Her large body sagged with relief. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” It was a speech he and the rest at the GSC repeated over and over to the press, the same one they’d been giving for years since the media caught on to the whole pole-flipping nonsense.
“I’ll go check on your order, Hon.” She stepped lighter across the floor towards the serving window. If he was going to be stuck here for a while, he wanted to at least live with the illusion that, here at least, life was semi- normal. Maybe it still could be.
Eating a heavy, grease-laden meal would be a good first step.
Later, when he returned to his hotel room... maybe
* * *
Jack felt the Lord’s breath whip through his long coat, tear at his shirt, squeeze and control him like the puppet he knew he was. He was only a vessel, God's voice to the frightened people.
He balanced against the black iron chains strung fence-like before the harbor inlet at Long Wharf. He leaned into every gust, his back to the park and the avenue where he’d met the boy and girl, not remembering anything but knowing he did not want to look in that direction. He faced the waters of the harbor, staring out across the myriad of whitecaps dotting its surface. Far out to sea, the sky was clear and blue. Above and all around him the air whipped itself in frenetic adjustment to the change in pressure a mile from shore. Jack’s ears rang, popped and cleared, tightened again.
As he talked, he paid no heed to the crowd of two-dozen milling nervously behind him. Two benches away, on his right, a brooding young black man watched the events unfold. Jack thought he knew him, but with the excitement of the day could not recall from where.
Pat.
Pat.
Pat. Pat. Pat. Pat pat pat pat pat.
Drops of rain, like tears, fell across Jack's face, ran down the sleeve of his coat. He turned to face the crowd, blinking away a heavy drop that landed in his eye. He breathed in the damp, salty air and exhaled. The raindrops became a slow and steady stream of water from the sky. He screamed and raised his arms.
The rain increased in intensity, became sheets muffling the preacher's voice. “My people!” he shouted. “Feel the rain upon your faces, upon your sins! Behold the power of God!”
No thunder, no flashes of lightning, but as if on cue, the rain thickened to a deluge, falling hard upon the heads of the spectators. Jack laughed and continued his preaching, buffeted by rain. Where it was exposed beneath the wind-swept coat, his shirt saturated with water, warm wetness sticking to his chest. Rain trickled under his belt. He was of the world, and the world would be filled with God's tears, with his sorrow for all mankind. But this was only a warning, Jack shouted. One which must be heeded else all will perish when the flood truly comes.
Most of the crowd had dispersed, looking for shelter. Some crossed Atlantic Avenue, looking for relief inside the marketplace. Others found partial shelter under the vine-laden concourse running through the center of the park. Five people remained, shielding themselves with their hands. One man held aloft a newspaper, its pages peeling away in the wind. A woman struggled as her umbrella flipped inside out.
The rain continued throughout the day. Jack’s hands and feet went numb. Alternately shivering in the wet and sweating from his pacing and preaching, he screamed what words the Lord fed him though the mysterious umbilical from heaven. The crowd increased. More umbrellas, more struggling with the wind and rain. They shouted replies Jack could not hear. In anger, some ran to him, grabbed his soggy coat, his shirt, screamed for him to make it stop.
At these times, Jack would hesitate in his sermon, long enough to smile and spit water from his mouth, say, “I cannot stop what God has begun. Only God will stop it, and only your repentance will save you. Pray now, to the Almighty Father, to forgive what you have done. Ask to be accepted into His kingdom when the water fills your lungs.”
These words, which Jack would repeat verbatim every time someone approached, would cast them away, back into the ever-changing crowd, or someone would come and drag the other person away. This was usually done by the brother sitting on the bench; he grabbed from behind those moving on Jack with too much hate. He would use his entire body to pull them away, send them hurtling back into the crowd or down onto the brick flagstones. His strength belied his size, and the one being ejected would look around, uncertain what had just happened or who had done it.
The crowd, for the most part, did not want Jack to stop. At times, two or three men in suits and dripping overcoats would come to his rescue instead. These people were the majority, frightened by what was happening. Though Jack did not yet know this, they had heard the warning from the ark-builders one too many times on the news. These sound bites blended into the crazy man's sermons, became prophecy. People needed answers, more and more as the rain continued without abating, as flood warnings crossed the bottom of television screens during daytime soap operas or CNN's headlines.
Springtime, snows melting, falling into the rivers, the rain pouring from heaven to raise the water over the banks. As the day waned, creeks became streams became rivers over roads.
The forecasters could only promise their listeners that a front such as this could not continue indefinitely. The moisture must soon abate; the pressure must rise. That was how nature worked. The rain would end, had to end. They said this during every broadcast, both scheduled and those interrupting regular programming. They tried to be convincing, but their fear was palpable, eyes diverted; shaking hands moved across maps and historical charts of rainfall, always moving, for to stop while the camera was upon them would risk exposing the truth.
* * *
Even as the rains began in earnest, Margaret and her crew hadn't completed the final preparations for its onslaught. Three large blue tarps had been sewn together with nylon string and fastened over the top of the ark, their sides flapping where the tarp hadn't yet been temporarily nailed to the hull. The truckload of additional pallets hadn't arrived until eight-thirty that morning, and the six piles of unused lumber were now in their hurried transition from stacks atop the original staging to their perches two-pallets high, above any potential flooding. Margaret had been to the town hall to study the topography of the Lavish town square, and found it to be one of the higher elevations in town. This assurance wasn't enough to make her assume the rain David had promised wouldn't rise up.
This would be a warning shot over the bows of the non-believers, she knew, not the true flood. Such a threat would have to be a convincing display, however. As soon as the rain intensified to its current deluge, Margaret knew her instincts had been right. She'd watched the weather on television that morning with a mix of excitement and horror, seeing the clouds appear from nowhere and hearing the hurried changes in forecasts. From the nervous timbre in the voices reporting the anomaly, she knew it would last only long enough to have its effect.
At least, she hoped so.
Still, rain was rain and she didn't want to spend the next week drying everything out. Most of her crew, now twenty men and women since the sudden changing of the forecasts, finished stacking the lumber. The others were inside working on the supports, or continuing with the segmentation of the lower deck for storage, finishing supports for the upper deck. As it was, the lower deck and storage compartments were nearly completed, watertight with their double layers of glue. Unfortunately, this meant draining any water that found its way in through the open sections of the unfinished upper deck would be harder.
Carl Jorgenson and Tony Donato hoped to install drainage ports throughout the hull. Carl had obtained every ship-building book he could find in the library and searched the Internet to see what was possible.
As soon as yesterday's six o'clock news had aired the fourth follow-up piece on Margaret – one she had taken advantage of to say there would be a warning from God today – six more people had arrived to fill, then exceed, the gap left by the old couple. Ten more to go.
By nine o'clock, the falling rain upgraded from a spattering of heavy drops to the current downpour. A dozen cars pulled to a stop alongside the common, their occupants watching from the safe, dry vantage of their interiors. Margaret busied herself with the final work to secure the site, but soon could no longer ignore her growing apprehension as more cars pulled to the curb. She was never one to attend rock concerts when she was younger, but wondered if this fear was akin to that of standing at the gate before a large crowd, waiting for the doors to open while the mass of bodies pushed slowly, unrelentingly, from behind.
The crowd, though most sheltered within the confines of their automobiles, was growing.
