Call it what you will: skill, talent, superpower. Intuition; but something inherent in my genetic composition had alerted me to the footsteps before I even heard them. I instinctively recoiled. The footsteps grew distinct as their architect came loping up to me. Then, I came within the vicinity of identifying him.
“Hello, Misha,” he greeted, maintaining a polite distance between us, “whoa, are you jumpy this evening.”
The elderly man before me was Qaasim Nuri. He was a Tribulation Saint. And someone with whom I had established a close rapport for almost a year. Reluctantly estranged from his fellow countrymen and exiled to New Canaan owing to his conversion to faith in Yahushua, this former statesman was the first person that had extended his hand of friendship to me when I was a virginal transplant in District 11. Mr. Qaasim and his wife occasionally attended the evening Bible Study meetings held by my home church. I was a regular patron of Qaasim’s Deli, the family business he co-owned and operated with his wife, Kaaya. I often bought my lunches there because his street was in my usual beat.
“Is everything all right, young Misha?” Mr. Qaasim asked. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I smiled, closing the span between us. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Qaasim, everything’s fine,” I replied, speaking in the mother tongue of the inhabitants of New Canaan. Indeed, the angels of the Lord were frequently called upon to use the languages or dialects of the countries of their deployments while in a conversation with the natives.
I added: “I’ve just had a long day, that’s all. I was on my way home.”
“In that case, I shan’t hold you up,” he responded. He held out to me a small basket of pastries from his shop.
“The shop’s just closing; they’d only get tossed into the dumpster,” he explained.
I accepted his basket, remembering the rotisserie chicken pieces he had given me last week. They were languishing somewhere in my freezer. Just the same, I thanked him for the pastries and inspected them – the French stick, the two tuna croissants and the five vegetable pasties.
So much food, I thought.
“Smells delectable,” I said.
He smiled, expressing: “My wife had also wanted to thank you again for taking our precious Ghayth to see Dr. Montagna when he was stung by that hornet three weeks ago. We’re still amazed that you were able to find our baby boy in the park; it was pitch black that night – you couldn’t see your own hand in front of you. Anyway, we’re ever so grateful to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I stated. “How are they doing?”
“They’re doing excellently,” he replied. “Kaaya’s fetching our grandson from the Bjorlins’ crèche before I return to the deli to take us all home.”
I nodded.
“Well, then, have a good night,” he said next. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“Good night, sir,” I replied. “And, please, thank Mrs. Kaaya for the pastries.”
He nodded decorously, turning toward the row of scooters parked at an enclosure some yards away. I watched him mount his sixteen-year-old Felspa. Then, he gave me a wave before his scooter sped him back toward his deli.
I went on my own way again. I picked up a vegetable pasty from the basket and began to chomp eagerly on it. So good.
In a few minutes, the convex peak of the glossy Millennium Towers loomed before me. Home, I thought.
 |
| Home, I thought. |
I stepped into the lobby. As always, I was greeted by the concierge. She peered up at me from behind her desk.
“Good evening, sir,” Darcy Youngblood smiled. Her ruby red lips were stark against her porcelain skin. She handed me my mail. I thanked her and offered her a croissant, which she accepted enthusiastically.
Miss Darcy immediately bit into the pastry before letting her taste buds take over and dictate the experience.
“Mm,” she smiled with her eyes closed. “This is so good.”
“It is,” I smiled. “Uh, do you know if 8-18 is home?”
She nodded: “Got back about an hour ago.”
“Great,” I replied. “Thanks.”
I scrutinized her forehead and right wrist for implants. She was clean. I wondered how much longer I could trust her as I did now. Once more, I tried to invite her to Bible Study.
“Someday,” she promised. “Mom’s always asking me, too. I’ll go with her to one of your meetings one night, all right?”
I thought of her mother: the former real estate maven, Delaney Leung, was the wife of a property developer, Daimler Leung, and co-owner of Millennium Towers. Originally from Hong Kong, Daimler Leung was a prolific real estate investor with holdings all over the world. One of his investments led him to New Canaan, which was where he met his wife. The couple had been married seven years when, childless, they decided to adopt Darcy, the daughter of Ms. Delaney’s brother who had a terminal illness. Nine months ago, while attempting to protect one of his properties from squatters, Daimler Leung suffered a fatal stabbing that had severed his carotid artery. I remember watching his postmortem body forcibly seized by the New World Order and disposed of at the State-funded crematorium. Ms. Delaney had fainted at the desecration of her husband’s corpse and she had been a sworn enemy of the Antichrist’s regime since.
After the death of her husband, Ms. Delaney sold the remainder of their properties to which they still held the title deeds. It was at my advice: with the signing into law banning the private ownership of land, property and corporations, she would stand to lose more to hang on to assets that were on the verge of expropriation by the New World Order. She hadn’t minded: she had been wanting to downsize for a while since it meant having more free time to pursue the things she had always wanted, like paint. She felt more content with her life, as a result. However, Ms. Delaney had been ailing lately.
“All right,” I replied the concierge, “but don’t take too long to make up your mind. How’s your Mom, by the way?”
“She’s getting stronger,” Miss Darcy answered. “She was such an active person before. Being on dialysis now makes her prickly sometimes.”
The elevator bell pealed behind me.
I stated, heading for the elevator: “I’ll keep her in my prayers. Please say hello to Ms. Delaney for me.”
“Will do,” Miss Darcy replied. “And thanks, again, for the croissant.”
The elevator doors closed in front of me. While the car conducted me to my floor, I checked my mail: mostly catalogues. And a Town Council circular reminding us of the Antichrist’s loyalty marker. Holy Scriptures called this the Mark of the Beast.
Much will be at stake for the Lord’s saints, I thought to myself. My friends need to be warned.
Then, I found myself standing on the threshold of my apartment. “At long last,” I whispered.
I put the basket on the floor and leaned back against my door. I shut my eyes, feeling thankful that I was remarkably alive to see another day. And thankful that I was remarkably unscathed by any of the demons I had encountered today, for the most part at least, except for some cuts and bruises and a slight dent in my self-confidence.
“Michael,” I whispered, feeling somewhat confused, “why hadn’t you prepared me for all that?”
My iPod saturating the apartment with vintage Pachelbel, I disrobed, turned on the shower and, then, sank to the tiled floor. I let the shower head rain down on me its steamy warm water.
So comforting, I sighed.
The words of the winged stranger began to ring in my ears, replaying themselves over and over.
So you believe killing Manny is justified? So much for those of your ilk’s crusading to debunk moral relativism and posturing as arbiters of objective morality. You are a killer like me.
Just like me.
I’m just like him, I thought.
“Liar,” I reviled out loud, “I’m nothing at all like you. Get out of my head.”
I squeezed my eyes together, took in deep quiet breaths and swallowed hard. I didn’t know why, but I had been feeling afraid since arriving home.
My intercom buzzed while I was getting dressed. I pushed the basket of pastries under my console table before answering the door.
“Thank you for coming at this late hour,” I told my neighbour from Apartment 8-18 upstairs. I had invited him over moments ago.
“No problem,” Luc Montagna smiled. He passed me a bag of Bok Choy.
“From my own terrace” he explained. “It’s good for you. Steam or poach it.”
I thanked him, saying: “Greens are so costly these days.”
He nodded. Then, he saw what was on my neck and promptly prepared an anti-tetanus injection.
“These are pretty painful looking teeth marks,” the doctor commented, eyeing me ambiguously. “Should I even ask how you got them?”
I smiled quietly at him.
“All right, all right,” he smiled, putting up his hands. “I should know better than to ask. You know, it’s a good thing I have my own private practice; I don’t understand your dislike of hospitals.”
“Let’s just say there’s negative history between the regional health institution and me – history I’d rather not get into,” I told him.
“Well, Misha, you know I’ll always respect your privacy,” Luc assured me.
“You’ve done a lot for me, Luc, and I’m grateful,” I added, extending my left arm to him. “It’s not fair to keep asking you to help me like this.”
He sighed. “Well, it’s quite all right. I’m eternally in your debt anyway. If you hadn’t intercepted that machete-brandishing mugger last year, well, who knows if I’d be alive today? I never saw him in the dark of the alleyway. Thank God for your good eye sight.”
As I flinched from the slight pain of the injection, I heard him say: “This will be numb in a few hours but it’ll protect you from the risk of lock jaw.”
“It was provident that I was in the right place at the right time,” I replied. “Had our circumstances been reversed, you’d have done the same for me.”
He nodded. “Surely the Lord has led you to me. Not only did you save my life, but also, thanks to you, I have eternal life in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.”
I smiled. “I believe the Lord has a plan for all of us. There are no accidents or coincidences.”
“Oh, amen, amen,” he nodded. “It’s no accident, either, the IDF posted you to New Canaan. You’ve done a lot for the Lord’s saints here. We won’t forget the prayer chain you organized for little Kennedy Yen after she had that bad fall. Or the one you organized for our home schoolteacher, Mr. Zangmo, to be healed of his pinched nerve. And, do you know, Rekha and Chaudhry Nair have been extolling the Lord ever since you headed the campaign to raise up helpers and resources to repair their convenience store after it was looted. And how will we ever repay you for the heat pumps you obtained for our home church? Or the Bibles you smuggled to us from Petra? You’re an asset to our Bible Study group, Misha. For that matter, we wouldn’t even have a Bible Study group or a home church if not for your efforts at proselytizing among the residents in New Canaan, and our number would be much smaller. To be sure, the daily risks you take for the Lord are above the call of your peacekeeping duties. Praise the Lord for you.”
“And for all of you,” I reciprocated.
I looked down at my arm. What would he say if he knew of my secret double life? I wondered. The rooftop stranger was right. I was a killer.
I heard Luc again: “Misha, are you all right?”
I eyeballed him. I nodded: “The Lord has sent me here to serve the saints. You’re all my family here.”
He nodded: “You are indeed like family to me, too and, surely, families take care of one another. Speaking of which, have you spoken to my daughter recently?”
I shook my head: “Achante? No, not since last week. Why do you ask?”
“Hmm. No particular reason, but I’d like you to continue to pray for her, please,” he requested. “I think she’s close to receiving the Lord into her life but she’s holding back for some reason.”
“Of course, I’ll pray for her,” I nodded. “You don’t even have to ask.”
“I know I don’t,” he nodded. He patted my face. “Ah, you’re such a good boy, Misha. If my boy, Actaeon, were more like you I wouldn’t spend half my waking moments worrying about him.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Luc,” I assured him. “It couldn’t have been easy for two teenagers to grow up without their mother.”
He nodded; his wrinkled face looked drawn. “Imogen meant the world to the family. I wasn’t much of a parent, especially when our oldest child, Aristides, drowned off Chesapeake Bay in a boating accident. He and his Sunday School class of four children, including the teacher. They were on a camping trip to Chesapeake. Aristides was only fifteen years old. Only fifteen. My poor, poor boy. Ahh, the world fell apart all around me after that. They say a parent is not supposed to bury his child, you see.
“Actaeon was seven, Achante was five; from the time of Aristides’s death, it was as if they’d lost their father as well. I took to the bottle to forget the pain of losing Aristides, I, a doctor, who ought to have known better. But my Imogen: she remained patient and long suffering toward me. She could’ve left me but her faith in the Lord Jesus gave her hope that things were going to get better. The stress of raising two children with an absent and alcoholic father showed in her general health; then one day, she complained of tiredness that nothing she took for it, or did to get over it, would work. I suspected the worst. After consulting some specialists, she was diagnosed with bone cancer. You’ve heard of the oncogene. Everyone arguably has that; but, I always felt I was the reason her cancer gene became triggered causing her illness.
“Imogen lost her battle with the cancer when the children were barely in their teens. I got sober; I cleaned up my act for the sake of the children; and I took them back with me to our native France. We were there for the next three years but I had to put the kids in boarding school. What could I do: I had many work commitments? My work with the Médecins Sans Frontières – I think I told you before: my Mamá was a Spaniard, was chief of staff of the Doctors Without Borders’ Spanish branch? – well, that job uprooted us again and we ended up in New Canaan. All that relocating, you know, wasn’t good for the stability of the home environment. It wasn’t conducive to the children’s socialization process. Being away from home so much, I couldn’t find the time to bond with them. They were constantly depressed from missing their mother. They still miss her. I still miss her.”
“You’ll see her again, Luc,” I told him. “It won’t be long.”
“Yes,” he nodded again. “I will see my beloved Imogen soon. And I will see my darling Aristides. I did mention he had asked the Lord Jesus to be his Saviour a week before the boating tragedy? Well, anyway, it’s about three years until the end of this Time of Jacob’s Trouble. Imogen was always committed to her faith. She always saw the Lord Jesus’ return as imminent and it kept her faith strong. It’s something of her parents’ legacy, I believe. Her father was a Southern Baptist pastor from Staten Island when she was growing up in New York. As for me – in bitterness, I had renounced the Lord after Aristides passed away but, in retrospect, I realize now I had never had a true conversion experience. Until I met you.”
“The Lord knew you,” I stated. “He sought after you because you were part of His fold.”
“Thanks to you and your tireless effort at witnessing to me,” he smiled, getting up. “You and the Lord never gave up on me. Now my kids are all I have. I want nothing more than to see them come to Christ.”
I got up with him and, then, I walked him to the door. Passing my console table, I picked up a stack of books. I handed the books to him.
“Ah, my dear boy,” he exclaimed, inspecting the leather bound covers and spines. “My books look good as new. Thank you very much. You’re very skilled at what you do. Some of these books used to be Imogen’s favourites, you know.”
“I was happy to restore them for you,” I told him. Then, I asked: “Will you be coming tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” he replied. “Oh, you mean the Bible Study meeting at the Hamadas’? Of course, I’ll be there. I should be able to finish at the clinic in time to attend.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“We won’t be able to meet this way to fellowship with the saints and study the Word of God for much longer,” he commented while we lingered at the door. “It’s getting more and more risky even to gather in secrecy. Antichrist’s forces are bearing down on us. Fewer and fewer cell groups are remaining because of the increased crackdown on Jewish and Christian assemblies. Truckloads of saints are being rounded up and carted off en masse to prison.”
I nodded: “The Enemy has been turning the public tide against ‘divisive fundamentalists’ for decades. Through legislation, he took off the air independent Judeo-Christian talk radio. After that, he influenced the authorities to revoke tax free status for Judeo-Christian congregations that taught and believed the Bible.”
“And now he’s influencing Antichrist to round up the saints to be prosecuted. He wants to wipe us out en bloc. It’s like Hitler’s Jewish pogrom – his final solution for the so-called Jewish problem,” he submitted.
I nodded. I picked up the Town Council circular and showed it to him: “You will have received this circular, too. It’s going to be hard to live normally without Antichrist’s Mark. And we don’t know how much longer Ms. Delaney Leung is going to be able to hide us in her building. Anytime soon, Antichrist will be confiscating every privately-owned asset in this city. Petra’s the only safe place to be where the Lord is supernaturally protecting His remnants. It’s that, or the saints go underground. Luc, do you remember what I intimated to you last week – about our militia that has started to evacuate the Lord’s remnants and elect to Petra? Perhaps it’s time our Bible Study group reconsider leaving New Canaan while there’s still time.”
His turn to nod: “I remember, but my decision is the same as it was last week; I can’t leave yet, not until Achante and Actaeon have made the decision to come to the Lord. While there’s still hope, I can’t turn my back on my children. As for the others in the group, it’s their decision to make individually whether to leave or to stay. As you’re aware already, they’ve said that they’d leave New Canaan only if everyone in the group agreed to do it together.”
“All right,” I whispered, not wanting to be pushy. “But, please, remind them of the urgency of our situation. They must listen to you if you stress to them the fact that Antichrist means to imprison everyone who opposes him.”
My physician glanced at me for a brief moment. Then, he nodded again before gently squeezing my upper arm.
“About your complaint last time . . . I could get you more painkillers for your migraines, if you need them,” he offered kindly. “You need to be more careful out in the streets. I know you take your duties in the army reserve very seriously, young Misha, but your head can’t take anymore bang, bang, bang . . . anymore hammering, you know, before you’re bound to feel the health toll.”
I nodded, and then smiled gratefully: “I’ll be careful, Luc. Thanks for the concern.”
He smiled back before stating in a tired voice: “All right, son. Have an early night, then. Good night.”
I bid him a good evening. As he turned from me, I thought to myself: How I love this man who will do anything for his children. Even die for them. Yes, even that.
But I also thought, The poor man. How many times has he retold the story of his wife and son now? Too many to keep count. I know the story so well I can recite it from memory.
Nevertheless, I appreciated the fact that he had needed to tell the story, again. And again. That was the way humans were. I had learned that sometimes people needed to talk about the same things over and over again. And it was normal. And okay. I didn’t have to say anything. I only needed to be there and to listen.
I heard Luc’s apartment door shut above me. I shifted the basket to the kitchen and the pastries were, thence, compartmentalized to my refrigerator. After that, I took my doctor’s advice to turn in early.
I had just changed into my nightshirt and trousers and settled down for the night when, right on schedule, my iFad buzzed. It was that time of the week again.
I held the iFad with watchful attention to avoid leaving fingerprint smudges on the interface. I was somewhat proud of my new toy, which was becoming an indispensable tool for touching base with the ones I loved.
One of whom was the Halfling, Ari.
“Hey, M,” Ari Ben-Rubin smiled, his face coming into view on the display monitor.
“Hey, A,” I responded.
“How do you like your iFad? Getting used to it?” Ari asked.
“It’s just been great,” I replied. “Thanks again for such a generous gift.”
Ari smiled: “To think you were initially reluctant to accept it. What was it you used to say dismissively about it?”
“The iFad is the digital equivalent of diazepam for the Prozac generation,” we both chorused in unison.
“I know, I know,” I smiled. “I was wrong. I had spoken like an ignoramus.”
“Well, I’m happy it’s being put to good use,” Ari said.
“Yeah,” I whispered, my mood all at once souring. I closed my eyes. I started to realize the tension in my shoulders.
“What’s the matter?” Ari asked. “What’s going on?”
My tensed-up shoulders weren’t the reason Ari could tell something was up, I was certain. Surely, I had burdens aplenty to unload on my leader; however, owing to the New World Order’s sophisticated AI-linked All-Seeing-Eye-circuit enabling a wiretap on every nation in the world, it would be a breach of protocol to discuss matters related to our missions over digital media. The exception was if we were communicating within the nation of Israel or with our elders’ ecclesiastical imprimatur. Even then we had to use coded language or pseudonyms. Thence, this evening I must muster my will power to exercise abstention.
“So much happened today,” I informed Ari, “but you know the rules: we can’t discuss missions over social media. I’ll tell you someday. But what about you? What’s going on in your neck of the woods, A? Are you still in Istanbul?”
“Me? Yes, I’m still in Istanbul,” Ari replied.
“What’s the situation there like?” I asked him next.
“What’s it like? Hmm, where do I even begin? Well, to be sure, it’s getting pretty nasty here. Streets everywhere are a war zone. Air here has the scent of death: dead bodies are left to decay and rot in the streets, the pedestrian walkways. Nobody seems to care anymore about burying their deceased loved ones as funeral parlours are already overbooked. State-sponsored health systems are overwhelmed, too; um . . . morgues are understaffed . . .”
“Ari . . . ,” I began.
The half-angel continued, oblivious to my interruption: “What’s more, you have to mask up before venturing outdoors: ever since the plagues began the air quality everywhere has degraded, as you know. And . . . uh, skies are a blood red owing to extreme pollution . . .”
“Ari . . . ,” I tried to cut in again.
“And . . . oh, yeah, there’s hardly enough food and water for everyone,” Ari added, once more seemingly oblivious to me. “Some families are selling their babies and pets in exchange for food stamps and water. Sickens me to the core, that does. Uh . . . sanitation is inadequate and infrastructure is mostly damaged and beyond repair. Not that the officials have any incentive or wherewithal to repair anything anymore. Um . . . I guess that more or less sums up everything that’s gone wrong in Turkey, at least in Istanbul.”
“Whoa,” I sighed. “That’s some jeremiad, A. Which really sounds to me like a personal declaration of contempt for the dying city, if I ever heard one.”
“You think?” Ari ruminated. “Well, it’s obvious I deliberately made no attempt to veil my disdain. Undoubtedly, the Turks are spelling the bellwether of man’s moral failings and decline that shall soon descend on all other cities; unless, of course, the latter wake up and recognize my jeremiad for the warning that it is.”
He asked next: “How about New Canaan? I doubt it’s as bad over there?”
I shook my head: “Not with the 9-p.m. curfew. It’s fairly quiet at night, almost deathly quiet, if you ask me. But come daytime, people – usually activists – would gather to engage in their uprisings and vandalism. Their actions are frequently madcap, devil-may-care . . . meant to inflict optimum damage. But there’s more than sufficient food and clean water to go round. This is, after all, Antichrist’s Headquarters. Everything . . . and I mean, everything – all produce, mineral resources, raw materials – they’re all being siphoned into New Canaan from the rest of the world to surfeit his appetite for food and power. He and his oligarchs are living their best lives here.”
“While everyone else around the world suffers,” Ari sighed. “You realize, of course, that it’s all by design what’s happening in Turkey and many other cities of the world: the Antichrist wants to collapse the world’s systems entirely to reformat people’s lives. The pattern his oligarchs are following is the 15-Minute Cities concept where all the peons are packed inside high rises and amenities are fifteen minutes’ walk away. It’s consistent with Antichrist’s totalitarian blueprint for top-down control.
“But Yah is way ahead of him: Yahushua, our God, will bring down His judgment on all the cities and their corrupt governing bodies at the conclusion of this Time of Jacob’s Trouble when every city will be obliterated.”
I nodded: “Caused by hailstones and an earthquake, the biggest to date.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But what about your current situation?” I asked next. “With the air and, I guess the water as well . . . with their qualities as bad as they seem. What do you do for food and water? Do you get them from your handler?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Ari replied. “Gabe’s always considerate of the needs of his underlings. On behalf of the company, he delivers payloads of food and bottled water to us every week via one of Jacob Thiele’s pilots. He’s very good about it . . . I mean, Gabe is.”
“That’s a relief to know,” I rejoined. “I do worry about you . . . considering where you are. I’ve heard nasty reports about the Turkish oligarchs that are working for Antichrist – about their animus toward the followers of Eheyeh, toward the proselyte Christians. How they’re being hunted, persecuted, imprisoned. Once caught, they’re all but awaiting their appointment with the guillotine.”
“Hey,” Ari assured me, “hey, now. You have nothing to worry about: Eheyeh’s with me all the time . . . with us all. He’s never going to abandon us. His Word is His bond. We can trust the Lord. As far as the saints go – well, we’re doing everything possible to protect them. It’s all in Yah’s hands, in any case. Trust in His will, M. His will for humanity is good. Always good. Our God is a good God.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Of course, He is. I know we serve a good God.”
“OK, then,” Ari said. “And you? You’re eating well, too, aren’t you? You’re not skipping meals?”
“Yeah, no, of course, I’m eating well. Mr. Qaasim . . . you remember him, and Luc Montagna . . . they give me food and stuff.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Ari smiled. “Good to know. Hey, um, it looks like our time’s almost up. I’ll chat with you again next week, OK?”
“Okay, A,” I replied. “We’ll chat again . . . same time next week, then.”
“All right, good night, M. Take it easy.”
“Good night, A. And shalom.”
Ari signed out before I did. I stared at the blank interface momentarily. Several seconds later, I restored my iFad to its place inside the drawer of my nightstand.
I love you, I thought to myself while I curled up in a foetal position under the bed covers. Ariel, my beloved brother.
My wall clock tolled the twenty-second hour.
