Margaret's Ark

She closed her eyes tighter, fighting the fear welling up stronger than ever, tried not to wonder what would happen. Every time she tried to imagine life on the boat, on the water, nothing came. The future was only a blank wall of white, so surreal was the situation they were in. “Nobody wants to die,” she whispered. “That why we're here.... that's why we're here.”

She lay a long while, feeling the tension in the girls' bodies relax, hearing and feeling their breathing fall, at last, to a steady rhythm.

Eventually, Margaret also fell asleep.

And she dreamed.

A breeze ruffled the angel's hair as he stood in the back yard. Behind him, the house's demolition was no longer evident. It was only a dream, but Margaret was happy to see it this way one final time.

“You've done so much, Margaret. This is our last visit, I'm afraid. There's nothing I have left to tell you. I wanted to wish you well with everything tomorrow. And to say we'll be with you, all of us, every moment.”

She knew, somehow, what “us” in his statement meant. Who were these angels? Perhaps an army of God from the beginning of time. She didn't ask. He wouldn't tell her, anyway.

“They're good people,” she said. “My crew. They believe.”

David smiled, and shrugged. “Perhaps. Every heart is different. But that's beside the point, isn't it? They've come this far; they'll stay to see it through.”

Margaret walked to the picnic table, laid a hand on the cool, dew-covered wood. She sat on it and looked at the angel. “They're ready. As ready as they can ever be. What about the others?”

“Others?”

“The ones building the other arks, everywhere.”

David smiled. “They're as ready as they'll ever be.” He laid a hand on her cheek. The feeling was familiar yet strange at the same time. She felt as if she'd known this man forever. His touch was cool, comforting.

He removed his hand and stepped back, expression all business. “You need to sleep, as much as possible, at least.” The yard began to fade. He added, “See you soon.”

Margaret stood, then tried to smile. “I hope you don't mean that literally.”

David laughed. “Just an expression.”

The yard faded away. The angel remained, in the nothingness, staring at the spot where Margaret had disappeared along with the dream. The trace of a sad smile worked across his face, and he whispered, “See you soon, Margaret,” before fading away into the blackness.

0

Jack splattered the remainder of the butter from its plastic container onto a piece of toast. Just one slice this morning along with a glass of orange juice. No need for a heavy breakfast when God's judgment would be upon them all in a few hours. He'd forgotten what time the angel Michael had said it would happen. It didn’t matter. Everyone around him seemed to know. Even the young black man who'd taken it upon himself to follow him around these past few days, and who sat sullenly beside him eating nothing himself. Jack took a bite of his toast, but could not taste it. All was unimportant when bathed in the Light of Heaven.

“Heading out soon, Jack?” Rick stood behind him with a hand resting on his shoulder. The preacher nodded and chewed. Rick patted him once and said, “Don't worry about clean up duty this morning. It's a big day for you.”

Jack swallowed, furrowed his brows as if in thought. Then he stood. “For me?” he asked. Seeing Jack’s dark expression, Rick stepped back.

“Sure,” he said. “Quarter past eleven, right? Are you - “

“A big day for all of us!” Jack raised his voice, swept an arm towards the table. Toast crumbs fell from the sleeve of his long coat and tattered cast. “The last day for all of us on Earth.”

“Amen!” someone shouted from the next table. Laughter, some applause.

Jack smiled. “Amen, amen,” he said. More shouts, applause. “Amen, amen, I say. You will all be dead today!” He turned and walked towards the exit. The angel scrambled to his feet, glared at as many people in the room as possible - though he knew only a few could even see him, those he allowed to see him - and followed his charge towards the door.

“Wait for us!” someone shouted. “Wouldn't miss this show for the world!”

Sounds of shuffling chairs. Rick raised his arms and tried to snag a few stragglers to stay behind and clean up. Most ignored him. Jack emerged into the bright morning sunlight followed by a crowd of two dozen men and women, some smiling broadly, shouting “Amen, Brother.” Others were more sullen, respectful. Frightened.

Jack and his impromptu entourage emerged from the alley. Three people climbed out of a news van parked at the curb.

“Excuse me, Mr., um, excuse me! Roberta Gunn, Channel Five News.” The woman trotted beside him. A tall Asian man with a camera on his shoulder walked backwards for a time. After stumbling over a fire hydrant, he decided to follow alongside instead. The reporter continued, “Are you heading for the wharf?”

“Today,” Jack said, staring ahead, “is the day the Lord has given. Today is the day it shall be taken away.”

“Lee, you got that? Good. Save that one. Cut this next one for the intro. Ready?” Lee gave a shaky thumbs up. “This is Roberta Gunn, reporting en route to Christopher Columbus park at Boston's Long Wharf where the world-famous Preacher Jack will deliver his final message. In a little over two hours, according to this man and thousands of others across the globe, the world will be deluged in a Great Flood. We'll report back throughout the morning for updates As promised, live coverage of The Great Flood - Fact or Fantasy begins at eleven o'clock. Jimmy, what's that weather going to be like? Doesn't look like rain!” She laughed lightly, and Lee ran a finger across his throat. The red light of the camera blinked off.

“Get to the van and get that in. Jimmy's report’s due in eight minutes.” Lee nodded and trotted back in the direction from which they'd come.

Michael wedged himself between Jack and the reporter. He looked behind them. So many people pressing in. Too many dark eyes focused on the preacher.

They turned onto Atlantic Avenue. A parade was in the making. Fools, he thought. How can they celebrate when they should be on their knees?

The Boston police department set up barricades along the road. Reporters pushed their way past, microphones stuck in Jack's face, questions asked but not heard. He bellowed into the air, into the ears and hearts of the crowd, the words which God sent to him. He stumbled over a chord dangling from a microphone. A policewoman pushed the reporter away.

They crossed the sawhorse-designated path to the opposite end of the road. People stood behind the barricades, shouting obscenities, waving homemade flags reading “We Love You, Preacher Jack!” A bulging MacDonald's food bag spun from the crowd and crashed at his feet. He continued on, feeling the paper crunch under his shoes and the squish of a sandwich never eaten, seeing none of these details. He shouted, felt God's power ripping through him fiercer than ever. He feared he would tear apart before the final moment if God didn’t lower the juice soon.

Finally, they emerged into the park. With three cops in front pushing through the crowd, Jack worked his way to the heavy iron chain which served as a railing, in front of the harbor inlet.

“Good luck, Jack,” Michael whispered, then stepped aside. The multitude passed through the man as if he were shadow. The angel waded through the bodies and found a spot to stand at the top of a small hill beside the playground.

Jack looked around him, startled at first. Cameras on top of trucks parked along the curbside, police pushing and setting up barricades around him, giving the man room to move, but only a little. What struck Jack most were the people. Hundreds of them, staring in wonder or anger, snapping pictures, waving their arms. Cars inched slowly along the congestion on Atlantic Avenue, some tooting their horns, arms out of windows, sometimes with middle finger extended. More people arrived on foot from both sides.  One face in the crowd, young with stringy blonde hair, captured his attention. Only for a moment. Though the face was familiar, Jack couldn’t focus with so many distractions. So many people waiting for the Lord’s words. He looked away.

The morning sun warmed his back and neck. He stood straighter, but said nothing.

Slowly, the crowd fell silent. There remained the constant hum of conversations, the occasional derisive