now, as she looked out at the scuttled security, the distant bulk of the big brusque man she'd traded her identity for, she mouthed "no"...only it was seven years too late. Seven years, and all for nothin'.

Sometimes God could be such a prick.

She picked up Jenny Ann, wiped off the tears and snot with a dampened paper towel, then hugged and kissed the pretty blue –eyed baby into a fit of giggles before resignedly putting her back down and starting the midday meal.

Chapter 44

Rome, Italy

_Mystery Babylon the Great,_ _drunken with the blood of saints_

and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus

Revelation 17:5

Monique Vasquez awoke like a drowning person, arms flailing wildly at the air, gasping with a strangled little noise from deep within her heavily bandaged throat.

Suddenly a warm strong hand was wrapped around hers, a familiar soothing voice talking her gently out of her panic. She tried to open her eyes, but nothing seemed to be working right. Her lips were sticking together, and when she tried to lick them she tasted paper, cloth. She was trying to find her voice.

"Gio?"

"Shhh, yes Moni, it's me. Don't try to talk."

"It was a hawk, wasn't it? I saw it, just before, just before..." her voice broke in a sob. She could feel the tears draining down the inner sinus cavities of her nose, but they had nowhere else to go.

"I know darling, I know. It's all right now," the young man said. He was glad she couldn't see his face: too much of the horror he felt could be read on it right now.

"What did he do to me, to my face? Oh God, he was tearing and tearing, I remember now. What did he do, what do I look like Gio? How bad is it?"

"Right now you look kind of like 'The Revenge of The Mummy,'" he joked, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

There was a long silence while the woman contemplated this, reaching her hands up to feel the bandages that enshrouded every part of her head except for the mouth. When she touched the padded portion over her eyes a gasp of pain and shock escaped her.

"My eyes! I remember his talons ripping at my eyes. Am I blind, Gio? Please tell me the truth; I'm blind now aren't I?"

His grip tightened on her hand, telling her too much, and when at last the man could speak Moni heard the tears in his voice.

"One eye was...damaged beyond repair," he said. "They're not certain about the other one yet, but they hope you'll have at least partial vision left in that one once the healing process is complete."

"I don't understand." She was shaking her head back and forth violently against the pillow, crying plaintively in the voice of a lost little girl. "I don't understand, why did it attack me?"

Now another voice spoke up out of her darkness: She recognized it as Joe. "We think it must have been sent by Caius - Or Satan, same difference -. because of the emails. You were just....there. It could have been any of us. You were just there."

Gio reached forward to take her in his arms now, cradling her gently against his chest, trying not to crush her with the strength of his emotions.

"You won't love me anymore," she sobbed into his chest, her self-reserve completely gone now. "I'll be so ugly you won't be able to look at me, an ugly pitiful blind woman."

"I'll love you Moni," he found himself saying: "I'll love you no matter what you look like. You'll always be beautiful, sexy Moni. And I'll keep you close where no one and nothing can ever harm you again."

At this, he broke down and cried in her arms, knowing that if he hadn't left the room that morning to go pee, it could have been him. And wondering how she would have responded, if he'd asked her that same question. Can you still love me now?

********

Muldoon was in a dark rage, most of it directed at God.

After the attack they'd rushed her to the nearest hospital – an urgent care clinic in the industrial center of Monterotondo five miles away, Joe driving the truck, Gio holding her, a clean t-shirt held to her butchered face. From there, after the medics had stopped the bleeding as best they could, she was transported by ambulance into Rome proper, to the Salvator Mundi International Hospital. Gio and Joe returned to pick up Mike, while Dante and Bertini stayed behind to keep watch over Magliano in case the hawk returned.

The three men had been at the hospital for several hours already, as the plastic surgeons worked to repair the damage wrought by beak and talons. But for Mike, the building rage had become too much to contain within the pristine corridors of the hospital. Now he walked through a leaden afternoon, while heat lightning split and crackled along the far horizon and thunder rumbled as ominously as his mood.

His eyes, which were usually a warm thoughtful brown, now snapped out at the world in black fury, hating everything they saw or created. One hand spent a lot of time stroking his thick black mustache, rubbing the full beard over his jawline.

Without being cognizant of direction, his footsteps led him mechanically along the broad sidewalks and heavily-trafficked thoroughfares, now filled with workers hurrying home to beat the impending storm, glancing up anxiously now and again at the dark clouds that rolled and gathered in the heavy sky.

Suddenly he found himself looking down at the wide expanse of broken rubble and isolated columns of the Foro Romano. A few stalwart tourists with camera-laden necks and thumb-worn guidebooks still picked their way through the excavations, but most had retreated by now to the safety of their hotels, rental cars or tour buses.

A multi-jagged streak of lightning spread across the heavens like a crack in a windowpane; the sound of the air's destruction followed almost immediately, shaking the earth beneath the American priest's well-worn boots.

He hurried down the steps, seeking refuge beneath an enormous triumphal arch decoratively carved into reliefs of glorified war scenes beneath a chiseled ribbon proclaiming in Latin the heroism inherent in murdering one's neighbors.

"Perfect," he muttered.

Visible in the distance, as the first big splats of precipitation began to fall, was the Palazzo dei Flavi, the huge palace overshadowing the ancient ruins from Palantine Hill – nearest of the original "Seven Hills of Rome."

" _The seven heads are seven mountains on which the woman sitteth_ ," he quoted, looking about as if trying to locate the other six. " _Mystery Babylon the Great,"_ he whispered aloud: _"drunken with the blood of saints and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus_....like Marija? Like Moni? Dammit God, what are you doing?!"

The thunder answered. Not words, not reason: It answered with power, a continuous booming roar that went on and on and on, shaking the ancient temples, bringing pieces of granite and marble tumbling to the earth. Throwing the man to the ground, where he lay trembling as the stones rained down around him.

When the thunder finally ceased, when the man finally clambered shakily to his feet, he did so humbled. He did so as a priest.

Chapter 45

Lake Bomoseen, Vermont

The third angel poured out his bowl on the rivers and springs of water,

and they became blood.

Revelation 16:4

While Jess, Old George and Manuel grumbled about the drought as they ate yet one more of Anna's diminishing flock of chickens, fried to a golden brown like the earth around their Nebraska farm - Old George throwing in depressing anecdotes about the dustbowls of the last century, while lynx-eyed Manuel stared at Anna's breasts so brazenly that she got all nervous and her nipples poked out beneath the thin, sweat-dampened t-shirt, bringing a sly grin to his dark face that made her want to scream - while these four worried about the waters that would not come from above, an old man sat alone in a small fishing skiff on a lake fifteen hundred miles to the east and worried about the waters beneath him.

He made a classic silhouette in his ancient fishing hat, the tiny boat, spin rod and briar pipe black shadows against the setting sun, a chiaroscuro painting on the silvery plane of deep water.

His line drooped forlornly into the empty depths, not even a breeze to twitch the tip of his pole and give false hope of a strike. The night crawler struggling against the hook, against the blossoming points of pain exploding in minute neuron blasts along its primitive ventral nerve cord, floated just above the layer of muddy corrosive silt at the lake bottom forty feet below, dying in vain. No striper would come with flashing tail, attracted by his death throes; no speckled trout, small mouth bass, northern pike or even a bottom feeding catfish would take the bait. The old man pretty much knew this, knew that's how it was now, but still he tried, still he hoped.

Pete Paternak had been fishing this lake for nearly fifty years. He'd seen the changes all right, comin' so slow and gradual-like a body'd hardly notice until one day - a day like this - you sat back and took the long view, and then it hit you like a fist in the stomach.

The lake was dead.

Not sick, not dying: Dead.

When he'd first come to this part of Vermont as a young man just starting out with the US Forestry Service, it was nothin' to pull out a good size trout or bass every few minutes, and that on no more than a split bamboo pole with a worm you'd dug up from your garden hanging on the end of the line. The only "fishing limit" back then had been your time and appetite.

Then the city folk started comin' up to the lake with their fancy spinning reels and all kinds of expensive gizmos: depth gauges, fish finders, jigs and poppers, lures and baits of every color, shape, size and odor imaginable, and at first it was fine. Rental cabins sprang up like mushrooms, the cafes in the small town boomed, antique shops took the place of secondhand stores. But year by year the lake changed, until the last ten or so, even with all that fancy equipment, a great day was when you took your limit - now down to a measly four - from the reluctant lake. A good day was when you caught two of anything, any size; and more often than not you might as well have cast your tackle box over the side with your line, and just enjoyed the sun and the beer.

Today was one of those days. All summer and fall it had been one of those days: Nothin' coming out of the lake at all.

Local folk dependent on the failing tourist trade complained that the lack of fish was due to the extreme and unending heat they'd endured since early June, a record hot spell that was making the fish stay in the deepest waters, away from lines and lures. Those with no use for the tourist industry argued that the fishing was ruint by all them New Yorkers tearing up the peaceful waters with their noisy, gas-belching power boats.

But Pete Paternak knew better; he knew that those two factors were only a small part of the overall situation, almost negligible in the face of what was truly behind the decline in fish populations. It was knowledge he'd been keeping to himself until he could figure out what, if anything, to do about it and who, if anyone, to tell. Part of what troubled him was that he hadn't come by the information exactly honest - though you couldn't rightly call it dishonest neither - and he wasn't clear if, by warning his neighbors, he might be guilty of letting out state secrets or something.

It all started when he seen those government fellows up't the US Forestry headquarters this summer, all decked out like they was rangers, fiddling with those little glass bottles full of the yellowish mud they'd pumped up from the lake bottom, and running some kind of tests with a bunch of fancy chemistry equipment in the makeshift lab they'd set up in the headquarter's backroom.

Pete had kept a line in with the forestry service boys ever since his retirement ten years earlier, dropping by the ranger station at least once or twice a week to jaw. They always kept a fresh pot of coffee on and seemed to welcome his visits; even asked his advice on this or that now and again, although he couldn't say as to whether they ever took it. But he guessed they considered him something of a fixture around the place, like the old wooden rocker in the corner or the moose head mounted to the wall.

Truth be told, he was a nosy old fart - Clarissa'd always said so and she was usually right about him - so when he'd noticed all this unusual activity startin' up, he'd begun hanging around even more than usual, keeping his big ears open and mouth shut, just watchin' like the moose on the wall, while his busy mind started putting two and two together.

Thinking back on it now, the investigation had actually been going on four or five years all told: Started with a bunch of college boys down from the university with their professor, taking samples from the soil, from the shallow stream beds and the waters near the lake shore. Every spring, summer and fall for the following three years the scene had repeated: new students, same professor. Then last year a couple of investigators from the EPA had shown up as well, watching the students' activities with worried frowns, having quiet conversations with the on-looking professor and occasionally making little scribbles into their ever-present notebooks.

This summer the government boys had moved in, a whole passel of them coming and going clear through to early fall; white-kneed and flabby in their borrowed ranger khaki shorts and shirts, strutting about wearing humorless expressions of self-importance like they owned the place. Come October first they'd packed up all their samples and fancy lab equipment and hot-footed it back to DC without a word to anyone.

Now, nobody'd ever said right out what exactly it was they were looking for, nor what they might have found - at least not in his presence - but he'd heard enough while pretending to be decrepit, as if lost in his deteriorating brain cells somewhere, just drinking coffee and smoking his briar pipe and closing his eyes - while listening hard as all get out - to have a pretty good idea of what this was all about.

It had taken him until today, however, to finally face up to that truth.

The lake was ruin't, that's what; ruin't beyond all hope of repair or restoration, ruin't by the same stuff that ate away the paint from his jeep and eroded its metal undercarriage, stuff that peeled the paint from his white clapboard farmhouse every time a storm blew in from Lake Erie.

"Acid rain," he'd heard them saying; and he'd spent some time over at the public library in Rutland, looking it up on the computer with the help of the young librarian there.

Dirty rain, burning bitter rain -" _wormwood_ " Clarissa'd declared ominously when he told her what he'd found out, even though she knew he didn't hold with the bible-beating stuff, and he'd shut her right up with a hard look - it was rain full of sulfuric acid, nitric acid, carbonic acid, stuff that could eat right through your skin in the right concentrations. It was the by-product of emissions from all the coal burning factories and power plants over in Ohio, Pennsylvania and upstate New York. Once up in the clouds, the hydrocarbons had been stirred around like something in a mad scientist's beaker, lightning within the clouds causing the chemical reactions that had turned the ash into acids. Then the prevailing winds had carried these clouds of acid compounds up north, where they'd poured down onto the beautiful pristine forests, running like a corrosive poisonous tide into the brooks and streams, the groundwater and wells, to finally settle into the waters of the cool blue lakes all over the New England countryside.

The mud from the runoff around the shoreline had sunk to the bottom of the lake, collecting in the deepest parts first, then gradually filling the shallower spawning grounds as well, the burning yellow silt increasing in depth, concentration and acidity over the years. Now, Pete didn't consider himself any sort of great naturalist - fifty years in the US Forestry notwithstanding - but about any fool could tell you that roe can't very well hatch in a bed full of acid. The way he figured it, the fish had kept dutifully laying their eggs year after year, but fewer and fewer viable young hatched out from each spawn, until one season no more had hatched at all.

No fry meant less food for the bigger fish; no young also meant no new generations to replace the adult trout and crappie, bass and pike that died of age, disease or a fisherman's wiles each year. Thus the population had slowly diminished, a little less each year. And you noticed it, if you were a regular in these parts, at least enough to change your brand of bait, try some new lures, a different pole. You might even have told yourself you were getting old, losing your touch, all that. Until one not-so-fine day you had to admit that there just plain weren't no more fish in the water, no more fish at all. Like today.

Lake Bomoseen was dead, deader'n the proverbial doorknob. No mayflies either, no caddis flies, no dragonfly larvae to feed the fish and frogs....how could he not have seen it coming, all these years of less and less, how could he have not heard the growing silence, the absence of life? Here you were, way out in God's own last corner of the world, and even in this pristine wilderness there was no escape from man's destructive power.

And as far as Pete could tell, them government fellas weren't going to do a damn thing about it either, 'cept maybe publish a paper to justify the amount of taxpayer dollars they'd spent to find it out.

They were coroners, after all, not physicians, not healers. They were sent to verify cause of death, dissect the corpse, take a body count: But guaranteed, not one factory in Pittsburg or Cleveland or Buffalo would shut down so much as a single day to mourn the death of a little fishing lake up in the Vermont woods. So was there any reason to hope the government would ever take the massive steps necessary to clean it up, revive it...if that were even possible?

Nope.

The old man reeled in his line, taking a long pull on the last of the lukewarm beer in his can. Then, for the first time in his life, he tossed the empty container disdainfully into the water.

He unthreaded the uneaten worm from his hook, turned it over once or twice - peering at the holes in its sides curiously, as if trying to see if the bottom residue had begun to eat away at the wounds yet. But he couldn't say for sure: a wound was a wound was a wound, dead was dead.

He tossed the carcass into the water beside the floating beer can and rowed towards shore, wondering how cold it got in Alaska this time of year and what Clarissa might think about a move like that at her age. Probably not much, he had to admit.

He wondered as well whether or not his old school chum Fred Dickson still worked for that newspaper in New York City, and whether he might think there was a story in this. And whether, even if the story about the death of Lake Bomoseen _was_ made public knowledge, would it make any difference? Would anyone really care?

Chapter 46

Rome, Italy

_The woman fled into the wilderness, to a place prepared for her by God_....

Revelation 12:6

Joe had been attempting to cover the uncomfortable silence in the little truck with a non-stop blanket of meaningless small talk, most of which had elicited only grunts of acknowledgement from Giovanni and nothing from the heavily bandaged woman sitting between them. Running out of topics, he opted for some comments on the weather, figuring that was safe.

The brief but violent thunderstorm that had sent Mike fleeing for cover in the Foro Romano nearly eight weeks earlier - the day of the attack on Moni - had been the first measurable precipitation in Europe since the previous June...and the last. He was remarking on that oddity when suddenly the silent, unresponsive woman interrupted in a strained voice: "These have the power to shut heaven, that it rain not in the days of their prophecy."

He shot a quick glance to his right: Beneath the oversized dark glasses perched on her small straight nose, he saw the narrow red line of fresh scar tissue that ran like a jagged railroad track from the corner of her left eye to the base of her ear, only slightly muted under a thin layer of liquid makeup that she'd applied despite the plastic surgeon's admonitions to avoid using such "goop" until her skin had completely healed. The eye behind the dark lens blinked repeatedly, as if vainly trying to clear the residual blur that remained from a scratch on her cornea.

It was the side that was away from him, the side that Giovanni would see - except that he consciously avoided looking at it - that had borne the brunt of the Hawk's razor-sharp claws and beak. He shuddered, unable to erase the picture of what had happened to her that day, the open slash from the inner corner of her eyebrow to her lower jaw, deep enough to expose the red meat and bone beneath; the other cross tear that went from the corner of her mouth to a point just below the high aristocratic bones of her cheek, the ruined eye that cheekbone had contained leaking fluid as it hung from the empty socket. Now there was no eye to blink on that side.

In the weeks since the attack he, Mike and the others had visited her in the hospital at least every other day, trying to keep her spirits up, and Giovanni had hardly left her side. As she slowly healed, the tungsten and gold alloy at the core of her being became more and more apparent: She'd forcefully rallied from her initial, understandable despair and self-pity, focusing her interest and attention instead on what was going on beyond the hospital room, what Joe and the others were facing in their battle to rescue the world from the evil that had taken over the Vatican. She'd requested a bible and, according to Giovanni, had enlisted the aid of nursing nuns to read it to her daily, particularly the last chapter.

To Joe, she was more beautiful than ever before as this true self had shown through: He only hoped Giovanni could see that as well, and felt the same way.

After the hawk had found their little farmhouse in the country, the group of men had quickly decided to move their headquarters to a new secret location before the demon avatar could come back for another victim. They were able to find a large five bedroom villa on the outskirts of Rome that was available to rent for next to nothing: Its previous owners - an elderly couple - had died in the plague and their heirs, off in the United States, had little interest in trying to sell it, especially in the current devastated economy where it would go for pennies on the dollar.

As he pulled the little truck, coughing and sputtering, to a jerking stop in the circular driveway of the estate, he caught himself starting to ask: "What do you think?" before realizing that she couldn't see more than a blurry outline, would have no answer.

He covered his blunder with a cough, and then jumped from the driver's side and hurried around to help Gio get the woman out of the truck and guide her up to the house.

Inside the aged wood and stucco structure it was cool and slightly musty, the thin sunlight of early winter slipping through the dirty windowpanes in muted shafts which lit the tiled floor in zebra stripes. Joe found himself apologizing repeatedly for the dinginess and general disrepair until she shushed him: "It's fine, Joe, it's beautiful, I can tell. Just needs a little TLC to make it shine again."

He noted she hadn't removed the dark glasses, so he doubted she could really tell; just being nice, as always. He swallowed hard, tears starting to his eyes.

"Upstairs there are four big bedrooms and one oversized bathroom," he told her, trying his best to keep his emotions out of his voice; "and downstairs here, besides the living room, library, dining and kitchen, there's a slightly smaller room with its own bath that was used as the maid's quarters."

"We thought you might be more comfortable down here with your own bath, if that's okay with you?" Giovanni interjected. "The bedroom's a little smaller than the ones upstairs but..."

"Maid's quarters, perfect," she smirked.

"It has a little sitting area, so we put a desk for your computer there, and kind of spruced up the room for you," Joe added as he opened the door to the mini-suite.

"Surprise!"

"Welcome home, Moni!"

"We love you!"

The voices hit her first, the familiar voices of family and friends, as Paolo Bertini, Dante, and Mike Muldoon - pushing ahead of him Luigi Magliano in his wheelchair - all came forward, entering into her line of vision like an oncoming tide of blurry forms, and then embracing her all at once, their love a wave of palpable force that hurt her heart with its intensity.

She was home; she was safe. It was enough for now.

Chapter 47

Vatican Palace

_The beast was given a voice to utter proud words and blasphemies_....

Revelation 13:5

"No!" The hollow voice boomed, amplified by the deep well of the massive reptilian throat from whence it came.

Caius cringed, shuddered, slinking peevishly back into his chair with a scowl.

A moment earlier he had been conversing in what he thought was a fairly normal manner with what, to all outside appearances, was a well-dressed businessman in his late forties, expressing his ideas on how to utilize the current serendipitous convergence of natural disasters to accomplish a tremendous resurgence in church membership and coffers.

Now his confidence and arrogance had been suddenly quashed into petulant silence, and instilled with a brooding resentment that the demon always seemed to revert to this terrifying dragon persona whenever he wanted to get his way.

Intimidation was a low form of coercion, but it worked.

"Master?" The pope now offered up in a weak whine, a last attempt to get his way: "I have thought this all through very carefully, I assure you, and am extremely well versed in ecclesiastic history. Times of great tribulation such as this have always ripened the populous for religious revival, filling them with fear like ripe purple grapes ready for the winepress, desperate to believe there is something out there that can save them when all of man's efforts have fallen short. In the present circumstances, considering the unprecedented number and magnitude of concurrent disasters, they are so ready for a belief system to save them that all we need do is to shake the branches, just shake them a little bit, and then catch them as they fall. That is all I am suggesting, master: a little shake of encouragement."

"What you are suggesting," the dragon growled, showing a mouthful of dagger-like teeth; "is that we promote the concept that these disasters are the biblical signs of impending Armageddon, and that all the fence-sitting assholes out there had better get their shit together and pick a side, right?"

"Well, I might not have put it quite that way..."

The dragon suddenly shrieked, and the pontiff felt his testicles begin to crawl up into his lower abdomen, his entire body breaking out in a sudden sheen of perspiration. He swallowed hard to push down the rising gorge that crept up his esophageal walls at the rotten stench that fumed from the beast's mouth.

"Well nothing, prickhead," the reptile hissed, craning his enormous head belligerently forward at the other man and purposely belching out a rancid cloud of putrid gas, as if he'd read the pope's revulsion and enjoyed exacerbating it. "That is exactly what you are saying. But what you are too stupid to realize, for all your intellectual posturing, is that if the Vatican admits that we are now in the true apocalypse, you thereby verify and give credence to what that group of our opponents have been trying to tell people all along."

"So?"

"So you bring into review all the claims they've made against us, which by the way you stupid fuck are true \- get your head out of your ass please - and this could evoke a closer scrutiny of everything that has happened at the Vatican since I took control of Pope Marcus after his stroke four years ago."

"Oh."

" _Oh_. Just leave the thinking to me, okay _Pope_ Caius? You are to say absolutely nothing about Armaggedon, the apocalypse or anything else of that nature. As a matter of fact, the Church is to administer the New Word program as a purely secular activity, with equitable distribution to every needy person on the earth regardless of ethnicity, nationality, color OR religious affiliation. That is the way we will present it to the United Nations general assembly next week: Anything else simply won't fly, understood?"

Caius was so relieved to see that the dragon had returned to the much more palatable form of Timothy Hurtwell, world financier, as he said this last, that all he could do was nod dumbly as the man-beast disappeared back into the mirror.

Chapter 48

New York City

_It also forced all people, great and small, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark ......so that they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark_......"

Revelation 13: 16-17

It was a nice suite, but not _too_ nice; not the biggest and most expensive in the building: It wouldn't do for the "Servant of the servants of God" to take an ostentatious apartment of the sort ordinarily reserved by oil sheiks and playboy billionaires, now would it?

Besides, he thought as he stood at the oversized picture window looking out at the midnight skyline, still glittering with unseen life at this late hour, the view was great from the twenty-sixth floor window, and the apartment itself was large and tastefully furnished. Great view, even if there was no balcony to leap from.....not that he would have (now where had that thought come from?)

He rubbed his aching temples with his manicured fingertips, trying to dislodge the dull throb of exhaustion.

The meetings at the UN had ended today: They'd won, of course, hands down. The Vatican plan for world food distribution had been approved unanimously by the UN's special delegation, and then by the vast majority in general assembly, so The New Word was ready to be rolled out into the world. Initially he'd felt a great elation at the victory, the official commencement of the program which was key to their ultimate goal. But slowly his exhilaration had lessened, intermixed with a sour taste that made him feel like spitting.

Perhaps the bad flavor in his mouth was fear, a sense of dread, or maybe a squirt of guilt? He'd heard so much, too much over the past four days of UN conferences, to sleep well at night; a scenario of doom whose total extent he'd been only vaguely aware of before this, seeing only the tiny islands of evidence protruding their volcanic peaks above the grim surface of reality, while entire mountains of horror still lay hidden beneath the deep murky waters of official secrecy.

The seas had parted at the closed-door meetings, all had been revealed. And despite signed pledges to protect the confidentiality of the data, it was certain that with so many diverse peoples present, each with his or her own agenda, his or her own country or township or family's interests to protect, the news was bound to leak out, first only to close relatives and cohorts perhaps, but eventually to the curious, persistent and frustrated press. Bribes were always effective, especially at times like this. Once the news got out, mass panic was sure to ensue.

Caius could only hope that they wouldn't reveal the Vatican's plan, at least not until after the official announcement was made next week, just before Christmas. He'd made it abundantly clear to all delegates that premature public clamor for the food distribution services would severely disrupt and delay commencement of the program, tacitly implying that temporary or permanent sanctions might be levied against any country whose media broke the news too soon.

He smiled coldly at the thought, at the power he now leveraged.

There had been over five hundred delegates in the chambers of the UN general assembly during the four day series of talks, far too many to get anything of importance agreed upon, ordinarily. But these were not ordinary times, and most attendees had been advised ahead of time that their presence at the conference was honorary, not mandatory; so any attempt to disrupt or derail the proceedings would result not only in their immediate ouster from the hall, but as well might invoke unpleasant repercussions for their countries, involving such things as the amount and priority of disaster relief coming their way.

The Trilateralists who had arranged and tacitly controlled the sessions were not, due to the nature of their multinational vested interests, afforded any official recognition by the UN; none-the-less they led all the discussions as "expert consultants" under the auspices of the United Nations Economic and Social Council.

Each session was attended by no less than two representatives from each member nation, plus scores of scientists, statisticians, administrators and advisers from such UN special agencies as the Food and Agriculture Organization, the International Labor Organization, the World Health Organization, The World Meteorological Organization and others. These in turn were backed up by support and research groups for their respective specialties from all over the world.

All twelve members of the Trilateral Executive Committee had been present at the head table, as well as the eight people representing the Vatican Curia, including himself. At Hurtwell's advice, he had ensured all were introduced by their full titles in order to give weight to their presence, their importance and credibility: Secretary of State Cardinal Bassindo; Special Assistant at the Pontifical Throne, Deacon Bishop Francio Armandi; Dean of the College of Cardinals and Bishop of Ostia, Giovanni Baletori; Cardinal Anastagio Balles, Prefect for The Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith; Cardinal Lagastari, the Prefect for The Congregation for the Causes of Saints; Cardinal Bautista, the Cardinal prefect of the Secretariat for the Economy; and head of the Apostolic Camera, Camerlengo Cardinal Lucio Alessi. The latter pair ran the finances of Vatican City and the world wide church through the Institute for the Works of Religion, commonly known as the Vatican bank, thus they would be called upon to explain and answer questions regarding the New W.O.R.D.'s design for financial record keeping and accountability, assuring the equitable distribution of vital resources to the needy world. The Secretary of State, officially the final authority and oversight on the distribution program, was there to appear benevolent and believable. The other five had each been assigned a continent to oversee in the administration of the disaster relief aid efforts in their own area of responsibility, and were there to answer knowledgeably about the different demographics and specific and unique needs and problems of their given zone, and how they would be addressing those needs.

It had been Hurtwell's own machinations, his careful programming and orchestration of the discussions that had, by the final general assembly, brought the entire five hundred member council to such a fervor of desperation that they were ready to grasp for almost any possible solution.

Day one had consisted of reports from various affiliates of the World Health Organization, including the Atlanta based Center For Disease Control's chilling statistical tabulations discussing not only the continuing difficulties in rebuilding the nation's healthcare system in the aftermath of the plague, but in addition a new concern: the potential for a hundredfold increase in skin cancer cases in the US over the next three years. This prediction was based on the sudden upsurge in malignant melanoma over the past six months, particularly among outdoor occupations in or near industrialized areas and in the farm belt. Several theories were advanced to explain this epidemic rise, based on preliminary studies conducted in concert with the Environmental Protection Agency, including evidence that there were increasing concentrations of airborne carcinogens in the farm belt, believed to be the result of pesticide residues becoming airborne on dust particles due to the extreme drought. It was thought that as these pesticides remained on the skin, they could create open sores which allowed the UV rays of the sun to reach deeper tissue layers. A second suggested causative factor was the evidence of a spreading patchwork of ozone deterioration over industrial zones below the 60th parallel, which allowed more of the solar UVA and UVB radiation to reach the earth.

Next was a joint presentation by representatives from Mexico's National Institute of Public Health and China's Ministry of Public Health regarding the killer smogs that plagued their own cities as well as many of the larger cities in the rest of the industrialized world. Although the report had been immersed in sleep-inducing detail regarding inversion layers, synergistic interactions between hydrocarbons and other chemical pollutants magnifying their toxic effects, and statistically cooled breakdowns of death by age, occupation and contributing health problems, the shocking bottom line was that over ten million people had been killed by air pollution the previous year, more deaths worldwide than AIDS, diabetes and road injuries combined. And these "killer smogs" were daily increasing in concentration and toxicity over most major cities in the northern hemisphere, exacerbated by the fact that three years of drought had brought no relief, no air-cleansing rainfall or windstorms to blow the smog away, so it accumulated into thicker and thicker concentrations.

A third speaker had detailed, in a thick Eastern European accent, the chronology of the mutant pneumo-bubonic plague which had decimated nearly forty-five percent of the populations of Russia and China before mutating itself out of existence. In its wake, more ordinary but no less deadly pestilences had begun to breed out of the millions of rotten unburied corpses that lined the roads and polluted the rivers, especially in the farm communities and city slums. They were now battling massive outbreaks of typhus, diptheria, cholera and anthrax, which were finishing off millions of the weakened and impoverished survivors of the first plague. These diseases had recently begun to cross national borders, and were now ravaging populations in Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia, killing off the already famine-weakened populations at a rate of around eight thousand per day.

This set the stage for a group report by the International Red Cross, UNICEF, and the Food and Agricultural Administration on the famine that was already well underway in third world countries long dependent upon food subsidies from the wealthier nations. They described food riots, civil unrest and rebellion, mass migration, disease epidemics, severe malnutrition and death already rampant in these underdeveloped countries. If the drought did not end soon, or some kind of massive food distribution program to reallocate global supplies was not instigated, they predicted that not only would this situation in the developing countries continue to escalate, it might well become the reality in the industrialized nations as well.

"We are well beyond democratic choice, ladies and gentlemen," the portly chief of the FAO had declared in conclusion, his voice shaking in angry frustration; "Global cooperation in the sharing of their stored surpluses by grain-producing countries in the southern hemisphere, which has not yet been affected by this devastating drought, is a non-negotiable: It has to happen, whether by voluntary agreement, economic sanctions, or military force."

The representatives from Argentina, Australia and South Africa had looked quietly outraged at this last demand, its thinly veiled threat. But, judiciously, they'd kept their mouths' shut: Surely compromises and concessions could be hacked out; besides, they were all too well aware that their own militaries were no match for the combined strengths of the powerful NATO allies, particularly not when these were driven not by mere greed for more wealth and power, but by actual hunger and desperation.

Day two of the conference had been, for lack of a better term, Physical Science Day, a series of lectures and reports filled with scientific determinations and dire predictions on global climate change by scientists from the US and World Meteorologic Organizations, the National and International Oceanic and Atmospheric Administrations, and the Environmental Protection Agencies of Europe, Asia and America. The overriding theme of their presentations had to do with the geophysical, atmospheric and meteorological causes and effects of the current global weather patterns, with forecasts for the upcoming three years. It didn't look good; except perhaps to Caius' boss.

Speakers had told of a severely displaced and weakened, almost non-existent jet stream, coupled with a stagnant high pressure system over the interior of the continents in the northern hemisphere, which precluded any significant rainfall there until these conditions returned to normal. Meanwhile, the warming trend in the oceans and polar regions, which in some places had sea surface temperatures more than 6 degrees celsius above normal, was causing severe storms and flooding in the coastal regions of all the continents, with hurricanes and tropical storms now traveling up coastlines of the western Pacific and the New England states, causing devastating effects to the mega cities there.

The scientists had affirmed the sudden increase in concentrations of industrial pollutants now being found in the lakes, rivers and streams of many industrialized nations, much of this due no doubt to the fact that water levels had grown so low during the drought, the residual chemicals in them had become concentrated to deadly levels. Slides were shown of dead and dying rivers in Europe and American, of shorelines along the great lakes and other waterways littered with the rotting carcasses of thousands of fish and waterfowl.

The EPA had gone on to show the five hundred United Nations delegates a series of spectrographic analyses of drinking water sampled from the taps of citizens in New York City, Chicago, Pittsburg, Los Angeles, London, Paris, Munich, and Moscow. All the samples in every city contained toxic organic compounds and heavy metals in excess of the levels considered safe for human consumption.

"These were taken and analyzed approximately twelve months ago," the spokesperson had stated. "At this time the plague was raging, and some of the water purification and reclamation plants were not fully operational due to lack of manpower, so we thought the contamination might have been due to operator error. However this next set of samples was taken just three weeks ago."

On the screen behind her, another slide had appeared. "These samples were from the same exact taps in the same exact cities. As you can see, there is a significant increase in the concentrations of each of these toxins - at least ten to fifteen percent in each case, which is well above limits of safety."

She'd looked out at her audience, peering over the black-rimmed reading glasses, an attractive woman despite her owlish appearance. She'd then pursed her lips, shaking her head. "Food, you see, is not our only problem ladies and gentlemen. Drastic measures must be taken as well to provide safe drinking water to the world's people. When the concentrations of groundwater contaminants reach the level where they are unsafe for human consumption, there is little we can do other than truck in potable water from elsewhere. With supplies of this drinking water limited by lack of precipitation, it will have to be rigidly rationed, guarded like gold. And where will it come from?" She'd shrugged, letting the silence weigh heavily on them before throwing them any kind of hope.

"In coastal areas, perhaps desalinization plants will provide some of the needs. We might also be able to invent new and better water filtration systems to remove some of the more dangerous compounds, both for individual households and on a larger, community scale. But these will not be cheap, and it will take time to invent and produce them. I just don't know if it will be enough, or soon enough, to save the many rather than just the privileged few."

She'd sat back down. No one applauded.

The third day of the conference had focused on the economic ramifications of these incipient and ongoing disasters. Fact sheets, charts, tables and graphs outlined the current level of global food production, the dwindling grain reserves, the projected rate of decline in overall food stores nation by nation if the drought continued another growing season, two seasons, three.

"The only good news," someone pointed out in a rare moment of gallows humor; "is that the world population is dropping almost as fast as the food production is."

"The bad news," someone else had retorted; "is that many of those dying are farmers!"

Economists of world renown had discussed the overall effect on world economic and political stability, the potential for an international monetary collapse as stricken countries defaulted on their loans, and the paper assets of international banks became as intrinsically worthless as the computer chips they were recorded on.

Much of this economic data had then been summarized by two members of the Trilateral Trade Consortium; Philip Trenton, acknowledged expert on the International Grain Reserve System, and David Rockwell, an international financier. It was the latter who'd outlined the projected impact of the drought-induced famine on the farmers, the consumers, the merchants, the labor unions, the industrial and financial institutions of the world. He'd painted a bleak picture of black marketeering, hoarding by the rich, political upheavals, revolutionary chaos, guerilla warfare in the streets of major cities, and ultimately the complete economic, political and social collapse of the civilized world.

By the end of his impassioned speech, more than half the members - leaders of the world - were either weeping openly or suppressing their tears with great effort. No one was smiling.

Timothy Hurtwell the Third had opened the fourth and final day of the international meeting.

He'd spent the first hour reviewing and purposely re-stimulating the horrors described during the previous three days, rubbing the delegates' collective nose into the black stench of a desperately ill world before offering the first glimmer of hope, a salvation that just might succeed in saving the world.

What was needed, he'd told the delegates, was an effective, equitable and rigorously controlled food distribution program for the planet.

Caius smiled now as he stood in his hotel suite looking out at the New York skyline, remembering how the trim, fashionably attired alter-ego of Satan had listed each "desirable attribute" the institution running such a global food distribution program would need, writing each point by point on his computer - which transferred automatically to the wide screen above his head - and getting a nodding agreement from the delegates on each point before moving to the next.

"The charitable institution that oversees this program," Hurtwell had cautioned; "must be one in which everyone has intrinsic faith, that they will remain uncorrupted and uninfluenced by the greedy schemes of political or economic opportunists; that they will be unbiased by racial or cultural prejudices, that they will be able to guarantee fair distribution of commodities to each person according to actual need, and are capable of keeping accurate records of every aspect of the distribution, down to the name of the individual they give a loaf of bread to on a Tuesday afternoon in May. They must have already established sound banking and economic practices, and a broad outreach into the world. In addition they must be circumspect enough to reserve a portion of all stores, resisting any pressures from political or financial or public entities to do differently, to thus ensure the supplies will last a full two additional years of drought at our current production rates."

"Tat-da-da-da!" The Pope said aloud now, doing a little dance spin before the floor to ceiling mirror in his sumptuous room. "Th-th-th-that's me, folks!"

"Obviously it would take a very unique organization to meet all the criteria for such a grave responsibility: Totally trustworthy, completely apolitical, without economic motivations, and with an intrinsic moral code that does not allow for any sort of prejudice, bias or corruption; yet at the same time an organization that is large enough and wealthy enough in its own right to carry out the monumental task effectively and for the long term."

He'd paused, sipping some water, allowing them to murmur among themselves, float little ideas within their delegations. Then he'd stepped up to the mike again.

"The International Red Cross had been considered, but they require private donations to operate, and in times such as these and what is yet to come, few will have any expendable income to give to charity. No, I know of only one such institution worthy of this task, only one capable of carrying out such an endeavor successfully. And through this institution an organization began to take shape nearly four months ago, after I first met with their esteemed leaders and broached the subject, in anticipation that they might be needed to carry out this enormous effort to save the people of our planet.

Caius grimaced at the memory, blew a puss of warm breath to make a film on the plate glass window and drew a smiley face in it with his fingertip. He was reliving the mood of the audience as he'd climbed onto the podium, capturing it where Hurtwell had left it, hanging breathless with eyes uplifted to the hope of salvation.

"Good evening," he'd said. "I am Pope Caius the second, head of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. I am here with my curia to offer our help to the world, through a program which we have named the 'New W.O.R.D,' an acronym for New World Organization for Relief from Disaster."

There was a sharp intake of breath, then one by one the delegates had begun to rise from their seats, clapping. The ovation had gone on for minutes, swelling, diminishing, then swelling again; stopping only when he'd finally begun signaling with his hands that the audience should sit back down.

He'd signaled Cardinal Bautista and Cardinal Alessi to join him on the podium, introducing them as the men who ran the finances of not only the Vatican, but of the worldwide Holy Roman Catholic Church and the Vatican Bank.

The Cardinals had gone on to outline in tedious detail every aspect of the program: how records of contributions from the various private agricultural collectives and government agencies would be maintained so that proportionate redistribution could be made should the drought end before all reserves were used up; an accurate accounting of all monetary payments made by those who could afford to pay for their food, and by what criteria would the amount of such payments be determined; who would man the distribution centers and how would their salaries plus other related administrative costs and overhead be met if payments for the food became insufficient to cover operating costs, and most importantly, how they could quickly and efficiently identify and track each recipient every time they came to get food, to ensure that no one was double-dipping.

The Secretariat for the Economy, head of the Vatican Bank, had then taken questions: He'd found himself repeatedly assuring his vast audience that with the church's vast property holdings and worldwide membership, the overhead could be kept to a minimum by utilizing members of the clergy and unpaid volunteers, working out of extant church facilities, to run the distribution programs in every city and town. He also had assured them that a substantial amount of the financial reserves of the church could be made available, if need be, to keep the program afloat in the event of a shortfall in operational expenses.

"No one will go hungry, no program will close, not on our watch," he had assured them.

Next up was the Secretary of State of Vatican City, there to explain the church's detailed plans for the collection, storage and redistribution of food, clothing, toiletries and medical supplies via their thousands of parish offices, with a hierarchy of control, supervision and oversight responsibility from the level of local diocese all the way up to the cardinal himself. When the inevitable question of their Christian role came up, Cardinal Bassindo, with his humble and self-deprecating manner, was the perfect one to assure them that neither religious affiliation, political persuasion, social status, nor monetary worth would have the slightest bearing on their allocation of food and essentials.

"In the eyes of God, every man is equal, every man is his brother's keeper, and our mission is to do God's will here on earth," he had assured them with great sincerity.

When the Vatican's plan had at last been put to the general assembly for a vote by Timothy Hurtwell, there was only the most superficial and perfunctory, obligatory debate before the measure was voted on, with a standing ovation when it passed by acclamation. Of the more than five hundred diverse peoples present that day, only twelve had walked out in silent protest without casting a vote, and all of these were from Muslim states in the Middle East.

"Let's see how long they endure eating camel dung and sand," Caius snickered now, turning from the window.

The Pontiff lay down on the king sized bed, closing his eyes, arms folded beneath his head, wishing for the sleep he knew wouldn't come, not for some time at least.

Mental images of the interrelated chain of disasters, so forcefully delineated during the symposium, flashed through his mind again and again, pummeling him from both sides of the long dark tunnel of his thoughts as he ran and ran, trying to escape their import.

Had _they_ done this? All this destruction, was that their fault, their doing? And had it gone too far; was the world set on a path of self-immolation that could not be undone, not reversed now? There **was** no turning back, he sensed that: _Knew_ it, with a fullness that wavered between utter panic and smug satisfaction.

But had they done this? Was this destruction the act of Satan, of Havohej? Or was he merely taking advantage of the situation? And if it wasn't his doing, then whose? Who was the dealer in the green plastic visor, the one who held all the cards, who made all the rules?

Then for just a moment, a fleeting thought quickly chased away, he wondered: Does Havohej know who it is?

What's really going on here?

Chapter 49

Happy Valley, California

" _If anyone worships the beast and its image,.... they too will drink the wine of God's fury_.

Revelation 14:9 -10

Sandy and Eric had been at the Happy Valley Christian Commune, a sixty acre retreat nestled in a fertile little river valley in the Salmon Mountains east of Eureka, for nearly three months when the visitor from San Francisco arrived.

The fact that they'd managed to find the remote, nearly inaccessible and secretive camp at all was due to such an improbable coincidence of timing and chance that even skeptical little Eric had had to admit the feel of The Big Hand on their backs giving them a push that day.

After getting off the greyhound bus in Eureka the next morning following their escape from the Bay Area, they'd been wandering aimlessly along the city streets, wondering what to do next. Aside from it being somewhere near Eureka, the pair had no idea where the commune was located and no one they asked seemed to have a clue what they were talking about. Sandy was beginning to feel the first waves of despair when Eric spotted an old stake bed truck parked in front of a local hardware store.

"Look," he'd said, nudging his sister in the ribs.

The vehicle was covered in bumper stickers proclaiming: "Jesus is Coming," "I found It," "Honk if you're a Christian," and the like.

Her scowl turned into a grin. "Dis look like de place," she'd said, and they'd plunked themselves down on the curb beside the truck to wait.

When a pair of bearded young men had returned to the truck a short time later, the youngsters had introduced themselves, and told them a breathless and slightly incoherent version of their story, which had to be repeated and explained a couple of times. Then the two men stepped aside and conferred briefly.

"Okay," the elder of the two said. "Get in."

The children had climbed into the back of the rackety old Ford truck along with the monthly load of supplies \- some food basics, seeds, cleaning products, hardware items and fertilizer - and a big black dog with a red bandana around his neck named Elijah.

They'd learned later that had they been a block over or fifteen minutes later, they'd have been wandering the streets of Eureka for a month before getting another chance to hook up with any of the reclusive inhabitants of Happy Valley.

When they'd arrived at the commune - nearly three dusty, spine-jarring hours later - they'd been taken at once to a large white, wood frame farmhouse: This was, apparently, the original homestead property overseeing the long narrow parcel of rich farmland, it and the adjacent barn: The rest of the scattered dwellings in the secluded valley were much smaller, plainer and newer than the centrally located two story house, which served as the commune headquarters as well as home for the group's titular leader.

They'd soon found themselves brought before a hastily gathered meeting of the five church "elders" - most of them young men from their early twenties to early thirties - plus the spiritual leader of the community, an ordained minister in his mid-sixties by the name of Josiah Reaper...a name Eric whispered to Sandy sounded 'made up'. There they'd been asked to retell the story of their adoptive mother's ghostly visitation and her explicit warning to flee to this exact commune, in order to be safe from some kind of Satanic icon that would soon be infesting their home. Once they'd finished their tale and answered questions to the satisfaction of the group of elders, they'd been sent off with the minister's wife to her old-fashioned kitchen for a meal of warm homemade bread and strawberry preserves washed down with rich whole milk, while the group of elders decided their fate.

"Do you think they'll keep us?" Eric had whispered to Sandy between bites of bread.

"What're they gonna do, send us out into the forest to starve? They're Christians, for goodness sake," Sandy'd asserted with more confidence than she felt. Her stomach was doing flip flops, but she couldn't let Eric see her nervousness.

Finally the minister himself came back with the word, but not until helping himself to a big slice of bread and jam.

"You can stay," he'd said between bites. "You two being orphans and all, we have decided to adopt you. Two of our families will take you in, in exchange for your help with chores of course."

"Separate families?" Sandy had questioned.

"Best we can do. But you'll see each other every day at school and evening prayers."

Sandy and Eric had looked at each other, shrugged, and nodded their acceptance.

"Okay," she'd said. "Thanks. Thank you." She'd looked over at Eric, raised a brow.

"Thank you," he'd repeated dutifully.

The following day they'd had to repeat their story again before the entire congregation during the evening prayers.

"To be clear," the minister had said when they were done; "we are not endorsing their story, as ghostly visitations are not a normal component of our faith. But we will pray on it, for I have no sense that they are knowingly being untruthful either."

"All things are possible," one bearded young man had interjected, trying to look as wise as he felt he was.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," another'd quoted piously.

"Besides which, last time I checked this was still America," a thirty year old with a roguish black mustache had winked at them; "Innocent until proven otherwise, right?"

Lucky Eric; this was the man who'd adopted him into his household. John McAfee had a pair of twin girls two years old, and a wife who was constantly down with one ailment or another, so he'd needed the extra help with chores, and maybe even the companionship of a son.

Sandy had been taken in by another of the elders, Frank Tennant - a frail looking man with seven children under the age of ten, a very tired and petulant wife, and a penchant for reading the bible to his entire brood at least four times a day, usually on some theme to do with the wrath of God.

Their new lifestyles had taken a lot of getting used to, and if truth were told - had they not been separated from one another during that first couple of months - they would have probably encouraged each other to scrap the whole idea and head back to the San Francisco bay area and the spoiled comforts of their grandmother's home, demon-infested icon or not.

Besides disgruntlement with the unaccustomed work and lack of free time - with seven small children to help care for it had been a seemingly endless cycle of cleaning, feeding and nose-wiping - Sandy had also desperately missed some of the luxuries she had, up to then, taken for granted: television, computers, and most of all her pop music - all of which were deemed evil by this fundamentalist sect.

But after a while she'd gotten used to the quiet ways here, and had begun to hear other music: the Gregorian chant of insects, the little bird operettas conversing through the sunlit fields, the gossipy whisper of wind-blown pine needles, the quiet laughter of the river, the rhythm of her own heart. It might not have been the kind of music you could dance to or sing along with, but it filled her none-the-less.

She'd never had a chance to ask Eric what he missed about his old life - probably his skateboard she guessed - because by the time they finally had a chance to talk in private after a month of enforced separation, neither cared enough about those things left behind to even bring the subject up.

If either child had expected to receive any sort of special treatment because of the warning they'd brought about the Pope's icons, his plan to take over the souls of all mankind for Satan, they were soon disappointed. Their story of Joe and Marija's battle with the forces of evil, the woman's inexplicably virulent cancer and death, and her subsequent ghostly visitation and warnings which had sent them fleeing to this commune, all had met with only polite interest, a few guarded questions and some strange looks by members for a few days. Then it had seemed forgotten, brushed off as a fanciful tale woven by two orphan children seeking acceptance. They had been granted the acceptance, but nothing more.

But today something had happened which finally gave the two children the recognition they - and their warnings - deserved, and forever changed their status in the eyes of the community.

The flame haired young priest in an old army jeep arrived that morning in Happy Valley with a five page missive in one hand, a thumb worn bible in the other, and fire in his eyes to match his red locks.

He introduced himself as Father Timothy Murphy, formerly a personal assistant to the head of the San Francisco archdiocese, Cardinal Luigi Magliano. He said that he was on a mission to warn Christians like themselves around the United States about a terrible evil, a dangerous and deadly hoax being perpetrated from the highest offices of the worldwide Roman Catholic Church. He came to warn them about Armageddon.

At a hastily convened meeting of the congregation, Father Murphy recounted for them the history of the changes that had occurred in the Vatican over the last five years, beginning with the cerebral hemorrhage that had rendered the previous Pope brain dead, and the subsequent possession of that Pope's helpless body by Satan, who then began issuing orders and proclamations, claiming to be the voice of God. He recounted how his former employer, Archbishop Quillans, had been summoned to Rome and - in an unheard of series of events - was first made a Cardinal, and then elected acting Pope, to continuing carrying out the will and proclamations of Satan.

"During this time I met another man, a parish priest by the name of Father Michael Muldoon, who initially came to the archdiocese to plead his case for the exorcism of a young woman whom he believed to be possessed by a powerful demonic spirit. It was he and this young woman's fiancé who first saw through the great deceit being perpetrated on the world by Satan via his two minions, Pope Marcus and Pope Sixtus, and who were instrumental in stopping him at the time. Unfortunately they were already too late."

Father Murphy looked up at the group, shaking his head. "I am on a mission, sent by these same two men, the reverend Monsignor Michael Muldoon and his adjunct, to deliver this message which they have sent," he held up the sheaf of papers; "to all who will listen."

He paused for a moment in his discourse, as if waiting to give someone in the audience a chance to leap up on the tiny stage and wrestle him to the ground. When no one did, he smiled - a charming, boyish grin that made his freckles dance and lit his eyes - and proceeded to read the printed pages held in his slightly chubby, slightly shaking hands.

The paper warned that Satan had taken control of the top echelon of the Roman Catholic Church, and was using the power and authority of that office to take spiritual control of the entire world. Their newest ploy was a soon to start worldwide food distribution program called the New Word, which the monsignor believed would somehow allow Satan to spread his influence and power around the globe, although exactly how he would do this remained an uncertainty.

When Father Murphy went on to read the part about the demon-infested icons, Sandy shot Eric a look of pure triumph; but it was not until he got to the end, when he read the signatories at the bottom of the missive, that she could no longer contain herself. Her shriek split the hushed silence of the meeting hall like a bolt of lightning.

"Joe Marten! That's him! That's my Daddy Joe I told you about. And the woman he saved, the woman he married, is our momma Marija.

Timothy Murphy's mouth hung open, so wide it was almost comical. "You, _you_ are the daughter of the possessed woman?"

"Marija Marten, yes! That was our mom," Sandy cried, tears blinding her as she stumbled over the feet of people seated in the row beside her, trying to make her way to the center aisle. "She's actually our auntie: She and Joe adopted us when our own mom and dad were killed in a car accident."

She looked around at the swimming sea of unfocussed faces in the audience before her. "This is what we tried to tell you all, it's what she told us when she came to us in a dream last December. She came to warn us about the icons, and sent us to warn **you**. Only you wouldn't listen, you wouldn't believe us. _Now_ will you? Now that you have heard it from someone else, now that an _adult_ has told you the same thing, do you believe us now?"

Eric had run up to join her in the front of the gathering, hugging her protectively, daring anyone with his eyes.

"Please come, come here," Father Murphy bid them, opening his arms. To the audience, as he hugged the crying children to his sides, he admonished: "These are special children, special people, sent to you by God's own hand for some purpose which will directly affect your commune. Trust Him and trust them: It is possible they may yet again serve as a conduit between you and the Truth, if you allow them."

Someone in the mid-section of the small, poorly lit gathering hall shouted "Praise the Lord!" Another soul, closer up, echoed the sentiment, then another and another, until the pine paneled room echoed and reverberated with their acceptance, their blessing.

Father Timothy Murphy went his way the next morning - a cloud of dust preceded by a second hand jeep - to continue his journey across the country, preaching his warning of the coming Apocalypse to whoever would listen. He'd left behind a printed copy of the message for the community of Christians to meditate on, and a vindicated Sandy and Eric to smile smugly at one another, at least for a time.

Chapter 50

Rome, Italy

And I will appoint my two witnesses, and they will

prophesy for 1260 days clothed in sackcloth.

Revelation 11:3

Monique Vasquez was bent over her laptop in the morning sunlight, squinting at the screen with her one good eye, a pad of notepaper jiggling beneath the action of her pen on her lap. Papers, notes, books and magazines were scattered across the top of the desk and in piles around her chair on the floor in an intensely focused clutter.

She'd been this way for the past month, Joe mused - watching her silently from just beyond the open door to her room - ever since she returned home from the hospital. It was as if something fundamental in her had changed - snapped, some might say \- transforming her from the science-minded skeptic into a total believer, her brilliant mind now opened fully to the certain truth of God and Satan and the great war in which they were all engaged. She had her proof: The mirror.

He admired the way she'd put aside her ego, her pain and disfigurement, in this new found quest to put together a compendium of factual proof - using her scientific background and rigor to chart the confluence of events too statistically significant to be passed off as mere coincidence - that proved the incipient end times, the onset of the apocalypse, beyond all doubt.

Still he worried about her well-being: She hardly went outside anymore, seldom left her desk let alone her room, even to eat or drink, sending him or Giovanni for fresh office supplies or a needed book. He found himself stopping by to bring her juice, a sandwich or piece of fruit just to be sure she didn't neglect herself altogether; but despite this she'd lost so much weight she'd taken on the gaunt, hollow cheeked appearance of a high fashion model.

At first she'd had to use a large standing magnifier in front of her computer screen to be able to read the words displayed there, but gradually her injured eye had healed and her vision improved, although she still needed thick-lensed eyeglasses to see clearly. They gave her a rather charming, secretarial appearance that he found endearing, even now bringing a little smile to his face as he watched her work.

Since her return home he'd noticed a certain awkward distance developing between her and Giovanni: They seemed to be spending less and less time together, and when they were in the same room - such as at the nightly group dinner - there was a palpable strain between them, a forced politeness and levity that was neither light nor funny.

Joe had mentioned it to Mike, wondering if he should try to talk to Gio about it "mano a mano," and was still debating the wisdom of interfering in the couple's personal life when the young Italian had brought the subject up himself earlier that morning.

"I'm thinking of moving out," he'd blurted to Joe, out of the blue.

"Oh?"

"I mean, now that the danger from the plague is past, and Moni doesn't...."

He'd stopped, biting his lower lip.

"Moni doesn't what?" Joe'd prodded gently.

"She doesn't want me to touch her. She says she knows I'd just be doing it to be kind, and she doesn't want any favors."

"Are you?"

"No!...Well, not at first I wasn't," he'd amended. "But after a while, when she just kept on rejecting me, accusing me of being shallow like that...I guess I lost some of my feelings for her. Then last night she told me she wished I'd just leave."

Joe contemplated this in silence a moment before responding.

"Where would you go, Gio?"

" _You_ want her, don't you?" Gio'd asked instead, looking at Joe with a cool knowing smile.

"No! Why would you..."

"I don't know: I just feel like you do. I see the way you look at her sometimes."

"I _admire_ her, Gio, that's all. I admire the way she carries on with life, putting other people and things first, whereas most people in her situation would be wallowing in self-pity and wanting the whole world to wallow with them."

"Well..."

"I think you should stick around for a while, Giovanni. Give her a little more time, give yourself some time too."

"I have nothing to do here, that's part of it. Now that we've sent out all the emails about the icons, I feel kind of useless, like I'm just spinning my wheels."

"No," Joe stated with conviction; "You're just taking a momentary breather; we all are. This is a war to the end, and we are all in it for a reason. I'm asking you to wait, to see what God wants you to do next, okay?"

"Okay, I'll stick it out for a little longer...but Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"It really is over between me and Moni, so if you, you know..."

Joe had merely shaken his head and left the room, with Giovanni's last words hanging in the air unacknowledged.

Now, as he watched Moni at her computer, the words came back, but he pushed them out of his mind, focusing instead on the work she was doing. Her research was providing fuel not only for their continued efforts to warn people about what was really going on in the Vatican, but also to inspire and provide certainty to them personally, whenever doubts might arise or their resolve flag. The more concrete evidence they had that the Biblical prophecy of the end times was being fulfilled in the real world, in real time; the greater the urgency they felt to stand up and speak out against the powers of darkness.

Through a convoluted web of search engines Moni had managed to download a copy of the controversial research paper that had gotten Dr. Charles Hemmings thrown out of the International Marine Biology Symposium the previous year, and into the role of world environmental terrorist along with Moni and the others, now all dead.

If the conclusions Hemmings had drawn from his oceanic research were accurate, if marine life was indeed dying on a massive and seemingly irreversible scale, then another of the prophecies of the Apocalypse was being fulfilled: "The second angel poured out his bowl on the sea, and it turned into blood like that of a dead person, and every living thing in the sea died."

One's soul felt a scary thrill at this, Joe had to admit.

But the rest of it, the consequences of the ocean's death that went beyond what the Bible had portended, was so terrible and far reaching that it sickened with dread and despair: He pictured thousands upon thousands of putrefying corpses floating on the face of the sea and washing up on the beaches around the world to rot in the sun - whales and dolphins, seals and fish - their stench reaching up to the heavens. And the millions of starving people in Asia and Oceana for whom fish was a staple, crying out for help from a world too besieged with its own disasters to hear their pleas.

Worse was the possibility that, if Hemmings' predictions were true, the loss of O2 in the atmosphere - as the oxygen producing plants in the sea were either smothered under the decomposing animal life or killed by excess UV - would cause the slow suffocation of all air breathing terrestrial life forms, including what was left of mankind once all the other plagues were through with them.

As if that weren't enough, once Monique had thoroughly documented the scientific basis of these predictions, she went on to find even more things to worry about, and the more she learned, the bleaker the picture grew. Mankind was surely doomed, she told them.

For their part, Mike and Joe had started to incorporate these predictions of catastrophic events into the religious tracts they'd begun handing out daily in St. Peter's Square over the past couple of weeks, e-mailing them as well to their slowly growing number of correspondents around the world. In their missives they correlated each man-made natural disaster to one of the seven spiritual plagues of Armageddon found in the prophecies of St. John the divine.

Today's pamphlets contained a summary of all the disasters that had befallen the earth in the past two years, from the super plague unleashed by terrorist hands to the great ongoing drought that had cut the world's food supply in half; from the global epidemic rise in skin cancer cases to the bloody mass fish swarmings, now become commonplace on ocean shores around the world; and from the dying ocean phytoplankton - pastures of the sea \- to the dying rivers, lakes and streams of the industrialized nations; the "fountains of waters" no longer able to sustain life due to the extreme concentration of toxins and acids.

Joe had actually stopped by the room this morning to thank Moni for her work, and let her know he was on his way over to the Plaza di San Pietro with a fresh run of the flyers she'd helped produce, these to supplement the thousands that Mike had already taken over before dawn in anticipation of the huge crowd expected for the second annual "Saint Marcus Day" celebration and the "momentous announcement" the newspapers had promised would be delivered by the Pope at noon.

"Hey," he said now, coming up to put a hand on her shoulder, as fragile as a bird wing beneath the light sweater.

She looked up and gave him a crooked smile. "Hey yourself."

"I'm headed over to the Plaza with the pamphlets."

"Okay." She looked at him expectantly, wondering if he had something else to say.

"So, uh, Cardinal Bertini and, uh, Gio are here if you or Luigi need anything."

"I know."

"Want me to bring you back some gelato?"

It had become a standing joke. There was no gelato left anywhere in the city, hadn't been since the plague.

"Sure," she answered. "Pistachio today."

He nodded, and left, not hearing her whisper: "Come back safe," as he closed the door behind him.

The morning sun was bright, glaring and hard; the air clear and chill; the air heavy with nervous perspiration from the thousands packed together in the square, filled with the tension of anxiety intermixed with hope, with anger. A hungry crowd, Joe thought as he pushed through it.

Promises had been given over the past two weeks in _L Osservatore Romano_ and other news sources of an announcement that would be made during today's ceremonies, one which would "inspire new hope in a dying world." Rumors of what it might be had since been scurrying about on all the social media sites as well as in newspapers and on television, but most of these were vague and inconclusive.

Today, Joe saw, the media was out in full force, their mobile television units set up in a roped off press arena near the base of the broad steps that led up to the front portico of the enormous basilica. TV camera crews from all the major networks on every continent vied for position, their satellite uplink trucks forming a wall along the front right side of the square which blocked the view of several thousand loudly complaining spectators.

He found Mike busily exhorting a crowd of hostile and unresponsive visitors, attempting to hand out the religious tracts, most of which were being thrown to the ground without so much as a glance. These people wanted hope, the hope Pope Caius had promised, not the doomsday predictions of a couple of ragged foreigners.

"Let he who has an ear hear," Joe said loudly, grinning at Mike.

_What can you do?_ The monsignor shrugged, continuing to try to get people to listen.

The sun was directly overhead, when at last Pope Caius appeared on his balcony to perform high mass for the 80,000 plus who filled the Basilica. Once the religious ceremony was completed, the Pope retreated quickly back into his apartment.

Immediately an uproar was heard, the crowd grumbling and complaining: Where was this message of hope and deliverance they'd been promised? Was that it, just more prayers and incense? A chant began, and quickly swelled: "Caius, Caius, Caius!" So loud it grew that great flocks of pigeons were frightened into the air, their erratic flight patterns wheeling above the multitudes, not a few dropping their own blessings on the crowd before disappearing over the massive colonnades and into the city beyond.

Pope Caius reappeared on the balcony after a minute or two, raising his hands in the air.

The crowd grew still, expectant.

"A year ago," he said, his sonorous voice, amplified by a hundred loudspeakers strategically placed atop the colonnades; "we dedicated this day to Pope Marcus, who had achieved sainthood by miraculous and divine intervention, and performed miracles witnessed by thousands. Today we have another miracle to show you, the miracle of deliverance. For God has directed the Holy See to ease this time of great anxiety and suffering, for you and for all mankind. He has given us the means and the method to save not just the believers, not only the Roman Catholics, not only the avowed Christians, but all the sick and hungry of the world, regardless of their beliefs."

Mike stopped trying to preach, but Joe was still pushing the printed tracts into the unresisting hands of the people around him while their owners were too preoccupied with the man atop the balcony to notice or protest. Both men listened carefully to what the man in the white robes and gilded miter had to say, not with hope but with suspicion and apprehension.

"Before I detail this plan for you, I think it is important that you understand one thing: the calamities which have befallen mankind over the past eighteen months are the cumulative effect of man's own actions, his ill-thought-out accomplishments, inventions and deeds over the past 150 years which had at their roots the seven deadly sins of pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy and sloth."

People looked around at each other, their expressions both confused and defensive.

"The great plague which last year wiped out over one third of the world population was the direct result of scientific research into terrible new biological weapons, tampering with God's creations and nature's balance. Why? Because the scientists coveted the wealth of other nations; they were angry and filled with envy, they were overly prideful and felt it their right to conquer their neighbors. And they were slain by their own sword."

Caius cleared his throat, took a sip of water, pausing long enough for his audience to digest that premise and accept it before continuing.

"The terrible drought the world continues to suffer - with the resultant famines, diseases, and the like - stem from one basic problem: a disastrous change in prevailing wind and weather patterns, the displacement of the so called jet stream from its normal course to a new one far to the south. But the underlying cause of that displacement is of human origin - the result of manmade chemicals accumulating in the polar regions, causing the air to heat up and a massive high pressure zone to form, driving the winds further south. For over sixty years we have been warned that this might happen if we did not, as individuals and nations, take responsibility to make certain basic changes in our way of life. We were advised to cut down on our use of fossil fuels, conserve energy, enforce stricter controls over industrial pollution, stop demanding new brighter shinier products and make do with what we had; repair, reuse, recycle...and thus force industry to produce less and thus pollute less. But we didn't listen, didn't care. Like spoiled children, we wanted what we wanted and we wanted it now. Our greed, our pride, our sloth, our envy...all of these made us demand new cars every three years, new televisions, appliances, clothes and conveniences in a gluttony of accumulation. Thus we are the ones responsible for these terrible conditions we now suffer, not God, not Satan, Man."

"Shit," whispered Joe. "He's totally preempted us."

"Buried," nodded Mike. "Everything he said was true, until the end. Then he switched it up, buried God, Satan and this great battle we're in with a slight of hand which I'd be tempted to admire were it not for the evil intention behind it. We were just outplayed."

Pope Caius took another planned pause, gazing out over the crowd to look for the nodding heads, the downcast eyes that signaled recognition of their sins, agreement with their cause. Some were weeping: a good sign, remorse.

"Despite all our errors, however," he said now, holding his hands out above the crowd as if in benediction; "God, ever merciful, is ready to forgive, and to help man once again survive an almost certain annihilation at his own hand."

He went on to outline the details of the New World Organization for Relief from Disaster, emphasizing once again that it would be, of necessity, a completely secular effort under the supervision and control of the Vatican; its sole purpose to provide food, medical care and essential needs to the world community in a fair and objective manner.

"Every man, woman and child on this earth," he said now, looking directly into the eyes of the multitude of television cameras aimed at him, with what he hoped was an expression of great sincerity - he'd practiced it in front of the mirror for hours before Havojeh finally gave him the go ahead - "will be treated with parity; each given just what he needs to sustain life, health, dignity and hope; regardless of his personal wealth, influence or social position. No one will be required to fill out any tedious forms, no financial statements need to be submitted to demonstrate proof of need...frankly the cost of processing such paperwork would be prohibitive, and the time consumed before aid could be administered to those most in need, disastrous. No, we will be on the honor system: Those who can pay something for their food should do so out of conscience, so that our work may continue as long as possible, but only God will know who cheats."

He smiled into the cameras, a look that might have passed for benign good humor had not his eyes been so cold.

"The only requirement for record keeping," Caius went on; "is that each person - including infants and children - who receives food and supplies through our program must have an identifying number tattooed on his or her hand at the time of the first visit to their local distribution center. These will be scanned by a computer, just like those used in modern supermarkets, each time the person picks up their weekly allotment. The reason for this scanning is, of course, to ensure that nefarious people do not attempt to take a disproportionate share from the mouths of others, or that profiteers do not cheat by hoarding large supplies of these vital necessities to sell later at highly inflated prices on the black market."

The crowd in the great plaza was nodding and murmuring appreciative words at the soundness and simplicity of the Vatican's plan: Hope, for the first time in months, began to push back the grey fog of despair in their hearts.

But two men amongst this multitude were experiencing an entirely different sort of lifting of fog, the fog of obfuscation dissipating to reveal in horrifying clarity another of St. John's predictions coming true. They began pushing their way forward through the mass of bodies, slowly at first, and then with ever increasing urgency, shouting to be heard.

One of the more alert cameramen, who had been panning the crowd to capture reactions, turned his camera to focus on the wild-eyed, bearded men now marching up the steps at the left side of the press area, screaming some kind of biblical phrases. Another camera now turned to catch the action, then another and another.

"And I saw a beast coming out of the sea," the black man was exhorting, holding a bible high in the air with his left hand, shaking a fistful of printed flyers in the other: "having ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on its horns, and on each head a blasphemous name!"

Some of the regulars in the crowd grunted, then growled: It was the same hackneyed quotation this self-appointed prophet always threw at them. One of the younger men hurled an empty beer can at the American's head, but when the object was a foot from the target's head it abruptly stopped midair, turned 180 degrees and headed back the direction it had come, thwacking the assailant on the bridge of the nose, bring an immediate outcry of pain and spurting fountain of blood.

"Did you see that?" the cameraman said to the soundman.

"See what," the soundman responded, his attention still on the readouts from his equipment.

Mike continued to admonish the crowd, raising his voice above the jeers and curses and threats. "It also forced all people, great and small, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hands or on their foreheads, so that they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of its name."

"What is he saying?" Someone asked.

"That's right, I remember that part in the bible," someone else said.

"Bullshit!" another yelled. "It's all bullshit! I don't care about any of that crap; all I know is I got three hungry kids and if getting a tattoo means getting them food, that's all I care about!"

"But it's a trick, can't you see that?" Joe cried out, pleading with the surly crowd to listen, to understand. "It's exactly what God warned of in His revelation to St. John two thousand years ago. If you take this tattoo Pope Caius speaks of, you take the mark of the beast; and for the sake of your mortal survival you will be giving your immortal soul to Satan _forever_...and not just yours, but your children's as well!"

"For whoever wants to save their life shall lose it," Mike bellowed over the clamor of the crowd, adding his voice to that of Joe, who had just begun the same quote. Together they finished the quote: "but whoever loses their life for me will find it. For what good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?"

"Shut up, just shut the fuck up!" the man with the children yelled, picking up a stone and hurling it at the two men. "Leave us alone!"

"Yeah, get the hell out of here and leave us alone," others joined in, picking up stones and beer bottles, anything they could find, and throwing them at Mike and Joe. But the two prophets just looked at them, hands at their sides and tears streaming down their faces, as every stone and bottle stopped in midair and fell to the ground at their feet.

A few of the onlookers, including the cameraman, stooped to pick up one of the flyers scattered at their feet and pocket it.

The whole scene went viral the next day.

Chapter 51

Vatican City

The dragon was enraged at the woman, and went off to wage war against the rest...those who keep God's commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.

Revelation 12:17

The man known as Pope Caius sat in his boxers and undershirt behind his massive mahogany desk with eyes tightly closed, the long white robe of his office tossed carelessly over a nearby chair. He'd instructed his deacon that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. With head bowed and hands clasped in his lap, he looked like a holy man in deep meditation; but behind the thin blue-veined lids a different sort of vision than sacred insight was unfolding, one with near-perfect clarity, in colors so intense it felt like an emotion.

He saw a residential street in Rome, where sunshine piled up and glinted off garbage cans trailing deep blue, late afternoon shadows. Bright flowers, the last and hardiest of the well-tended fall blooms, defied winter's cold touch from their window boxes; as a thin mustachioed man - his body curled to the right in spastic tetany -rolled along the dusty sidewalk in a wheelchair pushed by a handsome Italian youth, who stopped now and again to greet a housewife on her way back from shopping, an old man taking in the rare warmth of full winter sunshine on the stone steps outside his front door.

The eyes the Pope was seeing through picked up every detail of this scene with an impassive and unbiased precision, the perspective sometimes changing in a dizzying fashion as the hawk first hovered, then soared in graceful circles two hundred feet above the neighborhood.

The man in the opulent office four miles away curled his lip in disgust at the sight. God how he hated that sniveling little turncoat! He and Bertini were now the only catholic cardinals in the entire world not in possession of one of the tainted Marcus icons, and that made them dangerous, to the plan and to him personally. They had to be brought under control, that or eliminated.

The hawk was currently tracking Cardinal Magliano's progress up the street: It had taken nearly two weeks of surveillance efforts, of patterned runs across the entire city by the exhausted avatar, to finally discover the man's general whereabouts. Even more important was to now follow him home, to locate the hideout of the two Americans who continued to undermine his plan through their pamphlets and emails, their public demonstrations and accusations.... as they had this very day in St. Peter's Square, trying to discredit his New Word plan before it ever got off the ground: Remembering now, he shook in a sudden paroxysm of rage so violent he momentarily lost his psychic connection with the bird of prey altogether.

By the time he regained his composure and put himself back into the meditative trance needed to connect with the hawk, what he saw through its eyes was now the torn gullet of a hapless pigeon, wings still flapping weakly in its final death throes as a wickedly hooked beak plunged into its breast tissue, ripping back a bright pink flap of delicious meat.

"Damn it!" Caius swore at the bird. "Where's Magliano? Find him!"

But the hawk was otherwise occupied and did not respond, not until it had finished its meal.

Once aloft, however, it didn't take long to locate the wheelchair bound man again. He and his aide had turned onto a side street and were going up the front walk of an older, two story home. But _what_ street? What was the address?

The raptor's eyes immediately focused in on the fading numerals on the side of the home's front door, magnifying them in fine detail: 1237. _But what street, bird? What street?_

The visual effects whirred through a series of rapid changes, leaving Caius a little queasy, as the bird arced up and to the left where the nearest cross street intersected. A small freshly painted street sign read "Via Aterno."

"Good," nodded Caius. "Now go back to the house and keep watch while I decide what to do."

What to do indeed.

Pope Caius had to admit that his personal power was limited: As a matter of fact the only real power he had was through the unlimited and unquestioned authority of his title and office, and these had been given him, not earned. Any "miracles" had been performed by Marcus, who was, after all, simply a hollow vessel for the beast. The beast was all. And the beast did not particularly like him, he knew that as well.

The dragon had given him the hawk as an avatar, but his directions were unclear beyond that: What was he supposed to **do** about Bertini, Magliano and the rest, now that he had found them? Havohej had not only made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to be bothered with details, he'd even been dropping hints lately that he was having second thoughts about his choice of Caius for this position. If he changed his mind, it wouldn't be hard to arrange a sudden catastrophic illness, stroke or heart attack; and easy enough to find a replacement from within the Pope's own cadre, now that they were all under his authority anyway. Probably Baletori or Bautista, both were intellectually sharper than he was, as well as more decisive in nature.

He felt sick with worry, shaking his head. What do I do, how do I please him?

For some reason the dragon had been explicit about not bringing any harm to the Americans for the time being, however he hadn't forbidden attacks on Magliano, Bertini or the rest. Perhaps that was the key, that was the something that Havojeh expected of him: to get rid of Magliano and the rest on his own initiative. Perhaps it was some kind of test, to see if he was worthy to be the Beast's second.

But how? There was no Vatican limousine to tamper with, no meals to drop a draught of poison into: Magliano and Bertini were steering clear of the Holy See, sticking close to home and out of the public eye, as were the rest of the group other than the two American prophets. How could he get to them when he had nothing at his disposal but a stupid hawk?

The hawk! A sudden unexpected attack at the right time in the right place and the little cardinal could end up under the wheels of a speeding truck, wheelchair and all. Or with his throat ripped out, bleeding to death from a severed jugular before an ambulance could arrive. Yes, an attack! That was what Havohej was waiting for!

Luigi waited at the foot of the short flight of stairs that led up to the front entry of their rented home, while Giovanni went inside to fetch Dante. Together they would carry the wheelchair bound cardinal up the steps and into the house. As he waited, he felt a sudden chill run down his spine, the hairs at the base of his scalp begin to prickle. He turned to look over his right shoulder, then his left; saw nothing.

Gio and Dante reappeared just then and, each taking a side of the chair, gently lifted him backwards up onto the porch and just inside the door, then left him there for a moment while they went to get something. He raised his eyes for a final look outside, and there across the street, perched upon a light standard, was a large brown hawk with penetrating golden eyes. The eyes locked into his for a second, held him, terrified him; reminded him, for no good reason he could think of, of someone else, though he couldn't say who that was.

A piercing scream split the air: The bird was suddenly flying straight at him, talons extended. Magliano sat mesmerized with his jaw dropped open, until at the last possible moment the wind caught the door and slammed it shut, and the bird was forced to pull sharply out of its dive, flying away with an angry, mocking shriek.

In horror, the paralyzed Italian stared at the door, knowing he had to warn the others, that they had been found and were all in mortal danger: But his injuries had left him unable to move, unable to speak.

Gio returned a moment later to get him, but when he saw the look in the Cardinal's eyes he knew something was terribly wrong.

"What is it, little father? What has happened?"

All Luigi could move was his eyes, but this he did with determination, looking repeatedly toward the closed door and back.

"Is something out there, father?"

Magliano blinked twice, a prearranged signal which meant "yes."

Gio opened the door a crack, then a little wider, sticking his head out to look around.

Magliano screamed at him to be careful, but the voice was trapped inside his head.

The younger man opened the door wider, stepping out onto the porch.

Then he spotted it, at the same instant the great hawk dropped from the weathervane on the roof across the street and hurtled towards him at speeds in excess of 150 feet per second.

Gio leapt backwards and slammed the door, and the bird struck it with a loud concussion which shook the front of the house. Then there was silence.

After a moment Gio said: "Do you think it's dead?"

One blink: No.

"But shouldn't I at least take a look?"

Blink hard: No!

Five minutes went by, both men staring at the door. Then they heard the rustling of claws and feathers as the bird shook off its daze and regained its footing; the flapping of wings as it lifted off.

"Should we tell Moni?"

Two blinks.

When Joe and Mike returned an hour later, they found a somber group gathered in the kitchen around the table, waiting for them.

"What?" Joe said.

"We have to move again," said Moni.

Chapter 52

Brownswell, Nebraska

Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; hold it fast, and repent.

Revelation 3:3

Anna Schwennesen was watching early morning cartoons with the children when Bugs Bunny was interrupted for a special news bulletin, setting the three kids off into angry howls of protest.

"Oh shut it!" She shouted over their din, getting up to increase the set's volume: "It's not _my_ fault!"

The familiar face of the local news announcer looked less grim than it had in months as he told of the hopeful news just breaking from the Vatican. The station switched to a video replay of the final minutes of the mass which had preceded the momentous announcement, the on-site reporter overlaying his comments onto the background scene, first the cheering crowds as the tiny figure lifted his arms in final blessing to the people below; then the murmur of complaints as the Pope left the balcony for a couple of minutes, followed by more cheers and applause as he reappeared and began his speech.

Pope Caius went on to describe the Vatican's plan to distribute food and other necessities to the desperate people of the world through their "New Word" program, the only requirement being that every recipient - man, woman and child - must have an identification number tattooed onto their hands in order to qualify for these supplies.

The blond haired woman - no longer plump after a year of meagerly allotted rations - pushed a limp wisp of cornsilk out of her wide blue eyes, leaning forward. Her skin felt clammy all of a sudden, a thin film of perspiration lining her fingertips as she skimmed them across her upper lip. She wiped her hand on the upholstered chair, never taking her eyes off the TV.

Now the camera panned left to a pair of shoddy-looking, bearded men who were bullying their way through the crowds to the rectangular plaza at the top of a broad swath of stairs. They stopped at the top, dwarfed by the immense facade of the basilica behind them as they turned and waved their arms, bibles in their left hands and some kind of pamphlets in their right.

"Even on such a positive and joyous occasion as this, there always seem to be some kind of critics and hecklers, ready to bite the hand of kindness like mad dogs," the reporter said acidly. "In this case, we have the usual doomsayers, determined to disparage a great humanitarian effort by twisting it into something supposedly evil, something to be feared and avoided. I guess they'd rather we'd all simply die of starvation."

His voice cut out as the sound man pushed the receiver towards the protestors. The taller of the two zealots could be heard now more clearly, shouting a biblical quote from the Book of Revelations that Anna knew all too well. The other man's voice now joined his companions, exhorting the crowd to beware, but the sallow faced woman in Nebraska couldn't wait to hear him out, as she was already running for the bathroom, hand clasped over her mouth against what her violently churning stomach was trying to expel.

Chapter 53

Lake Bomoseen, Vermont

I know that you have little strength, yet you

_have kept my word and have not denied my name_.

Revelation 3:8

Fifteen hundred miles to the east, an old man and his wife watched the same network newscast on their local station. Sitting before a penurious fire with their morning coffees, they rocked in unison a foot apart, listening intently. The old man reached to take the woman's plump, gnarly hand. She glanced at him, smiled wanly and gave his palm a squeeze, then refocused myopically on the television screen, looking at it through the haze of the past year's trials and frustrations.

Pete Paternak's reporter friend from New York City hadn't been much interested in their story of the acid-killed lake even a year ago: Since then so much worse had happened to the world, their little story of a minor backwoods disaster wasn't worth even two column inches on the back page.

Local folk had clammed up on the subject as well, dropping by singly and in pairs during the spring and summer to talk around the subject with Pete in their reticent and indirect way: The consensus seemed to be that the less said the better, considering property values, tourist trade and such. By fall the subject was tacitly taboo.

The few residents that could, sold out their cabins and small farms to greenhorns from the city that past summer: The rest - like him and Clarissa - were pretty much stuck, trying to survive on drought-parched home gardens and reduced government pensions. The continuous worry about how they were gonna make out had aged the old forester considerably in the past few months, but maybe now....he glanced her way again.

"No!" Clarissa answered the question that hadn't even yet fully formed in his own mind. She squeezed his hand hard enough to make him look carefully at her: Her gaze was blue, direct, and defiant to the point of anger. "We won't do it, Pete: We won't take that number. All my life I've kept my religion from interfering with the way you do things, but here I draw the line. No tattoos Peter; not now, not ever. No tattoos," she shook her grey head firmly.

He smiled, tears pooling in his eyes. "Okay cookie," he said softly.

He hadn't called her "cookie" in forty years.

Chapter 54

Mullen, Nebraska

What good is it for someone to gain the whole world

and yet lose or forfeit their very self?

Luke 9:25

Anna Buchanan Schwennesen pushed a limp strand of straw colored hair away from her drawn-looking face, the better to glare at her husband's profile across the front seat of their ten year old Blazer. His big blond eyebrows were knit low on the broad Nordic forehead, a Kansas City Chiefs baseball cap set far back on his crown, revealing part of the enlarging circle of hairless pink scalp beneath it.

She knew he was digesting, in his slow methodical way, today's disappointment: chewing it over, tasting each morsel, turning all possibilities around in his head until he finally came to a decision. His decision. And once he made up his mind, she knew he'd be as unswerving in seeing it through as one of their Cotswald rams during rut, bleating protests by the ewe in question paid no never mind.

That would be her, the bleating ewe...don't even bother, she told herself with a rueful shake of her head.

The man at the Federal Land Bank office had been real nice: not very helpful, not particularly encouraging, but a real nice man all the same. Nice smile. Pretty eyes, too.

They'd taken out a short term loan through the same fellow last fall, mainly to purchase winter feed for their sheep and play catch up on some of their past due bills, though she had managed to wheedle a respectable sum out of Jess for the kid's Christmas presents as well. But now the note was coming due, and the harvest of wool from spring shearing - which they'd counted on to pay it back - had only been half the normal yield due to the continuous unseasonable heat that winter. In addition, the small profit they had made from the wool had largely been spent drilling for water across likely sections of their now dangerously dry and over grazed land. This had been Jesse's bright idea, and about as useless - it turned out - as he was. Her pretty lips turned down with disdain as she remembered the frustration of watching their precious dollars draining away with each new dry well he'd sunk.

So today they'd gone back to the land bank in Mullen, hoping to obtain a new longer term loan with which to pay off the note and give them enough working capital to get by until this damnable drought broke. They'd walked into the cool, air-conditioned building with the application papers all filled out, their hope worn in simpering smiles on their tired faces. And the loan officer had been real nice, real friendly and sympathetic, even as he shattered their dreams.

"I'm afraid, Mr. and Mrs Schwennesen," he'd said after only the most cursory appraisal of their loan application; "that there is quite a waiting list ahead of you for bail-out funds. Literally everyone's been hit very hard by this drought, you know; some with much more to lose than you folk. But I want to assure you right here and now that we are NOT going to foreclose on your little ranch."

The youthful, finely-dressed man had paused here, straightening his silk print tie and giving Anna a look which she interpreted as saying: "What is a fine looking woman like you doing on a pissant sheep farm anyway?"

She'd given him a little smile.

He'd then pulled some papers out of an overstuffed cardboard file folder on his desk. "See here," he continued, writing on the document importantly; "I'm going to defer payment on this earlier loan for another, say, six months? We'll watch what happens with our weather in the meantime, eh?"

As Anna'd observed the flush of relief spread across her husband's ovine features, she now recalled thinking that he looked more like one of his dumb sheep every day.

"If I might offer a suggestion?" The banker had continued, leaning forward confidentially across the broad metal desk. "Why not sell some of your stock to one of the bigger outfits...that is, if any of them are buying right now. Or better yet, send your spring lambs to one of the meat packing plants, just to get enough capital to feed the rest of your herd temporarily, keep your heads above water, so to speak...or should I said 'dust'?" He'd chuckled, until he saw the sour look Jesse'd given him.

For her part Anna had just felt sick to her stomach at the idea of sending her precious wooly babies, ones she'd nurtured through their shaky infancies, to a slaughterhouse! There'd been so few born this year as it was, many so sickly that they'd died within a few days of birth, that the few survivors were a personal triumph.

"We didn't get that many lambs this spring, and anyhow our sheep are not really the eating variety, Mr. Miller," Jess had told the man politely: "I doubt we could get much for them, especially in today's market."

"Well, true enough there, Jess - may I call you Jess? I understand there is a glut of meat on the market at present due to ranchers trying to unload their starving livestock before it dies on them. The meat packers are getting away with paying bottom dollar due to the huge surplus, even for the finest grade beef from what I hear. It's a rough situation all around," he'd clucked sympathetically; "not just for the ranchers but for the consumers as well: We're all being hit hard in the pocketbook by this terrible drought."

He'd pursed his lips then, his long well-manicured fingertips pressed to his temples as if in deep thought. After a moment he'd looked up: "May I make another suggestion?"

Jess had nodded mutely, while Anna'd set her lips at the both of them, wringing the yellowed handkerchief in her lap in frustration: _Talk, talk, talk: What about some_ _money_ _?_

"There is a new organization just started about a month back that might be able to help you folks. It's sponsored by the Catholic Church, but I've been assured it's non-denominational in its policies and practices. It was set up as a charitable effort to help manage the effects of the drought, and lingering after-effects of last year's plague, by overseeing the distribution of food and other necessities around the world to those who need help. It goes by the name of The New Word - New World Organization for Disaster Relief or some such title. So maybe you ought to think about paying them a visit: They've just opened a regional office down in North Platte."

"We don't want no charity," Jess had responded stubbornly.

"On no, no Mr. Schwennesen, it's nothing like that. From what I understand, the organization is presently buying up livestock of all types and in quantity, mutton included, and is paying a fair price to boot. Their plan, I hear, is to butcher, process and stock this prepared meat - along with surplus grains and canned goods - in their own warehouses until it is really needed, and then to control its distribution on a worldwide scale should drought conditions lead to a worldwide famine. Their plan is to prevent the speculators from hoarding comestibles now while they are available, and then later, when they become scarce, commanding exorbitant prices from the wealthy while the rest of the world starves. I know," he put up a soft pink palm to stay the impending protest he read on Jesse's knitted brow, Anna's tear-streaked face; "that the idea of slaughtering your valuable wool-producing sheep for the price of mutton is abhorrent to you both; but you must be practical. Keep your finest ten Cotswald rams, I'd say, and maybe twenty or thirty of your best Merino ewes; then let the rest of the flock serve to provide the money you need to feed your family and this small seed stock, so that once conditions return to normal you'll be able to start anew."

The loan officer had risen at this point, extending his hand. The interview was over.

"I'll go ahead and process your application," he'd said, waving the sheaf of papers in his left hand at them reassuringly; "but the waiting list is so long, even if our funds hold out it'd still be more than a year before you'd see any money."

He'd shaken Jesse's hand firmly, reached out with the other to take Anna's in a lingering squeeze. "Think about what I've suggested, won't you? I really want to see you folks make it."

A nice man, Anna told herself now with a secret smile, remember the feel of his soft hand on hers; even if he was a bit misguided.

She looked out the car window: They were coming up on Thedford now, a cluster of gas stations, small cafes and curio shops where the county road from Mullen intersected with state highway 83. Turn north on 83, and thirty miles later they'd be home. Turn south, and in about an hour they could be in North Platte, a "big city" excursion Anna ordinarily would have welcomed, begged for even.

But not today: Today her mind was on what she'd seen on TV when this New Word thing was first introduced by the Pope, what those wild eyed cowboys were saying about the tattoo, the end times. Then there was that article she'd read last week in the American Observer, a story about some new religion - The Church of the Apocalypse - that had been founded by a disaffected Catholic priest from San Francisco. He claimed - among other things - that the current drought was one of the prophesied plagues of Armageddon, and that the New Word was to be avoided at all costs because - as the headline in the scandal sheet had screamed - "Satan Has Taken Over The Vatican!"

Ordinarily Anna just laughed at the Observer's outrageous claims. She wasn't the stupid gullible girl Jess liked to believe she was, and only bought the yellow rag out of defiance to his standing edict that she was forbidden to waste money on it, purposely leaving the paper lying on the bathroom floor just to piss him off. He probably read it himself while using the loo, though she didn't quite have the nerve to say that out loud yet. But this story had bothered her deeply, enough to give her repeated nightmares in fact. Now the Catholic Church was actively buying up meat in their own area, taking control of all the food in the entire world? That was just wrong, somehow.

The woman looked over at her husband, knowing she should say something before it was too late, before he made up his mind and took her somewhere she didn't want to go. But she also knew that more'n likely if she told him **not** to go to North Platte - especially if the reason was based on some article she'd read in the American Observer - he would be that much more likely to go there just to spite her.

So Anna pressed her lips together and prayed to whoever might be listening or caring, as they approached the onramps to the intersecting highway, that he'd drop beneath the overpass to take the road leading north.

"Please God, north."

He started to veer to the right, towards the south onramp, then suddenly changed lanes, went beneath the overpass and turned north.

She closed her eyes. Once again the girl-woman felt herself taken blindfolded down a dark path, carried along by a driver that controlled her destiny, if not her mind. Thank God the man had turned north this time, but what if he hadn't? Would she have said anything, or just gone with the flow, too filled with ennui to protest? Her major sin, as always, was that of weak-willed complaisance, a terrible lack of courage which she glossed over with the false label of humility and the faint hope that everything would work out all right in the long run.

Chapter 55

Space and Nebraska

The first angel went and poured out his bowl on the land, and ugly

festering sores broke out on the people who had the mark of the beast

Revelation 16:2

Ninety three million miles across the endless, airless, lightless void of space an enormous atomic reactor spins and whirls, imploding and exploding in a cyclic rhythm as it converts hydrogen to helium and back again, losing mass from its core in the form of gamma rays at the rate of about five million tons per second. Most of these powerful rays are absorbed by the outer layers of the reactor in as they slowly migrate towards its surface, so that by the time they escape the confines altogether they are much less energetic, although still deadly.

We call this reactor the sun.

The energy it releases radiates out in every direction in the form of heat, light and ultra violet radiation. Less than one in two-billion of these particles of energy ever reach the tiny rocky satellite orbiting third from its center, which is a good thing. For even this one two billionth would be more than enough to destroy all life on that planet, were it not for a gift from life itself that protects all living things from these rays.

Fifteen miles above the planet's surface, where the air is thin and cold, these energy particles hurtle towards Earth's skin at an incredible 186,000 miles per second. The most energetic of these - ultraviolet radiation - have long been the catalysts of evolutionary change as well as the energy source for most life processes:

Up in the stratosphere many of these UV particles implode into floating molecules of oxygen, splitting the two atoms of oxygen apart. These energized oxygen atoms quickly join with other oxygen molecules to form a three oxygen molecule called ozone. But as quickly as it is formed, the ozone molecules are hit by another photon of UV, splitting off the third oxygen, which then rejoins another stray oxygen atom to reform O2. In the process, UV radiation that would otherwise continue to earth is used up in spades.

This constantly shifting equilibrium between O2 and O3 forms a fragile protective layer fifteen miles above our heads that is called the "ozone layer." It is within this paper thin reactive stratum that all the excess radiation that would otherwise wreak havoc on earth's biological systems is consumed. It has been maintained thus through countless millennia, ever since the first blue green algae miraculously managed to survive long enough to reproduce and grow, and fill the atmosphere with oxygen that would allow all other life forms to develop and thrive.

Then, in less than a century, man brought it to ruin.

An equilibrium is a delicate thing, easily disturbed. When more than 150 million tons of unnatural pollutants are spewed into the air every year, year after year, something is bound to happen.

Something did.

Many of the pollutants made by man's activities are molecules found in nature- CO2, SO2, NO3.: Normal, but in way more than normal amounts.

Some of the other chemicals sent up into the stratosphere are unnatural, man-made molecules that are highly charged, highly unstable, and highly reactive. As these made their fifteen year journey up into the atmosphere from air conditioners, old refrigerators, industrial cleaners and hair spray, they began to gobble up the oxygen in the stratosphere like an army of Pac Men, each tiny chlorine atom able to destroy up to 100,000 ozone molecules. And for every ozone the chlorine deactivated, thousands of extra particles of UV radiation slipped through to the planet's surface, hurtling at the speed of light into the cells of all living organisms, penetration the cell walls and membranes like a piece of paper in a hurricane goes through the bark of a tree, right to the center.

The farmer squinting up at the cloudless sky doesn't necessarily feel these invisible rays as they bombard his skin, doesn't feel the way they push through the sun-baked outer layers of dead epidermis into the living cells below; doesn't sense the moment they skewer their way into the nucleus, twisting apart the DNA, changing the codes, setting off the genetic time bombs.

Later he may notice, when the sores begin to appear.

********

Brownswell, Nebraska

Old George drove into the dusty yard in a decrepit blue Ford pickup, circa 1967: peeling paint, rusted holes in the fenders, dangling bumpers, and tires so worn the white cords beneath the rubber could be seen. He referred to it as a "classic."

The woman on the porch squinted into the glare of sun, watching him with a disdainful sneer, but when he exited the vehicle, slamming the door hard enough to chance the whole thing falling apart on the spot, she gasped in horror. He looked like an old tomcat that had gotten the worst of it in a scrap. His face was a patchwork of gauze bandages; a large one taped across his forehead, another one on his left cheek, a pad covering the end of his nose and another over a section of his lower lips. The back of his neck and one of his hands was bandaged as well.

"George!" She shrieked, coming down off the porch to get a closer look. "What on earth happened to you?"

"That's what I come to talk about. Jess around?" He replied, walking right past her and into the house without so much as waiting for an invitation.

"Out with the sheep: I'll get him," she said, hurrying towards the field, as anxious to be away from the sick-looking old man as she was to learn the gory details of what had caused it.

Jess came down from the hill with her, scratching absentmindedly at a small dark crusty patch on his forehead.

"Jeezsus H!" He exclaimed as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior and he saw the condition of the older man. "I hope whoever did this is at least as bad off as you are!"

"Whoever did this looks just fine," George said; "and that much richer for it. He's a oncology surgeon over in Lincoln, Jesse.

"A what?"

"That means cancer, don't it George?" Anna blurted.

"Skin cancer," he nodded.

"Jeezsus, George, that's a damn shame." The big Swede shook his head sadly, trying with limited success to keep the repulsion he felt out of his face. "Cancer, m'God. How about that?"

"Jess, I came to see you because you have the same kind of sores on your face and hands as I did."

Anna cried aloud: "Jess! You told me that was ringworm!"

Jess looked dumbly at his hands, at the four circular depressions, raw at the centers with pearly, raised rims around their circumferences.

"Nah," he breathed. "I got ringworm, George."

"The hell it is!" the old man shouted. "Go see a doctor, Jess: Go now before it's too late. That's all I got to say." He rose abruptly, picked up his large straw cowboy hat and plunked it down on his greying head.

"I can't afford a doctor, George!" Jess pleaded, grabbing the old man's arm. "Heck, I just sold off all the sheep but thirty, and the money from that's already half gone. We got no chickens left, no water for the garden...I _can't_ have cancer, don't you see?!

The old man shrugged him off, turned away; then turned back, laying a large careworn hand on his former employer's shoulder.

"You're a good man, Jesse Schwennesen, at least you were always good to me. But you're thick-headed and slow about certain things, mostly out of habit I'd wager. And you aren't thinking this through. What good are you gonna be to this pretty wife of yourn and the three young'uns if you're dead?"

"Ah, skin cancer don't kill a man...maybe just ugly him up a bit, but heck, I already got a wife, so who do I need to impress?"

Anna looked disgusted.

"Some kinds can," George countered mildly.

"What's that?"

" **Can** kill you: Some kinds of skin cancer can kill you, if it spreads to other parts of the body. Anyways, you think on what I said. I got other people to see. You remember how many men down at the grange had sores like ours last meeting?"

Jesse nodded, looking stricken. Unconsciously his hand reached up to worry the scab on his forehead.

George left to the sound of Anna's angry sobs. She wasn't crying for Jesse, she was crying for one more goddam thing she had to worry about now.

Chapter 56

Happy Valley, California

This calls for patient endurance on the part of the people of God.

Revelation 14:12

Today the last seven feet of the aqueduct would be completed, culminating in a ceremony and celebration the following day as the six foot deep, eight foot wide channel was opened into the rushing flow of the Klamath River, siphoning a portion of its life giving waters into the commune's thirsty gardens, its animal troughs, and a series of small interconnected ponds in which they hoped to cultivate trout, bass and catfish for food and fertilizer.

Eventually, when the overall project was completed, the main aqueduct channel would be extended an additional half mile down into the valley to fill a community reservoir capable of holding nearly thirty acre feet of water, a precious commodity diverted from the river's flow before it was wastefully dumped into the ocean some thirty miles to the west.

As the men labored with an ancient backhoe, shovels, chicken wire and cement to finish that which had been started four months earlier - after Eric, weary from carrying buckets of water up from the river, had complained to his adopted father: "Why don't we just dig a channel or something?" - there remained a multitude of daily chores that had to be performed by the rest of the clan. Women sweated in their kitchens preparing food for the next day's festivities, younger children gathered eggs, fed chickens and weeded the vegetable gardens, while the older ones took on the daily task - hopefully for the last time - of bringing bucket after bucket of water from the distant river to the herds of thirsty livestock , the parched fields of corn and veggie gardens. They carried the buckets in double yokes that bent their young backs and made their necks ache. Even Sandy and Eric had not been let out of this labor, although tomorrow Eric had been promised the special honor of raising the wooden dike that would allow the river waters to pour into the irrigation canal for the first time.

The attention they had been given after the visiting priest, Father Timothy, had declared the brother and sister to be on some sort of "divine mission," had gradually died out when they failed to do anything remotely divine. The only remnant of special treatment afforded either one now was in Sandy's case, where "Father Steve" would have her select and read a verse from the Bible at least once or twice a day while he listened intently, eyes closed, seeking some kind of divine inspiration from her selection. Whether he got it or not, she had no idea.

For his part, Eric said that _his_ foster dad, John, had simply cracked a few good humored jokes about "the boy prophet among us who don't make his bed," and let the subject drop after the first day or two.

Then, two nights ago, the Council of Elders had called the two children unexpectedly to a special secret meeting.

The Vatican, they were told, had recently opened a center in Eureka for their "New Word" food distribution program. One facet of the program was to buy up surplus meat and produce from farmers in the area at better than current market prices, and to process and hold this food for later distribution to the needy.

"The added income would be a much needed boon to our community," Pastor Reaper had nodded solemnly, and the others nodded in sync: "But we are concerned that, after what your friend Father Murphy said about the evil powers that control the Vatican, this might be a trap."

"What do you think?" Frank Tennant, Sandy's adopted father, had asked, looking at her with the penetrating stare that always made her feel nervous, like he was trying to look inside of her at places she didn't even know about.

Sandy and Eric had glanced at each other, then back at the group of men, wide-eyed. "We don't know any more than you do, I guess."

"In that case, we want you to write your daddy Joe," the minister had instructed them; "and ask him what we should do about this project. It is a temptation, surely - and would be much more so if we hadn't devised this irrigation system to save us from the drought - but is it truly a humanitarian effort on the part of the church, or merely a guise through which Satan may seduce us?"

"Why not write him yourself?" Sandy had countered - not out of disrespect or belligerence, but in the honest belief that a letter from an ordained Baptist minister would surely carry more weight than one from a kid.

"Because we need to make certain who we are dealing with," Pastor Reaper explained , shaking his head of thick white hair. "You will need to make references in the letter to certain personal things which only your uncle Joe and you could possibly know about: He will thus have certainty the letter indeed came from you. And then he will reply with remembrances that will assure us that the reply is from him and not from one of Satan's minions that has somehow intercepted our mail and fed us lies. We need to be sure that we are getting the truth, and that only will come from the true prophets of God!"

Eric's mouth had quirked up during this speech, and Sandy - knowing exactly what he was thinking - had given him a quick elbow to the ribs. The minister was likeable and good-hearted, but his voice always took on these strident, ringing tones of oratory whenever he talked. The two had imagined him at the dinner table proclaiming "Pass the potatoes please!" in that same James Earl Jones hallelujah voice, so often it had become a standing joke between them. Still, they resisted the giggles, got solemn, and went home to compose the requested letter, Sandy doing the writing and Eric suggesting things to put in, things that they had done together that no one else would know about.

After several revisions suggested by their adopted fathers and the council, the message had been given final approval last night, and this morning had been dispatched by a special courier to be mailed from Eureka to the secret address for Joe that Timothy Murphy had given them, a post office box in Rome. The return address on the envelope read only: "S. Draekins, General Delivery, Eureka, California, USA."

As the day wore on, Sandy felt more and more unsettled, gathering into herself a deep, faraway-in-the-future fear, feeling as if she were now exposed to the world, no longer hidden and no longer safe. By sending that letter they had made their general whereabouts known, and even though it was revealed only to Joe, she had the sinking feeling that they were doomed, that this little act of exposure meant they would be found eventually, that it was only a matter of time before word of their location would somehow get back to their grandmother, and from her to that evil, cigar-chewing dick from San Francisco. One day they'd be here, right here in this beautiful, safe, peaceful haven with handcuffs and mace and a Satan-reeking icon perched like a day-glo Jesus on the dash of their unmarked police car!

Looking at that day was like looking at your own death, like reading your tombstone.

When she'd licked the envelope of that letter closed, she now thought, she'd kissed a rattlesnake.

Chapter 57

Brownswell, Nebraska

_...then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains._ _..._ _But woe to those_

who are pregnant and to those who are nursing babies in those days!

Matthew 24 16-19

"What in hell's the matter with you, woman!" The burly Swede finally yelled in exasperation, jumping up from his chair. The loud smack of his flat palm against the tabletop rattled the dinner dishes and set baby Jenny off into frightened wails.

They'd been at it off and on all day: Actually it had begun two days ago, when Jess came in from tending the sheep just as the TV station broadcast a replay of their earlier announcement concerning the Vatican's plan for disaster relief in their area. He'd been ready to pack them all into the Blazer and rush off to North Platte for tattoos right then and there, but fortunately the distribution center wasn't scheduled to open until Thursday, so Anna had let it lay that first night, neither agreeing nor openly disagreeing with him about the matter, working up her resolve to confront him on the subject.

She couldn't let it happen, couldn't let them tattoo her babies, not with what she knew.

Unbeknownst to Jess, she'd attended a prayer meeting a couple of weeks back, after their interview at the bank, and another last week after Old George stopped by. They were held at the local Pentacostal House of God, and featured an earnest, red-haired former Catholic deacon as special guest speaker. Now of course the Pentacostals were always looking for signs of the end times, but if she had been expecting some kind of vitriolic bible beating she was surprised: Father Murphy had warned his audience in solemn, sincere and completely un-evangelical tones (which were all the more convincing for their calm delivery) that the Vatican was now in the hands of Satan, and that nothing that came from the Catholic church could be trusted. The great deceiver's plan was to use the power and influence of the church, the trust people had in the doctrine of Papal infallibility, to take over every soul on earth. The time of Apocalypse was indeed upon them, he'd said, and Armageddon had begun. Anna'd listened with her heart and believed every word he'd spoken.

Since then she'd been doing an inordinate amount of reading for her; scanning the entire New Testament and parts of the old for any mention of signs of the end times, reading daily newspapers and magazines online for accounts about the progress of the drought as well as other calamities currently befalling the planet, and reading anything she could find out about the Vatican, the Pope, and the "New Word" organization. All this information had been whirling about in her mind during the day and plaguing her dreams at night for the past two weeks.

For her, Monday's news of the opening of the Vatican's distribution center in North Platte had provided - rather than hope - a final catalyst for all her diverse and disjointed fears, jelling them into a single dread certainty that the visiting priest had been right, Armageddon had indeed begun.

But tonight, when she'd finally worked up the courage to confront her husband on the subject, he'd met her concerns first with jeers, then obtuseness, and finally this blaze of obstinate, unyielding and unhearing anger.

"What kind of mother are you anyway?!" He'd accused, the words spitting venomously from his mouth as he circled the table like a stalking bear. "You want your children to starve to death just because you were stupid enough to visit some gosh-darned holy roller convention and let some crazy homo priest from San Francisco fill your head with a bunch of garbage? And what the heck were you doing sneaking off to meetings anyhow, when you were supposed to be home tending to the house?"

She circled the table ahead of him, staying just out of reach, hands holding to the edge.

"I ain't stupid, you are," she said, starting to shake.

In her nervousness, one of her hands caught the cloth and spilled a full glass of milk all over the floor.

"Fine! Oh just fuckin' fine, Anna! Now look what you done, you wasted the last of the baby's milk, you stupid whore!"

Anna began to blubber incoherently - Jess never swore in front of her, let alone in front of the children, unless he was really really enraged - and that sent the big man completely over the edge. Leaping across the gap between them, he slapped her hard across the mouth with his beefy, work-calloused palm, splitting open the corner of her lip with a solid thwack. She screamed, and all three children started howling at the top of their lungs.

"We're going to that New Word office first thing tomorrow morning and that's final!" He shouted, holding her head up to face him by pinching her cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. "Now go clean up this goldarned mess!"

"And shut up that bawling!" He wheeled to face the children with a menacing look. "All of you, right now!"

The cries immediately ceased: Four pairs of eyes regarded him warily as the man reached up into the high cupboard above the refrigerator and took down a half-full mason jar of white lightning, then stormed off into the parlor.

Later, after Jess had finally passed out in front of the TV, snoring loudly, Anna quietly packed four suitcases, one each for herself and the children. She added a couple of garbage bags full of toys and blankets, then gathered her three sleepy offspring and carried them one at a time to the Blazer waiting in the side yard. Attached to its trailer hitch was a tiny utility trailer into which she'd already secured one of her husband's prized Cotswald rams and two fat Merino ewes, already munching contentedly on the bale of hay she'd tied them next to.

She had three hundred and eighty three dollars cash, money she'd managed to save out of her grocery allotment by some clever couponing, the sale of the remaining chickens (she'd fudged a bit when telling Jess how much she'd actually got for them) and little odd jobs she'd picked up here and there from the wives of the bigger ranchers in the area.

She also had a road map of the United States, a clear yellow highlight marking the route from Nebraska to the town of Eureka near the California-Oregon border.

On her second trip to the prayer meeting, she'd waited to talk with Father Murphy after, and he'd given her a list of newly-formed Christian communes, set up to survive the apocalypse. She'd decided on Happy Valley, partly because it was the oldest and best organized, partly because she liked the name, but mostly because it was the furthest away from Nebraska. Jess wouldn't give up on finding her and the kids all that easy, she knew that. Hopefully distance would give her an edge.

She'd found an internet website that calculated the driving distance from North Platte to Eureka: it was fifteen hundred and sixteen miles, and twenty two and a half hours driving straight through. But with three little kids, it would take her two days at least. Then you had to add the distance from Brownswell to North Platte, and from Eureka to Happy Valley...that was at least another hundred miles. Sixteen hundred miles was over a hundred gallons of gasoline, and at $3.75 a gallon she'd be making it on fumes and prayers. That didn't leave nothing for food or emergencies, so she packed enough for three days...mostly peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, water and cookies.

As she got behind the wheel of the Blazer she hesitated, the magnitude of what she was about to do threatening to overwhelm her. Had Jesse appeared at that moment, she surely would have given up, given in. But thinking of Jess brought back the memory of how he had looked tonight: not just the contortion of his face in rage, the ugliness that emotion brought to his already coarse features, but the ugly sores on his flesh as well, three open, weeping, crusty patches on his forehead, two more on his lips and nose and on each hand.

And she thought of the verse from the bible: _and ugly festering sores broke out on the people who had the mark of the beast._

Jesse already had the mark of the beast, he had it on his heart. This was Jesse's future, Jesse's choice - selling his soul for a temporary reprieve from his fate, a mere prolongation of the ultimate irrevocable death that awaited him. The sores proved it: it was already done.

But not for her, not for her children either.

She started the engine as quietly as possible, goosing the vehicle forward onto the downslope of the driveway just enough to get it rolling before turning off the key, guiding it in silence and darkness down the gentle slope of the dirt road to the macadam highway two hundred yards distant.

"Besides," she thought now, patting the little bulge of tummy that pushed up gently against the lower rim of the steering wheel as she turned onto the main road and hit the headlights; "Jess doesn't know about you yet, lump, and I don't think I'd better wait around for him to find out. Chances are, you won't be no blue-eyed blond like the rest of the litter."

Slimy little Manuel had stopped looking so slimy about four months back.

As a matter of fact, he's the one that got her to go to that first prayer meeting, and shortly after had taken off for a commune in Maine, begging her to go with him....which is another reason she'd chosen the one in California.

Chapter 58

Eureka, California

You will be betrayed, even by parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends...

Luke21:16

The postal clerk watched the young man with the dirty, raggedy dreadlocks and even dirtier, more raggedy clothing leave, waving her hand in front of her nose for the benefit of the postmaster sorting mail behind her.

"Do these hippies ever take a bath?" She asked, by way of starting a conversation.

"I think that one is from that Bible beater commune up in the mountains somewhere. They're very secretive about their location, though. Almost never see them in town. What was he mailing anyway?"

"Now that's the interesting part: He's sending a letter all the way to Rome, Italy!"

"Rome, Italy! What on earth for?"

"Beats me. It's to," she peered more closely at the letter, adjusting her ten dollar WalMart reading glasses a bit further down her nose: "Someone named Joe Marten. And the return address is to an S Draekins Marten care of general delivery."

"S Draekins? Now why does that name sound familiar?" the postmaster said. "Sandy Draekins, perhaps?.....Hmmm."

The postmaster, an androgynous being in his/her early fifties - impossible to be sure which gender without removing the regulation USPO uniform, and this was not one you would want to see unclothed - walked around the barrier between the work area and the public waiting area to look at a wall of mug shots. Amongst the most wanted were pictures of missing children, and halfway to the bottom of that group was the picture of Sandy Draekins. Below her picture was that of her younger brother Eric.

"Oh my goodness, I wonder if that is the same child as mailed this letter!" She/he exclaimed.

"Oh please, Herbert, that was clearly a young man in his twenties, not some teenage girl," Bethany protested.

"I'm not an idiot Beth! Of course the person who mailed the letter wasn't Sandy, but he could have been mailing it _for_ her, especially if she's a runaway or abductee!"

"Maybe it was a ransom note, sent to her father?" suggested the chastened postal clerk.

"Or maybe it was someone else entirely," said Herbert: "Not for us to judge. But I will send this on to the Federal Bureau of Investigation: I'm not allowed to open the letter, but maybe they can."

********

The suspicious letter was forwarded to a special agent of the FBI in the San Francisco headquarters, after a phone call from the postmaster in Eureka to ensure the missive got into the proper hands with all due haste.

Unfortunately that agent was suddenly beset with a case of shingles the day before the letter arrived, and thus it was put in his inbox. By the time he returned to work six weeks later, the inbox was overflowing with urgent, important, past due matters needing his immediate attention, so the letter from the little girl in Eureka to her adoptive dad in Rome would not even be looked at for another three months.

Just as well.

Chapter 59

Rome, Italy

The waters you saw, where the prostitute sits, are

_peoples, multitudes, nations and languages_.

Revelation 17:15

"So I went to their damned symposium," Moni read aloud, looking up over the edge of the letter at the men seated in the sunny parlor with a little smile; "stupid enough to still hold out some hope that they would finally accept Hemming's theories about the causal chains involved in the ocean's deterioration, or at the very least be somewhat more receptive his hypotheses after all that has happened..."

The dark-haired woman paused to take a sip of tepid boiled water, giving the men a wry grimace: "Need I read on?" She asked.

"Probably not," Joe smiled back; "but go ahead anyway. The letters from your surfer friend are always entertaining in their own off-the-wall way, even if not exactly optimistic."

She looked carefully at the man across the room, noting the deep melancholy underlying the crinkle of warmth in his blue eyes, the hair that had become noticeably salted with grey over the months. She blew him a kiss, then continued.

"The International Symposium of Oceanography, and Marine and Atmospheric Research was held this spring in the nearly empty halls of the UC San Diego's Scripps Institute after repeated delays. Although I wasn't allowed to present Dr. Hemmings paper in full - which was just as well, as I wouldn't have known what I was talking about anyway - I _was_ allowed to read the abstract and to pass out copies of the entire research thesis to whoever might want a copy. Hemmings was, of course, unable to attend personally, seeing as how there is a worldwide bounty on his head due to his involvement with the plague thing, but that's a whole other story."

"Anyway, it seems the mainstream scientists have at last admitted to the reality of the massive death of sea life throughout the world's oceans over the past twelve months, mainly because the evidence is just too obvious to deny any longer; and yet the fools still deny the cause."

"They documented that tens of thousands of baleen whales, from the massive eighty foot finbacks to small pygmy rights, have beached themselves during the past year alone: Random necropsies have shown most of these animals to be in the final stages of starvation. During the last twelve months there have also been verified reports of other dead sea mammals, birds and fish littering shorelines around the globe in numbers too great to remove or properly bury, resulting in a stench from their decomposition that has made it impossible for humans to live within five miles of the beach, even in such jet set havens as Acapulco, Costa del Sol and the French Riviera."

"The Kardashians must be so distressed," Giovanni said as he entered the room.

Moni rolled her eye. The other stayed put. She took another sip of water, then continued to read them Buzzy's letter, which hammered on in a vituperative voice, describing the cautiously understated scientific accounts of marine swarming - that horrifying phenomena first witnessed by Buzzy himself in California - which was now an all too common occurrence worldwide: Big fish chasing smaller fish chasing still smaller fish onto coastal beaches, bays and harbors in a bloody feeding frenzy that left behind few pieces even large enough to dissect and biopsy.

Starvation, it was agreed, seemed to be a key factor in all these events, although tissue samples had turned up as well some evidence of hypoxia and ammonia poisoning which might have contributed to the bizarre phenomena.

Yet despite this, Buzzy groused, the learned body of scientific experts had stubbornly clung to the unsupported hypothesis that all these aberrations in the planet's vast salt water system could be explained by one thing: the purportedly "temporary" warming trend in the ocean.

"He says they call it _El nino no es para siempre,"_ she smiled, looking up.

"Not really," Gio asked.

"Nah, he's just being a smart ass. Let me finish."

Buzzy, she paraphrased, went on to say that the scientists believed the warming of the ocean had caused a massive proliferation of salp blooms, which in turn they theorized had stripped large areas of the northern Atlantic and Pacific of phytoplankton. This in turn led to an imbalance of the dissolved oxygen and carbon dioxide levels in the sea, starving and/or asphyxiating many interdependent forms of marine life all the way up the food chain.

"Superficially the individual facts of their theory may be scientifically credible," she read; "provided one doesn't look too closely at certain suppositions and omissions. For example the _temporary_ \- ha! - warming trend, which they tout as the primary cause, is actually just a contributory factor which may have speeded up the process of deterioration, but didn't start it. Also it can only be construed as 'temporary' in the geologic sense of the word, as in _ice age_ or Jurassic Period, comprendes?"

"These jokers with all the letters after their names are like a bunch of old lady ostriches, afraid to face the terrible truth that the ocean's phytoplankton - pasture of the sea upon which all life on earth depends for oxygen - is not being killed off by a temporary and remediable problem such as a short-lived bloom of salp, but by the ever-increasing concentrations of mankind's chemical wastes - pesticides, herbicides, fertilizers, industrial byproducts and even sewage - that has been flushed out into the world's oceans over the past century or so."

Moni stopped to catch her breath. "That was quite a sentence," she said. "Do you need me to repeat it?"

The men shook their heads.

"And that is not even taking into account the ever-widening ozone hole in the stratosphere at both poles - again the byproduct of man-made pollutants - which allows deadly solar radiation to strike the surface with such intensity that it is killing off most of the phytoplankton in the regions above the 60th parallel each spring. Far easier for these pundits to think-hope that the problem will simply right itself in a year or so, once the ocean temp magically returns to normal. I mean, what can they do anyway, but hope? The whole thing is out of their hands, out of all our hands!"

"Cheery sort, ain't he?" Joe said, and Moni graced him with one of her better faces: She had gotten quite adept at sending her good eye in comical apposition to the fixed stare of the glass imitation, while twisting her mouth into a caricature of anger, disgust or just plain goofiness, depending on the occasion. On this one it was a little of all three.

Joe, Mike and Gio burst into laughter despite themselves, at which Moni nodded and returned to a studied deadpan.

" **Any** -way," she continued in a tone of exaggerated patience, "Buzzy says that Dr. Hemming's closed ecosystem on the big island is fully operational - they finally got all the bugs out - and he's just going to ride the rest of this out from there and hope for the best. He asked Buzzy to try to find out how many of the communes we're in touch with have begun construction on their own ecosystems, and to urge them to get started without further delay as time is running out. Buzzy would like our help with contacting them, and says to tell them he's willing to act as a consultant if they run into any problems with construction, not that he's an expert or anything. Sincerely, best wishes and all that," she finished.

"Nice guy," Joe commented drily, then seeing Moni's quick defensive look added: "No, I really mean it. He _is_ a nice guy, and as much a fanatic to his cause as we are to ours, I guess. I think it's great that he's so concerned with helping the Christian communities to survive; it's just hard for me to believe that these self-contained ecosystems are really that vital, that all the oxygen on this planet is going to disappear."

"Well, I imagine it's just as hard for him to accept what we're saying about the end times, the advent of Satan and all that," Mike reminded him gently. "We each have our part in this. By the way, Moni, how _are_ the communes doing? What have you heard from them lately?"

The woman rose and set the little stack of correspondence from her lap onto her desk, handing him the topmost letter. "These are all I've gotten so far from any of them. That one came this morning, and it just happens to be from an old friend of yours. Why don't you go get Cardinal Luigi, then read it aloud to the others while I put on some tea."

The letter was from Deacon Timothy Murphy, postmarked a week earlier from California. It began, as all his letters to them, with the formal salutation:

"Greetings to the two witnesses, the olive trees that stand like candlesticks before the God of heaven and earth."

Joe, as usual, looked discomfited. "I wish he wouldn't always say that," he protested mildly. "God knows I'm not that good a person."

"We're not, but He is," Mike reminded him.

The deacon reported first on the growing number of communes that had been springing up across the American north and Canada in the wake of his cross-country proselytizing, as he carried their message and warning to the people.

"The New England communes, unfortunately, have already had to move north into the wilderness areas of Quebec and Nova Scotia due to the scarcity of potable groundwater at their original sites," he reported, adding that the few American settlements attempted below the 45th parallel - with the exception of a couple in very remote mountainous regions - had dispersed as well when their own water sources dried up or became polluted last spring; their lands and homes now vacant, abandoned to mice and feral cats.

"Hopefully the former inhabitants joined other more successful camps to the north; although we must face the sad truth that a certain number of converts were no doubt pulled back along the path of least resistance, returning to their old homes, old ways, and the deceptively gentle and caring, enfolding arms of Satan under the guise of the New W.O.R.D. program."

Timothy's letter concluded with news of Happy Valley, where he'd just spent a week enjoying a brief respite from his nearly continuous journeying across the face of America.

"So good not to have to watch one's back for a while," the deacon joked - and Mike could almost see his freckled face break into that repressed boyish grin of his. The priest smiled, remembering, but just as quickly the smile left and his face hardened, realizing what very real danger Tim Murphy faced every time he enjoined some crowd of strangers to forfeit the security of easy, promised "survival" through the free food and supplies offered by the New W.O.R.D. centers, pleading with them to instead leave everything behind and run off into the wilderness to scratch a questionable existence out of the harsh, dry, unforgiving land. By this time too many of these hungry, frightened, apathetic and uncertain creatures had already gone over, gotten their tattoos, their food...and were thus - whether knowingly or not - now among those claimed by Satan as the spiritually damned. Not too many would appreciate his message: A number might even feel seriously compelled to shut the man up so they wouldn't have to face the truth of what they'd become, especially those who had chosen the side of evil knowingly, those who worked for the New W.O.R.D. and fully understood its true purpose.

And the brave young deacon had no protection, not of the kind God had seen fit to grant Mike and Joe when they preached and prophesied in Saint Peter's Square: No invisible shield of fire would come to ward off bottles, rocks, or bullets in the back. Yet he went on with his message regardless.

Mike closed his eyes, offering a brief heartfelt prayer for the missionary's safety, then went on to read the last paragraph.

"The aqueduct system your boy Eric dreamed up was a huge success, so now they are talking about putting in a series of levies, then draining the main channel so they can deepen and widen it and extend it further into the riverbed as well as into their fields. It seems the water level in the Klamath is dropping even faster than they had anticipated. However the elders of the commune were forced to begin turning people away recently, after determining that their valley could not really support more than its present population of about five hundred men, women and children. They say that even though the rejected settlers have by and large been cooperative about it, there have been a few isolated incidents of overt hostility and even threats, which the elders fear may become more common and possibly more drastic as times continue to worsen. I find it disturbing that the council is seriously considering setting up an armed guard around the perimeter of the compound."

Joe and Mike exchanged worried looks at this revelation.

"Finally," Mike read; "Eric and Sandy are 'swell' and send daddy Joe their love. They tell me the elders made them write you a letter a couple of weeks back, asking you to personally verify that the New W.O.R.D organization was truly a trap set by Satan, as - if not - the commune could really use the money it promises."

Moni had just walked in with a tray of tea and thinly buttered dark bread, and hearing that she interjected: "If the kids sent a letter, I never got it Joe!"

"That's not good," he replied, frowning.

"But mail delivery is so sporadic now, especially international mail. It might take weeks for something to get here from Cali," Mike reminded him.

"If ever," Moni shrugged. "Anyway, regarding the potential attacks on their commune: I've received similar stories from some of the European Christian communities I'm in correspondence with as well," she said soberly; "particularly those in the more populous areas of the western Alps bordering Italy, France and Switzerland. Resident farmers apparently resent the takeover of their community grazing lands by these unwanted homesteaders; and locals from nearby villages and resorts - most of them devout Catholics to start with, and now members of the New W.O.R.D. - see the communes as dangerous heretic splinter groups. So not only do these people worry about repercussions from would-be members they must turn away, but also fear that these Catholic neighbors might soon begin more active aggression against them. Many have taken up arms already with which to defend themselves and their property, even though I've tried to tell them that God's rules still take precedence even in these terrible times."

"But they have the right to protect themselves don't they?" Giovanni protested.

"And what about what it says here in Revelations?" Joe had picked up a well-worn bible and was quickly thumbing through it. Now he read aloud: "'Give back to her as she has given, and repay her double according to her works;' This is what we are supposed to do to Babylon, which represents the Vatican after it is taken over by the powers of darkness."

"But does this _'give back'_ mean by violence? Does it mean we are to kill ordinary people, those who were misled and entrapped by their own weakness," Mike questioned; "or just those in control of the Vatican itself?"

"They chose to partake of her riches, they made themselves part of her," Joe said. "It says right here: _Come out of her, my people, lest you share in her sins, and lest you receive of her plagues._ "

"May I see that a moment?"

Joe handed the bible to Mike. The priest flipped back one page, scanned briefly, then said: "Yes, here it is; Chapter 14, verse 12. To those who **didn't** take the mark of the beast it says: _'Here is the patience of the saints; they that keep the commandments of God, and the faith of Jesus_.'"

"So Moni is right," Joe mused; "Even now, we must keep God's commandments not to kill one another, and Jesus' admonitions to love our enemy, to turn the other cheek. These apply right to the end...perhaps more than ever now."

"We'd better compose an advisory letter to send out to all these communes at once, citing this passage," Mike said, turning to Moni. "We have to let them know that they could still blow it, that despite all their sacrifices thus far, if they resort to violence and murder in order to protect their food and property they will be among the damned."

"That's so difficult," Joe sighed, shaking his head of wavy brown hair, now long enough to be tied back in a pony-tail. "After all these people have given up, after all they've been through already on account of their faith, to have to then stand passively by while their farms are destroyed, their last hope of life wrested from them by an angry mob; left to slowly starve while all around them people are growing fat on account of a little blue ink imprinted beneath their skin...How many can possibly last through such a test?"

"You need to read the next line," Moni said gently, putting a hand on his arm. "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on."

He took her hand and put it to her lips. "It's still really tough," he murmured against her skin.

Chapter 60

The Vatican

The woman was dressed in purple and scarlet, and was glittering

with gold, precious stones and pearls. She held a golden cup in her

hand filled with abominable things and the filth of her adulteries.

Revelation 17:4

"We're getting rich," Pope Caius chanted, smiling broadly from behind the auspices of his massive, ornately decorated antique desk.

"Yes we are!" Cardinal Secretary Bassindo agreed happily, his large ears beneath the skull cap flushed pink with excitement.

"Yes indeed!" Cardinal Bautista grinned shark-like, leaning back in his chair to light a huge Cuban cigar while Caius re-read the charts and ledgers the financial chieftain had spread on the desk before him.

The first six months of New W.O.R.D.'s charitable operations had netted a whopping one point two billion Euros in cash, gold and precious jewels and property deeds from "those who could afford to pay."

Netted.

Caius smiled again. No one, it seemed, was taking any chances on pissing "God" off by cheating at a time like this.

Nor was he wasting any of his own valuable time and energy on guilt feelings about it: Why should he worry about something as paltry as abrogating his promise to keep donations for food strictly "voluntary"...or for that matter to keep the distribution of supplies totally equitable; to each according to his need. He wasn't no commie, he grinned.

The second thought he pushed away quickly: What he was doing, who he was doing it for, vastly outweighed any minor sins like breaking your word.

When those in the middle and upper income brackets had all but thrown their liquid assets at New W.O.R.D. officials in exchange for a few under-the-table extras, Caius had said "Why not?"

It was early enough in the program that the minor excesses would never be noticed, and with only the Vatican itself to audit its own records and keep an exact tabulation of amounts doled out to recipients, who would ever know for sure? Better yet, who would dare to argue against them, even if they did suspect something: Everyone was over the same barrel now that the Vatican organization had complete control over all the world's food stores.

"In another six months," Bautista broke into the Pontiff's thoughts; "the oil sheikhs will be deeding us the Persian Gulf, the Queen Windsor Castle. Right now these super-rich assholes still think they're royalty, as long as they have their own private black markets for food and such. But soon enough, when the last of their sources dry up and we hold all the aces, they'll come around too. Begging," he snickered, blowing a huge cloud of blue-white cigar smoke confidently into the air of the opulent office.

"What is your best estimate," Caius turned to the Secretary of State, catching him with his finger up his nose; "of the percentage of 'converts' globally we have at present on our roles?"

Bassindo wiped something on the bottom of the chair, oblivious to his socially unacceptable act, and fumbled through the pile of computer print-out sheets on his lap.

"We have, at last tabulation your Holiness, assigned sequential numbers to roughly one billion people, which is almost forty percent of the remaining world population at this time...not bad for just six months. Nearly six million sign up per day worldwide."

His finger had found its way happily into his nostril again. "Attendance at Sunday Mass is also reportedly way up in most parishes," he added brightly; "I suppose due to the sorrows of the times."

"Yes, well, thank you Cardinal Bassindo," Caius replied, averting his eyes in disgust. "Armandi, could you bring our Cardinal Secretary a box of tissue?"

Chapter 61

Happy Valley, California

When you see the abomination that causes desolation...

then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains.

Mark 13:14

The ancient army jeep bounced viciously over the deeply rutted dirt road, threatening to jar the fillings loose in the grim-faced driver's clenched jaw. The trail wound steeply upward through a parched, brown-needled pine forest, its choking trail of powdery grey dust - blown skyward behind the oversized deep tread tires - an advertisement of his approach for the past twenty miles.

As he neared the summit of the mountain pass two figures appeared, standing atop the ridge on either side of the narrow road. Their clothing was old and thoroughly patched, hair and beards long and unkempt; but the shotguns held in each pair of darkly-tanned arms gleamed in the hot October sun like new business. An unnecessary warning shot tattered the air a few feet above the intruder's head as he brought the vehicle to an abrupt, shuddering halt.

Raising his hands high above his head, the driver jumped lightly out of the open cab, his unbuttoned aloha shirt, khaki shorts and bare hairy legs spread wide to prove his innocence of weapons, hidden or otherwise.

"Road's closed ahead," one of the sentries called down, maintaining his position on the ridge with his gun still pointed at the man: "Private property from here on."

"I have important business at the Happy Valley commune," the visitor replied calmly, a wry twist of his mouth wondering at the "happy" in light of his welcoming committee. "I have papers in the glove compartment identifying me and my purpose in coming."

"And what might that be?" the first guard questioned as the second scrambled warily down the hillock and approached the passenger side of the jeep opposite the unwelcome stranger, his shotgun still at the ready.

"I'm here to help you, and to warn you."

The guard by the jeep rifled the glove compartment's contents skeptically.

"What you're looking for is in the black zippered envelope," the stranger advised, remaining carefully immobile, only a darting glance at the man to whom he'd directed his comment taking his eyes momentarily from the long barrel pointed at his midsection from the man above.

"I'll take everything, if you don't mind...just to be sure you are who you say you are and you don't have any hidden weapons or contraband in here." The guard collected the contents of the glove box, and then the large brown duffle bag from the back seat as well, setting them aside in the dirt. Next he searched under the front seat and floor mats, and even got down on hands and knees to peer up under the car to be sure nothing was hidden there.

"All clear," he yelled to the sentry on the hill. "I'll take this stuff to Elder McAfee," his voice a request for approval more than a direct statement: "He'll know what to do."

"I thought your leader was Reverend Reaper," the stranger protested, surprising his captors.

"Took sick last week. You know 'im? The one in charge asked suspiciously.

"I've been in correspondence with him; he knew I was coming."

"Well, we'll have to check that out, won't we? He ain't doin' too good right now; heart attack the doc says. But if he's up to talkin' we'll ask him about you. What'd you say yer name was?"

"Buzzy. Buzzy Bent. I'm a friend of Professor Charles Hemmings and a lady named Moni Vasquez: They've been writing him too."

"Bent. Hemmings, Valdez...you got that Jacob?" The in charge called down to the guard on the road.

"Vasquez, Moni Vasquez," Buzzy corrected him.

"Whatever. Go see McAfee first, let him decide whether to disturb father Phillips with this. I'll keep an eye on our friend here."

Two hot dry hours later Buzzy was at last on his way again, being escorted down the long winding road on the other side of the summit into the narrow valley below, and suffocating in the dust kicked up by the late model red Blazer that preceded him. In the seat beside Buzzy sat the present leader of the commune - John McAfee - who was reading over the plans the Californian had brought them and chattering excitedly.

A thin silver ribbon of water zigzagged along the valley floor far below, tiny angular capillaries spreading out from it to the fields on the left, the largest vein ending in a broad reservoir. Numerous smaller mirrored ponds and patches of bright green vegetation lay between. Aside from the hardiest needles on the biggest, most deeply rooted evergreens, these were the only evidence of really thriving greenery the former surfer from California had seen in his seven hundred mile journey north from Sand City.

Happy Valley's source of life-sustaining water, once the broad rushing accumulation of run-off from no less than ten major mountain rivers, had waned to less than one fifth its normal flow by this time, according to McAfee. Buzz knew, looking at the wide expanse of baked mud on either side of the murky, thirty food wide stream, that he'd arrived none too soon.

That night a community meeting was held in the large white frame church at the commune's hub: Bernard "Buzzy" Bent was the keynote speaker.

The large, excited gathering in the dimly lit hall - its flickering illumination provided by a few widely-spaced fluorescent bulbs powered by an erratic wind generator - was quickly subdued into silence by the expression on the lean-muscled, bronze tanned man with the long sun-bleached hair. He looked over the little sea of careworn faces that turned up towards him with some vague unnamed hope still in their eyes. There were some five hundred souls in all - the men mostly under forty, mostly bearded; the women too young to look so tired and drawn, some with babies struggling at their drooping breasts - and he did his best to shatter their final illusions that this would all soon pass...hating himself as he did so.

But if he couldn't make them understand, fully grasp, believe and come to grips with the fact that the ocean was dying and with it the planet's primary source of breathable oxygen, then they would never make the effort necessary to save themselves until it was too late.

It was this lack of comprehension and belief, this denial of a truth too hard to face, that was responsible for the politely apathetic disinterest most of the communes he'd visited thus far had displayed towards the idea of building their own self-contained ecosystems. Buzz had taken it upon himself to travel across North America, visiting every commune personally in order to drive home the message that - without the fully enclosed and self-contained oxygen-carbon dioxide exchange systems these eco-domes would provide - the people could expect to begin suffering the effects of oxygen deprivation within the year.

"Before five years are up," he now told the gathering at Happy Valley; "if the human population continues at its present level of activity - which of course they won't be able to - virtually all the atmospheric oxygen will be completely gone. Even with diminishing population numbers and consequent oxygen use entered in to the equation, there still won't be enough free oxygen left to sustain normal day to day activity for most air-breathing life forms. Only those species capable of long periods of dormancy \- hibernators such as reptiles, amphibians and certain insects - are likely to survive outside of an eco-dome. If you hold any hope for your own survival and that of your children, those babies I see cradled in your arms, then you must begin construction of your own little self-contained worlds at once!"

Buzzy went on to describe the principles on which the ecosystem operated: the humans and food animals exchanging their solid wastes and CO2 \- nutrients for plant growth - for the food and oxygen the plants created. Within such a closed system, Buzz told them, evaporation would also be contained and recycled, thus conserving their existing water supply. This could be enhanced even further by use of hydroponics for crop cultivation so that little or no loss through soil drainage occurred.

"Meat consumption should be minimized: I suggest fish ponds, chickens - mainly for their eggs - and maybe a few rabbits, nothing larger. I can even show you how to build an inexpensive and effective water filtration device which can recycle your own liquid wastes and maintain a water supply clean enough to drink, cook with and bathe in."

"Yuk!" said a child in the first row, and others - many much older - nodded in agreement.

"It's what the astronauts used," Buzzy told them with a little smile.

"Really?" the boy said. "Cool."

"You can also put perimeter wire around each eco-dome that will discourage any would-be intruders with a non-lethal electrical shock, so maybe you wouldn't need those shotguns," he grinned down at the two sentries seated in the third row.

"Ah, we never shoot anybody," the younger guard demurred, blushing. "They're just to scare people off."

"I know," Buzz smiled. "Anyway, the materials you will need are not all that costly, not with today's depressed economy. The world out there," he waved an expansive hand beyond the walls of their church, their mountain valley; "has by and large reverted to the barter system. Money is virtually worthless, but some things have become priceless. That Chevy Blazer of yours, for instance, could probably be traded to the owner of some defunct building supply house in Eureka for everything you need to build several eco-domes here, enough to house every one of you for many years to come."

After a period of discussion, of sharp questions and equally sharp answers, the matter was put to a vote of the entire congregation. It passed by more than four to one on the first poll.

"I'll stay long enough to help you get started," Buzz told them; "to see the supplies bought, plans drawn, organization plan set up. But that can't take longer than two or three weeks: there are sixty large communes I still have to visit, and if I can't convince them to begin construction on their own eco-domes within the next year..." He stopped, put up his hands: enough said.

The Christians of Happy Valley did better than that: Buzzy Bent was able to get on his way with their thanks, their blessings, a three month supply of dried jerky, a couple of bags of fresh fruit and vegetables - and the knowledge that he'd helped secure the future of at least one small segment of the human race - in just fifteen days.

Chapter 62

Walnut Creek, California

If anyone worships the beast and its image...they too will drink the wine of God's fury.

Revelation 14:9-10

"Oomph," detective Paul Grogan, SFPD retired, groaned as he came unwillingly out of sleep at the point of a sharp elbow.

"You were snoring again," a grumpy female voice informed him from the darkness, a disembodied voice out of the abyss. "Besides, it's time to get up; today's our turn to open the shop."

The overweight fifty-eight year old got up out of bed naked, stretching and farting simultaneously, all three of which factors turned Dolores Bundiss's stomach. As did the fact that he'd moved into her lovely home two years earlier: two years, three months and eleven days, not to put too fine a point on it - him and his smelly cigars, smellier socks and unbelievable non-stop flatulence - and it appeared she was stuck with him for the duration, although on the duration of what she was still a little vague.

Their middle-aged love affair had already - even before he moved in - become comfortably routine and borderline tedious, but the idea he proposed - that by taking up residence in her home he could protect her and the kids during the social unrest that was burgeoning out of control during the worst of the plague outbreak - had overcome any personal misgivings. Within two weeks of his moving in she'd begun to find more and more excuses to avoid him, a wave of mild repulsion curling through her spine even now at the thought of his grunting efforts. To her relief, their physical relationship had quickly deteriorated to next to nothing once he took up permanent residence in her bed, nothing but his constant under the covers farting and raucous snoring. She graced him with a reproving look now as she passed him on her way to the shower.

Grogan was fully aware of her disgust, but what the hell. He inspected his naked, hairy body in her dressing room mirror: The overhanging paunch had been reduced by about twenty-five pounds, and though the flesh was still flabby and unhealthy looking...well, shit, she wasn't no looker herself, you know? In any case he hadn't had a whole lot of options back then, after his third paycheck in as many months had bounced again, and his landlord had used the excuse of his past due rent to kick him out of the crummy flat he'd lived in for over eighteen years.

He knew the only reason the old kike had evicted him was so that he could sell the goddam building to some camel fuckers from Kuwait that were buying up every piece of available property in the city, thinking they were going to make a killing in California real estate once the current crisis-driven recession ended. By now, he snickered - farting again - they were probably licking the wallpaper paste from the mother fucking walls, right down to the yellow stained area behind the john. Some killing, MF'ers: fuckers got what they deserved; nothin' was worth nothin' anymore.

So he'd moved in with Dolores, and even if she had turned out to be a class A cunt, so what? She wouldn't dare kick him out, not with the icon around. And it beat the hell out of living in his car. Besides, they both worked at the New W.O.R.D.'s East Bay distribution headquarters now - had since early last year \- at his insistence. He credited himself - as he frequently reminded her - with the fact that as a result of his foresight they were now reasonably well fed and secure in a world where many were starving or already dead.

Dolores, shivering as she turned off the tepid shower - the best they were allowed since natural gas was now severely rationed - was at that very moment also thinking about their affiliation with New W.O.R.D., but her thoughts were somewhat less benign.

In the first place, she wasn't at all comfortable working in that huge waterfront warehouse, invoicing and helping to sort the vast shipments of grain and canned goods that arrived by ship almost daily. She resented working like a common laborer alongside sweaty blacks and shifty-eyed Orientals as the goods were prepared for shipment by truck to the local distribution centers.

But lately there was something even more unsettling to contend with than social stations, something a bit more basic. Over the past few months she'd noticed in her tallies a gradual drop in the amount of foodstuffs arriving each week. The warehouse, once crammed so full it was difficult to drive a forklift through the aisles, was also visibly emptier.

Last week she'd suggested to her supervisor that perhaps they should cut back the amounts allotted to each local distribution center, at least until their own stockpiles built back up. But he'd assured her that the situation was only temporary, the fault of a shipping backlog.

"Besides," he'd cautioned, laying a hand on her shoulder; "you don't want to start a riot do you? Start cutting back the rations, and rumors begin to fly: Next thing you know half the blacks in Alameda are breaking down our doors to get what they think we've stolen from them: Whites and Mexis too, for that matter."

She'd shrugged off his hand, her concerns: Still she had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. As she pulled on her pink polyester stretch pants, her silk print blouse and matching jacket, she wondered aloud: "Are we running out of food?"

When she came outside Paul was already in the car, filling her clean, well-maintained five year old Celica with his filthy cigar smoke, that damned icon on the seat beside him as usual. She glanced away, climbed in the back.

Funny about that thing: When he'd first brought it home on his return from Rome two years earlier, she'd found the statuette almost unbearably beautiful; she couldn't take her eyes off its gleaming marble obelisk nor the golden figure of Pope Marcus poised in flight at its top, like an angel lifting up towards heaven. Lately however, like everything else in her life, it had begun to fade, its beauty to fail.

"Put that thing out, please," she ordered Grogan, although whether she was referring to the cigar or the icon she herself couldn't have said.

"It's been talking to me again," Grogan informed her from behind the cigar, still clenched stubbornly between his yellowed teeth "About how we need to go get those grandkids of yours before it's too late. I don't think we ought to be ignoring his orders like this, Dottie."

Dolores sighed loudly. "We don't even know where they are, Paul," she said in the tone of a woman who has repeated the same tired argument one too many times.

"We know _approximately_ where they are, **Dottie** ," he corrected, mimicking her tone exactly, knowing how much she detested that nickname. "And you know full well that the icon will help us zero in on them once we get close."

The older woman pursed her wrinkled lips, hating these periodic confrontations. She didn't feel up to it today: Frankly she didn't feel up to much of anything lately. She'd already been to the company doctor twice in the past month about her chronic constipation and indigestion, her vague indefinable muscular fatigue and cramping. Both times he'd told her not to worry, that it was a very common complaint these days, probably nothing more than a temporary upper GI tract disturbance caused by the new high carb diet everyone was forced to consume.

He'd given her Maalox and Metamucil and a patronizing smile. But her condition seemed to be, if anything, worsening. Just now she'd had to shake her head slightly and adjust her pearl framed bifocals to clear a momentary blurring of vision, a purple aura that blotted out half her eyesight.

"So," Grogan persisted; "When should we go?"

"We, we can't just take off, Paul: It has to be planned out, prepared for. We'll need extra food, cans of gasoline for the car; and how are we going to save up when we barely have enough to get by as it is?...Plus what if someone breaks into my house while we're gone, did you even think about that? And have you considered what will happen if we quit our jobs at New W.O.R.D to go on this quest? What will we do for food and money when we get back?"

"We can worry about that when we get back. I personally have no worries: I don't think the icon would send us off on this mission just to leave us high and dry once we carry it out. As for the other things you mention: I've worked out a plan for that already. We'll sneak out a little extra food from the warehouse each day - just what we can fit in our pockets. And I'll siphon out a half gallon of gas from your car each night so it looks like we're not getting quite as good gas mileage to work and back as before...perfectly reasonable, with no mechanics around to give tune-ups anymore. They'll up our gas ration for work and never be the wiser."

"We'll need at least fifty or sixty gallons to get there and back, provided the kids really are somewhere around Eureka like that letter indicates."

She was referring to the letter the FBI had shown them, the one the postmaster from Eureka had forwarded to the authorities when she noticed the name of the sender was the same as the girl on the missing child poster, Sandy Draekins.

"And provided we can locate them without wasting too much of that fuel in pointless driving around," she added, then paused, wincing at a small sharp pain in her stomach.

"Okay, so maybe it will take us a couple of months to filch what we need without being so obvious we get caught; but when we've stocked enough food and gas to be sure we can get there and back, we'll go, okay?"

She nodded, fighting a new wave of nausea as the lead - which had been accumulating in her body ever since chemically desalinated water from the bay began replacing their regular tap water twelve months earlier - continued its slow insidious deterioration of her tissues and brain cells.

We'll go, she thought; although I really can't understand why bringing the brats back is so important to Paul and to that icon of his: It certainly isn't to me.

Chapter 63

Happy Valley, California

How dreadful it will be in those days for pregnant women and nursing mothers.

Luke 21:23

Anna Schwennessen sat bolt upright in bed, clutching her swollen belly. Unsure what had awakened her, she knew only that her heart was fluttering in her chest like a frightened sparrow. She listened for stirrings from the three children asleep on an old double mattress in the opposite corner of the one room cabin. Hearing none, she lay back down, shifting her unwieldy bulk, trying to find a comfortable position for sleep.

Then the second birth pain hit, sending a frightened shriek from her pale lips.

A shadowy figure appeared almost instantly at her side: "What's wrong, Anna; is it the baby?"

The wide-eyed young face hovering above hers in the dim flickering light from an old woodstove looked as scared as Anna felt. The woman smiled wanly at the girl.

"I think...I think so, Sandy. Maybe you best run for Doc Roberts and his wi...." Another intense contraction cut her off mid-sentence, bending her forward over the immense belly as she bit her lip to keep from screaming, not wanting to frighten the sleeping children in the room. She closed her eyes against the pain, which seemed to go on forever. When it had finally passed the girl was already gone.

When Anna had arrived at the commune two days before Christmas, she'd had only five dollars left in her pocketbook and less than a gallon of gas in her car. She'd had no idea what to do if they turned her away. But they accepted her donation of the valuable sheep and even more valuable four wheel drive SUV (not overly concerned with her confession that the borrowed items had not been entirely hers to begin with, nor that the Blazer still had a repossessor chasing it somewhere back in Nebraska.) They'd accepted the gifts with great enthusiasm, she and the children with perhaps just a little less.

The men had pitched in to build her this small but sturdy log cabin near the upper end of the valley, and cleared a small garden plot beside it. After a while, watching her struggle with an old hand shovel, a few of her closest neighbors had taken pity and helped her finish the small channel she'd begun, connecting her personal garden with the main aqueduct system.

Later, as she neared term, one of these kindly men had sent his own house girl, Sandy, to help out with the chores and children, and to be there with her at night.

Good thing, Anna thought now, bracing herself as another tremendous uterine contraction threatened to throw her right off the narrow cot. This time she did scream: She screamed because of the pain, and because she was all alone and afraid: She screamed because the house was dark and she could feel the bones of her pelvis spreading apart under the unbearable pressure, and she screamed because at that moment she was quite sincerely certain she would die.

Her legs splayed out, back arched as yet another pain struck, then another: She could feel the baby forcing its way into the birth canal, feel it stuck there in that tiny crevice, splitting her in two.

"No!" she cried into the darkness, sobbing: "No, please stop, go back! I don't want you, I can't have you, you're too big, too big!"

She was vaguely aware of her other three children, screaming and crying in the corner, but she was beyond comforting them. Suddenly the door slammed open, just as another contraction overwhelmed her; a second later a cool pair of hands grabbed hold of her temples as another pair threw the blankets away from her straining bulk.

"Push, Anna!" A male voice ordered sternly, cutting through her panic. "Push! Harder! There now, good girl: One more big push and it's out. Push! Push!"

All at once there was a rush of liquid and weight from her body, a wonderful release from the huge monster stuck between her legs. Seconds later a heartily furious, tiny voice screamed its own indignation, and adult voices laughed in relief and joy. Next moment a small, naked, bloody, red-faced human being with a thick mop of straight black hair was laid upon her belly.

"Congratulations, Anna," Doctor Roberts said, grinning from ear to ear; "you have a fine, healthy baby boy."

Later, after the doctor's wife and Sandy had changed the sheets and gone into the kitchen alcove to make tea, Anna lay back against the pillows cradling her newborn infant son to her breast, stroking his incredibly soft little cheek with a trembling fingertip, and crying; crying with happiness for the gift of his life, his presence; and with fear for their future, his and her own.

Chapter 64

The Vatican

The merchants of the earth will weep and mourn over her

because no one buys their cargoes anymore.

Revelation 18:11

The man in the pontifical robes was afraid; afraid in his stomach and in his bowels, even if his mind refused to acknowledge the truth of his terror.

Housed in spare apartments within the Vatican City complex, as well as in some of the nearly empty resort hotels in Rome, were the members of the third annual World Disaster conference. Less than one fourth the number that had met in New York City two years ago, when the initial plans for the New W.O.R.D. were proposed, were able to attend this meeting: Most of the third world countries were in such a state of chaos by now that they'd been unable to decide who they were, let alone who should represent them.

Those delegates who _had_ come - mostly from the United States, Europe and the oil-producing countries - were among the richest and most powerful men left in the world. They'd arrived - with few commercial airlines still operative - by private jet or yacht, and most in a state of high and desperate anger.

It had been Hurtwell's idea to hold the meeting here at the Vatican, rather than under UN auspices again.

"Home field advantage," he'd grinned, looking as natty as ever as he'd informed Caius of his plan. "That way if they get too fresh with you, I can always resurrect the ghost of Pope Marcus, spring some weird-ass manifestation on them, and utter one of his 'Oracle of God' pronouncements in a voice from the abyss: That ought to shut them up."

The demon had laughed aloud at the idea, the echoes of his bestial reality resonating eerily beneath the human voice.

"Can you do that? Be in the room as this man they know," Caius asked skeptically, indicating Hurtwell with a wave of his hand; "and at the same time manifest yourself as Marcus, speaking through him as well as yourself?"

"Idiot! Do you think I, like you, can only occupy one space, one body, at the same time? How long have you been with me now anyway, Pope Caius, that you still don't understand the nature of the game?"

The Pontiff had shut up then, keeping his doubts to himself. But this morning, just three hours before the symposium commenced, he wished he'd had the balls to tell Hurtwell to do this someplace else, or - that failing - he wished _he_ were someplace else, someone else, today.

He already knew what he would hear at this meeting: Hell, the Pope read newspapers too...at least the few still in print. He knew the killer smogs had lessened now that industry had ground to a standstill worldwide, but only after taking out some twenty-eight million people and sickening tens of millions more. He knew that cancer deaths were still on an epidemic rise, particularly the melanomas and leukemia - the former attributed largely to the confirmed widespread breakdown of the ozone layer, the latter to toxic chemicals and heavy metals in the remaining arguably potable groundwater of most industrialized nations.

Yes, yes, he'd read all about it, thank you very much. He'd read about the new plagues sweeping Europe, Asia, Africa and the Americas, diseases that bred and festered in the rotten, unburied corpses of their victims. He'd read about the dead fish covering the surface of the ocean for as far as the eye could see; the equally dead and dying freshwater lakes, rivers and streams.

He'd watched the You Tube videos showing violent urban riots over fresh water - most of it now trucked into the cities from desalination and water purification plants - and wondering how Hurtwell had overlooked taking control of that particularly profitable scarce commodity. And he also knew that if things continued the way they were much longer, riots over food would be next.

It was this that put the curdle of fear in his belly, truth be told. What would he say when asked for a report on the status of the New W.O.R.D.'s food stores, when they demanded to know exactly how many tons of grain were left, and how much longer it would last? When they inquired how the vast supplies could have dwindled so quickly, and then insisted on an audit?

Well, he'd lie, of course.

Hell yes, he'd lie, that's all. And by the time they found him out, they'd be in no position to take any sort of action against him. No one would. The world monetary system was already in a state of collapse, most of the international financial conglomerates were bankrupt or close to it. The house of cards had fallen, humpty dumpty was in pieces and impossible to put back together again...just no one had fully acknowledged that fact yet.

The net worth of these paper lions he must face today was no more valuable than that.... paper. He must remind himself of that fact whenever they attempted to bite into his hide with their cellulose teeth. They were two dimensional wafer-thin nothings, powerless despite all their pretense and airs.

The end was coming quickly, who could stop it now? Not they with their posturing, nor he with his robes of office. Maybe not even Hurtwell.

And that was perhaps what he feared most of all.

Chapter 65

Vatican City

The beast that comes up from the abyss will attack them, and overpower and kill them. Their bodies will lie in the public square of the great city

Revelation 11:7-8

"Time," said Joe.

Mike nodded.

Moni looked at the men, shook her head; a tear slipped from beneath the thick fringe of dark lashes that shadowed her remaining eye.

Joe smiled at her, more beautiful now - even with her disfiguring scars - than she had ever been before, as the past three year's hardships, the ordeals and trials she'd endured, the path she had accepted by faith had transformed her into something more, something much lovelier than mere mortal flesh, a luminescent beauty that was almost ethereal.

She would have said the same of him.

Bertini had passed six months earlier, growing more and more frail as their meager rations failed to sustain, his elderly body wasting away until his heart had failed. Giovanni had left the next day, striking out on his own, back bent under the burden of self-imposed guilt, telling them he should have left sooner, that he'd had no right to take food from the aging cardinal's mouth when he was young and strong enough to fend for himself out there. He said he was going to try to track down Dante, who'd left the year before for a commune in the mountains. All their reassurances had failed to diminish his pain, so they'd let him go with their blessings.

All that was left now of the cadre was these two unlikely prophets of God, plus Moni and Cardinal Magliano, for whom she was a constant and loving caregiver. In addition to that role, she still served as the voice for the group, keeping up what sporadic communications were still possible through the intermittent services of the internet and land mail with the small communities of believers who had avoided the taint of the icons and trap of the New W.O.R.D. program.

Magliano, the formerly portly, cherub-faced ecclesiastic, was shrunken to a nearly unrecognizable eighty-five pounds, his useless limbs twisted into gnarled branches that wrapped against his skeletal chest, head tucked down into his shoulders like a bird in winter snow. He looked up now at the two Americans with the only thing that remained truly alive in him, those piercingly bright brown eyes, windows to the spirit trapped within, eyes that spoke of the torture of being the only man alive to know fully Satan's plan, while at the same time completely unable to communicate that knowledge, to warn them against it in any way.

The look in his eyes right now spoke of alarm, but at the same time acknowledged that there was nothing to be done about the path before them.

"It's okay, little father," Mike said tenderly. "We know."

This week it had been announced in Il Messagero - by now the great newspaper of Rome reduced to a weekly rag of twelve pages, give or take - that today the third annual United Nations World Disaster Conference, run by the group of world financiers and power brokers which had parented the formation of the Vatican's New W.O.R.D food distribution program two years ago - would be meeting in Synod Hall of Vatican City rather than at the UN headquarters in New York City as they had in prior years.

"I don't know why the Trilateral Trade Consortium moved it here," Mike said; "but I believe God's hand is at work in their decision. It may be our chance to finally be heard."

The two men had continued to make regular forays into Saint Peter's Square over the past year, exhorting the few who continued to gather there for the Pope's weekly high mass not to take the Eucharist, to throw away their Marcus Icons, and to refuse all aid from the New W.O.R.D Program. Although the crowd's hostility had at first unnerved them, it had ceased being threatening when the throngs of worshippers under Satan's dominion failed in every attempt to silence them. Curses echoed back into their own ears, amplified a hundred fold; attackers were flung back into the crowd by invisible hands, stones flew back into the heads of those who hurled them. Even the occasional random gunshot ricocheted off the invisible wall of protection that surrounded the pair, sending the onlookers diving for cover. Eventually the mob simply snarled and turned away, ignoring their entreaties altogether and, unfortunately, rendering their arguments ineffective.

"Perhaps this time we can find out who is really behind this New W.O.R.D plan, who's pulling the strings that move Pope Caius," Mike proposed.

"If we can expose Satan's secret identity, get him to reveal himself publically before the world, people might wake up before it's too late," Joe added, looking to Moni for confirmation.

"The truth shall make them free?" She queried.

"Something like that."

********

Synod Hall, where three years earlier the first of the Marcus Icons had been distributed to the nine Cardinal Bishops, one hundred sixty five Cardinal priests and thirty-nine Cardinal Deacons - plus the heads of state of the twenty four countries in the world with the highest number of practicing Catholics - was not nearly as packed today.

As a matter of fact, those in the UN World Disaster Conference assemblage consisted of only seventeen of the ultra-rich, most powerful men on the planet, each seated in paranoid isolation surrounded by their entourage of body guards, secretaries, advisers and gofers. In the front-most rows were seated experts from various scientific, economic and social disciplines, brought in to give the latest figures and projections on the state of the world. Instead of brightly clad ceremonial Swiss Guards at the doors, there were what could best be described as armed thugs.

It was not a religious meeting.

More than a few of the power-elite had questioned Timothy Hurtwell's decision to hold the conference here, complaining that the Pope was merely one more reporter, a servant of their power, not the steward.

"Rome is more centrally located for most of you than is New York City," Hurtwell had countered smoothly. "Besides, its status as a holy city will help with security. And finally, it's my call."

Hurtwell ran the meeting today with that same iron fist concealed in a velvet glove, as reports from various countries and the conscripted experts were heard.

Delegates from the emperor of Japan complained about the stench from the ocean, the decimation of fishing harvests. Epidemiologists discussed the continuing decline of the human population due to disease, starvation and lack of sanitation; atmospheric scientists brought out charts and projections that demonstrated the continued worrisome decline in free atmospheric oxygen, currently at 18.25 percent and dropping. And world economists presented a causal chain analysis which showed the minimum work force needed to effectively keep infrastructures functioning: For example, with a nod to the oil sheiks present, without a sufficient work force to pump the oil, run the refineries, drive the trucks and so forth, they would soon be back to burning camel dung for heat and cooking. The same was demonstrated true for all major industries dependent upon manpower to get their vital products made and distributed, including the growing, harvesting and distribution of the world's agricultural commodities.

This last led naturally to the introduction of Pope Caius and his advisers for their report on the current status of the world's food and grain reserves, which had been entrusted to his New W.O.R.D. organization to manage. Caius took a deep breath to still his nervous heart.

Hurtwell had made it plain how he expected the Pope to proceed.

"Don't bother to hedge, don't sidestep, obfuscate or attempt to mislead these men in any way," he'd advised. It was an order. "They're far smarter than you, and trying to fool them will only make you the fool. Just tell them straight up where it stands, but at the same time make no excuses and take no blame, got it?"

He did.

So now, his contribution was direct and to the point.

"There are just under nine hundred sixty seven million souls left on planet earth as we speak. At the present level of distribution, we have enough grain and other food products to feed all those on our rolls for just over four months."

He stood stone faced at the uproar, the screams of outrage and disbelief.

"How could this be?" "How did this happen?" "Where did all the food go?"

"Into people's bellies," he replied: "where else?"

Arguments proceeded from which he remained aloof, Hurtwell stepping forward to conduct the orchestra of angry voices, bellowed accusations, high-pitched desperation. Some wanted to remove all but a hand-picked ten percent of the most vital workers from the New W.O.R.D rolls, but others argued that the other ninety percent were not going to simply sit quietly by and die of starvation: Riots would break out, anarchy and mayhem that would even more quickly bring down already crumbling economies.

It was finally decided, with a little guidance from Hurtwell, that -effective immediately - all rations would be cut by one third.

"That will give us an additional two months, gentlemen," the demon in the grey silk Armani suit smiled with his perfect row of even white teeth; "six months. Perhaps the drought will end by then, or the God of the universe will decide to save us somehow...Deus ex machina, eh?"

Pope Caius visibly cringed.

********

Outside in Saint Peter's Square the crowd milled hungrily, awaiting word from the conclave, some good news they hoped, something more to take home than a ration of rice and beans today.

A weak cheer went up from the gathering as Pope Caius appeared on his balcony, followed by a murmur of confusion intermingled with hope, fear, expectation and concern as the nattily attired figure of world financier Timothy Hurtwell stepped out to the railing beside him.

"Who was this man? What could this mean?"

But Joe and Mike recognized him instantly.

"Havohej! Satan!" Joe yelled at the top of his lungs; "Show yourself if you dare!"

The man on the balcony looked down, scanning the faces below for the source.

"Archfiend from hell, deceiver of mankind, reveal to the world your true face!" Mike challenged, raising his fist.

"Shut the fuck up, weirdo; we can't hear what he's saying," someone nearby - obviously not local - admonished.

"Tacera, idiota!: Someone else said, giving the archbishop a shove.

Hurtwell spotted the pair just then, and smiled warmly.

Then, as they looked up, he grew suddenly enormous, expanding in form outward and upward until his body blotted out the entire facade of Vatican Palace, his shadow casting a threatening pall over the piazza below. His grey silk suit was now a glistening armor of red scales that glowed with an inner phosphorescent fire, his mouth a huge gaping maw filled with row upon row of those fine perfect white teeth - now honed to razor tipped sharpness. As they watched in horror the single head became seven, each writhing on its own long neck like a fan of serpents, while down its back ran a row of ten protruding horns. His great tail began to thrash back and forth across the sky, turning the day into night; and with each pass across the sky a hundred falling stars were hurled earthward to explode in distant parts of the city, shaking the ground as they hit.

Joe glanced at the people around him, and realized that they too were witnessing this sight, not just he and Mike as had happened before. But their expressions were strangely enthralled, full of awe, and wonder rather than fear.

"You see, now! You see who is behind this?" He cried, reaching out to grab one person and then the next and the next. "It is Satan, Satan who controls the Vatican and everyone in it! You must repent, repent and be saved!"

But when those he touched turned to look at him, their eyes were filled with darkness and the fires of hell burned in them.

"It's too late, Joe," Mike whispered. "They're already his."

"Have the people stone them," the dragon said to the man beside him. "We end this now!"

So saying, he dissolved back into his human form, daylight returned its sway over the ordinary, people milled about in disarray, waiting for direction.

It was Pope Caius who gave the order.

"Believers, you must do as the bible commands: Any man or woman who is a spiritist or medium among you must be put to death. You must stone them, then their blood will be on their own heads."

Joe and Mike stood back to back: This had been tried before and failed, surely the Lord God would protect them now as in the past.

The crowd hesitated, their eyes fogged with confusion as if coming out of a dream, or a drug.

"STONE THEM!!" The pope screamed from his balcony.

A man nearby - likely the same skinny Brit who'd told them to shut the fuck up a moment earlier, reached down and found a small rock the size of an egg. He cocked back his arm and let it fly. It nicked Joe's ear, drawing a thin stream of blood.

Joe reached up, touched his ear, and looked at the blood on his fingertips in surprise. Mike glanced over at it, frowning.

Another rock flew, about the same size as the first, and this one landed squarely on Mike's temple, stunning him.

"STONE THEM!!" Caius shrieked again from his high place. "Stone them to their death!"

Stones now began to fly from all sides, as the two prophets whirled back to back, trying to dodge the missiles, to protect their heads with upraised hands and arms.

The stones were not very big, nor were they particularly plentiful on the paved tile flooring of the Piazza di San Pietro: The hands that threw them were weakened by months of near starvation, the arms quickly tired. But enough were thrown with enough force to render the two men helpless and unconscious, lying on the bottom steps of the great basilica. Blood poured from their noses, mouths and ears, and from the gashes and splintered bones of their skulls and faces.

"Sono morti?" Someone asked, breathless from the exertion.

"Morto abbastanza....dead enough," another replied.

The doppler wail of an approaching siren cut through the air.

"Andiamo...Let's go!"

Chapter 66

North Dakota

The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and the sun was allowed to scorch people with fire. They were seared by the intense heat.....

Revelation 16:8-9

The large brownish yellow clouds had begun piling up on the northeastern horizon around noon - unhealthy looking clouds, formed by the slow vaporization of the great lakes \- an uneasy conglomeration of water and ammonia vapors, methane gas and hydrogen sulfide rising from the great dead body of Lake Superior and her four ugly sisters to the east.

When Buzzy suggested that perhaps these clouds might bring at last the long awaited rain, the Souris River Christians - what few remained on the parched commune acreage - had glanced wordlessly toward the ominous looking cloud mass with no appreciable lifting of their consummate apathy. The general consensus among the small party that had come to see him off - as expressed by the least taciturn among them - was that any precipitation from that particular cumulus formation would "prob'ly do more harm thin good."

The others had nodded grimly, of a mind that nothing good was likely to come their way ever again.

"Anyways," the vocal one had added as Buzzy climbed into his battered jeep; "them clouds been buildin' up like thet ever few days fer weeks, now the weather turned warm. Don't never 'mount to nuthin' though; always jest settle beck into the lake soon as eve'n cools them off agin."

It was exceptionally hot today already, a sweltering hundred and five and rising, already ten degrees warmer than the day before when Buzz had arrived to spend an unsuccessful eight hours trying to convince the struggling band of half-starved Christians to build a greenhouse ecosystem before the planet's oxygen failed.

Most of the small, rough-hewn cabins of their once flourishing community were empty; the vegetable gardens barren and cracked beneath the sun, the fruit orchards showing neither blossom nor leaf bud, and the river that had once sustained a hundred families now little more than a series of polluted mud holes.

There remained only thirty homesteaders, the ones who hadn't migrated to more promising communes further north...or to the New W.O.R.D. cities to the south. Lacking energy or motivation to do more than just hang on and pray, these stragglers had been reduced to scavenging their meager subsistence from the wilderness: eating dried roots, insects, grubs, and what few lizards, mice and small birds remained in the parched land. He might as well have tried exhorting them to build the Empire State Building out of twigs and grass.

Leaving the camp behind, Buzz trekked slowly north across the untended and unused back country roads, heading for Highway 52 and the Canadian border. The dark umber clouds continued to expand before him, rising in great thunderheads against the backdrop of the sullen blue sky, then closing in rapidly to join ranks as a solid wall above the Turtle Mountains, some sixty miles to his east.

Heat lightning jumped between the clouds like secret messages, while within the massive brown towers of noxious gases ominous flashes and rumblings pulsed, angry gods readying themselves for war.

Two PM: the heat was stifling when he finally reached the broad concrete ribbon of interstate highway that would take him through Bowbells, Estevan and Weyburn on his way to the large communes near Moose Jaw and Medicine Hat. Skeletal fingers of the cloud mass reached out towards him from the mountains: The blistering sun fled to the west just ahead of their grasp. Thunder growled, close and threatening now as the beast in the sky crouched and pawed the air before beginning to stalk relentlessly forward in its death march west across the great northern plains.

Buzzy pressed the gas pedal to the floor, glancing nervously behind him: The tired vehicle grunted, coughed and accelerated inefficiently down the nearly empty road. Just past Bowbells there was a split, with the road to the right going directly north and the other continuing in a northwesterly direction. He consulted his map - northwest was definitely the shortest route to Moose Jaw - glanced up again at the menacing sky, feeling exposed and vulnerable in his open top Jeep, and took the route to the left.

The approaching storm came at him from the right: Vicious bolts of lightning split the sky and hammered the earth less than five miles away, by his count; closing rapidly as he now ran parallel to the storm front rather than away from it. By the time he reached the outskirts of Weyburn the storm was upon him, yet still there was no rain. Instead the massive clouds hulked and pulsated overhead like a great black amoeba, expending their chemical energy in the form of electrical discharges that rent the sky, leaping from thunderhead to thunderhead and from anvil tops to the earth, cracking the air in violent shockwaves that pounded through the road, the car and his body like a great hammer of doom.

He drove slowly through the little town, population 437 the sign said, looking for someplace to shelter, but there was not a sign of life. On the main business street, every storefront was boarded over: A few of the plywood pieces had messages on them in large hand painted letters.

"Don't bother to Loot, nothing left here but dust" one said.

"Gone to Regina for food program, leave my shit alone."

"Pray for Salvation. Gone to Moose Jaw."

One of the business owners, hopelessly optimistic, had put a for sale sign on his CD rental store. Someone else had written on it "As if."

He drove through the side streets, but there were no lights on in any of the small white frame houses in the town's residential section either. Now every bolt of lightning seemed inches away, every crack of thunder seemed to come from the inside out. He would have to break into one of these homes, and he would have to do it soon if he hoped to survive. He scanned them quickly, trying to decide which one looked most accessible.

Suddenly he saw a light come on in the window of an old farmhouse set well back from the rest of the homes on a large lot, its facade partially obscured by the skeletal remains of a small orchard, a fragile garden bed. He accidently stomped the brakes so hard they grabbed, and he flew against the steering wheel: The jeep's horn blared his arrival as he lay against it, windless.

A face appeared at the window where the kerosene lamplight fluttered weakly, and the frail old woman that went with the face came out on the covered porch a moment later, wielding a shotgun that seemed much too large for her withered arm to support.

"Go way," she ordered, although she didn't sound too certain.

As he cautiously approached, hands in the air, the man imagined her actually firing at him, and then her flying backwards from the recoil and landing in the porch swing behind, leaving the gun hanging there in the air like in some Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd cartoon. He smiled despite himself.

"Now what in hell you got to grin about," the old lady challenged, suspicious and curious at once.

Before he could answer a tremendous boom broke the silence, and a tree half a block down the street exploded. The storm had caught up with him.

"Well, don't just stand there like a dumb broody hen," she ordered, moving back into the darkened recesses beyond her front door; "Come in outta the rain...but keep your hands where I can see them. This thing's loaded, and I do know how to use it young man."

Inside the house smelled like old lady: slightly musty, slightly sweet, with that indefinable scent of decay that reminded him of his grandmother's place, the last few times he'd visited her before she passed away.

With the cloud cover now overhead, the interior was twilight dim despite the fact that it was only just past three PM. Yet that dimness was almost constantly lit by the brilliant flashes of lightning that were exploding the air on every side now, the shock waves of thunder an endless accompaniment of terror, a noise so deafening that conversation was a shouting match with God, altogether quickly impossible.

The woman went about her business despite the cacophony, fixing him a cup of apple tea brewed over a tidy fire in her little woodstove. But despite her calm hospitality he noticed the shotgun never left her side.

Buzzy sat like a schoolboy, his hands clasped together between his bony knees, watching her work.

"Where'd all the people go?" He finally shouted into a rare moment of silence as the storm beast paused to catch its breath.

"Eh?" She queried, but it was only out of habit. "Most down to Minot or up to Regina to get on the food stamp program when they closed their damn Satan trap here."

Buzz had to wait a minute while another thunder rolled through the house; and by the time the sound had abated he was pretty certain she was waiting to see how he'd respond to her comment. Her hand rested on the shotgun butt.

"You mean the New W.O.R.D. food distribution program?"

She picked up the gun, aimed it directly at his chest. "Satan trap," she repeated, defying him to argue the point. "They closed up all the smaller community outlets like ours when it started running out of food last winter, so most of the dumb sheep here followed the man down to Minot where the regional center was still going strong, or went up north to Regina like I said. Dumb, stupid sheep, how could they not see it's a trap? I tried to warn them, but no one would listen, and pretty soon no one would even talk to me anymore!" Her voice caught on a little sob, but she pushed it back into her heart.

"I know," he said. "I do." Then, between the explosions of lightning and thunder he told her his own story. It took quite some time that way, but she listened to it all, listened hard, watching his face as well as his words for lies. When at last he had run it down, she brewed them more tea, served it, then told him a little story of her own. By this time, the shotgun was resting comfortably on the floor between them.

The red-haired preacher had come by in mid-December, she said, right about the time the Catholics were making a big fuss over it being the first anniversary of their food program, bragging it up about how many lives they'd saved, what a big success they were.

"Most of the folks hereabouts had already got their tattoos, either that or moved away. There wasn't much of an alternative, it seemed, once the majority of the community went over."

She sighed. "I didn't go, at first mostly because I still had my garden, my orchard and my chickens, plus my own well water, so I didn't figure I needed some disfiguring tattoo at my age just to go along with the crowd. Plus, even though I'm not really what you'd call a religious person," she said, looking up at him with a keen expression; "there was something about it that didn't feel right, just struck a wrong chord, if you know what I mean?"

"I do," he nodded.

"But when the red headed preacher man came to town, putting his religious tracts into every mailbox and stopping people on the street to remind them of what it said in the bible about such numbers in book of Revelations, it suddenly put a name to that nameless fear of mine. I went home and did a little simple numerology: If you give each letter a value from one to nine depending on its placement in the alphabet, it comes out like this." She drew him a quick chart on a scrap of paper.

1.....2.....3.....4.....5.....6.....7.....8.....9

a.....b.....c.....d.....e.....f......g.....h.....i

j.....k.....l.....m.....n.....o.....p.....q.....r

s.....t.....u.....v.....w.....x.....y.....z

"What I noticed was that every person was given a tattoo with the words "The New WORD' followed by a series of nine random numbers. Their own number set isn't important, but the numerical value of the words that precede them is. Here's why."

She wrote the word _The_ on the paper below the chart, then calculated its value in numerology, and showed him her calculations.

"T equals 2, h equals 8, and e equals 5. Add 2 plus 8 plus 5 you get 15. Now add the 1 and 5 together and you get 6. So the value of _The_ in numerology is 6. Now you figure out the other two words."

Buzzy took the paper from her and did the calculations for _New_ and for _WORD,_ then turned to her with his eyes amazed. "All sixes," he said.

"Six, six, six," she nodded, "just like in the bible. I thought my heart would fall right out of my chest. That's when **I** got religion. And a couple of days later, when I began to hear the rumors, the mutterings over picket fences and in the street about what ought to be done to stop this young preacher man, calling him a blasphemer and dangerous heretic, I had to go try to find him and warn him."

"As I turned the corner onto main street, I saw a big crowd down in the next block, right in front of the New W.O.R.D. distribution office, and I stopped in my tracks." She paused to swipe at a tear that had leaked from the corner of her eye. "Even from that far away I could sense their ugly mood, hear their angry shouts and curses. Many held things in their hands - sticks, two by fours, iron rebars, pipes - and they were waving them around getting more and more agitated, like a hive of bees. I was so scared then, so scared I couldn't move a muscle, just froze with fear. Then I saw the first stick come down, hard and heavy, onto something in their midst. And I heard a scream. I felt his pain. Then another upraised arm came down, this one with an iron pipe I think, then another and another. And my fear turned to flight. I ran, I ran like all the demons in hell were after me, ran all the way back to this house and locked my door. I didn't say another word to anyone, didn't even come out again except to water my garden at night until everyone in town had moved away.

She looked up at Buzzy Bent, her tear-filled eyes silently begging forgiveness. "I never saw the young preacher again."

"What...do you know what his name was?" Buzzy asked.

"Murphy," she replied. "Deacon Timothy Murphy."

By now the worst of the storm seemed to have passed, moving relentlessly westward. The old lady - Annie, she told him was her name, used to teach school she told him - pulled out a collection of road maps and advised him on the best route to follow if he wished to avoid confrontations with what she referred to as "that Satan crowd."

"You might try travelling right on the fringes of the storm, so people will be hunkered down inside when you pass. There's some things worse than being struck by lightning, in my opinion," Annie advised.

He couldn't disagree with her logic.

As he climbed back into his jeep, she suddenly came running down the driveway - shotgun crocked under her left arm - with a small cardboard box balanced in her age-spotted hands.

"Plum jam," she explained breathlessly as he came forward to take it from her, setting it on the floor of the passenger side of the jeep. "Back when times were better I used to always put up a lot more fruits and vegetables than I could ever eat: I still got a couple years supply of the stuff stacked up in my cellar, and frankly I'm getting a little sick of plum jam. Oh, and I stuck the road atlas in there too. You might as well have it, I'm not going anywhere."

"Thanks Annie," he said, taking her hand and bending to give it a gentle kiss. "God watch over you."

"Yeah, you too," she said, putting her hand to his cheek for a moment.

He started the car, pulled away without looking back, swallowing at the lump in his throat.

The old woman stared at his receding tail lights long after they were out of sight.

As he drove back through the area the storm had passed over, he saw all around him, both near and far, the orange glow of fires started by the lightning. On the distant horizon to the east, where the storm had been born, there was a faint reddish glow, with spotty patches of sharper orange and yellow light here and there, as the tinder-dry forests of the distant mountains and the brittle high grass of the northern plains blazed in at least fifty separate wildfires he could count, while the violent electrical storm still marched across the land to the west like the, like the wrath of God.

Suddenly all he wanted was to get back to Happy Valley as fast as he possibly could. As he turned onto the main road, he paused for just a moment, then rather than going north towards the communes of Saskatchewan, he turned south, following the storm back home.

Chapter 67

Rome, Italy

They will fall by the sword and will be taken as prisoners to all the nations.

Luke 21:24

The young Italian pushed the cart laden with cleaning supplies down the empty hospital corridor, whistling softly under his breath, some phrase from Puccini. Next to the bottles of disinfectant spray, liquid soap, clean towels and bedding, a pair of shiny metal bedpans had been strategically placed.

Near the end of the hall the two uniformed policemen seated in front of a hospital room door watched his approach.

"Where's the other guy?" The older of the two men asked, standing up as the orderly drew near. "Thought there's supposed to be two of you."

The second cop glanced at the hospital badge on the orderly's scrubs, then checked his list for an Alfonso Lucero.

"Called in sick. They asked me to handle it alone," Alfonso replied. "Time and a half, eh?"

"Alfonso Lucero, okay, here it is," the cop said, looking up. "He's on the list, guess we can let him pass."

"Hold on," the senior officer said, stepping closer to the orderly as if to scrutinize his badge more closely.

Alfonso held his breath.

"What's all this for?" He demanded, tilting his whiskery jowls in the direction of the supply-laden cart.

"It appears I will have the pleasure of changing bedpans and wiping clean a pair of hairy asses today," Alfonso replied; "which is no doubt why my co-worker opted out. Perhaps you'd care to watch?"

The younger guard laughed aloud, but quickly choked it off when the senior badge shot him a dark scowl, unlocking the hospital room door. He shook his head in disgust.

"You sure now?" Alfonso called cheerily over his shoulder, swishing past as he pushed the cart into the room. He resumed his soft whistling as he heard the door close and lock behind him.

Leaving the cart, he hurried over to where two men - their heads swathed in bandages - lay on twin hospital beds, watching him.

He put a finger to his lips, then produced from a drawer at the bottom of the cart two complete sets of hospital scrubs including surgical masks, caps, and slippers which he handed to them.

From his belt he produced a long shiny key with which, after a little twisting, turning and jiggling, he was able to open the handcuffs that had restrained each man to the iron railings of his hospital bed.

Without a word or sound, the prisoners quickly donned the surgical garb and met their rescuer at the cart. Where the two bedpans had rested, there were now two small brown glass bottles of ether alongside the stack of small surgical towels.

Just then a loud knock interrupted: "What's taking so long in there?" the older guard growled.

"You don't want to know," the orderly called back. "Ever hear of explosive diarrhea? _IO possa morire_."

The younger guard exploded into gales of laughter, followed by a sound that indicated he might have tipped over in his chair.

"Well just hurry it up!"

"Almost done," the Italian orderly yelled, signaling for Joe and Mike to ready themselves at either side of the doorway, the open bottles of ether and towels in their hands.

"Okay, you can let me out now," he hollered, knocking on the door.

The three held their breath, as they heard the key fitted into the lock, the tumblers fall into place, the doorknob turn.

The instant the door opened all three men sprang forward, pressing the ether-soaked towels to the guard's faces, holding on tight as the initial frantic struggles quickly weakened and failed, while simultaneously dragging them quickly inside the room. Mike and Joe handcuffed the guards to the same iron bedframes they had just been released from, as Giovanni brought the guard's chairs inside as well. He checked the hall for witnesses: It remained blessedly empty.

"Okay, let's go," he called back to them. "Hurry."

He locked the hospital room door behind them, and the three hurried down the empty corridor to the stairs at the far end. "Fire Exit" the sign above the stairwell door read.

"How did you find us?" Mike asked between gasps for air as they hurried down the exterior staircase as fast as their injuries would allow.

"You're all over the news, amici, what little there is these days," the Italian replied. " _American terrorists stoned by angry mob in failed attempt to kill Pope in St. Peter's Square."_

He looked over his shoulder with a wink and a grin. "You Americans: always so dramatic! They were going to hand you over to Interpol as soon as you were well enough, you know: Death sentence for sure."

They exited the stairs into an alleyway, where an aging Fiat truck sat idling beside the overflowing dumpsters, a pretty one-eyed woman behind the wheel.

The truck was already moving before they could even close the door behind them: Moni aimed it into the evening traffic, trying to steer while wiping the tears flowing down her cheeks. Joe reached over and took her hand.

"What I want to know," he said to Gio with a grin, pointing at the badge still attached to his white cotton scrubs; "is who is Alonso?"

"A nice young fellow currently taking a nice long nap in the third floor supply closet," Giovanni smiled. "No worry, he needed the rest, I think."

Chapter 68

Hawaii

....and every living thing in the sea died.

Revelation 16:3

Charles Hemmings untied the bowline of the little fishing skiff, pushing off from the empty dock with a shove of his rubber-soled shoe. He slipped the oars into the oarlocks - the clunk of wood against metal echoing hollowly across the deserted bay. As the boat began to slide out into the open water, he quickly strapped on the oxygen mask, rigged from his old SCUBA gear, and attached it to a tank in the bottom of the boat, one of several he'd appropriated on his last trip to the long deserted marine supply center in Hilo more than six months earlier. The air out here on his beloved, rotting ocean was no longer breathable.

Ready now, still he hesitated a moment before beginning to put his back into the arduous two mile journey that would take him out beyond the reefs, to where the great ocean current that swept clockwise around the northern Pacific trailed languorous fingers around their island chain.

Linda hadn't wanted him to go today at all: Her eyes had begged him to give it up, even as her mouth smiled a resigned goodbye. She'd argued in her even, rational way that his last four marine samples had proved beyond all doubt that the sea was no longer capable of sustaining any form of life whatsoever - with the possible exception of the hardiest anaerobic bacteria.

"Chuck honey," she'd said in that super soft voice she used when reality was bound to hurt; "your last test showed the dissolved oxygen levels are less than 1 milligram per liter, nitrite levels are more than twice the level fatal to marine life, and the pH has dropped to six. How much worse can it get, and more importantly, what can you do about it? Everything is dead out there, baby, and it's not going to suddenly bounce back, is it?"

He hadn't answered her. He had no answers, no rationale, only the vague vain hope that his next test might show some signs of improvement, or at least a leveling off: And if not this test, then maybe the next, or the next after that.

He looked out at the ocean, sullen and sluggish in the dim morning sun. It was a long way to row, he thought tiredly. There was a small outboard motor on the boat, but he couldn't really use it except in an emergency. Gasoline was too scarce, with all reserves needed to power their emergency generators back at the compound should the wind or solar devices fail. Besides, the surface of the ocean was so littered with floating carcasses that his props would have been continuously fouled. So he put the oars in the water and began, his prow aimed toward the open sea.

The very sight of the ocean sickened and gagged him as he rowed slowly out of the bay, each oar stroke pulling heavily through rotting festering slime; each upward and back stroke carrying upon the blade a hanging carcass or two which fell with a soft plop back into the stew.

Were he not wearing the oxygen mask he knew he wouldn't last fifteen minutes out there. Even at the compound, three miles inland, this morning's measurement of atmospheric oxygen outside the ecosystem was barely sixteen percent, down over five percent from the troposphere's normal content, the equivalent of living at an altitude of nearly fifteen thousand feet. Out here on the sea the decomposing organic matter was giving off its own pungent vapors - methane, CO2, ammonia, hydrogen sulfide and various aldehydes - filling the air in such concentrations he would have been quickly asphyxiated or poisoned without the self-contained breathing system.

A grim smile appeared under the scuba mask as he pulled the boat slowly through the waters of this once tropical paradise, thinking of the thousands of yachts large and small which had taken to the open seas over the past year and a half, their owners hoping to grow enough food in shipboard gardens to sustain themselves now that the global wind patterns had shifted into random eddies, the rains they'd carried onto the continents now falling primarily on the open ocean and the islands that dotted its vast surface. Unless these modern day Noahs had been foresighted enough to build enclosed and airtight greenhouses over their decks - which he doubted - they were all by now either part of the ocean's great graveyard - derelict ghost ships carried by currents in vast circles round and round - or they'd been forced back to the land, and were dying there instead .....they along with everyone and everything else.

Chuck paused in his rowing, bent under a heavy fist of grief that squeezed at his heart as if to stop it cold. He sighed, pulled the sloppy oars back into the boat. Tears filled his eyes as he looked out over the ruin that had once been his love: This great primordial broth that had given birth to all life on this planet, only to have one of its own misbegotten offspring come back four billion years later to commit matricide, sending evolution back to its beginnings, turning life in the sea back into the same organic subcomponents from which it had originated.

He'd tried to save it, tried right up to the end when he and the other EarthFirst scientists had employed their "final solution" to the cancer that was destroying Gaia. But it was already too late, the synergistic effects too far into their deadly cyclic causative chain to stop. Billions of people had died needlessly at his hands, and it hadn't bought the Earth one additional year, had it? Not something he liked to think about, but he did, he did all the time.

Maybe Linda was right, he thought as he dipped a water sample bottle into the ocean: He poured its fetid contents through a sieve into another bottle on the seat beside him, sealed it, then dumped the chunky residue back over the gunnel. He filled two more the same way, then lowered a large thermometer over the side. Maybe, he thought as he waited for the mercury to rise, the ocean will eventually recombine all these diverse chemical compounds back into new life, as it did once before.

But truth was, he was no longer so sure. The accepted view for a scientist these days was to support the hypothesis that life had come about by a series of chemical accidents in the early seas; even though not one researcher had ever come closer to duplicating life than tricking a couple of amino acids or short DNA strands into existence by electrochemical manipulations. That, in his mind, was the approximate equivalent of turning a pack of lab rats loose to run helter skelter over a bunch of computer keyboards for a year, and then when one of them accidentally produced "See Spot run," extrapolating that - given a billion years and a billion random rats and computers - they would eventually write "Gone With the Wind" or "War and Peace" or maybe even the Bible. Not highly likely.

But if life _should_ somehow accidentally reinvent itself, with or without the aid of God or man or some other sentient being, what form would it take, he wondered. What sort of creatures would end up at the top of the dung heap where man had once been? And would they eventually self-destruct as well, betrayed by their own intellect, taking their insatiable quest for knowledge and power over nature - this competition with God himself - to the point where their own inherent ignorance and ego once again destroyed them along with every other living creature?

Will they be, like man, just close enough to God to think they know it all, or can; and too far removed from Him to recognize they never could?

He pulled the long glass tube back up from the broth, wiping it with a clean scrap of cloth in order to read it: The surface of the ocean was a simmering one hundred and twenty degrees out here in the morning sun, most of the heat generated by the continuous massive chemical reactions of the decomposition going on around him.

Suddenly he knew he would never come back out here again, and it was like parting with a lover. The tears began in earnest as he started the long row back toward the harbor, collecting beneath the face plate of his mask and bubbling annoyingly around the breathing apparatus. He calmed himself, knowing he had to stop or drown.

Charles Hemmings had never been much on religion, particularly not the organized kind that told you what to think about God and how to think it. To him that had made no sense: How could you take this entity that was - presumably - the creator of the entire universe, all knowing, all powerful, everywhere and everything at once, and attempt to describe his nature in terms of man: How could you come up with box of man-made rules and pretend to know that's what God wants, that's who God is?

Hemmings had found his God in his commune with the greatness of the ocean, his intimate love for and contact with the sea. It had been that way ever since he'd first danced on a thin sliver of foam and fiberglass across the face of a grey-green wave in the solitude of dawn, and felt the power and the humility in the relationship. Until now it had always been enough religion for him.

Lately, however, he'd begun reading bits here and there from the Bible, and he'd actually begun praying within his daily meditations, talking to a God in his head that he grew more and more certain existed. Praying, as he was even now, to still the grief of his immense loss - and guilt - by thanking Him for whatever undeserved mercy, whether by chance or design, had led Chuck onto this particular path of life which had made it possible for him and those he loved most to survive.

At least for the time being.

Chapter 69

Northwestern United States

...and there were flashes of lightning, loud noises, peals of thunder,

Revelation 11:19

The relentless sun beat down upon the great dead bodies of water, evaporating not only the water molecules but with them the dissolved CO2, nitrites and nitrates, the ammonia and methane bubbling up out of the decomposing organisms that littered the surface of the waters as well as the sludge at the bottom of the lakes.

Carried aloft by the rising currents of heated air that formed above the nearby land masses, the particles were lifted high into the stratosphere, cooling to form massive anvil shaped clouds of noxious vapors. Within these columns of chemical mixtures lightning leapt from pole to pole, its energy acting to recombine the various molecules into a bitter, deadly airborne vat of corrosive acids.

Just as well that most of this rain evaporated before it could ever touch the ground: On the few places the rain did fall its effect was to instantly burn and wither the roots and leaves of every thirsty plant that lifted its branches up in mute supplication.

Rain may not have touched the ground, but the dry lightning did, and everywhere it struck a new fire was born. Buzzy saw the evidence all around him as he sped southward that night.

To avoid the worst of the storm he had headed due south from Weyburn on Highway 83 as fast as his straining engine would take him. By the time he reached North Platte the great thunderstorm was well ahead of him, burning its way northwest towards the distant Pacific coast.

Fortunately the grasslands of Nebraska and the rest of the Great Plains were already so barren of any vegetation that what lightning fires did start just as quickly died out from lack of fuel.

At North Platte he turned onto Interstate 80, and half an hour later, on the outskirts of a small town identified by a metal sign as Ogallala, Buzzy spotted a little mom and pop store affixed to the front of an aging clapboard farmhouse. In the driveway sat an old fashioned gas pump with a glass globe on top.

He pulled into the drive and stopped in a cloud of dust.

A man in his eighties came out of the store a moment later, brandishing a shotgun.

"Must be weapon of choice for the octogenarian set," he muttered to himself, thinking of Annie with a little smile.

"Get out, we're closed, got nuthin' to sell," the man ordered, waving his shotgun to scoot Buzz on his way.

"No Gasoline?" Buzzy asked, holding out a wad of cash.

"Mebbe, but not much good to anyone these days, is it? Nor's yer money."

Buzzy glanced down at the box sitting on the floor on the passenger side. "What about homemade plum jam?" he asked.

"Don't fuck with me young man," the elder said, raising his weapon. "I told you I got nuthin' to sell, so why you want to talk about somethin' like that to a starving man?"

"No no!" said Buzz, raising his hands above his head. "I mean, would you trade me gas for some homemade plum jam?"

"Now I **know** you're fucking with me," the old man cried, cocking the shotgun.

"Just open the door, look there on the floor, in the box. It's all yours; just let me fill my tank and spare gas cans!"

The old man cautiously approached, opened the door, peered in, then squatted down to hoist up the box, all the while keeping a careful eye on the driver, his shotgun still at the ready. He stepped back quickly several paces, then set the box on the ground and pulled out one of the small glass jars. He opened it, stuck a gnarled finger into the gooey contents, and put it into his mouth.

Tears began to pour down his cheeks as he tasted it. He took another fingerful, and another.

"Mae!" He yelled towards the open doorway. "Emma Mae, come! You have to try this."

A tiny woman appeared in the door, clinging to the frame as if without its support she might simply collapse into the dirt like a handful of bones. He put a finger of the jam between her withered lips. She tasted, unbelieving, then smiled as if she'd seen an angel.

"Take all the gas you want, son," the man said, turning towards Buzzy. "I've even got a couple spare gas cans inside I can fill for you as well."

Once his tanks and cans were full, Buzzy shook the old man's hand, gave the wife's frail shoulder a gentle squeeze, and was on his way. He headed due west into Wyoming, following the gradual incline as I-80 ascended 4000 feet into Cheyenne, and then another 2500 feet up to Sherman Summit, the highest point on the interstate at over 8600 feet. He pulled into the "Scenic Viewpoint" rest stop and got out to stretch his legs. The mountains here were not particularly rugged; the terrain sparsely wooded with the most notable features being large outcroppings of building sized granite boulders between which the occasional straggly pine protruded. Looking northwest, the midmorning sunlight was absorbed by a bank of towering black clouds. Even from here the distant rumbling of thunder could be heard, interior flashes - like God's selfies - sporadically lighting the dark recesses. In the storm's wake a different sort of black cloud pursued it, one made not of acidic rain but of smoke, ash and debris from the fires it had bred.

To the west and southwest, however, the desert lands that stretched out below him appeared untouched, the air clear. He climbed back into the jeep, rubbed his weary eyes, took a long drink of water, and then headed down the mountain and into the red desert, amazed to spot a small herd of pronghorn staring at him belligerently as he flew past.

By the time Interstate 80 emptied into Utah, in the foothills of the Wasatch Range, it was already late afternoon, and more than thirty hours since he'd slept. The last fifty miles had been a battle to keep his heavy eyelids from drifting constantly downward. He pulled into a deserted campground at a place called Devil's Slide, threw a sleeping bag on the ground next to his jeep, and - never mind the rocks poking him in the back \- was asleep before his eyes fully closed.

He awoke around three AM, chilled to the bone and instantly alert. There was a snuffling sound nearby, a crack of twigs. He rolled under the frame of the jeep and quickly retrieved the pistol he had secreted in a niche in the undercarriage.

His first thought was bear, a hungry black bear looking for food. His grip tightened on the gun. Or maybe it was some lone survivor man, hiding out here in the wilderness to scrounge whatever living he could by hunting and gathering; a modern day caveman. But how desperate might he be by now? Buzzy quietly released the safety.

The last thing he imagined the shuffling footsteps would belong to was a small child, wandering out here in the forest alone. But when he saw the small bare feet stop in front of his car, just inches from his face where he lay hidden, his jaw dropped. And when he heard the sobs, he reset the safety and called out softly.

"Hey! Hey there, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"I'm hungry and cold," the child replied. It sounded like the voice of a five or six year old, impossible to tell if male or female.

"Where's your mommy and daddy?"

"I don't know."

"Then how did you get here?"

"I don't know."

Buzzy hesitated: It could be a trap, the child's parents could be waiting just out of sight, ready to jump him and take what he had the minute he emerged from the protection of the car.

But if he came out with the gun ready to rock and roll, someone could get hurt, maybe the child.

He blew out a breath. _Come on, Buzzy_ , _he told himself; these are the end times, none of this is in your hands anymore - if it ever was: Time to take a small leap of faith._

He tucked the pistol back into its secret niche and rolled out.

The child looked down at him and smiled, its androgynous face surrounded by a halo of golden hair that seemed to glow softly in the moonlight. That smile was the sweetest expression he'd ever seen, and it filled his heart with a strange peace.

Then the child disappeared. Vanished; one minute there, the next minute gone, and yet the peace remained.

The rest of the journey was a blur: Wrapped in a strange euphoria, Buzzy drove across Utah and Nevada to Reno, then abandoned I-80 to go north on 395 to Susanville, and from there west via a series of country roads towards Happy Valley, the whole way knowing in his heart if not his mind that an unseen passenger was in the seat beside him.

Meanwhile, although California was thus far untouched by wildfires - protected on the east by the natural firebreak formed by the great deserts of Utah and Nevada - far to the north the wildfires raged unabated, burning their way through the taiga forests of Alberta, Idaho and British Colombia. Soon they must turn to find a new fuel source, and would begin to move through the heavily wooded, tinder-dry forests of the Pacific Northwest and into California from that direction. And Happy Valley would be right in their path.

Chapter 70

Lake Bomoseen, Vermont

Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.

Revelation 14:13

The scattered inhabitants of the forest began to gravitate toward the muddy lake bed around dusk. The narrow, ten mile long body of water was now little more than a slick ravine; the two foot deep layer of slippery yellow muck that lined its bottom around malodorous scattered pools made the footing treacherous, walking an agonizingly slow and exhausting process, running or sitting down to rest a virtual impossibility.

Never-the-less they came, here to make their final stand against the raging fires that had already decimated most of the northern portion of their state and were now marching south like Sherman's army, burning everything in their path.

One column had taken out Brandon the day before, another took Florence and Benson this afternoon. What remained of the National Guard had evacuated Rutland already, and that was little more than fifteen miles to their southeast.

But Pete Paternak and his best friend, wife and moral backbone Clarissa had no desire to run, nowhere they wanted to go; at least not on this earth. Their eyes were calm and peaceful as they walked hand in hand down into the dried lake bed, their quiet progress evoking no fear or retreat from the other forest wildlife that was likewise seeking shelter from the approaching firestorms.

A few other humans were already there, standing or squatting in the tepid mud, mostly silent. Scattered little family groups were coming out of the woods behind them, some dragging or carrying what few possessions they felt worth the effort to save. Some were burdened under backpacks stuffed with whatever meager food supplies they had left, rifles or shotguns slung over their shoulders to protect their precious caches. But most, like Clarissa and Pete, were empty handed, slack limbed, resigned to their fate at this final retreat...perhaps even a little relieved that the ordeal of the past seven years was coming to an end.

Like the tired, sad-eyed does, the twitchy rabbits, the raccoons, foxes and cautious squirrels, these refugees had endured too long to give up now, scratched out an improbable existence well beyond what most others of their kind were capable of. They nodded to one other in kinship: survivors. They had retreated to this barren valley of yellow mud and fetid water because they were imbued with too much survival instinct to do anything else. Yet, they all knew deep down that this was it, this would be their last great effort. And there was a relief in that.

A lone harmonica somewhere began to play "Amazing Grace."

Clarissa squeezed old Pete's hand, but he couldn't look at her because if he did he would cry.

They were all so thin, these refugees: Animals and people alike were mere bony skeletons covered in the shallowest layer of flesh beneath their sagging skin or hide. The bobcats and coyotes looked with disinterest at the abundance of prey around them, perhaps realizing that the scrawny rabbits and other animals wouldn't be worth the energy expended to catch them; perhaps too ill and tired to even attempt the chase. Or perhaps they knew instinctively that by morning it wouldn't really matter much if they'd eaten or not.

As darkness grew more heavy on the land, the little groups of people began to clump together, needing or wanting the closeness of contact even though little was said.

They watched the horizon, the unearthly hellish glow of red that grew slowly brighter as the hours progressed.

Someone tried singing hymns, but the effort soon faltered and died: No band played to raise the spirits on this sinking ship.

As the noise of the approaching conflagration grew louder, closer, all conversation finally ceased. The ominous rolling thunder of distant destruction had transformed into a crackling, spitting roar, accentuated by occasional reports that sounded like gunfire, as trees in the path of the fire exploded from the furnace-like heat.

At about two AM the fire reached the far shoreline of the lake, nearly four miles north of where Pete, Clarissa and the others huddled together in the widest part of the ravine. From that point the wildfire's progress was fast and certain, racing down either side of the narrow lake like a pair of fiery freight trains, consuming every bit of vegetation and oxygen in their path.

By four AM they could feel the intense heat, blown ahead on self-generated winds from the front a mile away.

The refugees never saw dawn. Even if the sun had been visible through the dense smoke of the inferno that whirled in tornado-like vortices around them, they still couldn't have seen it: The air had already been sucked from their scorched lungs by then.

Pete and Clarissa sank slowly face down into the slimy yellow mud, their hands still clutched tightly together, finding out at last whether she had been right or wrong about this heaven thing, or if it even mattered.

Chapter 71

The Vatican

Then I saw a second beast, coming out of the earth.

Revelation 13:11

Today was the sixth anniversary of his coronation as Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church, and the occasion had come and gone with a distinct lack of celebration, leaving the man called Caius the Second feeling like the poor little rich kid who's thrown an elaborate party to which no one has come.

The crowds were sparse in the Piazza today, his rehearsed words of comfort and encouragement, his false promises of increased aid "in the near future," falling on sullen faces and skeptical ears.

His celebratory dinner later that evening, attended by only three of the five surviving cardinal bishops in his curia, the others having begged off, was an unpleasant affair. Cardinal Balles, prefect of the doctrine of faith, whose once bright trusting eyes were now clouded by the doctrine of cynicism; Secretary Bassindo, whose cherubic face had grown drawn and troll-like over the past three years; and Cardinal Bautista, his right hand man in the food distribution program, whose powerful personality was now totally converted into bitterness and hate, had barely been civil. Unspoken accusations grumbled through the forced pleasantries, while backhanded complements were passed about the half-hearted efforts of Caius' personal aide - Deacon Armandi - to disguise the canned meat and vegetables into a pretense of formal fare.

It ended early.

Pope Caius then retired to his quarters, only to find he could not concentrate on the book held in his hands. After attempting to read the same paragraph three times with the same lack of result, he threw the book on the floor and got up to pace. His anger and frustration grew more toxic with each measured step: Finally he slammed out of the bedroom and stomped over to stand before the floor to ceiling mirror in his dressing room, hands belligerently on his hips.

"Havohej!" He called, but there was no response. He wanted to call again, but hesitated, fearful of the confrontation.

He stood there a long time, contemplating the image of the man reflected back at him. Was this truly the supreme head of the Catholic Church, arguably one of the most powerful and influential men in the world, this pitiable creature he saw standing there looking back at him? He scanned his reflection for any hint of the boy he remembered playing stickball in a sunlit back alley in Florence, laughing up at the wind that tousled his hair. He looked for evidence of the young priest he'd been in seminary, determined to give his life so fully to God that he might become almost godlike himself: Where was he now?

Caius drew up a chair in front of the mirror and sat down tiredly.

"What's gone wrong?" He asked after a minute, looking at the floor. He turned and directed the question at his mirror image: "What did we do wrong? The world is disintegrating, self-destructing before our eyes. There's no fresh water left anywhere, nothing fit to drink. The ocean's dead beyond all hope of recovery; the ozone layer's disappearing, the sun is no longer a bringer of life but of death; great outbreaks of disease continue to rampage across the continents unchecked and unabated; and our great plan, Havohej," he stretched out his hand as if to put it inside the mirror itself to reach the demon; "our great plan to control the world...do you know where the hell that has gotten us? I'll tell you: The food is running out and there is nothing to replace it with. Even here in the Vatican we are beginning to feel the pinch, beginning to find that strict rationing is now a necessity. Do you know what I had for my anniversary dinner tonight, Havohej - or Satan, or Beelzebub or whoever the fuck you are - do you? Canned spam, for god's sake: Spam!"

The image in the mirror looked back at him, oblivious to his pain. It was, after all, only a reflection of reality.

"What is this; what's really going on?" The pope yelled, jumping to pace agitatedly once again in front of his image, which mocked him with a perfect mimicry of his pacing. "We have have succeeded in enlisting ninety-five percent of all humankind onto our welfare rolls; we have entrapped them by their need and greed into taking your number. Just as planned, just as we wanted, we now rule the world, Satan, yes! But what kind of world is there left to rule, I ask you: of what value is it now, a planet full of corpses and decay?!"

He reached out with both hands, grabbing the ornate frame of the eight foot mirror.

"You got me into this, dammit!" He screamed tearfully, shaking the mirror grasped in his trembling hands. It refused to budge. "You made me into your minion with the tainted eucharist Sixtus prepared: I didn't know, I had no choice! It's not my fault, none of this is my fault! And now you've left, letting me take all the heat!"

Suddenly the mirror darkened: Within its depths two crimson, almond shaped eyes appeared. But the eyes were in his own face, his own reflection. And as he watched in horror that reflection began to alter, the jaw elongating, forehead flattening, skin becoming covered in scales. The dragon-like head that sat upon his neck opened its toothy mouth, and laughter erupted from the thick reptilian throat.

Just as suddenly the laughter stopped: "Fuck you, asshole!" It spat with a fierce, bitter anger. "I was you all along."

Caius let go of the mirror, sinking slowly to the floor. He lay there sobbing.

Dawn found him still on the thick Oriental rug, curled into a fetal position, eyes wide open.

Chapter 72

Happy Valley, California

This calls for patient endurance and faithfulness on the part of God's people.

Revelation 13:10

Buzzy Bent stood at the crest of the mountain looking down through the amber glow of twilight into the darkened valley below. He felt as he imagined every war-weary soldier must feel coming home, even a soldier on the losing side.

Well, he told himself, it appeared that the Christians of this commune had at least managed to complete their ecosystem. Problem was, he wasn't sure if it still mattered.

He inhaled deeply, leaning back against the fender of his filthy jeep. The air was so thin up here on the mountain that it was making him feel dizzy - or at least that's what he hoped was the cause. Maybe he was just tired, or maybe it was something else, something to do with the atmospheric oxygen content.

From his vantage point a thousand feet above the valley floor he could see the entire four hundred by eight hundred foot self-contained ecosystem. There were windowless ten foot high perimeter walls on the north and south sides of the compound, affording privacy for those living in the series of small apartments that lined each side. On the narrower east and west ends were much higher, clear fiberglass walls to allow maximum solar energy into the system. One portion of the north wall had been given over to a larger building that looked like it might be a community center: He thought he could just make out a slight flicker of light coming through the fiberglass roof above it, though it could have been simply a reflection of the sunset he saw.

Buzz took another long deep breath against the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him as he climbed back into the ragged Jeep. He shook his head: All this work, and it might have been for nothing. How could he tell them?

It was fully dark by the time he finally reached the valley floor, and after a cursory search Buzz could find only one entrance to the walled compound, a solid looking door at the rear of what he had perceived to be their community center. He expected it to be barred from within but it wasn't; it gave easily and noiselessly to his touch. He found himself in a small dark cubicle of some sort - possibly an airlock, he thought, glad that they seemed to be following some of his suggestions.

As he quietly pushed open the inner door he discovered that the dimly lit room in which he now stood was full of people.

Eric was the first to spot the shabby, disheveled figure emerging from the shadows into the flickering candlelight near the podium, but Anna was the first to recognize him. Her heart leapt, first in joy to see him, then - noticing the expression on his drawn face - in fear for the news he might bring.

He looked awful, she thought. He was thin now, too thin - he used to be such a hunk - and his hollow eyes reflected things she'd rather not know about. His skin was black with dirt, his hair long and straggly, his face sporting a five day growth of beard. She felt so....disappointed.

When he'd visited their camp in the fall he'd been clean, even clean shaven, not like the smelly goats around here. Her heart ached remembering how she'd caught him looking at her looking at him, back then; how his eyes had always sparkled beneath the seriousness whenever they'd met hers.

Now he'd come back, just as she'd been praying he would all these months - her shining knight returned to sweep her away from all this hunger and fear. Only now he looked worse than she did.

_Oh damn damn damn,_ thought Anna as the baby Emmanuel sucked discouragedly at her nearly empty breast; _life was so unfair._

"The whole northwest is on fire," he said to his deathly still audience as he took the podium from John McAfee; "maybe the northeast as well, I don't know. I had to come back here, to warn you."

His deep strong voice faltered, pitched high and then cracked on the last three words. They waited: Some who were not already below the level of expressing grief joined in his silent tears.

Anna didn't want to hear it, what he had to say. Her ears took it in half-heartedly, even as her mind wandered to other things. The past year and a half for her at Happy Valley had been as near to hell as she ever wanted to get. Her days with Jess on the drought-scourged little sheep ranch in Nebraska, mellowed by the sepia tones of time and placed in juxtaposition against the harsh reality of the present, seemed a vernal Eden by comparison.

She worked so damn hard every day - even throughout her pregnancy she'd labored in the gardens and took care of the sheep - that her body would twitch and jerk at night, expending pent up knots of energy as she ached her way into sleep.

Yet no matter how much labor she put into their existence, it seemed like her children were always hungry, as if God in his self-righteous wrath was always one step ahead, making sure it was that much harder each day to simply get by.

And though she mimicked the other good and trusting people of this valley in their protestations of faith, saying "praise the Lord" over every scrawny carrot or turnip they could coax from the parched, unwilling soil, sometimes she secretly felt like saying "Piss on the Lord: what's _He_ doing to help? It's us that are working our butts off to build this damn compound, our sweat that's making these vegetables grow!"

After a while she'd even stopped apologizing to God about her attitude. And when the baby cried his scrawny self to sleep at night because he couldn't get enough milk out of her dried up breasts to fill his bloated little belly, often as not she cried right along with him, while dreaming vague dreams about the tall California surfer who was coming back to rescue them.

She used to think a lot about leaving, truth were told; about heading back to Nebraska or down to L.A., getting all the food she could eat, warm blankets, a nice apartment...all for the price of a little blue ink on her hand. But it wasn't so easy to leave here as it had been to leave Jess. She had no fat sheep to trade anymore, no Blazer to stash the kids in and take off. She couldn't even steal it back in the dead of night, as she'd once contemplated: It was somewhere in Eureka now, traded for the materials to build the ecosystem compound.

She signed audibly, drawing her lips down into a sour expression as she tuned back to what Buzzy was saying.

"By the time I got to Redding the great lightning storms that had been confined mostly to the forests along the Canadian border had begun to etch their way south. The couple of people I could reach on my CB radio told of great blazes raging just north of Oroville on the Washington side of the border. Their fear is," he sighed, swallowing hard; "that the firestorms may begin travelling south down the entire range, maybe even as far as California. If that happens," he shook his head of long brown hair sadly; "then I don't know how much protection this structure will be. I want you all to understand, _please,_ that I never meant to deceive you into this project when I came by six months ago. I feel like I caused you to undergo all this great labor and sacrifice on the premise that it would save you, when it now appears it may have been for nothing. I'm so sorry." His voice was husky, choked with emotion. "I just don't know how to help keep you all safe anymore, at least not from the fires. But if I could...well, I'd just as soon stay here as go anywhere else. _"_

Anna looked at the man, and her heart opened up a little. He might not be able to carry her away, but at least he was going to stick around.

Elder McAfee retook the podium, putting his arm around the visitor's drooping shoulders. "I'm sure we are all very glad to have you with us," he said, eyes glistening in the candlelight; "and we certainly don't blame you for what's happened. This is in God's hands."

"Amen!" Avouched the audience as one, though still too sobered by his news to put much punch into it.

"That's all well and good," a quavering voice cried out petulantly from the darkness; "but do you truly believe, after all we've been through, all we've sacrificed for His name's sake, that the Lord now expects us to simply sit here like lambs at the slaughter and wait until the fires consume us?"

It was the frail man with seven children that Sandy had lived with her first year at Happy Valley. His sickly wife had finally escaped the commune by dying of pneumonia the previous winter, her and two of the younger children. He'd been hanging on to what was left of his faith by his careworn fingertips ever since.

"Brother Melton," John McAfee replied calmly, his great black beard trembling with suppressed emotion, the kindly brown eyes heating with unexpected anger; "to begin with, the fires are still a long ways off: We have no certainty they will ever reach us. If they should, then we will deal with that problem at the proper time. But if what you are suggesting, and covertly I might add, is that we leave this protected valley God has given us to scatter like dandelion fluff before the wind of judgment, then I take issue with that. You think we should run from God's will? Run, perhaps, even into the arms of Satan, in order to continue our physical survival? If we do, then what have the past three years been for?"

He switched his gaze and voice now to encompass the entire group, sensing the cusp of a crisis. It had been coming anyway, ever since the founder - Reverend Phillips - had passed away in March. More and more of them had been slipping away from the fold, if not physically at least spiritually. It was time to gather them back in.

"I understand, my brothers and sisters, your fears and your doubts...and your hunger. I see in your eyes the same pain that is in my own whenever I look at the bones of my children showing through their skin, when I see my wife's tears and can do nothing to assuage them. Sometimes it is hard to keep believing in a merciful God, to hold fast to His promise of eternal life, the promise that even if we should die, if we do so for His sake, remaining true to our chosen side in the great battle, then we and our children shall live with him in that spiritual place called Heaven forever."

He took a deep breath, looked around the room, catching every eye he could.

"It is a hard test of faith, to be sure; a terrible test. But let me ask you this: At this point in time, what else would you choose to believe in?"

He looked out at his flock, saw some of the heads begin to nod.

"Would you choose to believe in science, the great god of science, to cure our world's ills? Have you forgotten that it was man's worship of science that created all these so called "natural catastrophes" to begin with?" He gave a derisive snort, watching the silent audience slowly shake their heads. "No? Well then, what's next, belief in self? Would you believe in your own individual ingenuity to get you out of this mess? Our ecosystem was quite ingenious, don't you think? Yet even before we've fully completed it, we're told it may not be enough to save us in the long run after all."

The bearded man paused, taking a deep breath, looking around the room. "So then, do we choose Satan? Shall we belatedly accept the New W.O.R.D's offer of material goods, physical life? Brothers, sisters....it's even too late for that." He wagged his big head back and forth, a father admonishing a foolish child. "Don't you realize that he too has fallen powerless before God's wrath; that the best he can offer you now is only enough food to extend your miserable existence another few months at best? Are you really willing to sell your immortal souls for a few cans of pork and beans?"

He waited for the rumble of muttering to die down, for reality to set in, sobs to subside.

"Or shall we believe in the unknown, in God?" He asked in a softer voice, spreading his palms upward. "We know what Satan has left to offer, and it ain't much. On the other hand, we have only our blind and perhaps foolish hope that Jesus was telling the truth, that we **will** be rewarded for our faithfulness to Him with eternal spiritual life. I guess it comes down to this: Are you gamblers? Are the stakes high enough, worth enough to you personally to risk everything? Because if you want a sure thing, I'd advise you to go for the beans; but know that's **all** you'll get."

Whether his speech had pushed his people back up into a firmer grasp of their Christian ideals, or further down into the numbing inaction of total apathy, John McAfee might never know. Nor did it matter in the long run: At least there was no more talk of leaving, so either way they were saved, like it or not.

Chapter 73

Rome, Italy

For they have shed the blood of your holy people and your prophets,

Revelation 16:6

Moni sat in a bedside chair that night, holding Luigi's frail hand in her own; but at the place the fingers intertwined it was hard to tell where one set ended and the other began, both were so pale, so completely deprived of flesh.

As exhaustion swam over her in thick convulsive waves, her head drooped and nodded, the lusterless dark hair falling over her face, hiding the scar lines that stretched their jagged fingers in sharp review across the drawn pallid skin of her face.

They'd consumed the last of Joe's savings a few weeks back, and with that gone the last of their black market sources for food and medication had dried up. A short time later, the gifts - usually anonymous - of home canned fruits and vegetables had stopped appearing at their door, the generosity of the closet Christians in the city slowly drying up as their own precious stores dwindled, no doubt.

Moni roused herself, shaking the sleep from her head, checking Luigi's weak fluttering pulse with practiced fingertips. He didn't have long to suffer, she sighed, wiping a trace of moisture from the corner of her one good eye. Probably none of them did.

She looked over at Joe and Mike, seated in chairs nearby, sharing the death vigil with her.

After their rescue three weeks ago, they'd not set foot outside the apartment, afraid to be arrested now that they were sought by Interpol as international terrorists.

"No matter," Joe had said; "God's withdrawn his protection from us now anyway, which tells me our purpose here is done."

Then he'd shaken his head in black despair: "Even those we did seem to convince have turned against us I think....not that I blame them."

Moni had heard this before, back when the first veiled accusations had begun to surface through emails and letters from some of the Christian communes, citing passages from the Book of Revelation to suggest that the two American prophets might somehow be responsible for the tribulations that had befallen the world.

At first the men had shrugged it off, but the evening after their rescue, Giovanni had reluctantly admitted the truth of the rumor, telling them that a substantial number of the refugees in the Christian commune he'd joined after leaving them were convinced that if Joe and Mike would just stop preaching in St. Peter's Square all the disasters would cease.

"Ridiculous!" Mike had scoffed: But Joe had taken it to heart.

"Look," he'd said one night shortly after, angrily shoving the Bible beneath Moni's nose despite her gentle protestations, poking his finger at the page as he read aloud: "These have the power to shut heaven that it rain not in the days of their prophecy: and have power over waters to turn them to blood, and to smite the earth with all plagues as often as they will."

"You see," he'd said, turning back and forth between Moni and Mike, his eyes both anxious to convince them and afraid to have his fears confirmed; "if we _are_ the two witnesses spoken of in Revelations eleven - as we have been telling ourselves for the past three years - then we are also responsible for the terrible things which have befallen mankind during that time, just like the Bible says."

"But if so," Mike had countered patiently; "then we are certainly not doing so of our own will but God's." He'd put a hand on the other man's shoulder, pulling him around so that they were face to face, weary comrades in this war. "If you could stop the drought, the plagues; if you could somehow end this pain and suffering for us all, for Moni here, and Luigi, for Marija's kids in California and all the rest, would you?"

"Well..."

"You'd stop it if you could, no matter what the prophecies say, no matter what we might conceive God's plan to be: You'd stop it if you could, **wouldn't** you?"

"Yes."

"And so would I, Joe," the priest had admitted, running long fingers through his thick unruly hair. "I'm not that strong, my faith not so great that I can sit here and watch the people I love suffer and die. But I can't stop it, and neither can you: That's the point. God has purposely kept that power out of our hands. And if we can't knowingly **stop** these disasters, how can we truly be the cause of them...no matter what the Bible says?"

Joe had sunk heavily into a nearby chair, putting his head in his hands. Moni'd stood behind him, her hand gently caressing the hair at the back of his neck. Mike had found another chair, pulled it up close, waiting for his friend to think this over.

"Can it be both ways?" Joe had asked at last, his voice weary and confused. "If we didn't cause these things, then are we really the true prophets of God after all? Shit, sometimes I'm not even sure whose side we're on! Maybe **we** are the assholes of the world, you know? Maybe we only think we're doing God's work, when all the time we've been the dupes of Satan!"

"C'mon Joe," Mike had sighed.

Moni'd just shaken her head, walking away.

She sighed again now, remembering the incident, not sure if it ever really got resolved. She got up from the bedside chair to stretch her thin body, but sat down again quickly, dropping her head low into her lap as faintness threatened to overcome her.

"How can Satan cast out Satan?"

The quote came to her suddenly like a flicker of light in the darkness of her mind.

It was the line Jesus had used when the Pharisees had accused him of using Satan's power to cast out demons.

"If a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand. And if Satan rises up against himself, and thus is divided, _he_ cannot stand...."

There was something about this saying, some key to the whole thing buried in that truth, but she couldn't quite grasp it. It just kept sliding out of her reach...so weak now, her focus fading, the near epiphany slipping away like a dream upon waking.

She lifted her head to look over at the two men across from her, both nodding off in their straight back chairs. So gaunt, their energy failing. Giovanni had gone back to his commune in the mountains of northern Italy two weeks ago, promising to try to find them food, but he'd never returned.

We're starving, she acknowledged, looking at them. It was simply a fact, hardly worthy of emotion. Every day she could sense her own energy diminishing as her body fed upon itself, eating away tissue and blood and bone to keep itself alive, to keep its little engine running. She tried to move as little as possible these days, sleeping or lying quiescent for hours at a time in order to conserve what little strength she had left.

But tonight she could not let herself sleep, tonight Luigi was dying - she understood this as surely as she understood the sun would rise in the morning and there would be no rain - and she would not let the dear little man die alone.

They'd run out of sucrose for his IV solution two weeks ago: Since then all she'd been able to put into his veins was water which she'd carefully sterilized and distilled in her own jury-rigged system, heated on the small wood stove that served all their cooking and heating needs now. They'd slowly cannibalized the structure of the rented house - just like their bodies cannibalized themselves - for the fuel to run it.

The archbishop's once pleasantly rotund body was shrunken into itself, an emaciated skeleton whose paralyzed limbs curled up against the frail chest as if to protect the life lingering inside. Yet his eyes remained very much alive, bright and warm and full of love even up to this moment. She felt them on her now, those eyes, sensed them with that special awareness that had developed between them over the past two years. She looked over at him with a start of apprehension: Luigi was staring at her, his brown eyes - at once infinitesimally close and unfathomably far away - were glowing with a bright inner radiance of energy, a powerful and certain peace. He said goodbye with those eyes. He told her of glory with those eyes. He told her it had all been worthwhile; then he closed them, and was gone.

Next morning she, Joe and Mike buried their friend in a shallow grave in the back yard, glad for his peace at last.

Chapter 74

Happy Valley, California

Pray that you may be able to escape all that is about to happen.

Luke 21:36

They shivered in the predawn chill as they waited for the others to arrive, the pretty girl-woman - now fifteen - who looked so much like her aunt Marija it would have torn at Joe's heart to see her; and her younger brother who, though only eleven years old, had an old man's eyes, both wise and resigned.

The pair looked up silently through the clear fiberglass of the roof overhead, hoping for a glimpse of stars. There were none, only the same preternatural darkness.

For weeks a layer of smoke from the distant fires that raged across Canada and the northern border states had been drifting south over their little colony, blotting out much of the summer sun's warmth and light.

The immediate threat of fire that Buzzy Bent had warned them about on his arrival in late spring had been held in check at the Washington-Oregon border for nearly six weeks, the result of superheated air over the fire zones rising into the stratosphere, leaving a low pressure vacuum into which the denser surface air from the Pacific ocean had rushed. This had created a continuous strong southwesterly wind which prevented the fires from moving further south, leaving them to smolder over the already burned areas of Washington State, or to move slowly northeast. High in the stratosphere the smoke from these fires had been spreading and flowing outward across the entire North American continent. This dark particulate cloud cover absorbed and reflected most of the sun's rays before they could reach the planet's surface; consequently the temperatures throughout early summer had been unseasonably cool, rarely getting above the low fifties even inside the solar absorbent structure of their greenhouse ecosystem. As a result, the hydroponic gardens at Happy Valley had produced only weak, dwarfed, misshapen fruits and vegetables despite the extra nutrients the farmers had poured into their water baths. Some of the sun-loving varieties had failed to grow altogether.

The cold and lack of food had caused seventy of the remaining three hundred community members to die that spring and summer. Anna's baby Emmanuel was one; Brother Melton, the widower with too many children to feed was another. He'd perished in early July along with three of his remaining five children, although not of starvation. Before his neighbors could breach the barricade he'd erected behind his cabin door three shots were fired. The fourth and last bullet he turned on himself, smiling as the bits of his skull and brain tissue splattered the hands and faces of his would-be rescuers as they broke down the door.

Then, just as suddenly as they'd begun, the Southwesterlies had stopped. That was two weeks ago. For three days the commune members had endured an oppressive still: waiting, watching, the premonition strong in them all that their final battle was soon to come. On July twenty-first they'd awakened to a howling gale blowing down from the north. No one knew why the winds had shifted; there were no TV forecasters left to read the satellite weather pictures still being faithfully transmitted by robot cameras circling the earth, no newscasters to report on the progress of the great firestorms across Canada and the northern United States. Some in the community had voiced the hope that the blazes had finally burned themselves out up there, predicting that was the cause of the wind shift. But they could only guess...and wait.

During the last week of July, the winds had turned bitterly cold, the temperatures at night dropping well below freezing, icy fingers slithering through unseen cracks in the greenhouse's superstructure, and screaming through the small section of roof above the center of the reservoir which they'd never managed to completely cover. Then, for the past three days, there'd been a hint of surreal warmth snaking in fleeting tendrils through the icy blasts, a barely tangible odor of burning wood wafting in and out of their senses.

Two nights ago a small scouting party was sent up to the crest of the mountain above their valley: They reported seeing flashes of sheet lightning above the distant northern horizon, illuminating the somber smoke-filled sky with umber and violet hues. Then last night a second party had noticed a faint reddish cast to the sky in the direction of Oregon, a continuous glow on the skyline. This time they'd taken along the portable shortwave radio, and were able to make an intermittent, crackling contact with a HAM operator in Crescent City, thirty-five miles to their northwest. He'd confirmed their worst fears: Great fires had swept across Oregon during the past week, running in two giant fingers down the coastal range and the Cascades at the rate of about twenty-five miles per day. Grants Pass was now afire, and Klamath Falls would certainly burn before the night was out.

Upon their return to the compound a brief private conference was held with the community leaders, after which an emergency meeting of the commune's entire population was called. At the podium stood John McAfee, his long black hair, shaggy beard and tall gaunt frame giving him the appearance of a latter-day Ezekiel. Beside him the clean shaven man- still looking like a California surfer despite the forty-five pounds he'd lost, awaited his turn to speak.

The situation that faced them was presented in terse, unemotional terms: The audience sighed as one. No one screamed, no one even cried. They'd known for too long that this day was coming.

"From all indications, the fires will be upon us in three, perhaps four days at the outside," McAfee told them. "As we see it, there are only two choices, two possible courses of action left to us. One is to remain, the other is to flee. Neither offers much chance for survival, to be perfectly honest: and neither is necessarily more _right_ or more _God's will_ than the other."

"Your church elders, plus Buzzy here," he nodded at the man on his right; "have discussed this, and concluded that there is no one set action appropriate for us all. The way each of you faces this final challenge ultimately lies within you, according to your own inherent nature. Some of you are 'waiters', content to quietly stay put, pray, and let nature - or God - take its course. Some are more comfortable moving on, fighting to the last breath. And some, unfortunately, may find that they are forced to stay behind for various reasons, even though their heart tells them to go, to fight. As it is God that has given each of us our unique individuality, I am sure He expects us to remain true to that character to the end."

There was a glint of tears in his eyes as John McAfee now stepped back a pace to allow Buzzy to take the podium.

"Those who wish to leave the commune must consider the physical duress involved," he warned. "Some of you, even though you might desperately want to try, are simply not in condition to make the trek. We will be following the riverbed to the ocean, about twenty-five rough, treacherous miles west of here. If we hope to reach the shore ahead of the fires, we'll need to hike at least ten miles per day, a hard pace even for people in top shape. Those who come along and then find they can't keep up with the group will have to be left behind, to make their way back - or even possibly die - alone. I hate to make it sound so cold hearted, but there is no other way, I'm sorry."

"Why can't we take the truck or your jeep?" Someone called out anonymously from the darkened hall.

"We don't have enough gas to even get one vehicle to the coast, and I'm sure more than five or six of you will want to go," said John McAfee, stepping forward. "Best just to leave what little gas there is behind to run the generators for those who stay."

He waited for the grumbling to die away before continuing. "Buzzy will be leading the party of those who wish to head for the sea: They'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. I will remain behind with those who are unable or unwilling to make the journey." He looked out over the crowd of passive faces, reading nothing in their eyes or expressions. "Either way, God is with us," he assured them. "We have won our place with Him in heaven, every one of us. Our suffering for His sake is nearly done, brothers and sisters. Go home now, consult your hearts, talk this over with your family and neighbors. We will gather in the common area at sunrise. Those who wish to make the journey with brother Bent will leave then: Those of us who stay behind will send them off with our love, our blessings and our prayers, knowing that we will all be reunited again in Heaven.

Sandy looked down now at her younger brother, remembering the speech. She smiled and squeezed his hand. Buzzy's party was beginning to gather in front of the community center; Anna and the three children standing up close beside him, others moving slowly forward to join the group. Most of them were single adults or families with older children.

About two-thirds of the commune's population had apparently elected to remain with McAfee; some with little children too young to make the trip, some so ill or weak they couldn't stand up long enough to say goodbye; some merely more content to await the end in quiet prayer and relative comfort than to make the arduous, exhausting and probably futile attempt to escape the inevitable, prolonging their life by hours or days at best.

The teenage girl and her brother moved up to stand beside Buzzy.

John McAfee read the Twenty-third Psalm. Someone in the crowd behind began singing "Onward Christian Soldiers" in a soft, slightly off key voice, and soon others joined in, their voices growing stronger, more certain. It was their cue...or as good as any: The party of fifty-six men, women and children left the commune, walking through the door at the back of the meeting hall in an orderly, single file line, heading back toward the sea that had long ago spawned them.

Chapter 75

Rome, Italy

There will be no rest day or night for those who worship the beast and its image, or for anyone who receives the mark of its name.

Revelation 14:11

The woman had been sick for three days now, burning with fever, coughing in deep tearing spasms that left her limp with expended energy, dizzy and nauseous with the effort to clear the congestion from her lungs.

Joe got up from helping her through the latest attack and left the room, closing the door softly behind him: As soon as he was out of sight and hearing he paced around the kitchen, fuming, throwing towels and hot pads - soft objects that wouldn't disturb her, wouldn't alert her to his anger and frustration. Their quiet thuds gave little satisfaction. He looked around the empty kitchen, looked once more into every empty shelf, as if somehow by some miracle an overlooked can of soup might suddenly appear. If he could just give her something to help build her strength so she could fight this bug. But as unkind fortune played out the cards with a grim smile and stacked deck, there was nothing. The mysterious donations of food they'd begun receiving daily again over the past few weeks had suddenly stopped coming a week ago.

"Damn!" He whispered, still searching, now under the sink, behind the refrigerator. "Damn it, just one can." But there was none.

The woman never ate much of the food that had come anyway, not that he saw. That's probably why she was susceptible to this infection, too weak to fight it off. Whoever heard of pneumonia in the summertime?

Mike, who had come silently into the kitchen from Moni's bedroom, watched him with sad eyes.

"I think she's dying, Joe," he said: "Of starvation as much as the flu."

"But she told me she was eating," Joe protested, tears in his eyes. "She told me she didn't eat with us because she liked to eat her share in the middle of the night so it would help her sleep."

"Have you looked at her?" Mike said. "Come."

The two men slipped back into the bedroom, where Moni now slept fitfully, moaning. Mike lifted back the bedcovers carefully, then - crossing himself - lifted up her nightgown. They gasped: Her emaciated form was so thin every bone showed through the skin. She shivered in her sleep, and they quickly covered her again.

"She hasn't been eating at all, has she?" Joe whispered. "But why?"

As Mike looked at him, the first inkling of the horrible truth crawled along his spine and sank into his stomach like a hot rock.

The packages of donated food had begun arriving at their doorstep the day after they'd buried Cardinal Magliano: Was that mere coincidence? Moni claimed she never saw who left it on their doorstep in the middle of each night, that she presumed it must be some local underground Christian group Giovanni had contacted, one that wanted to remain anonymous for their own safety.

But the food was not home grown or home canned like the earlier donations had been, and at first Joe and Mike had both been reluctant to eat it, voicing their strong suspicion that it had come from stores of the New W.O.R.D program. It was Moni who had convinced them it was safe, that it would not compromise their commitment to God to partake of it, arguing that the Bible said nothing about the food itself corrupting one, only that "there will be no rest for anyone who receives the mark of the beast itself."

"Perhaps," she'd reasoned; "this food is being given to us by someone who took the beast's number, but has since repented of that decision. Maybe he or she hopes that by giving the prophets of God food to sustain them, it might mitigate what they've done. Would you deny them that chance?"

They'd listened thoughtfully to her rationale, debated openly as well as in their hearts in private meditation and prayer, and ultimately decided to accept the life-sustaining food as the honest gift they prayed it was. As a result, Mike and Joe had both gained a pound or two in the past few weeks, and although they still hadn't dared to return to their public preaching in St. Peter's yet, they knew they would soon enough.

Now they discovered that not only had Moni not gained weight like them, she had actually lost it, growing ever more frail, her delicate skin almost transparent over the finely chiseled bone structure.

She hasn't eaten any of the food, Joe realized with certainty, not a bite. Why? Was it just so he and Mike would have more to eat, or something else?

The woman moaned, stirring feebly. He hurried to her side, taking a dampened washrag from a small bowl by the bedside with which to cool her burning forehead. As he drew the wet cloth across her brow, pushing the fringe of bangs back, he saw it. Just within the edge of her hairline there was a small strip of blue ink, numbers and letters disguised among the follicles. At first glance he'd thought it was a bruise, but looking closer he realized it was letters spelling out _The New WORD_ , followed by 9 numbers.

"Oh my God, Moni, no! Why did you do it?" He cried, grabbing the girl by her fleshless shoulders.

The dark brown eye fluttered weakly, trying to open. Slowly, under the force of her will, the lids parted and she looked out at him.

"I had to, Joe," she whispered, the voice a weak rattle in her chest. "I couldn't bear the thought of you dying."

A paroxysm of coughing interrupted Moni's explanation, the deep harsh fluid barks tearing at Joe's heart as he held her over the side of the bed, supporting her weak body while she tried to expel the fluid that was drowning her. When he lay her back on the pillow there was a thin trickle of blood running from the side of her mouth.

He wiped it away tenderly with his knuckle: He couldn't stop his tears now; they fell from his eyes, wetting the sheets above her chest, sprinkling her face in a fine mist of grief.

When she spoke again her voice sounded far away, childlike, as if she wasn't even talking to him.

"Forgive me, please, if I did wrong, but it was worth whatever price I have to pay. I, I just couldn't let him die, he's too precious, too important...it would have hurt too much," she gave a tired little laugh. "But I never ate any of the food myself, not one single bite."

He couldn't think of what to say.

"I didn't eat the food," she said again. "Doesn't that count?"

He looked away, closing his eyes. He didn't know the answer, didn't have any answers left at all. When he looked back he discovered that his answer was unnecessary: Moni was already finding that out for herself.

Moni felt the body let go, and there was an incredible relief as she floated free from its endless demands, its fears, its urges and constraints. With this freedom came the certainty that she was not that body after all, that it was no more her true self than the clothes she put on it for warmth or decoration. Yet at the same instant of this comforting certainty came the corollary, that she had made a terrible mistake.

She had defied God, taken the number of the beast in order to preserve a life that needed no preserving, a body whose time span was so insignificant against eternity that it never really existed at all.

With that realization she felt herself plummet into the eternal blackness of the hell that is knowing you will forever be alone, a singularity in the infinity of space, separated from Joe and everyone else, and from the light and the love that is God.

Joe came out of the bedroom. Mike looked up from the kitchen chair, and as their eyes met no words were needed.

"We go back to the square tomorrow," Joe said. "I won't let her sacrifice be in vain."

Chapter 76

San Francisco

The dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to

wage war against the rest of her offspring

Revelation 12:17

As the group from Happy Valley left the compound in the predawn chill, heading for the coast, three hundred nautical miles to the south another party set off at the first glimmer of sunrise, a very small party of two. They looked like Martians in the foggy grey light, one-eyed aliens with protuberant snouts and strange double humps on their backs.

Grogan had spent a week faking ownership papers for the abandoned forty-two foot Chris Craft motor yacht, an unnecessary precaution as it turned out. No one was even around, or if they were they weren't interested enough to question the pair about their rights to the boat as the pair of middle-aged thieves loaded it with a week's provisions, started the engines with a skeleton key from the detective's personal collection, and slowly eased the luxury craft away from its mooring in the Sausalito Yacht basin.

The idea of going by sea to Eureka rather than by car had come to Dolores Bundiss months ago, when news about bands of marauders roaming the highways - forcing cars off the road and stealing whatever provisions the hapless travelers might be carrying - had become too frequent to ignore. There were even rumors of cannibalism.

"I'm not going, Paul," the older woman had said firmly. "I have no intention of being eaten by strangers."

I don't think you have to worry about that, he thought, looking at her sagging breasts, her lumpy ass. Wisely he kept the comment to himself.

"Then how the fuck do you suggest we get there?" He'd inquired pleasantly.

"Maybe we could steal a boat?"

It hadn't been too difficult, with Paul's lifetime coterie of shady friends, to arrange trading their sixty gallons of siphoned, unleaded gasoline for an equivalent amount of contraband diesel. Getting the necessary SCUBA gear and spare oxygen tanks was a bit more difficult: over half their precious cache of stolen food had to be sacrificed for that trade. Dolores could've cried: All this to go get a couple of brats she didn't really feel inclined to rescue.

But the icon was insistent.

"Soon," it had told them repeatedly over the past few weeks. "Be ready: The time is coming when you must go after them. It is the master's will, his command that these adopted children of the slut Marija must be made his. Steal one of the tattooing devices from your warehouse," he'd instructed tersely. "No one will miss it now."

True enough, almost everyone who was left in the area had already been tattooed, although there were the occasional stragglers coming in from their communes and hidey-holes, finally out of all food stores and too hungry to hold out any longer.

"Be ready to use it on them the second you find them, but remember the tattoos cannot be forced on anyone. They have to choose to receive their number of their own free will...even if you have to hang a deluxe pizza under their snot-nosed faces to bend that will a little." The icon had chuckled, a weird metallic sound. "Once they have their numbers I don't give a royal fig what you do with them - toss them overboard if you like, that would be the smart thing: More food and oxygen for you."

Paul had forced Dolores to listen to this speech over and over again until it was engrained in her head, and her last feeble protests had dried up with her saliva. She thought if she had to hear that awful, hollow rasping voice one more time she would start screaming and not be able to stop. Yet, she'd promised herself secretly, when it came time to throw things overboard the icon would be the first to go if she had her way...and Paul Grogan right behind.

Then last night the message had changed. "Load your boat," it ordered; "and set sail at first light tomorrow morning. I will direct your course once we are on the open sea."

Now, as the sleek pointed hull pushed heavily through the rotting slime of the bay and began hitting the dark choppy waters of the ocean beyond the peeling red spans of the Golden Gate Bridge, the icon came suddenly to life.

"Turn twenty degrees starboard as you pass that last buoy a half mile ahead," the flat echoic voice commanded. "Once past Point Reyes you'll need to correct course again in order to stay within five miles of shore. I'll direct you. Tonight you will go ashore to sleep at Fort Bragg: There's a sheltered harbor that's safe to dock the boat in, and a campground a mile from the ocean."

"Why can't we just go straight to Eureka?" The matron argued, setting her jaw into as stubborn an expression as her soft jowls would allow. Might have looked cute when she was fifteen, but she was a long way from that, Grogan thought, scowling.

"I don't like the idea of leaving this expensive boat with all our provisions unattended overnight," she continued, her voice through the breathing apparatus strangely distant and nasally.

The detective averted his eyes, no party to this foolish confrontation. He wished the stupid cunt would shut her face, but she was on a roll.

"Paul and I could take turns sleeping and driving, and we'd get this whole thing over with that much quicker."

"Idiot!" The statuette hissed in cold fury. "You have no idea what you're talking about, yet you think you know best, as usual. You know nothing, you've always known nothing, Dolores Bundiss. But since you choose to question my directions I will tell you 'why'. One, you'll need to conserve oxygen. As long as you are out on the ocean you need to use the tanks, but if you go inland a half mile or so the air is still breathable."

"Barely," Paul muttered under his breath.

"Two," the icon continued, either not hearing the man or choosing to ignore him; "If you complete the trip non-stop you will arrive at the pick-up site a day early, and then will have to sit there on the boat sucking up precious oxygen for an additional 12 hours while you await the children's arrival. So, I will tell you where to go, I will tell you when and how. The only thing I need from you is for you to use the trust the children have in you as their grandmother to coax them onto the yacht: If it weren't for that I'd have your boyfriend here throw you overboard right now."

Dolores gulped, hunching her shoulders and sitting lower in the deck chair.

"When the children are on board, you will use whatever wiles are needed to get their agreement to be tattooed. That is your sole purpose." The Marcus statue turned its marble head to stare coldly at Grogan, who'd been wearing a smirk ever since the icon had mentioned throwing Dolores overboard. "It's the only reason I've kept either one of you alive this long, truth be told. So if you want to remain alive after this little adventure, you need to make quite sure you succeed in carry out my orders, yes?"

Dolores swallowed hard and nodded, eyes downcast. Grogan too gave a curt nod of assent, then went back to steering the yacht. The woman told herself not to think too hard about the grandchildren, what she was going to do to them. Protests would have been a waste of breath, and if she were to be brutally honest with herself - which she never was - they would be made only to assuage her own conscience. Besides, she had no choice now anyway, she realized, glancing up at Paul and at the glowing marble icon; she'd made it a long long time ago.

Chapter 77

Klamath River

The sun and sky were darkened by the smoke from the Abyss.

Revelation 9:2

The band of tired refugees trudged slowly through the lowering orange gloom, the sullen amber brown sky overhead doing nothing to lift their spirits, the murky pools that remained of the dried up river doing nothing to slake their thirst.

The day before, Buzz had set the pace at a steady, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other clip, knowing he couldn't expect more speed from these exhausted, nearly-starved people. Yet he also realized that the following day would be harder still, their stiff, sore muscles cramping up, their hunger and thirst even greater, their spirits lower. And the air thicker with the smoke of the approaching fires, providing less of the oxygen they needed to feed their tired limbs.

So he'd kept the rest breaks few and of short duration that first day, the portions of the trek over boulders, mud holes and logs nearly as steady - if not as fast - as those across the easier surface of hard-packed dried mud, where the narrow chasms of vanished rapids ended and the riverbed widened out again to a flat plain.

As the day had worn on, the fifty-six travelers stretched into a long, nearly single file line, little clots of two and three helping each other along. Gradually a few of the slower, the weaker, began to drop back further and further, barely keeping in sight the tail end of their fellow travelers along the winding riverbed. No one noticed when they dropped off altogether, but when Buzzy made camp that first night a head count revealed that their number was down to forty-six.

Most of those remaining were too exhausted to much care.

Today's journey was, as predicted, even slower and more painful than the day before. And although Buzz was forced to allow more frequent rests, an easier pace, still their numbers continued to gradually decrease.

Sandy, glancing back over her shoulder at one point, saw a woman stumble to her knees, get up, stagger forward twenty more feet - her skeletal legs splayed out at odd angles from her body - and then fall again. When she failed in her struggle to rise this time the girl went back to help, but after a couple of futile efforts by Sandy to lift her, the woman shook her head, tears in her pale blue eyes.

"Go on, girl, go on with the others. This is my time, my place, not yours. Your destiny lies ahead."

Sandy bent down and kissed the woman on the forehead, squeezed her hand, then turned and began to walk slowly after the band of refugees, already disappearing around a bend in the riverbed. After a minute she hurried her pace, anxious to catch up with the rest, to not be left out here alone.

The smoke thickened noticeably during the day, drying and irritating their already parched throats. In the morning it had only been enough to cause an occasional cough or sneeze, but by late afternoon the smoke was so thick the sun was all but blotted out, and a fine grey ash had begun to filter down as well, covering their hair, eyelashes and shoulders like snowflakes from hell.

It was nearly nightfall when they at last reached the ocean. They'd heard the subtle roar of its waves upon the shore the last two or three miles of their silent journey, felt the coolness of its touch on the occasional wafts of breeze that lifted tired locks of hair and spirits. Their hope was borne on the vision of its great blue expanse, its cool waters, fresh salt breezes and the endless freedom it promised - an escape not just from the great fires bearing down on them from the north but from their battle for survival in a dying world, their fight to save both body and soul when the choice was either/or. It was this vision that kept their exhausted bodies plodding ahead the last three hours.

But the reality that faced the weary band as they clambered up out of the delta onto a grassy knoll for their first clear view of the Pacific sent most to their knees in a final paroxysm of despair.

Buzzy had tried to warn them, to prepare them. Although it had been more than a year since he'd last laid eyes upon the Pacific, he'd known even then that the great body of water was entering her final death throes, that Chuck's predictions would be born out fully within the next year or two at the most. He'd since heard reports from time to time during his travels of the dead fish and other marine life, the horrific gagging odors and toxic fumes of decay now emanating from the ocean surface all over the world. He'd steeled himself for this moment, yet even so he wasn't much better able to accept the reality before him than the rest were.

Dead fish, birds and sea mammals littered the rocky beach right up to the high tide mark, most of these in an advanced state of decay, dead for several months at least. The sea itself was a dull brownish grey moving thickly under the sullen, smoke-filled sky. Within the breaking waves could be seen occasional larger pieces of bloated, rotting meat amongst the sludge of more thoroughly decomposed organic matter that covered the entire surface of the sea several meters thick.

The stench was unbelievable, even with the wind blowing briskly off shore.

"Let's move back folks; c'mon, we'll camp down in the state park tonight," Buzz urged the defeated group, now less than half their original number. He picked up Anna's youngest child - little Jenny Ann, now weighing only nineteen pounds and too weak to hold up her own head - and began to lead the rest of them back inland in a south-easterly direction, heading towards a great stand of dying redwoods about a mile from the shore.

One by one the weary travelers picked themselves off the ash-coated sand and began to follow.

A few didn't bother to get up.

Chapter 78

Northern California

Deceivers who do not acknowledge Jesus Christ are coming in the flesh...

2John 7

Dolores Bundiss had found it next to impossible to manage seasickness with the SCUBA mask the first day on the ocean. Every time she had to yank the damn thing off to heave her stomach lining over the railing, the smell and sight of the water below made her feel more nauseous than ever. She'd finally just stayed below decks, a bucket by the side of the bunk on which she lay groaning. If she'd been hoping for sympathy she was out of luck.

When they'd finally anchored at an empty dock in Noyo boat harbor that night, the woman had sworn that Satan himself could not get her back on that boat again. But where Satan or God might have failed, Paul Grogan did not: When they arrived back at the harbor that next morning and she started kicking up a fuss, he simply picked the now slender woman up over his shoulder, carried her down the wooden dock kicking and swearing, and threw her onto the boat, threatening to duct tape her mouth open and duck her headfirst into the slimy stew of sea that lapped against the sides of the boat if she defied him again.

They'd proceeded slowly north all day, watching the dark brown smoke from the burning forests pile higher into the sky ahead with each mile. The smell of the fire grew stronger as well, the sense of doom becoming almost palpable.

At the icon's instruction, they anchored the boat in a small lagoon a couple of miles south of Orick, still some fifteen miles from where the refugees from Happy Valley were encamped.

"Tomorrow," it told them: "Tomorrow is the day. I will wake you at dawn, then you will proceed up the coastline, keeping close to shore. By noon the children will be mine!"

************

That same night Buzzy, Anna, Sandy, Eric and a few of the rest walked back to the beach to watch the northern fires moving slowly towards them.

A bright glow, like a distant bonfire, could be seen at the curve of coastline twenty miles due north.

"I think that might be Crescent City, going up in flames," Buzz said solemnly.

"Guess we won't be getting any more transmissions from that HAM guy," Eric said, tossing a pebble. It landed on the surface of the sea, and didn't sink.

To the northeast the entire sky was aglow, bright sparks exploding sporadically within the orange wall as tinder dry trees in the Siskiyou Forest exploded from the heat of the inferno.

The north winds had lessened in intensity the past day or two, slowing the fires' advance: Never the less they knew they would have to get up the following morning and keep heading south if they were to stay ahead of the flames, hoping to somehow escape them. None could really find a good reason why they kept on going, why they kept on trying, it was just the way they were made.

************

"Sandy!" "Eric!"

The children awoke at the same exact moment, instantly sitting bolt upright with wide-staring eyes and pounding hearts.

A golden light was materializing out of the darkness, its amorphous shape casting a soft glow on their upturned faces.

"Hello darlings."

"Momma MJ?"

"Yes Sandy dear. It's me." The voice sounded sad, as if it were carrying an unbearable burden. "You've both grown so much, and I'm so proud of you."

"We're tired, momma MJ, we're so tired and so hungry," Sandy cried, sounding like a little girl.

"I know."

"I'm scared," cried Eric, and his voice broke into the sobs he'd been withholding all day.

"Don't cry, please. You have to listen, I've come to warn you."

The sobs ceased in a couple of loud snuffles: The children forced themselves to relinquish childhood yet again, put back on the cloak of maturity.

"I've coming to warn you," the ghostly shape repeated. "Tomorrow you will be given your final test: The evil one has sent your grandmother and that detective..."

"Grogan?"

"Yes. Grogan and the Icon; they've been sent to deceive you, to tempt you and trick you into taking the number of the beast. They will promise you things, tell you things that aren't true in order to get you to agree to be tattooed. Don't believe them, darlings, don't believe anything they say."

"But grandma wouldn't hurt us!" Eric protested.

"You've come so far, children; you've been through so much, and we are so close to being together again. You must trust me, please, I beg you. Don't believe anything they say, and whatever you do, don't get the tattoo." The amorphous light was beginning to fade. "Resist temptation, promise me."

"I promise," Sandy said. But Eric said nothing at all.

Then she was gone, the light faded and instantly sleep fell back upon the two children like a dark hand, so quick and so deep that when they were awakened at dawn by Anna's gentle shaking, neither was aware of anything more than having had a vaguely important dream that was just out of reach of consciousness.

Chapter 79

The Pacific Coast

" _The smoke of their torment will rise forever and ever."_ Revelation 14:11

The yacht weighed anchor just after sunrise. Grogan - for once no cigar clenched between his yellow teeth because it wouldn't fit beneath the breathing apparatus, but the habitual grip of jaw giving him a bulldog sneer none-the-less - piloted the luxury craft northward, staying as near to the rocky cliffs as seemed safe in the gently rolling sludge. Dolores meanwhile was below in the galley, preparing a meal sure to weaken the resolve of the children...even if it did make her own seasick stomach churn uneasily.

There would be homemade pizza - or a reasonable facsimile, if one didn't get too picky about the use of spam in place of pepperoni, and artificial cheese made from soybean paste instead of real mozzarella.

Fresh bread was rising in a covered pan nearby, ready to pop into the oven with strategic timing so that the fragrant odors would waft out toward the shore just as the children were being coaxed aboard. To top it off, she'd even managed to bake a chocolate cake with double-fudge frosting from a mix she'd been saving over a year for this occasion.

As she grated and sliced and simmered she worked equally hard to convince herself she was doing the right thing, that the children would be better off with her and Paul than with this bunch of derelict Jesus-freak hippies, wandering in the wilderness. They'd bring them home to Walnut Creek, feed them (with what she had no idea) and take care of them (how was equally unresolved) until this terrible time had passed as it surely would, and the world made itself right again as it surely would; because this was America after all, and our science could solve everything, and in the end this would all be nothing more than a bad dream.

A harder reality to block was the insistent memory of the look that had passed over Paul's face when the icon had mentioned dumping the kids overboard, and the strong suspicion he would be more than happy to dump her over too if she tried to interfere.

********

The refugees broke camp at the first hint of day - a barely discernible lightening of the somber brown sky east of the clearing in which they'd spent the night, wrapped in tattered blankets and cuddled together against the chill.

Buzzy Bent, though nominally still the leader, was now little more than one of the pack that meandered slowly along the unkempt park trail heading back towards the ocean, a trail thick with deadfall and brown needles discarded from the ghosts of the great coastal redwoods that hulked around them, their barren tops lost in the smoky haze that drifted overhead.

A few members made a half-hearted attempt to forage for some breakfast, turning over likely stones or rotten logs in hopes of finding something alive. But there was only dust and dryness to eat. It didn't really matter, they were beyond hunger and thirst by now. All they could do was to keep on walking until their legs would no longer carry them, then crawl until their hearts gave out.

Sandy and Eric slowly drew ahead of the rest of the group, their youth and natural energy carrying them forward. Their fellow travelers were already more than a hundred yards behind when the forest suddenly broke open before them, the march of trees stopping at a rocky plateau that led out another hundred feet to the edge of the sea. They could hear the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs ahead.

"Danger" read a faded notice staked nearby. "The park trail ends here. Loose rocks and unstable cliffs ahead. Proceed at your own risk. No swimming or diving."

"No swimming, Eric," Sandy admonished.

"No problema," agreed Eric with a wry face, thinking of the way the ocean had looked the day before, filled with rotting, bloated corpses.

Wordlessly the pair wandered out onto the cliff, drawn towards a promontory that jutted like a narrow finger into the sea. They followed a footpath worn into the rocks by countless fishermen onto the narrow peninsula. Midway the path branched, with the right side leading over to the edge of the cliff some forty feet away. They took this arm to the bluff, looking down its sheer eighty foot drop into the water below. To their utter astonishment, a short distance out from the shoreline a red and white powerboat rocked gently in the swells of the protected cove.

"A boat!" Eric shrieked: "Look Sandy, it's a boat! We're saved! We should go back and tell Buzz and the others!"

Just then two figures appeared on the deck, shadowy forms unrecognizable at this distance in the dim, smoke-filled dawn...and yet there was something familiar about them. One seemed to be pulling something out of a compartment on the padded bench, a white conical object. As she pulled down her SCUBA breathing apparatus in order to call to them through the megaphone, Sandy suddenly realized who it was, and her stomach did a slow roll as a nervous cat crawled up her spine.

"Children!" Dolores Bundiss shouted up at them, her voice amplified by the battery-powered speaker; "Is that really you?! Sandy, Eric, it's grandma! I've come to rescue you and take you home!"

"Grandma! Grandma!" Eric cried out, waving his arms in the air wildly.

"There's a path you can take down the side of the cliff, over to your right. Do you see it?"

Eric looked over the edge. "I see it grandma, I see it!" He yelled, starting towards it.

Sandy put a hand on his arm, not gently. "Wait, Eric," she whispered in an urgent tone. "I'm not sure this is right. Did you, that is, do you remember having a weird dream last night?"

The little boy stopped cold. "About momma MJ?"

Sandy nodded.

"It wasn't just a dream?"

"No; I think she was warning us about this, like she knew what was coming. She told us not to be tricked!"

"Children!" Dolores shouted; "What are you waiting for. Come on, I've got delicious food here for you."

Her voice evoked strong memories of the warm comfortable home in Walnut Creek, of spaghetti dinner and clean clothes, of soft warm beds, hot baths and German Chocolate cake.

"I've fixed you pizza, it's baking in the oven right now along with homemade bread: Can you smell it?"

Even above the stench of the rotting life forms that littered the surface of the water, a faint yet delicious odor tantalized their senses.

"I have strawberry jam for the bread, and I even made a chocolate cake for you! Come now, take the trail to the little beach down below and we'll pick you up. I know you must be hungry my poor babies, so hungry. Hurry up now, I can't wait to see you!"

"Ah Jeez," Eric said, looking like he could cry.

********

Behind them on the trail, the other refugees who had followed the pair out onto the peninsula were within earshot of this exchange.

"This feels wrong! We have to stop them, I think it's a trap!" Anna cried to Buzz.

"It's their test, not ours," Buzzy replied. "We mustn't interfere."

"But..."

"Remember what Pastor told us when he insisted we marry if we were going to live together? He told us - and rightly so - that we were 'reluctant Christians', there more by chance than anything. He told us that it was time to take a leap of faith, to decide if we truly believed that Jesus Christ is God, and if that what the Bible said about the end times was real, or if we were simply staying at the commune because we had no other place to go. We took that step, we believed, and I'm glad we did, aren't you?"

Anna nodded with a little smile, taking his hand.

"So now Sandy and Eric have their test of faith: It's their decision to make."

********

"She said grandma would try to trick us, to tempt us," Sandy reminded her brother.

"But she's dead! MJ's dead, mom and dad are dead, and grandma is still alive! Anyway that was just a dream, this is what's real!" The boy was crying hard now, tears pouring down his thin dirty cheeks. "I'm just a little kid, Sandy, and I don't know what to believe, I don't know what's true. All I know is I'm hungry, and grandma has brought me food. Can't you smell it, Sandy, can't you smell the food down there on that boat?"

"Eric, listen: We've come this far, sacrificed so much...don't make it all for nothing!"

"I'm fucking hungry!" he screamed, pulling his arm away from her. He turned and began running towards the path that would lead down to the beach.

Sandy lunged, grabbing him in her arms.

"No!" She screamed. "No, Eric! It's a trick, it's not real, _none_ of this is real."

He looked up into his sister's eyes, unsure now.

"It's over, Eric; game over. We won: Time to go home."

"Oh," he said, his eyes growing large with realization.

"Do you trust me?"

He nodded.

"Then let's go, let's go home."

Saying this, she turned holding Eric tightly in her embrace: They took one step together to the edge of the cliff; looked back at Buzzy, Anna and the others with a little nod of goodbye, and stepped over the edge.

Before they could hit bottom they were already in the light, embraced in love's very essence.

Dolores screamed, Paul Grogan cursed, seeing the bodies fall, seeing them swallowed by the filthy sea, disappearing without so much as a bubble breaking the surface. Behind them the icon grew bright with impotent fury, expanding like a miniature supernova until it exploded into a thousand thousand pieces in a brilliant burst of white hot fire.

The bronze and marble shrapnel shot out in all directions, cutting through the oxygen lines of the breathing apparatus worn by Mrs. Bundiss and Detective Grogan, the escaping gas instantly ignited by the ball of fire the icon had become.

As the tanks on their backs exploded the two figures were imprinted on that single frame with the most amazed expressions on their faces, just before the remaining tanks of extra oxygen in the hold detonated as well, turning the sleek cruiser into a ball of fire inside of which two blazing figures danced and jittered.

And this moment was extracted from the river of time, taken from the progressive ever-changing sequence of things and hung up in the darkroom of eternity as an endless now, a burning and burning and burning that would never burn itself out, would always and forever be this exact instant for the two souls trapped within it.

Chapter 80

Vatican City

_Now when they have finished their testimony, the beast that comes up from the Abyss will attack them, and overpower and kill them. Their bodies will lie in the public square...."_ Revelation 11:7-8

The process of energy conversion in the human body has always been laboriously complex, the energy required to breakdown the complex molecules of ingested food into usable particles nearly as great as the energy extracted.

Every now and again, an individual has seemingly discovered a way to bypass this process and extract the energy needed to run his body's machinery directly from air and sunlight. Perhaps this is what happened to Joe Marten and Michael Muldoon, why despite intaking nothing more than boiled water since the death of Moni nearly five weeks earlier neither man had lost a single pound; perhaps they'd discovered this secret.

Or perhaps it was simply God's will.

Whatever the cause, the two prophets looked remarkably fit compared to the masses of sick, starving pilgrims gathered in the great piazza this Sunday for the mass and - more to the point - for the update on the food distribution situation that was promised to follow. Unfortunately the American's healthy aspect did not win them admiration or converts, but rather suspicious looks and simmering resentment from those around them.

Most of these ten thousand or so were already explosive - spurred to a near hysteria of anger and desperation by the rumors that had been circulating, growing more outrageous with each retelling, over the past few months.

Emotions had reached a peak when the food distribution centers in Rome had finally closed and locked their doors for good a little over two weeks ago, citing that no more supplies were available. For months before that the rations had been gradually cut back, the hours for distribution shortened. The resultant public demonstrations back then had been large scale but restrained, with no violence, no real damage done - the public too afraid of antagonizing their only source of sustenance to do much more than picket and plea.

But when the centers were closed altogether, with no promise of reopening, large scale riots had erupted with violence, vandalism and random arson; raging across the capital right up to the armed gates of Vatican City itself.

With each new gathering of angry people the rumors had spread and grown, first as speculation, soon touted as fact; increasing in direct proportion to the increasing fear, frustration and hunger of the populace.

"The Vatican is hoarding the food; they have enough to feed this entire city (all of Italy, all of Europe) for weeks (months, years) but they are keeping it all for themselves!"

These grumblings were taken up again today by the crowds in St. Peter's Square, here not to listen to any more bullshit religious crap from the Pope, but to demand their rights, to demand that the Vatican larders be opened, that they and their families be fed.

As the doors to the little balcony above the great Basilica opened and Pope Caius the second came out to give his Sunday message, an ugly roar went up from the mob below.

The pope raised his silk-robed arm, a sign of benediction and an order for silence. Reluctantly silence fell, but before the Pope could begin his speech Mike's voice rang out strong and true into the expectant hush:

"Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the dwelling place of demons and the hold of every foul spirit, a haunt of every unclean and hateful bird and of every unclean and detestable animal!"

The Pontiff's serene mask dropped, and the face beneath turned dark with rage. The people nearest the Americans backed up a pace, forming a wide circle around the pair, more than a few nodding in silent agreement.

"For all nations," the bearded priest cried out with increased fervor: "have drunk the maddening wine of her adulteries, and the kings of the earth have committed adultery with her, and the merchants of the earth grew rich from her excessive luxuries."

All attention was now focused on the prophet, on his words. No one noticed the pope leaning back to converse with a shadowy figure skulking behind the draperies just inside the little balcony's French doors.

"Come out of her my people!" A second voice now called out; "So that you will not share in her sins, so that you will not receive any of her plagues, for her sins have piled up to heaven."

"Give back to her as she has given," Mike broke in: "Pay her back double for what she has done...Give her as much torment and grief as the glory and luxury she gave herself."

"Yeah!" A voice from the crowd shouted in agreement.

"Yes, let's take what is ours and give them back what they deserve!" Another urged.

The entire body of people, responding with grunts of assent, growls of approval, began to surge forward toward the Basilica itself.

"Stop!"

The voice that thundered down from the balcony froze them in their tracks, a voice with chilling authority and the hollow echo of places best left unknown. What had been in the form of Timothy Hurtwell behind the curtain was now the apparition of the long-deceased Pope Marcus, his wizened form floating a foot above the balcony, arms outstretched above the crowd, eyes glowing with a bright flame.

"Don't you understand even yet?" He demanded. "We have not done this to you; we have not brought these plagues and famine upon you. On the contrary, it is we who have done everything in our power, used every resource available on earth, to save you from this torment. Think about it!"

The muttering mob hesitated, caught in a limbo of confusion and doubt.

"It's these men, these self-proclaimed prophets and their God you should be angry with," the ghostly figure accused in his deep unearthly voice. "They shout biblical phrases at you to turn you against us, but are careful to avoid the part that would expose their own responsibility for what you are suffering. _They have the power to shut up the heavens so that it will not rain during the time they are prophesying; and they have power to turn the waters into blood and to strike the earth with every kind of plague as often as they want._ "

"This is the power their evil God has given them, this is the cause of the disease and drought and starvation that has plagued the world ever since they arrived in Rome! They are your true tormentors: Look at them...do they appear to have suffered as you have suffered?"

The people turned, looking at Joe and Mike with narrowed eyes, appraising their lean but still healthy bodies with a growing mistrust.

"If you want your torment to end, their days of prophesy must end," Pope Marcus proclaimed.

"Yes," the people nodded, shivering. Some were remembering the earlier accusations against the men, what had happened when anyone tried to attack them. Only a handful had been present when the last attack succeeded in putting the two Americans in the hospital. No one recalled, or chose to mention, that when the pair had stopped coming to St. Peters after that, the drought had not lifted, their troubles had not ceased.

"The only way to stop them is to kill them!" The dead pontiff screamed, his frail form trembling with rage. "Kill them!" He commanded, pointing a shaking finger at the men, directing the people to their target: "Kill them now!"

The circle closed silently, mindlessly, murderously around Mike and Joe. Like a single living predatory animal, its multitude of arms reached down, closed around baseball sized stones that had suddenly filled the piazza, then raised them as one above their heads and began to hurl these missiles at the men, smashing the rocks into flesh and blood and bone with a force that didn't seem possible. And when the multi-headed, multi-armed beast at last stepped back, the little pile of sodden red-stained cloth and skin and hair bore little resemblance to the living men it had once been, who neither stirred nor breathed, for life was no more in them.

"They are dead?" A querulous voice cried, turning to his neighbors for confirmation.

"They are dead." The word was passed around the crowd, first in whispers, then in brave certainty, then in jubilation.

"Our tormentors are dead!" They cheered, stranger thumping stranger on the back, husband hugging wife with tears of joy, children dancing wildly in the throes of a mass hysteria they didn't understand.

But no one touched the bodies.

Not for three full days.

Chapter 81

Vatican City

The seventh angel poured out his bowl into the air, and out from

the temple came a loud voice from the throne saying "It is done!"

Revelation 16:17

"They've got to be disposed of, they're beginning to stink."

"I know, your eminence, but every person I've sent to remove the corpses has failed: They claim there's some kind of force field around the bodies, and when they get too close it causes them to fall to the ground in great pain, twitching and spasming as if they've been tasered. Now none will even go near, they're too afraid," Deacon Armandi explained.

"Well, we have to do something: The food we've been giving to the crowds to appease them has nearly run out, and now with these two dead prophets rotting on the steps of the basilica, seemingly untouchable, our credibility will soon run out as well."

"I'm open to suggestions," Armandi replied archly.

The pope turned toward his servant, scowling, and what had been the elderly figure of Pope Caius the second was now the tall dapper figure of Timothy Hurtwell.

"I _suggest_ you burn them," he said coldly.

Deacon Armandi tried, but failed, to conceal his astonishment.

"Yes," Hurtwell said; "I am Caius, I am Hurtwell, I am the ghost of Marcus, I am all of these, and much more: I am everyone who now wears my mark." So saying, the image of the wealthy financier transformed into his truest form, that of the great red dragon. "So, let me be perfectly clear. You are to announce to the world that the false prophets will be burned at midnight tonight on a great funeral pyre in the Piazza di San Pietro to mark the end of their reign of terror."

The beast threw back his huge reptilian head and laughed aloud, his breath expelled as a column of fire. "And I'll provide the torch."

With that, he morphed back into the bodily form of Pope Caius, who looked like a man just awakening from sleep.

"I've got an idea," the Pope said: "Let's build a great funeral pyre and announce to the world that we are burning the bodies of the dead prophets to release the world from their reign of terror."

The deacon just looked at him, unsure whether or not he was being played.

"We can pile brush and kindling on them without having to get too near if we use fork lifts and truck-mounted cranes, and we can saturate the wood with gasoline first. I think that should work, yes...See to it, will you Armandi? I have a slight headache, so I think I'll take a little nap if you don't mind."

Armandi nodded and backed out of the room as quickly as protocol would allow, eager to be somewhere - anywhere - else.

********

The special midnight mass had drawn a goodly crowd to the keyhole shaped piazza, there to celebrate their deliverance from the evil prophets, and to partake in the great feast promised them after the pyre was lit.

"Tonight," the people had been told; "the bodies of your tormentors will be burned in order to mark the end of their reign. With their cremation complete, peace and prosperity will be restored to the earth."

As ordered, the wood had been piled four feet high all around the bodies and soaked with gasoline. Now Pope Caius approached, standing on the metal bars of the forklift to give him a little more altitude. In his right hand he carried a two by four wrapped in a kerosene soaked rag, in his left a butane lighter.

"With this light, I free the world from its time of darkness, I free the world from you," he declared, lighting the torch.

He hurled it down onto the pyre, then turned and waved the forklift driver to back away quickly.

As the first flames leapt up, a gasp was heard from the watching crowd, for the bodies of Mike and Joe had begun to glow as well.

Their bodies unfolded and stretched, as if awakening from a deep sleep, then rose to their feet.

A small wailing keen of fear was heard in scattered places among the dark, watchful crowd.

Suddenly the whispering silence was shattered by a voice which seemed to come from everywhere at once, as if the great square and everyone in it were inside some giant unseen mouth.

"Come up here."

Joe Marten and Michael Muldoon, wrapped in a cloud of eerie white incandescent light, began to rise above the bonfire, above the weeping screaming crowd, above the gape-mouthed countenance of Pope Caius and what was left of his cadre.

The rumble was felt first in the sensitive fluid of the inner ear, a slight trembling that made those in the square feel a little dizzy, a little seasick. Then it was felt as a vibration in the soles of the feet, enough to make the heart speed up a notch; and all at once it was everywhere, a distant thunder, quickly accelerating into a deafening roar. The earth shuddered, then swayed, then banged and crashed and threw itself upward like an angry child. Things began to tip absurdly, the entire ground lifting in parts to a twenty degree angle. The noise became immense, intolerable; screams couldn't be heard by their own screamers as the superficial constructs of man's existence began to topple all around him.

The huge stone saints above the colonnade fell first, one by one deserting their solemn procession across the top of the structure to dive in slow motion suicide down onto the pavement below. Next the great columns themselves gave way, crashing one into the next like a train of dominoes until the entire structure collapsed, crushing what remained of the granite saints and fleshly sinners beneath tons of debris.

Those remaining ran in a frenzied, mindless panic back and forth across the violently shaking piazza, trying to escape that which was shaking them in his angry fist.

A crack appeared at the far end of the keyhole, beginning to make its run up the center of the square in a perfectly straight line, as if the earth were opening like a zipper.

********

As Joe and Mike ascended, what was left of their corporeal bodies disintegrated into light and heat and air. What remained of their essence was confounding. The "mind-think" they'd gradually developed over the past three years - their close bond and single purpose enabling them to sometimes communicate without words - had completed into a unity. It was as if there were just one thought between the two of them, and between that unity and God, as if each question had its own instant answer almost before it was voiced.

"Who am I?" They thought, as one.

"I am you, you are me, we are Us," came the response.

"Where am I?" The unity asked.

"Everywhere and nowhere," was the answer.

********

When the fissure reached the obelisk at the middle of the piazza, a great groan was heard, as a terrific wrenching of the earth split the crack open, each side splaying outward at a forty five degree angle, the central rift bottomless. The twenty six meter high obelisk at the center of the piazza was the first to go, sinking slowly into the chasm. A moment later the new obelisk supporting the statue of Pope Marcus tipped forward, dumping the likeness of the sainted pope into the abyss from which he had sprung: A column of fire and black smoke sprang up from the hole that had taken him. The split continued forward into the Basilica, taking apart the work of Bernini and Michelangelo, Bramante and Maderno, and swallowing the tomb of St. Peter. Now two new cracks shot out at thirty degree angles from the central one in the middle of the square. The fissure on the right appeared to be chasing Pope Caius as he screamed at the driver of the forklift on which he still rode to go faster, trying to reach the haven of his palace. As the chasm caught and opened beneath him, the man who had been once been a servant of God, then of the devil, looked up into the sky, and the last thing he saw was all that he had lost.

The crack that swallowed him went on to split the Vatican Palace and Vatican Museum in half, then continued through the city of Rome, wreaking havoc for an additional fifteen miles before ending its journey in Lago di Bracciano. The other fissure meanwhile split the earth in a straight line from Vatican City all the way to the Mediterranean Sea.

As the central fissure that had opened beneath the obelisks continued to widen, the obelisks slowly sank and began to melt, the forty foot crack filling with the orange glow of magma seeping up from beneath the earth's crust.

Those left in the square who were not yet dead or injured beyond consciousness cried out in pitiful voices, asking God to save them, asking God to forgive them, understanding too late what fate they had chosen for themselves.

Above it all, the being that was Joe and Mike - now both separate and together, and somehow even more - watched the destruction impassively. If there was any emotion at all left in them, it was relief. It was done.

"Hi."

They turned, and lit with happiness. "Marija!"

She was, if anything, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, more beautiful even than memory had painted, as radiant as the love in her eyes, the joy in his own. He reached out and took her hands in his, and as he did so the heavens opened and a glow brighter than the sun filled the universe.

Within the light and from the light materialized the form of a man, but one that filled the entire sky. In His hand was a golden sword, and raising it high he called forth the demon: "Havohej!"

Up from the cauldron of magma that boiled in the cross formed by the fissures at the center of the Piazza arose a great red dragon, emerging as if being created out of the lava itself.

"Claim your souls!" the Being of Light ordered.

Up rose all those who did evil on the earth, all those with the numbers of the beast, all those who chose flesh over spirit, those who worshipped the idols of money and power in the material realm, those for whom self was all, love was a commodity, and survival of the flesh was a battle to be won at all costs. With them were Popes Sixtus, Marcus, and Caius, and all the cardinals tainted by the unholy eucharist and the evil icons. Aware of their fate, they cried and moaned and blamed the great deceiver.

"Hypocrites!" The Dragon snarled at them, silencing their protests. He then turned on the being of light. "You too!" He accused. "You say your God is so good, so full of love and mercy: Well what about the past forty-two months, what about all the pain and misery He caused ...and for what?" He lifted a scaley shoulder, an almost human gesture. "To prove a point? To once again make me look weak and ineffectual, to once again show his power as both Creator and Destroyer of the world?"

"You know better," the Being of Light responded mildly. "Everything that happened to man was the result of his own doing, his own greed, his own selfish desire to rule over nature, to prove he was all powerful, to destroy all of God's creation for his own pleasure and need. To be, in other words, what he thought of as ' _God-like'_ .....Your version of it, at least, which as we both know is one hundred eighty degrees opposite of true. Man destroyed himself along with his world: God simply watched to see who might actually be aware of this fact and would seek to overcome your deceptions. In any case, Havohej, you knew the rules, you knew the game right from the start of creation. You chose your part, so why be so pissy just because you lost....again."

Then the Being of Light began to laugh. He laughed and He laughed, and the saints and the sinners alike began to laugh, and something bigger behind it all laughed with them; and finally even the dragon himself began to laugh. For it was, after all, just a joke, a grand play, a divine comedy.

And as they laughed the world of chaos and destruction began to disappear, for it was, after all, simply illusion. As Joe, Mike, Marija, Sandy and Eric, and a host of others who had withstood the temptations watched from the realm of heaven, the world vanished into a cosmic palette of light and darkness, and then began to reappear, reconstructed out of love and hope and memory. It reappeared and began to right itself: The wildfires began to die, the rain to come, the plants to spring forth, the air to be restored and seas to cleanse themselves, all in due time of course.

For this is the game, a game to be played again and again and again across the endless map of eternity, a game we all agreed to, a game we all play until we get it right, and God the Creator decides to invent a new one.

For, after all, the game **is** the thing.

The End

Epilogue

Ten Years Later

Hawaii Island

The tall thin man took off the breathing apparatus and inhaled, tentatively at first, then more deeply. The air had a sweet and salty tang today, a hint of sea spray on the freshening breezes that rose up the valley floor from the shore three miles away.

A small smile relaxed the set lines of bitterness around his mouth, partially hidden beneath the spotty growth of beard.

Maybe today.

The oxygen level was still a bit low, having recovered slightly from its lowest point and stabilized at around eighteen percent for the past couple of years. Adjusting to such thin air would be akin to living somewhere high in the Andes or Himalayas; but if the Incas and Sherpas had managed to adapt to such conditions over a few hundred or thousand years, so could they he'd assured his wife and kids.

"Kids," he chuckled, shaking his head. The boys were now strapping sixteen and eighteen year olds, and full of hormones and ennui. They were chaffing to be out of here, to meet the world beyond their glass-enclosed cave, to find others of their own kind, fall in love, raise their own families.

He owed them that hope. Much as he might want to keep them here, safe and secure under his wing, he knew their hearts' yearnings to be free.

Maybe today.

He pulled the woven frond hat down lower on his head, his deep blue eyes hidden behind the polarized lenses of his protective eyewear, even though it was nearly dusk, when danger from the UV rays that bombarded the earth through the depleted ozone layer were at a minimum. Regardless, and despite his protestations, Linda had insisted on the same ritual she'd been performing for the past ten years, which included - along with the glasses, hat and layered clothing - smearing all exposed skin with a thick layer of red clay for protection before letting him leave the greenhouse enclave for this biannual trek to the sea, three miles away.

He wondered now, as he did so often, how many others there were left, walking under this sky today as he. Some of those from communes in Europe, Australia, America - the ones who'd had the time and foresight to build their own self-contained ecosystems from his plans - maybe they'd made it too.

Maybe not.

The destructive downward spiral had stopped some time ago, of that he was certain. Not only had the atmospheric content of free oxygen leveled off at sixteen percent and then eventually recovered to eighteen, but the ozone layer had also stopped disintegrating - if his spectrometric readings and calculations were correct. With TEOTWAWKI - "the end of the world as we know it" (funny how that acronym sounded like a native American word) - the lethal byproducts of civilization had ended as well.

No more factories belching the smoke of burning hydrocarbons into the atmosphere, nor dumping toxic chemicals into the lakes, rivers and oceans.

Conspicuous consumption of the planet's limited resources had ground to a halt; yet unfortunately life on earth had shuddered to a halt as well shortly thereafter, the elimination of the cancer that was man coming too late for the organism that was Gaia to recover.

The question was, could it be revived? Could there be a resurrection?

That was in God's hands.

And was there anyone left to know or care?

In the heart of Africa, in the depths of the rainforests of the Amazon or Borneo perhaps some had survived. Protected from the sun by thick foliage and deeply melanized skin, surrounded by a trillion trillion oxygen producing plant cells and watered by their own microclimate water cycles, some of these primitive peoples might have simply carried on as always, maybe never even noticed any change, any effect on their simple way of life at all.

He shook his head, bemused: "And the meek shall inherit the earth," he muttered.

As he topped a small rise he could suddenly see the Pacific spread out like a shimmering silver carpet below him, its surface taking on a pinkish hue from the sun setting behind the mountains to his west.

The bloated sludge of decaying fish had long since disappeared beneath the gentle waves, its final remains settling slowly to the ocean floor in a graveyard of bones. The stench had gone with it, blown away on relentless trade winds, wafted high into the swirling eddies of the stratosphere, thinned and dissipated until only its pungent memory remained. Yet as Hemmings drew closer, he felt like something about his ocean didn't quite look right: There was a slight reddish cast on the water which seemed deeper than a reflection from the sunset, a sweetish tinge to the salty air that grew more noticeable as he now hurried down the slope, running like a lover toward her.

The thin air rapidly took away his breath, causing his heart to beat too fast, a slight headache to throb behind his eyes. He slowed his pace, forcing himself to stop and rest every few minutes, so it was another half hour before he made the beach.

The wet black sand gleamed in the dimming light as if made of dark crystals as it crunched beneath his heavy army-style boots. He longed to feel that sand beneath his bare feet, to hear it squeak between his toes.

"Too dangerous," he heard Linda warn in his mind; "There could be chemicals that would burn your unprotected skin, and dangerous bacteria that could enter a cut and infect your blood."

Fuck it.

He sat down hard, yanking off his boots, and ran across the beach leaping and hollering like a crazy thirteen year old kid. Exquisite! He splashed through the foamy remnants of waves at the water's edge, running and running along the vast expanse of beach with nowhere to go but back.

Slowly he went back.

When he got to where he'd left his shoes, he waded out waist deep into the cool blue waters and, retrieving a mason jar from the pocket of his khaki jacket, scooped up a sample of the sea water to take back and analyze.

By the time he began the trek back up the hill from the beach it was already dark, a full moon just now peeking the top of its bulbous orange head above the horizon. A couple hundred meters up the hill he stopped to catch his breath, sitting on a stump to watch the waves crash onto the shore for a minute.

Something in the breakers caught his attention, a slight flicker of blue green light.

Had he imagined it?

Another wave broke, and he saw it again, a luminescence that sparked here and there for the briefest of moments before disappearing, following the crest of the wave as it broke in a continuous line down the shore.

"Oh my God, oh dear Jesus!" He breathed.

He watched more intently, scanning the next wave and the one after that, wanting to be sure that he wasn't imagining the phenomena. Then he turned and sprinted for home.

Hemmings went directly to his lab without a word to anyone, but Linda - seeing his expression, - followed immediately behind him.

"What is it, Chuck?"

"Wait," he replied.

He dropped a sample of the sea water onto a microscope slide and placed it carefully on the stage beneath his compound microscope lens, then peered intently through the eyepieces.

A moment later he raised his head and looked at Linda with a grin that threatened to split his face in two, as tears poured from his eyes.

"Bioluminescent life forms," he said. "She's coming back, Linda, she's coming back."
