“Well, you got that right.”
<Are you aware of astral projection?>
“You mean where you’re outside your body . . . Holy shit, is that real?”
<Yes, it is, and so you can understand I am not here . . . I will move my arm and prove it to you. Please don’t shoot and harm your kitchen.>
He nodded. He wanted to see what she had in store for him, his curiosity probably getting the better of him.
She took her arm and moved it through her body as if neither one was actually there. Then she ran her arm through the end of the bed. Both times he couldn’t see the arm while obscured by what it was inside of.
One thing was sure: she wasn’t real in the normal sense. But telepathy, astral projection . . . It was all too much to grasp. He looked over at his wind-up mechanical clock—a couple minutes before 7 p.m.
“What do you want?” he asked, still suspicious of her intentions, regardless of who or what she was.
<Well, may I ask what your name is?>
His eyes narrowed. “You came to me, you came to my house, my safe room, yet you don’t know who I am?”
<I’m sorry, I don’t, and it would be rude if I told you why I’m here before we introduced ourselves.>
“I’m Clarence, Clarence Whitman.”
<Pleased to meet you, Clarence. I see the “Unraptured” books on your shelf, and they look read many times over. I remember these. In the End Times, according to the final book of the New Testament, Revelations, God brought the few righteous people into heaven, while the rest remained on Earth to deal with Satan and all his attending bullshit. Tell me, Clarence Whitman, are we in the End Times? Are we the ones left behind?>
Clarence noticed the apparition—Jocelyn—stood right in front of his stack of food buckets, filled with pouches of dried food. With hot water they were quite tasty, and without they weren’t half-bad. He was afraid she was right and if he fired, he’d destroy a lot of his food, so he put the gun down onto the bed.
“So zombies still overwhelm the world like the TV news showed prior to wigging out? I don’t dare leave here?”
<Zombies still dominate, though locally almost all fled the area.>
“Oh? Where did they go?”
<I don’t know. A smart friend of mine speculates they traveled to population centers and will be back soon enough.>
Clarence sighed. “Hell, no, this isn’t the End Times, at least it better not be. But if it is, someone will cure this plague. God wouldn’t allow Christ to come back to . . . to this.”
<Aren’t plagues a harbinger of the End Times.>
“Plagues? Yes. Almost complete destruction of the species? No. Someone will cure us eventually.”
<You are Christian, and so am I. I am Catholic. What denomination are you?>
“LDS.”
<Mormon. That’s good. Tell me, how do Mormons regard Saint Michael?>
“Michael? He’s the only canonized archangel.”
<That will help. I am on a quest for Archangel Michael . . . actually, it’s my quest supported by Archangel Michael. My corporeal body is immune to the disease, and I need to get myself somewhere where someone can study me and find a cure. But I am literally in grave danger. Someone buried me alive, and I am asking you to dig up my body.>
“Buried alive? Oh, my goodness, that’s why you are so dirty.”
She nodded. <And I need your help. I am begging for your help.>
Clarence glanced over at a picture of his wife. What question would she ask at a time like this? “What’s in it for me?”
She paused for a few seconds. <Companionship. You must be very lonely in here.> She must have caught him looking at the picture.
“I’ve been lonely ever since my wife died of Alzheimer’s. I don’t need companionship.”
<But you need to interact with people.>
“Interacting will only get me killed. My books can give me some semblance of a life here until someone finds a cure.”
<I can help protect you. Although I am immune, I possess the healing powers of a zombie.>
“If you can heal yourself, why can’t you get out of the grave?”
<I’m under another body. He’s too heavy. But my healing powers have allowed me to survive for several hours now. Soon, however, it won’t be enough.>
He sighed. “This all seems very implausible. I might be hallucinating.”
<You mean as implausible as a zombie apocalypse? Tell me, have you ever hallucinated?>
He rubbed his chin. “Good points . . . Where would we go? After I dig you up, I mean.”
<For tonight, back here, then I’m headed to Colorado Springs. Last I heard, the military may control part of the city, if not all, or even more. Obviously, it is your choice whether to come with me or not, but any help I get may prove crucial to achieving a cure.>
Clarence fixed his gaze on the photos of his five children on the left wall, the oldest one 43, the youngest one 35. He could not get in touch with them when the apocalypse hit. Were they zombies too? Could he help to prevent others from becoming zombies? Could he, God willing, help to cure them and bring them back to normal?
“I may risk my life if that is the role I must play. But how do I know what you’re saying is true? And how do I know my proper role in this? It’s not like I can ask the archangel.”
Jocelyn smiled. <Actually, I think you can.>
Chapter Forty-Three
Day Ten
“Oh? You believe I can speak with an archangel?”
<Have you ever taken part in a guided meditation?>
“No.”
<I can put you in a meditative state. Then you can have a conversation with Archangel Michael.>
“Just like that.”
<Yes, just like that.>
“Anybody can do this?”
<Anybody who believes Archangel Michael exists.>
“Why didn’t the Priests teach us this?”
<You would have to ask them. Maybe they didn’t know about it . . . Clarence,
