Margaret's Ark

“I'm not the only one who's received the visions, am I?”

Michael stopped walking. He could see the lights of the shelter a half block away. He looked at Jack's shadowed face. He simply nodded his head and said, “No, you're not.”

“Where are they?”

“Everywhere.”

Jack looked down, and smiled. “Praise God,” he said. “Sometimes, when I'm like this, usually at night when the world's not poking my head with its sticky fingers, I wonder how the world could be rallying so easily to my cause. Others, you say? Still,” he looked up, shoved his hands into his pockets, “I'll probably forget by morning. You’ll just be a stranger again. I hope you don’t take my forgetfulness the wrong way. It’s nice now to be able to talk, you and I, like normal human beings.” He laughed at the irony, then patted Michael on the shoulder. “But, I suppose, this was your idea, letting me talk to you like this.”

Michael smiled, knowing it wasn’t he who gave Jack these moments, but simply a random rightness in how the man’s injured brain worked. “Maybe you'll stay like this for a while?”

Jack shook his head. “With a clear mind come clear memories. And there are too many of those to want to stay like this for very long, even if I had a choice.”

A knot tightened in the angel’s stomach. In moments like these, he wished for his assignment to end. Too many human frailties in this form. Still, it seemed as if Jack wanted to talk about them. Already knowing the answer, he asked, “You miss her?”

“I miss everyone.”

“They were good people, God fearing, loving. They’re in a better place.”

Jack nodded. His face tightened. Through clenched teeth he said, “I hate them. The men who did it. I can’t forgive them.”

Michael kept a hand on Jack’s shoulder, squeezed a little. “You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head. “But I do have to, don’t I? Even the mindless, lost souls who blow up hotels while families are inside, celebrating weddings and dancing....” He closed his eyes, let Michael continue guiding him down the alley. “Why did I live? I suppose one benefit of this cracked brain of mine... keeps me from remembering too long. Hurts to, but I do, sometimes. Once. Or twice. Round and round we go.”

“What -” Michael began, before headlights cut across the alley behind them. He turned and raised one hand to block the light. The car stopped a few feet away. Voices over the sound of the idling engine. Slurred laughter, angry noises.

“Hey, Preacher Man,” a voice said through one of the open windows. An arm emerged, brandishing something that looked like a baseball bat. “We're here for church. You left early!” Guffaws from inside. The sound of someone pulling the door handle. Michael gently nudged Jack to walk with him towards the door of the shelter. Jack held his ground, and began speaking.

“Holy, holy,” he said, quietly, with no quaver in his voice. “The Lord doth say the unbelievers and frightened children shall scorn the prophet and try to silence his tongue.”

More sounds of door handles being pulled, snapping back. Curses from inside.

Jack continued, louder, “Rather than prey on the weak, raise your arms to the Lord! Repent; cleanse your hearts of evil - “

“Unlock the fucking door, man!”

“I'm trying. It's not working.”

“See the pure white light of God's love!” Shouting now. “Feel His embrace!”

“There! Got it!” Thunk, thunk of more pulled door handles. “What the...? He’s gonna get away!”

Michael began to push Jack towards the shelter. “We have to go, Jack; okay?”

Jack resisted. He raised his voice over the shouts from inside the car. “Prepare ye the way of the Lord! See His glory, for His power will be mighty when the waters come.”

“Climb out the friggin' window!”

A head emerged from the driver’s side, behind the glare of the headlights. Then a whirring and a shout.

“Who's closing the window? Cut it out! I ca-” The voice cut off to a choking gasp, then a gurgling. The head wriggled, caught between the glass and the top of the door.

The angel pushed the smiling preacher backwards. “Can we go in now?”

“My angel will protect us,” Jack said.

“No shit,” Michael said, unable to suppress a smile, “really?”

Jack relented, and walked calmly alongside him. Far down the opposite end of the alley, the small red glow of a cigarette. Michael ignored it. Behind them, glass broke. The jackals had finally realized they could put those bats to good use. As he and Jack got to the door, there were footsteps and shouts of anguish from down the alley. He turned to see three large shapes pacing nervously beside the car. More glass breaking as they freed their friend from the window, then more curses. The four shapes ran away in the opposite direction, one moving more awkwardly than the others, abandoning the car where it sat idling.

*     *     *

Nothingness. Comfort. The sensation of warm air blowing across his legs and chest. Deep underwater, without fear. Rising slowly, all worries gone. Everything was all right now. He was home.

Carl opened his eyes. Like every morning, it took a moment for him to remember where he was. He never dreamed, not once that he remembered in all his life. When he slept, it was in a state of complete non-functioning. All systems shut down. He often wondered if this complete oblivion was why he slept only a few hours each night. He awoke refreshed, a soft blanket of peace across him. Slowly, his brain began to turn on various switches as he lay on his back staring at the night sky. First, the realization of where he was. On the foredeck of the ark. Then the stars took on meaning. They'd shifted, rearranged themselves into a new patterns since he’d gone to sleep. He'd begun to consider the constellations his own private clock, noting what patterns swung about at what time. At the corner of his vision, a dull pink glowed on the horizon. He guessed it was four or four-thirty.

Carl reviewed the prior day's events in his mind. When he lay down to sleep each night, his mind whirled with questions and plans, thoughts of his mother and father, his grandfather, wondering if they were crying or plotting against him. If he would die on June eighth or live. How he could rearrange the storage compartments to make a little more room. When he awoke, his mind was blank, and only those items he allowed in, for the first moments of the day, came forth. He enjoyed just lying here, pondering the patterns of the stars, seeing how long he could go before finally sneaking down the ramp to head for the bathroom in the firehouse.

The priest . Father Nick had lain down on the deck a couple of feet away. Slowly, in no rush, Carl turned his head.

Nick Mayhew lay on the deck, hands folded behind his head, eyes open and staring at the morning starlight. In response to Carl's movement, he turned his own head to face him.

Carl whispered, “Good morning, Father. Did you sleep?”

Nick nodded as much as possible in his current position. “A little. I certainly slept more soundly than I had in a long time.” He smiled. “No worries about the phone ringing.”

Carl turned back to the sky. The priest did the same. A question occurred to him, one that Carl had wanted to ask him last night but didn’t. The man had been so exhausted he didn't dare put him to work.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

Carl kept expecting him to respond with “Please call me Nick,” but he never did. The priest might be young, but was awfully serious about his job.

“I was listening to some TV evangelist - not that Starr guy in the city but some other one. Anyway, he was talking about how, at the end, some people that God chooses will be taken up to heaven. They called it something I can't remember, but that if you're born again, you'll be taken up, body and everything. Everyone else will have to hang out when all the bad shit happens. Oh, sorry.”

“Bad shit is as good a description as any I've heard,” Nick whispered, then fell quiet. Carl began to wonder if he’d fallen back to sleep when the priest added, “It's called the Rapture. One of the many controversial debates among us Christians. Even more hotly debated than whether the toilet paper goes over the spool or under.”