upset.
7
Margaret's theory on food supplies had proven true. The escalating media hype, and the population's response to it, culminated with the tagline
Television and radio hucksters capitalized on this fear, opening virtual shops to sell the dehydrated foods they weren't able to push in 1999. They preached their shallow sermons, homilies turning into sales pitches for survival goods and pledge requests.
In San Francisco, the hair atop the widely popular Mick Starr had completed its slow but obvious transition from jet black to gray, a transformation he stated was “expedited by each visit from the angel of God.” Like Charlton Heston's Moses, his eyes falling upon the angelic servant of the Lord had “set my hair to shine like God's own glory!” His massive ark, with its hundreds of leather seats, was sold out. “My people are working overtime,” he said, “on God's good graces and your generous support to complete the second and
Margaret watched one of these reports from the firehouse’s living room. She knew, with a tearing of her heart, that everyone aboard those vessels would die. The ships would sink, no matter how well they'd been constructed. Aside from the fact that Starr was blatantly foregoing God's design (other people, more legitimate and adept at ship-building, were doing as much on smaller scales), accommodating so many passengers and using seats rather than harnesses proved to Margaret that the man could not have been visited by any angel. There was also one other, completely unrelated, reason. Legitimate or not, Mick Starr was a preacher, a leader of people, and from everything she'd come to understand these past two months, no one in that position would have been visited by God's messenger.
Margaret's ark was completed, save two details. The first – checking and re-checking every harness, testing each with an adult and child. Katie and Robin were the willing guineas pigs for the latter. Round and round, adults - usually Carl or his classmate Andy whom Carl never seemed to take any further liking to - and the girls took turns being lifted in. More than once, a harness broke from its mountings and someone's butt landed with a thud on the floor. More often than not it was Andy, who never seemed ready for such an eventuality.
Baby dolls were dropped in and the straps tightened around them. One of the newer couples in the crew had a one-year old daughter. Though the mother insisted she hold the baby when the time came, Margaret would have none of it. In it went, and the twin straps were pulled and adjusted around its chubby, flailing limbs.
When every harness was ready and tested twice without coming loose, the arguments began over where each person would “sit.” Margaret left that responsibility to Estelle, who muttered, “Thanks a lot” under her breath, but not without a smile. Personal preferences weighed against ballast issues, the need to evenly distribute weight across the hull. Estelle would find the balance, Margaret knew. She always did..
“But why such bizarre seating? Why harnesses?” Questions asked by more than one person, and more than once, Margaret had to admit she didn't know the answer.
Nearly everyone in the crew now contributed to the added expense of hired security, on top of what it cost for the food and supplies. Margaret suspected more than a few withheld money, keeping something in the bank. A precaution. Margaret didn't like to think too hard on finances, but it was hard not to. Day-to-day work was taking on more of a material bent. The need for supplies, fine tuning the ship. Every day brought exercises in bringing the mast up from its mounting below deck, dropping it into the fitting from above, re-securing it below. Rigging the small sail, over and over. Routine upon routine. A routine she knew had to be done if they were to survive what was coming.
The days raced too quickly toward the end. Margaret fought a constant sinking in her belly. She was beginning to guess the answer to the questions of the harnesses, even before the dream, which came in the early morning hours of June 1st. Even before the angel David showed her in his frustratingly dramatic way, Margaret had begun to understand.
David had not intruded upon Margaret's dreams since the town meeting. She assumed that he finally came back to scare her, give her what he assumed was that last important push. When he did, nothing felt the same afterwards. The routine, the small talk at night onboard the ship, sent waves of fear through her.
Didn't they understand what was going to happen? Why couldn't she say, warn them? But the angel was firm in his command. “Say nothing,” he said. “Just know, and be prepared.”
In the dream, David said, “Now that June is here, the people will feel the pull of time more than ever.” He pondered his statement for a moment. Finally the angel smiled. The expression looked odd, that perfect face twisting into an almost bashful, boyish grin. He looked at her and said, “Sorry. I can be a bit melodramatic at times, can't I?”
Margaret laughed and agreed. When David began to walk across the star-lit yard, she followed. If it were possible, the angel looked anxious. No, that wasn't right. In retrospect, later that day, Margaret thought he looked nervous. Did angels in heaven have the same sense of
“It's been a while,” she said as they walked towards her old picnic table. In the waking world, it had been summarily dismantled and assimilated into the ark.
David nodded. “I come when I'm needed. You've been remarkable in what you've accomplished, Margaret. But there's more to come. I think you'll be ready for it.”
They stopped at the table. On it was a large curved bowl, colored in a light shade Margaret could not make out in the gloom. David gestured to it. “I'm here because I had promised you some answers. You need to understand, at least in a general sense.”
“Understand?” She knew what he meant, but felt the need to add
“Take the bowl in both hands.” He stepped away from the table. Margaret reached out and lifted it, holding her palms against the smooth surface. It was filled almost to the brim with water. Some splashed over the edge. The water was cold.
David's face was gone, lost in shadows. “Run,” he said, in a voice different than she'd become accustomed to. It was deeper, resonating through the water and bowl, through her fingers.
She stammered, “What?”
The voice repeated, louder, “Run.” The dark figure, which no longer resembled David, moved towards her. Margaret took a step backwards.
“Turn,” it said, “and run. Now!”
Margaret turned and ran through the yard. The water sloshed a bit, spilling across the back of her hand, then settled as she fell into a rhythm. She was running through the yard, slowing as she neared the street.
David with the dark featureless face was beside her. “Do not slow,” it commanded in an echoing voice, “Run. Do not turn, or stray from your course!”
She resumed running, faster, across the street, towards her neighbors' fence. She wanted to stop, but the figure remained beside her, behind her, beside her again.
She passed through the fence, through the shrubs and trees. She was a spirit in the night, racing through cars parked on the next road, through houses, sounds of late night television and an insect’s buzz, all passing behind her. She reached Route 101, passed through, screaming in terror as cars careened over her, past her, though her, and still she ran. Faster.
The world became a blur.
The dark figure was no longer with her, but she felt him, felt
Faster and faster, the trees, houses, towns and images flashing, too fast, she was going
There were others now, vague shapes coming into focus, running alongside her to the left and right, solidifying. She turned her head but found it made no difference in her speed. Her legs pumped and blurred and
