Keohane Daniel G.

Margaret's Ark

MARGARET'S ARK

Daniel G. Keohane

Published by Other Road Press

Copyright 2011  Daniel G. Keohane

Cover Design by Elderlemon Design

Acknowledgements & A Few Points to Ponder

For my family – past, present and future, with love and gratitude.

Every story begins with its author asking, “What if?” He or she may not ask the question outright, but boil the genesis of any tale down to its basic component and you get this question. Margaret’s Ark started this way. Years ago, friend and fellow writer Fran Bellerive and I picked a random word from the dictionary to write about: “Lavish.” My result was a short story with that title which was eventually published in a science fiction magazine. The novel you hold in your hands came about when I decided to learn more about the characters in the story, to find out what it would take for someone to give up everything and do what Noah did a few thousand years ago. In a purely strategic / theological sense, could I write a modern Great Flood tale without having a million of my fellow Judeo-Christians write to me and say, “Hey, God said he wouldn’t do that again?”

I think I pulled it off. If you read the tale that follows and disagree, then send a letter. But be nice about it. In the end, remember this novel is a work of fiction, an answer to a specific What If question.

As I did a final edit on this novel (which has always been one of my favorites), I was reminded how strong a feeling of family is carried throughout. Not just for the characters, but myself. A lot of personal little bits thrown in to make it an homage in many ways to my extended family. A significant date throughout the story is June 8th because, aside from some logistical reasons in the plot, it’s also my birthday. Recently, however, the date has taken on a sadder tone with the passing of my cousin. Barbara Stanton Jones was one of those rare smiling, wonderful women of God whose love touched so many people, and whom I wish I’d gotten to know a little better over the years. To her, this novel is also dedicated.

As always, I thank God for allowing me this chance to write, a gift I’ve so often taken for granted. Mom and Dad, for being proud even if I couldn’t hit a baseball or get a basket. Andrew, Amanda and Audrey for your excitement over my bizarre little pastime.

Linda, for your love, and encouragement to get this book off the shelf and into readers’ hands.

Fran and Janet who took their turns over the years with the editing pen after this book was written. John Craig, a man I’ve never met but without whom this book simply wouldn’t work – for explaining over a number of emails and detailed diagrams how an everyday person can build a sea-worthy ark with nothing but Home Depot supplies.

Father Jim Calderella, Steve Dorato, Dr. Joseph DiFranza, Komal Patel, Al Ganksy, Sara Camilli, Brian Hopkins, Bruce Boston, Melissa Singer, and Dave Brosha (another person I did not know until I had a specific question, who became my eyes and ears in the Arctic Circle) for sharing expertise and advice over the course of writing this story. And George Andersen, who inadvertently pointed me to the scientific concept that allowed me to at least pretend I knew what I was talking about with one particular plot point.

And as always, to all of my family, friends, coworkers and every reader who has taken the time to read my stuff.

Enjoy the story.

Danny Keohane

MARGARET’S ARK

60

Margaret Carboneau was dreaming.

The edges of the trees glowed where there should have been darkness, as if some massive light just winked off and cast an aura around everything it had touched. The world was silent. No car sounds from Route 101 two blocks to the east.

Feeling the grass under her bare feet, knowing this was a dream, it had to be a dream, Margaret walked across her yard towards the back porch. Where her neighbor’s house once stood was now only woods. The stranger moving beside her was tall, clean-shaven, wearing dark jeans and a loose-fitting black shirt.

No one spoke, but Margaret was not uncomfortable with the silence. Maybe this man had been in her dreams before. Though his expression and demeanor was that of an old friend, she did not recognize him.

They reached the back steps. The stranger stopped and turned towards her.

“You're dreaming,” he said. His voice was strong, breaking through the uncertainty in the air around her.

Margaret put her hands into the pockets of her nightgown and looked at the ground. “I know,” she said, “but I didn’t think people in my dreams were supposed to know that.”

The stranger smiled, laid a hand briefly on her shoulder, then put his hands into his own pants pockets. “My name is David,” he said, expression flattening to a neutral stare. Margaret found herself looking at him intensely, as if the loss of emotion on his face meant she should be attentive.

Unspoken rules of dreams and nightmares.

He said, “I am one of many sent by God Almighty, with a message. Pay close heed to what I have to tell you. What I and my brethren are saying at this moment will be remembered when you and the others awaken. This will not be the last time we speak.”

The others , Margaret thought. These two words sent a wave of dread through her that  she could not understand.

David’s clothes shimmered deep blue, darkened again to black. “God loves you, Margaret Carboneau. He loves your daughters. He loves everyone - even those who deny or despise him.”

Something tickled her ankles, like a thousand insects scurrying across her feet. She wanted to look down, kick or brush the feeling away. She could not. Margaret could do nothing but stare into the angel's face.

“What you are being told,” he continued, “is spoken out of that love. You may not think so, not at first, but you must trust God’s perfect judgment.”

“Judgment?” Her voice sounded weak, a nervous child afraid of words implying punishment. The tickling crept up her calves. Cold. Wet.

Water.

The bottom of her nightgown was heavy with the weight of it. Her feet were cold. She was cold. Again, David laid a hand on her shoulder.

The chill faded, but the tickling continued.

His voice grew in volume. “Let the Lord’s proclamation be spoken unto all mankind, in both words and actions. Let it be heard and acknowledged.”

The water rose past her waist.

“In sixty days,” the angel continued, “water will rise again over the world.”

To her neck. Margaret wanted to raise herself on her toes, reach above the rising flood, wanted to scream. She could not.

“Over those who have denied His love as well as those who have lived within it all their days.”

Over her face, into her open mouth. Lungs filled. The world spun and spun and spun. The angel's voice remained clear.

“God loves you, Margaret. He loves your people. And he wants to spare those willing to believe...”

The paralysis ended. Margaret flailed, grabbing for the angel, for anything. With the darkness and the spinning, she couldn't tell which way was up. She opened her mouth to scream, but there was only water.

“...who hear his warning and do what is required. Build your tribute to the Lord. I will show you how. Tell others about what we have said. Bring them into your fold, and He will spare them. Please, He begs you. Build it. Save your people.”

Build what? Help me!

“The ark.”

Margaret awoke with a gasp. Sweat-soaked bed sheets clung like frightened children around her body. She kicked them away, tried to couch the dream from her lungs, but the water was gone. The dream was over.

The bedroom was dark, silent save for the rhythmic hum of the overhead fan. She looked at the clock on the side table. Ten thirty-five. A renewed wave of fear washed over her. If she'd fallen asleep, into such a vivid dream, it could only have been for a few minutes. The numbers of the clock switched to ten thirty-six.

59

She slowly worked the spatula under both eggs, slid it back out, then realized she'd forgotten to flip them over. When she did, the eggs sputtered anew in the butter. Margaret was tired.

The dream. Usually when she woke from a nightmare she could roll over and let it fade into insignificance. Not this one. It was as if David the Angel had been talking to her in person, in the real world, not letting her discard their meeting as a dream.

It was only a dream.

“Mom, is my egg ready?” Katie sat at the kitchen table, gently tapping her fork against the table.

Four-year-old Robin sat in the seat beside her, Mickey Mouse fork in her own hand and tapping it like her big sister. “Mom?” she said, as if Katie hadn't spoken, “Is my egg ready, yet?”

Margaret flipped one each onto their respective plates beside the toast and said, “Yes and yes.” She put the plates onto the table. “Now eat up. We have to leave for church in a half hour and you still have to get dressed.”

She dropped two more eggs into the pan for herself. Though Sunday offered some respite from the usual weekday crunch, the three of them had to scramble to make it to Mass on time, especially since Vince died. On school days, it was a race to get herself and the girl's dressed, drop Katie off next door at the Duddy's to wait for the bus and bring Robin to the early drop-off at the daycare which, thankfully, was housed in the elementary school. Being a full-time science teacher at the high school next door had its advantages. Margaret usually made it into class well before her first students arrived, a few spare minutes to organize lesson plans or last-minute grading. Today was Sunday. The only thing on the docket after church was Katie’s softball game at four o’clock. Time had lessened, at least for the girls, the pain these Sunday mornings brought to the family, Vince’s glaring absence between them in the pew. Katie still missed her dad, but her grief was concentrated in moments that gratefully showed themselves less and less, as life slowly filled in the gaps. Robin played along, but Margaret wondered how much of it was simple imitation of her sister. She’d been only two when it had happened. A year and a half was a long span for a girl that age.

She flipped the eggs onto her own plate and sat at the table across from the girls. When she a child, the Catholic rule of not eating an hour before Communion was still in effect, at least in her house. Whether that regulation had ever been lifted, or modified to apply only to swimming she didn’t know. Margaret never took it seriously in her adult life. Robin squirmed enough in the pews without being hungry on top of it.

“Eat up,” she said, noticing Katie's attention pulled further into the Sunday comics and away from her cooling breakfast.

*     *     *

Jack used to have a last name, Rory, or Lowry - something like that. Like everything else that came before, he could never be certain. That life had been taken away, ripped from his arms, replaced with this new existence of mental fog and occasional blades of pain. Not physical pain, though his stomach did have moments when it felt as if a hole opened inside him when he didn’t eat enough. The blades were memory, flashes of remembrance. They hurt to look at, like staring too long into the sun.

Jack lay sideways on the cot. The pillow was so thin he had to curl his arm beneath it for support. The wall in front of him was blemished – stains and spit and other unnamable excretions Rick and his people – including Jack when his shift came around – worked unceasingly to erase but which had an existence beyond anything manageable, like memory, coming back again and again in spite of the scrubbing.

He’d had a thought a moment ago, but it had flittered away like a kite loosed in the wind. Jack lay still, reaching mentally for the string and trying hard to hold it. Something about God. The face of God. The face of an angel.

The angel in his dream. Faceless, glowing with light. Telling him something important. A message from God Himself, maybe. He stared at the wall, not seeing it, letting images race past like on a movie screen. Water. Ocean. No, not quite. A lot of water, though. Floods. The Flood? Like Noah.

He was close, but the kite kept spinning out of reach. Jack laid his hand on a clean spot on the wall, hoping to grab it. The motion only served to bring him further into the waking world. It was lost.

After a time, he rolled over and swung his legs off the bed. His blanket was bunched on the floor again. It never stayed on him very long when he slept. He reached down, saw significance in its curves and folds. Angel, he remembered again. Telling him something important. He wished he could remember. God is in the details, someone told him long ago, in that other life. A life which Jack understood with a rare bit of clarity he could never get back. He was too lost. Everyone was. That was the point of the dream. Everyone lost, doomed to.... something or other.

The second floor was partitioned into two small rooms, one for men, one for women. His area was abuzz with the waking sounds of the night’s residents. Few people spoke, at least to each other. Grumblings, coughing out last night’s nicotine. One man in the far corner heaved and vomited behind his cot. Didn’t have a good night, that guy, he thought. These sounds served as morning’s wake-up call along with the smell and plate-clanking of breakfast downstairs. He followed a group of a half dozen men already merging with a larger group of women and young children in the outside hall. It was dark here, thick with body smells, lit by morning light through a window over the stairwell and a single, dust-caked bulb.

Jack kept his gaze down, not wanting to be drawn into conversation. He had trouble keeping the threads of his life together, and things got worse when someone made him focus on whatever struck them as interesting. There was a second set of feet descending the steps beside him. Jeans, clean sneakers, a scarred black hand.

“Sleep well?” the man asked. Jack looked up, ready to look away again if the other tried to make eye contact. It was a young face, midnight black and mapped with scars of some long-ago battle. Probably some accident, or a bad fight. He looked familiar, and seemed to know Jack enough to keep his gaze directed away, to the back of a bald man’s head in front of them. They stepped onto the ground floor landing where their procession joined the already-long line queued up for breakfast.

“OK, I guess,” Jack finally said.

The young man nodded.

The bald guy turned around. His fleshy face folded in on itself, half-confused, half-irritated. He said, “You talking to me, Mister?”

Jack shook his head, tilted his head to the right. “To my friend, here.”

The fleshy head turned to... Michael, Jack remembered. The kid’s name is Michael... and snorted. Jack couldn’t tell what the sound meant, but was glad that the head turned back around and the man stepped up to close the gap in the line.

Jack blinked. Was he supposed to have gotten up early today for table duty? Maybe it was tomorrow. Rick would have come up to get him if it was today. The center’s director was serving and chatting with the guests, his gray beard glistening in the steam rising from the metal food trays. Rick would let him know if it was his turn. Jack was hungry. He was pretty sure he’d eaten supper last night. Short term memory problems, someone explained once. Might have been Rick, or some doctor. Problems “retaining information” since...

Jack shook off a sudden chill and waited his turn

“Morning, Jack,” Rick said when he’d made it to the front of the line.

Jack looked up. “Hi, Rick. Did I forget to...” He held the tray with one hand and waved the other out towards the floor.

“Nope, you have dinner duty tonight.”

Jack smiled. A couple of his yellow teeth had begun to blacken. Rick made a mental note to talk to him – again – about having them checked when Doctor Allen came around next week. “Good,” Jack said. “That’s good. I’ll be here. Just, well...”

“I’ll remind you.”

Jack couldn’t find Michael anywhere. Wait – there he was, waving him over to the far end of a table where two empty seats faced each other. Somehow, he already had his food. Rick waited until Jack turned back around before loading up his tray.

“You all right, Jack?”

“Yea, sorry.” He moved on, let the woman with the big curly hair put a plastic glass of orange juice on his plate, then found Michael again.

They sat and ate in silence. When Jack looked up, the guy’s tray was empty.

“Jack,” he said, looking directly at him. Jack found himself returning the stare. Michael’s eyes were clear white, no red from drinking or lack of sleep. Eyes full of peace, so much that they overflowed, filled his own body. He thought of his dream again. Michael had been in it. He was remembering.

“That’s good,” Michael said, smiling. “Now,” he reached out, laid a hand over Jack’s, the one holding the fork, which now began bouncing up and down. More than calm flowed through him from this young man with the dark face and clear eyes. Also love, understanding. Michael said, “Remember.”

Jack remembered, then closed his eyes and tried to forget again. Too much, the dream, his mission; he wasn’t worthy. Michael, standing with him on a long-forgotten plot of grass, outside a home he knew once but no longer. Telling him the Terrible Truth of what was to come. Jack was lost in its massive presence. Lost, but not without a place in God's world. Jack had been chosen to lead his people to salvation before it was too late. There was something else... an ark - of the Covenant perhaps? It was probably just talk like they do in churches. Holy Speak.

Michael’s hand squeezed his. The Flood was coming. A really bad one, a new Great Flood and Jack understood his responsibility was to come forth from the desert and prepare the way for Judgment.

“Not judgment,” Michael whispered. “Salvation.”

But Jack did not hear. There was too much strength coming from God, through and out of the young man across the table. Too much power. He was Jack the Baptist. But he wouldn’t use water for this new consecration. That was reserved for God alone. No! What was he thinking? He needed to get a grip; the world was sliding away again. He would cover the people with words. His Words. Jack's words. God's words.

“Jack?”

Rick was standing where Michael had been a moment ago, the chair pulled out. The shelter’s director laid both hands flat on the table and leaned toward him. “Jack, you okay?”

Jack stared at the man, then past him, looking for the angel. Where was Michael? Something important was slipping away, washed clean by his Mission. He tried to regain it, but it was lost. All he had left was what he had to do, from now until he died in the waters with his new congregation. I need to focus; I need –  he would never again lose what was said to him in his dream, his vision. At least the overall idea of it. God is in the details, he thought again, but details were too small to hold. He had to... preach. It was too important. He needed to get to work, reach His people.

“Jack, come on, let’s –”

He got to his feet, walked towards the front doors, past the line of hungry lost souls for whom this was just another day but for whom there would be so few days left. Rick was calling him from far away in that other world Jack had finally lost forever. Now he had nothing, squinting in the bright Spring morning, trying to form the words he must speak until the world died.

They would come. The words. He was in God's graces now.

58

It was the same dream. That's what Margaret thought, at first. The night was cool,  the damp, sweaty months not yet upon them. She walked in her backyard with David. Tree shadows swayed around them, moving of their own volition. No, she was moving, gliding over the grass. David held her left hand in his right. The touch was light, a breeze among the breezes. They passed through a fence. Then a house.

Leave me alone , a child whispered in his dream; I don- and they moved past, through more houses, more trees, more fences.

Lavish town common, labeled as such by the original founders who had settled here from the east coast in the mid-1800s. An extensive, triangular plot of land in the town center, the common was bordered on one side by Lavish’s municipal buildings, police and fire departments, town hall. The communal property hosted outdoor concerts and an annual Christmas tree lighting. At this late hour, the roads intersecting the town center were abandoned. As well they should be, she supposed, considering none of this was real. Just a dream. She and David walked now, still not speaking, along one of the paved walkways interspersed web-like across the angular lawn. The sky in the east was a pale pink. The sun would be rising soon. To the west, deep purple, almost black, defying the onset of morning.

She stared at the steady red light mounted in front of the fire department's familiar brick facade. In an upstairs window, a man stood, backlit by a single lamp. He stared out over the square. Margaret recognized Marty Santos. Not by the fire chief’s face, obscured in shadow, but by his silhouette. Short, wide-shouldered. What was he doing up, and in her dream?

Silence in the world, like before; only the feel of the wind against her skin, the angel's touch on her hand. David stopped in the center of the largest plot of grass.

“Build it here,” he said.

His voice was soft, but its presence among so much quiet startled her. She knew what “it” was. Last night's dream remained crystalline in her memory, especially now.

“An ark?” she said, hoping the question didn't convey too much skepticism.

“Yes.”

Margaret felt a little foolish asking the next question, considering none of this was real. “Ark as in boat, I assume, not what God commissioned Moses to build....?”

David smiled, a soft, patient expression. “Yes, as in boat, to carry your family and twenty-seven others above the flood.”

So much dramatics in this silent dream. The breeze ruffled her nightgown a little harder, irritating her with its softness.

“I can't build a boat of any kind. I've never been good with wood. And I'm too busy to start - “

“There will be others, if you begin soon to tell them His message.”

“You mean God's.” She said it as a statement, not a question, her tone harsher.

David took a few steps away, eyes to the grass, looking for flaws, perhaps in his choice of location. He did not look up as he said, “Yes. God’s. Yours and mine. The God of Abraham and the Apostles. Of Muhammad and Elijah. The God of believers and of atheists. Even those of great faith, a faith in the unknown, which you and your family have demonstrated so often, will sometimes need proof. These dreams, and those experienced by thousands of others, will be a sign for you to believe and obey. The days are slipping away from you, but faith in such things as this first sign might take time. In the meantime, I'm here to teach you.”

The wind tugged at Margaret's gown. She said nothing, assuming anything this person had to say would be said in his own time. She wanted to wake up. The last dream didn’t end well, and judging by the way the breeze was picking up, this one wasn't going to, either. She tried to turn, look up at the fire station and pull some moral support from Marty's outline.

As was natural in dreams gone sour, Margaret couldn’t move her feet.

“Let me go.” She had to shout over the wind.

“Behold,” David said, then doubled over as if in pain. He landed on the grass and his body split apart. It happened quickly, in seconds, but the details played themselves out in dreamlike clarity. His ribs became long, straight planks, tearing forth from his chest. More wood grew like branches from shoulders and hips. Some widened into sheets of plywood, flipping into the air to arrange themselves in haphazard order. The angel's skull cracked apart. More wood poured forth. In seconds, David was gone and the mystical construction was complete. The boat – the ark –  looked awkward and ugly, standing in the space where once there was only grass. She saw every detail. Every nail, how many boards, every length and width down to how many square feet externally and internally. Not in cubits but yards, square feet... she felt the wood beneath her fingers, though she remained rooted to the grass. The smell was heavy, acrid. A chemical, greasy odor. The ship shimmered from an unfelt heat.

She understood none of it, neither the type of wood nor the joints holding them together. Terminology passed into her nonetheless, dancing around like flies, and she knew when she awoke it would all still be there, lingering as the last dream had. The dimensions outside, the details inside. Storage within. Ballast. Harnesses. Rope. Thirty people. No more. Thirty people saved inside. No room for animals.

Thirty people.

The ark was gone. David stood beside her. “And everyone else will die,” he said.

The wind stopped. Margaret sensed a massive presence approaching behind her. She wanted to wake up. She wanted to wake up, wake up! It was evil, this thing growing closer. Massive. She wanted to run. The fire chief must have still been in his window, because she thought she heard him shouting.

A car drove around the corner along Cambridge Street at the outer edge of the common. For a moment its headlights scanned the grass. The driver didn’t appear to notice anything out of the ordinary, for the car continued on.

*     *     *

“Jack, snap out of it.”

Jack looked up from the grass. He didn’t want to look up and face his failure. As soon as he’d seen this place again, the green dream-lawn of long ago, he remembered. The Angel of God had chosen him, and all Jack did was walk around Boston, lost, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing, eventually getting a few bucks from a compassionate soul to get a meal. He hadn’t been able to find his way back to the shelter.

“You have to eat, Jack. I understand that.”

Even his thoughts weren't a secret to this creature. When Jack gazed finally on the face of the angel, its power poured over Jack's skin like it had done the last time, nearly burning him as it had at breakfast. Energy, eating him alive. He tried to stand, but fell back to his knees on the soft grass.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I'm really sorry.” He wanted to grab the angel’s feet, but couldn't tear his gaze away from the dark, scarred face.

Michael smiled and said, “Don’t apologize. But you need to get to work, my friend. Time is running out. God has chosen you. In less than two months, the flood will come, and they must be warned.”

He offered his hand. Jack took it. Michael pulled him up so they stood facing each other. The angel was a few inches shorter, but his presence in this long-ago world was so much larger.

“At the risk of sounding like a cliché,” Michael added, “God works mysteriously. He's chosen you as part of this plan.” His smile worked around the thick scar lines on his face. “He hasn't forsaken you.”

Michael’s face then seemed to disengage from the rest of his head and float in the air. Jack stepped back. The other’s smile faltered. “Jack?”

“Yes, sir?” Michael, he remembered. The angel’s name is Michael.

“Are you ready to begin?” The face hovered before him. Like earlier, Jack was reminded of the snake he'd seen in a movie from his youth, eyes spiraling, swirling. Evil snake.

“Yes, sir.” He swallowed, wanted to run. The face held him captive. Maybe this wasn't a vision. Maybe he was being attacked in the alley where he’d holed up for the night, when he’d realized he wasn’t going to find his way to the shelter. Held prisoner while some monster's fingers wrapped around his throat. Jack made a noise. Everything was confusing. He turned away, wanted to stare down at the grass.

The grass was gone. Everything was black.

The voice was close behind. “God bless you, Jack,” it said. “I'm not a monster, I promise. You need to understand, as so many others have needed to understand, but in your own way.”

An arm reached past him, open palmed to the darkness.

“Behold,” the voice whispered.

Something stirred in the void, a mist, swirling, taking form. Jack felt weightless, hanging in the middle of nothing, staring at a vague shape taking form an eternal distance away.

When the vision became clear, Jack opened his mouth to scream. Any sound that might have emerged was swallowed by the darkness. He hung there, staring at a nightmare.

The angel whispered, “They must hear His pleas, heed His word, before it's too late.”

Jack screamed and thrashed in the narrow space behind the dumpster.

“Hey, Man! Calm down!”

He opened his eyes. The nightmare was gone. In its place, a wrinkled white man peered in behind the blue container. He squinted to see better into the early morning shadows. “You okay, Guy? I heard you yell-”

Jack jammed his sneaker into the man’s throat. The monster coughed and fell back. The angel's vision still played out in his brain, over and over, burning him from the inside out. Jack clambered out from behind the dumpster. The power of the vengeful God Almighty coursed through his veins, nearly ripping them open. He was the Chosen One. He was Jack to Spread the Word. No one could get him now. Another part of him tried to take control, the rational Jack who tried to come forward when his emotions got to be too much, the fear of forgetting who he was, where he was. In these moments, other memories flooded in, a beautiful woman’s face moments before the world fell apart, something heavy falling on top of him, dust and heat, too much. Now this, now this calling, the energy. Rational Jack remained pinned, trapped under a million pounds of steel and concrete, long cleared away, long forgotten.

The old man gripped his own throat with both hands and fell against a pile of trash bags beside the dumpster. He tried to run but tripped over a bag and stumbled sideways. Jack lept past, looked around in a frenzy for a weapon, a rock or brick. The alley was closing in above him, the daylight snuffed. He couldn’t breathe. Another voice, Michael’s maybe, calling him. Too much. He couldn’t hear what it said.

The old man squirmed into the narrow corner where the dumpster met the wall of the building, kicking his legs like a frightened animal. Jack’s hands were shaking. He closed his eyes, felt God's energy coursing through him from the Blessed Angel. He looked behind the dumpster, saw only the man’s torn sneakers kicking. Jack ran down the alley, not looking back until he reached the opening onto Beacon Hill. No one followed.

“Jack...” a voice, faded by distance but strong enough to bring the morning light back into the alley. Jack leaned against the corner of the building, breathed deeply. No dust, no choking heat. The air was cool on his skin, calming. Jack remembered then; he was a preacher, free to carry out his calling. To find his congregation, spread God's word.

He turned his back on the alley and emerged fully onto Beacon Street, pulse slowing, calming, heading now where his senses carried him. He walked randomly, waiting for an appropriate spot to present itself. The smells of the waterfront eventually wormed between the buildings, from Fanueil Hall, Quincy Market. What better place to warn people of the coming flood than the piers?

He passed through Government Center, a ghost lost in the morning light. The smell of seafood was overpowering now, but Jack felt no hunger. He would live on God's Good Graces now. If he eventually remembered how to get back to the shelter, he could probably eat some mashed potatoes. For now, though, he had work to do.

*     *     *

Across the country, Margaret lay in bed, wet with perspiration. She stared with longing at the morning sun streaming through her bedroom window. With some hesitation, she turned her head towards the nightstand. Six-forty-seven. She was late. Breakfast in the car this morning. Getting Katie next door in time was out of the question. She clambered out of bed and pushed the dream as far back into her mind as possible, focusing on the routine of banging on the girls' bedroom door and getting into the bathroom first. Her lesson plan was set. Monday's were usually light in the morning anyway. She had the Seniors at one-fifteen. Bad enough they only had a month to go until graduation. Maybe she'd do another Ms. Wizard lesson, get their hands busy at making something fizzle. Anything to keep them occupied until the Big Day.

I should call Marty at the fire station. Maybe he saw...

She cut off the thought. What was she doing? She wasn't at the town square last night. The fire chief had merely been an extra in an overly-vivid dream.

Spit into the sink. Rinse. Grab the floss. Don't think.

Focusing on routine came easier at the sound of Robin's and Katie's footsteps shuffling down the hall towards the bathroom.

*     *     *

Marty Santos stood on the grass, across the street from the station. The air was warm though it was still early in the day. It would be a hot one. He wished he hadn't put on a sweatshirt. He looked around at scattered pieces of paper, caught against the legs of benches or an occasional shrub. No sign that anyone had been here recently. No flattened section of grass where the two people had been standing earlier this morning, let alone the massive dark shape that seemed to grow out of the man.

Marty hadn’t recognized him, but the woman... she was familiar. Even in the pale light cast from the street, Marty recognized Margaret Carboneau. She’d been wearing a nightgown. When she moved, it flowed in the breeze around her, catching the vagaries of the street lights, shining through the gossamer material....

No .

Lavish’s fire chief walked some more, staring at the ground, then up at the blue morning sky. What did he see, really? It had been four-thirty in the morning. At that time everything had a grainy texture. The eyes could be fooled. He hadn’t been sleeping. Though the nightmares ended over a year ago, they sometimes came back. Flames melting windows in the third-floor apartments, Vincent Carboneau's muffled voice, choking, no air.

In reality, when his respirator failed in the middle of a four-alarm apartment building fire in Greenfield, Vince wasn’t equipped with a microphone. Marty never heard his best friend’s voice the night he died. But he dreamed about it. Now he was dreaming about Vince’s widow.

But he hadn’t been asleep. Sleep didn’t come easily to him, not when he was at the station. Four days on, three days off. Four nights of restless turning in his bunk, until he got up and paced the common room away from the others. Waiting for an alarm to justify his nocturnal vigil over the Lavish town square. Praying for it, dreading it. He smelled smoke wherever he went. This morning, he'd eventually gone back to bed, after the two figures and the boat -- it was a boat -- simply disappeared in the headlights of a passing car.

There was no one there. He'd even opened the side window and shouted Margaret's name, hoping to see her face more completely. When he called out, the headlights passed over them, and they faded away.

Shadows, burned away in the light.

Marty stood on the spot under the warming April sun, much like he'd done hours ago in the dim starlight of early morning, when he'd gone out to confront the man standing outside his window with the half-naked widow of his best friend. No one had been there. No one was here now. He stood on the grass, alone, eventually walking back to the firehouse and wondering if he was finally losing his mind.

57

The dream didn’t return. One night of solid, undisturbed sleep.

Margaret awoke with renewed energy. Ready for the world, to forget dreams about angels wanting her to build an ark. Just some unconscious memory of a reading from Exodus on some previous, forgotten Sunday. Her mind simply processed the story of Noah and played it out.

Classes had gone well. The Seniors were riveted by the haphazard experiments she offered, charging up batteries, trying to reverse the polarity, building up static electricity between swatches of felt. Margaret knew theirs was an exaggerated interest in these simple time-killers, making what would normally be ten minute exercises into forty-five minute Grand Experiments. Even Carl Jorgenson had put off his usual strutting among the girls to hunker down over the center table.

She turned the car onto the 101, merging her Taurus wagon between cars driven by more over-stressed commuters. Someone beeped his horn but she continued into the fray, letting the droll of the angst-ridden callers on a talk-radio show drown out the horn-song.

Katie's lacrosse practice was ending in twenty minutes, had just enough time to have stopped at the store for milk and a jar of overpriced spaghetti sauce before heading back to the fields then get Robin out of preschool. She stayed in the right lane, heading for the next exit.

“... build an ark...”

The three words on the radio sent a shock through her. She swerved the car, uncertain, feeling like she was supposed to do something but couldn’t decide what. The exit. She took it.

More words from the radio, this time from the show's host, his voice dripping with disdain. “...said God himself told you this?”

End of the ramp. Her directional was still on, but there was only one way to go.

“I know this sounds nuts,” the caller said, “but it was such a vivid dream. I mean, {beep}.. I...”

“Sorry, Joey. Not allowed to use those words.”

“Ok, sorry. What I'm saying is I don't even believe in God.” He laughed. “Well, maybe a little, but not like in church.”

“You don't believe in God when you're in church?”

“No, Dude, I don’t go to church. That's not why I'm calling. Listen, I think this -”

“All right! Enough of this. Ah, Spring is here, and brains are getting fried already.”

A horn blared behind her.

The green light turned yellow. Margaret stared at it. The car behind her cut to the right to pass, but was hindered by the off-ramp's concrete barrier. The driver settled into a steady tirade of honking. The light turned red. Others joined in.

They sounded like angry demons. Her ears were plugged up. What had the caller said? The host had a new caller now, asking whether she should tell her parents she was gay. When the light changed again, Margaret moved forward. She got half-way through the intersection when the car behind her, a dented white Camaro veered around her. Margaret almost rear-ended it. Another car worked its way around. This time Margaret followed.

She needed to get back to the sanity of the school.

By the time she pulled into the teacher's lot, someone else had called to talk about their “flood dream.” She left the engine running and stared at the radio. They were calling from Carmel-by-the-Sea, seventy miles southwest of her. With some exceptions, the dream was the same. Delivered by an angel named “Shirley”. After substantially more abuse from the host for not coming up with a more divine name, the call was disconnected.

Commercials. Margaret turned off the engine. Her hands were shaking. In the silence that followed, she sobbed once but pushed it down. This wasn’t true. She was hearing it wrong. She sat in silence, not caring if Katie’s practice might be over. She stared at the dark radio, the shaking of her entire body which she’d only begun to notice finally slowing, calming.

It was only a dream. It was only a dream.

“Mrs. Carboneau?”

She shouted in surprise, twisted in her seat.

A tall, handsome boy stood outside the open driver's window. Jeans and a denim shirt with cut-off sleeves. Carl Jorgenson already sported the beginnings of his usual California surfer's tan and sun-bleached hair.

Margaret looked away and wiped her face.

“Oh, Carl. Sorry. You surprised me.”

“You looked kind of upset.” He turned away himself and shoved his hands into his back pockets. “You've been crying.” He was a smart kid, but his mannerisms always struck her as too simplistic, constantly teetering at the edge of adulthood.

She tried to smile. It didn’t work. “No, no. Allergies are starting up, that's all. What are you still doing here?”

Carl hesitated, looking around as if trying to remember something. “Oh, baseball practice. Mr. Z's been pushing the seniors pretty hard, thinks we’re slacking off, taking away....”

Margaret got out of the car before he could finish. Carl got the message and shut up. “You coming to get the girls?”

She began to walk. Carl followed a pace behind. “You want me to go with you? Are you sure you're okay?”

Margaret stopped, turned towards him. “I'm fine. Well, no, I'm not, but it's personal. I'd like to be alone.”

He looked relieved. Nodding and turning back towards the few cars remaining in the student lot he said, “No problem, Mrs. C. I hope everything gets better.”

Margaret continued alone towards the athletic fields, looking at the sky. No clouds. No sign of rain. Just a dream. I don’t need to build anything. Just a stupid dream.

56

“Marty! It’s great to see you --” she almost added again but caught herself. The first time hadn’t actually happened. “Come in; come in.” Margaret opened the front screen door for him. Marty Santos nodded a silent greeting and stepped in. The fire chief looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were wrinkled. He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and smiled.

“Hey, Maggie,” he said. “How've you been? I'm not interrupting dinner, am I?”

“No, not at all. We just finished.” She motioned to the couch then sat herself in an adjacent chair. “Marty, if you don’t mind me saying, you look terrible.”

He laughed – a short, sad sound, then craned his neck to see into the family room. Katie lay on the floor next to her sister in front of the television. The two girls whispered to each other, now and then looking into the living room. Marty lowered his voice.

“Maggie, I hate to bother you, but something's been nagging at me and I need to ask you a question. Please understand....” He paused, one hand moving over the other in constant motion.

If Margaret didn't know him better, she’d think he was about to propose. It probably had something to do with Vince. He hadn’t been able to console her after the fire. He’d been such a mess himself, forced to take a leave of absence to recover from the loss of one of his men – and his best friend. She’d tried to keep a distant eye on him, asking others about him when she had the chance. He seemed to be doing well, except for a touch of insomnia. She leaned over, held his hand. “It's okay, Marty. Just say it.”

He squeezed her hand in return, then held on for a moment, cleared his throat and released her. He straightened the wrinkles on his pants.

“Marty. Out with it.”

He stared into her eyes. “I know this will sound kind of weird, but Sunday night, just before sunrise,  I swear I saw you standing outside the fire house with someone.”

Slowly, very slowly, Margaret leaned back in her chair. Blood rushed from her face. He'd seen her. Just as she’d seen him. But none of it really happened.

Oh, God, please don’t do this to me .

She needed to stall. “You saw me where?”

Marty no longer looked tired. He leaned forward, scooting toward the edge of the cushion. He said, keeping his voice low, “The center of town, on the common. Early, before the sun even came up. I guess that’d be Monday morning, actually.”

He'd seen her. She couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Bad. Very bad. He could confirm everything, including what the angel told her. Everyone on the planet was about to die. She’d have to build an ark, in the middle of the town square, find thirty people....

No , she thought. I won’t not accept that.

Unable to smooth the shaking in her voice she said, “Marty, you haven’t been sleeping, have you? You've lost weight, too.” She had to turn things around. She took the man's hand again. It felt limp. What Margaret said next she had to say, or everyone would die.... “Marty, I wasn't on the common, at least not Sunday night.” She looked away, hating herself, playing her part well. “I think the last time I was there was for the lighting of the trees before Christmas.”

Marty's expression fell to its original, weary look. She felt like an ass, wanted to scream, You were right! You weren't seeing things. I was there with an angel who’s been terrorizing me and saying horrible things!

The chief blushed, uncomfortable with the sudden silence between them. “Sounds dumb, doesn’t it? And you were - never mind... never mind.” He stood up and pulled his hand away from hers. “Sometimes I fall asleep and don’t realize it. Mostly I don't. Sleep I mean.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

He nodded. “Once a week, every Wednesday if I'm not needed at the station. Maybe I need a new one, though.”

“Why's that?”

Marty unconsciously rubbed his left arm. “No reason. Change of opinion, maybe. Do I look that bad?”

She laughed softly, felt dirty doing it. Faking it. “Yes. “

“Well, I'm glad you weren't there. It had to be a dream. How often does a giant boat spring up in the middle of town then just disappear?” He let his gaze linger a few seconds longer, then walked towards the door.

Margaret didn’t follow. The room was tilting too much.

“Good night, Margaret. It was nice to see you.”

She forced herself to look up and say, “You take care, Marty.”

The night was cool, flagstones slippery in the premature dew. Spring was here, no question. As long as Marty's back was to the house, he allowed himself a nervous smile. He might be losing his mind, but he couldn't miss her reaction. She was there the other night. Somehow, what he'd seen was real. Tonight's conversation wasn't complete proof, but coupled with other things he was starting to hear from people, it was enough for the moment. His chest tightened. He needed to see another doctor soon, but not for his insomnia. Sometime he wondered if he was deliberately letting himself fall apart, as if the world had already ended for him but he was too stubborn to realize it. Still, he needed to keep a closer watch on Margaret Carboneau. He didn't understand what was going on, but it was starting to feel very big.

55

“Margaret, it's time to get to work.”

The angel spoke in a quiet voice, sitting on the picnic table in the back yard. Margaret stood at the corner of the house, not daring to come any closer.

She said, “Am I dreaming, or have you dragged me outside half-naked again for real? Someone saw us!”

She wasn't exactly half-naked his time, having gone to bed fully dressed. Tonight she'd been certain the angel would pay a visit. Her certainty had most likely been spawned by the guilt she felt for lying to Marty.

David rose from the table but did not approach her. “No, Margaret, you are dreaming, I assure you. The other night was a dream, yet not a dream. I don't suppose that makes any sense.”

She stormed forward and slammed both fists into his chest. It felt like punching a feather pillow. He made no move to defend himself. “Marty Santos saw us! We were really there!”

David kept his hands in his pockets. He nodded. “Yes... in a way. You needed to be there physically, to feel the area, to sense completely what I wanted to show you. But you were also safely in bed.”

Margaret punched him again, shouted, “How can that be? I was either in bed or I - “

The angel's face darkened. “Stop asking so many damned, insignificant questions!”

She stepped back. David glared, took a step forward and continued, “Now shut your mouth and open your ears!”  Margaret backed up again. David followed. “In fifty-five days, millions of people on this planet are going to be dead. Do you understand dead? I think you do! Dead!”

She covered her ears. “Shut up! You're not an angel!”

She turned away and knelt hard on the ground, feeling nothing but a vague sense of solidity beneath her.

David was dark above her, his skin fading to the same shadowy resonance as his clothes. “We have too much to do,” he breathed. “I don’t need to screw around any further with you and your pathetic denial. I'm no demon. I am an angel to the Lord Most High, sent to pass His message to those He deems suitable to lead you people to salvation.”

“But why -”

“Don't you ever ask why again, do you understand me? What will happen will happen out of the natural order of the world, the end of a countdown set in motion at the very beginning of time. God will not stop it, must not. It is the natural order of things. But He will use this moment to test your faith, and to save as many from death as possible since, for many of them, their death will be eternal. Praise the Lord for His mercy and compassion!”

He leaned over her and shouted, “Now get off your ass and build His ark! “

Margaret awoke with the bedside lamp shining in her face, the ceiling moving in swirls above her. She was crying. Small, gentle hands were on her arm and shoulder.

“Mommy, it's OK. You were having a bad dream.” Katie rubbed her arm, back and forth with both of her hands.

Peeking from behind her big sister, a sleepy, wide-eyed Robin looked hopefully at her.

Margaret whispered, “Oh, my God,” then sat up in bed and gathered her daughters to her.

*     *     *

Talk radio programs had already become constant companions at home and in the car, both mocking and acknowledging her sanity. This wasn’t a local phenomenon. There weren't thousands of them, not yet, but enough to set Margaret to realize she wasn't alone. If these few brave souls were already acknowledging what was happening, how many others were not?

The reaction so far had been to suppress the callers completely, but not before playing with them like cats to mice. Everyone assumed this had become the latest trend in crank calls. Only the religious stations took the calls with some semblance of acceptance.

After last night’s dream, Margaret assured the girls that it was only a nightmare. When Katie asked if it had been “about Daddy,” Margaret almost broke down crying again. Instead she said yes, and that was the end of it.

She knew whom she should talk to. Nick Mayhew was a young pup, but he was her priest. He'd have an opinion. The absolute last thing she wanted was to let her class find out she was one of the “nutcases” they begun gossiping about all day at school. The names they used for these people varied, but the tone was similar. It was best to keep God out of the schools for now - the first time she'd ever thought that was a good idea.

Which made her confession to her senior science class all the more surprising. The conversation began quietly between two girls, until Carl Jorgenson overheard and he began his usual posturing.

“Hey, ladies,” he called from his own table. “You're more than welcome over at my boat any day.” One of the girls blushed; the other glared at him and said, “You would build one of those, you creep. Just to lure young -”

“You’re still mad at me for breaking up with your sister?” He interrupted, putting on his best, hurt face then added, “She dumped me, you know.”

“Enough,” Margaret said reflexively without looking up from the pop quiz she’d been grading. Grateful for the distraction and not the least bit interested in the experiment Margaret had assigned, Carl said, “Mrs. Carboneau, what do you think?”

She looked up. “About what?”

He shrugged. “Well, if God is going to flood us out, how's he going to do it?”

She should shrug off the question, but the boy seemed genuinely curious in his own, cute way. She put down the pencil and sighed. “Well, I assume rain is the method of choice.”

And that was it. Everyone stopped working and offered their own views. God’s wrath versus God’s mercy. Did Margaret actually believe them, they asked? She struggled to remain vague in her answers, but her voice had an underlying tone of fear she hoped was masked. She steered the discussion to the possible physics of a modern Great Flood – this was a science class, after all. The ensuing debate was lively.

“We're pretty much spread all over the place,” Carl said at one point. “How's God going to make that much rain? Flood the oceans?”

“God’s not doing it,” one girl countered, then shrank away from the discussion behind the veil of her long black hair.

“Melt the ice caps!” another suggested.

“Pretty boring waiting a million years for that,” Margaret suggested.

The girl with the hair blushed and said, “I read a story once where the Earth stopped turning and everything flew out into space. Maybe something like that?”

“More than likely,” Margaret said. “Without he centrifugal force of the planet's rotation, we'll be slowly crushed to death by gravity.”

“Well, that's no good,” Carl said. “Can’t have both.”

“Nothing's impossible with God.” Margaret tried to smile when she said this, make the comment sound lighter than she intended.

“We have flooding with rain all the time,” argued another. “A hurricane, like they had in Louisiana and Mississippi. Or another tsunami. A really big one.”

“It's not going to happen!” This spoken by the girl who’d been sparring earlier with Carl. The discussion moved on, as these usually did, to people. Those claiming to have been visited by God, by angels or demons, all predicting the same doom.

“They’re just a doomsday cult.”

“All across the country?”

“They're planted to cause chaos. They’re no better than terrorists.”

“Mass insanity.”

“Maybe they're telling the truth.” This one was ruled out too quickly. By that point, Margaret was out of her seat and leaning against the front of her desk. Suggestions were offered to round up the “prophets” and send them to an island or even jail. More than a few agreed. Like a concert fan stuck in the midst of a crowd pressing closer to the stadium doors, Margaret watched the atmosphere change. Those against the “prophets” spoke louder. Those more compassionate grew quieter. Carl Jorgenson, she noticed, was doing more listening, looking with unbridled interest to both sides of the discussion. Weighing his options, or waiting for a chance at a good joke.

Then someone said, “My parents said that anyone who claims God talked to them is nuts, or a new kind of extremist, or just plain jerks with nothing better to do than scare kids.”

“Or they're your science teacher,” Margaret said. Her breath raced out of her. Dear Lord, did I just say that?

“What was that supposed to mean?”

Everyone in the room shut up and looked at their science teacher. Smiling, waiting for the punch line. Carl wasn't smiling. He looked stunned, probably remembering the parking lot incident earlier in the week. It was his face that Margaret locked onto. Carl's eyes softened, but did not look away, brows raised in an unspoken plea.

She wondered for a moment if David the angel had something to do with this unexpected admission. She thought of his anger. Get off your ass, wasn’t that what he'd said? This was really happening. She was falling, having stepped too far off the ledge.

She looked away from Carl and scanned the room. Half the group still smiled; the rest waited with neutral expressions. Waiting for her to laugh, say April Fool’s. Anything.

Margaret took a deep breath, and said, “God has spoken to me through his angel David and told me to build an ark. Fifty-five days from now, the flood will come. I don't know how. Those who don’t take a place on one of the ships, built by the people He has chosen to do so, will not survive.” Some of the words she'd improvised from listening to callers on the radio, but the point was the same. She felt dizzy, in a mental free-fall.

A few of the teens began to sob. Others laughed. The rest brought the volume of the classroom to ten times its loudest point in the day. Words, some supportive, but most spiteful, flew at her. Too many at once to hear. Margaret moved unsteadily behind her desk, collected her purse and briefcase, then left the room without turning back.

It was only one-fifty in the afternoon. She didn’t know what to do. By the time she got to her car, having seen two of her students in the hall run in the direction of the main office, Margaret knew she needed to collect her daughters from school before word got to them or, worse, their teachers.

*     *     *

She closed the bedroom door, careful not to let the click of the latch wake the girls. It took a while for them to fall to sleep, even at this late hour. Little Robin had asked the bulk of the questions, sweet, innocent curiosity about her mother's visions and God's warning to the world. Katie was able to ask a few of her own, but for the most part simply cried out her fear - of what Margaret told them after supper and the fact that her mother was actually saying these things at all.

The world to a seven year-old is frightening enough to a little girl, without her mother saying the world was about to be destroyed. Margaret had played out the day mostly as a ruse, explaining that she wanted to surprise the girls with a short school day and take them to McDonald's, then the latest Disney flick. This she did. In truth, she was hiding, not wanting to face anyone from school in person or on the phone. She’d turned off her cell after leaving work and it remained off. As the day wore on, she became increasingly uncertain. How was she supposed to sit her children down and explain that God had chosen her for such a frightening thing? Maybe she really was insane.

They’d been sitting at home watching Wheel of Fortune, Margaret wondering how to talk with the girls, not wanting to begin at all, when the evening's false calm was shattered by a phone call from Robert Kaufman, the high school principal

“Margaret, what was that all about today? I had two girls come into my office crying, saying Mrs. Carboneau is telling everyone that they’re going to die.”

“I'm sorry, Bob. I really am.” Again, she felt on the edge of some abyss, waiting to see if she'd have the guts to step off, to see how much she trusted herself.

“And?” Margaret wondered if the principal had waited to call until now to let some of this anger dissipate. She glanced over at the answering machine - something she'd avoided doing all evening. The red light was flashing, and above that the number '12'. Since the chip had a storage limit, she guessed the number of unrecorded calls was even higher.

He continued, “Is what they said true? Not that I didn't try to find this out as soon as the girls came in. No, ma’am. I called you into the office, and you know what?”

Margaret didn't think he was done, so she remained quiet.

“I'll tell you what. I found out from Irene that Mrs. Carboneau had left the school. That you left your students alone, in an emotional mess. A lot of them were crying when I showed up, Margaret. Some weren't scared about what you'd told them, just that you said it at all. 'Is Mrs. Carboneau having a nervous breakdown?' they asked me. Margaret are you there?”

“I'm here. Are you done?” Her voice was stronger than she'd expected, a tone that meant she'd already taken that last fateful step into whatever chasm these dreams had laid in front of her.

“Yes, for now. I apologize for shouting. It's been a rough day and I haven't been able to reach you.” He didn't sound sorry. Kaufman was simply trying a new tact.

“I took the girls out of school early,” she said. “I needed to let some of the heat blow over.”

“You mean you wanted to let me take all the....” He sighed. “Listen, how much of what they said is true? What happened?”

She felt lightheaded. “The other day,” she began, “I had a dream. But it wasn't a dream after all. An angel informed me that the world will be flooded in two months, and everyone will die, unless I and others receiving these visions build a boat – he actually used the word ark --  and bring on board thirty people. No animals, just people. Everyone aboard the boats, wherever they might me, will be spared, and the rest will not.” She said all this calmly, like giving directions to a wandering motorist.

Silence on the other end of the phone.

She leaned one hand against the door jamb between the kitchen and the living room. “I've had more than one dream, and now I know that it wasn't just me. A lot of others have been given this warning as well. We don't have a lot of time - “

“Are you completely insane? I heard something like that on the radio, and assumed it was just a few psychopaths. Are you telling me one of them was you?”

“No, I haven't called anyone.”

“You decided to spread this mania to your students instead!” Now he was shouting.

“I had to make a decision, Bob. What if it's not a dream? What if I do nothing? I've only been given the right to save thirty people, and yes, maybe I am having a nervous breakdown, but it doesn't feel like that. It feels right!” Now she was yelling. She stopped, closed her eyes. Why was she wasting her breath with this man? She should be -

Oh, no . Margaret turned around. Robin and Katie were staring in horror from the couch in the living room. Someone shouted “R” from the television, and there were “two of them”. Ding. Ding.

Margaret couldn't pull her eyes from her daughters' faces.

“I assume you aren't returning to your classroom, Mrs. Carboneau. Not until you and I have met, and you've given me certified proof from a licensed psychologist that you're able to -”

Margaret wasn't listening. She hung up the phone, and walked slowly to her reserved spot on the couch.

“S!”.

“No S's. Amy, it's your spin.”

She reached for the remote and shut off the television. The phone rang. She ignored it. “Come on, girls, let's talk in your room.”

Eleven Fifty-Six. Coming on midnight and the girls had been sleeping for nearly two hours.

Eleven Fifty-Seven. Three more minutes until a new day. Fifty-four days and three minutes until a billion souls were lost. Or saved. Maybe. Maybe not. How many people would actually do this thing?

She'd stepped into a new world, one which terrified Katie but filled her younger daughter with excitement. God had spoken to her Mommy, just like the people they talk about in Sunday School. That was how Robin had phrased it. Margaret didn't think girls her age ever paid attention in those classes. Serves her right for never volunteering to teach them.

Midnight. Time floated away. Margaret leaned on the couch in the darkened living room and stared out through the picture window to an empty street. She played out what David the angel had shown her. Even to her previously untrained mind, the design seemed flimsy. Most of the ship would be constructed of plywood, material she could get at any home supply store. She turned her head and gazed out at her Taurus station wagon. She played out the dimensions of the wood. There was no way even one sheet would fit in the back. She’d have to measure the tailgate, see what might fit. There were the support beams, two-by-fours, and the glue, and tape and... she needed to build the thing in the middle of the town, in front of everyone.

So many things, all of them nuts. She was a middle-aged women in the twenty-first century in the same position that Noah found himself in... how long ago... five thousand years? Ten? Depends whom you asked, she supposed.

Margaret buried her face in the crook of her arm and cried herself to sleep. She awoke in the same position, early morning light casting the former nightscape into sharp detail. After a few minutes of staring at the houses across the street, now and then a neighbor hurrying off to work, she realized she hadn't dreamt. In a way, she missed talking to David. If anything, for those few moments when he visited her, what was going to happen next felt like the right thing to do.

Fifty-four days. She’d fallen down a rabbit hole into some new world. No climbing out now, so she might as well get to work. Margaret got stiffly up from the couch and wondered what time the lumber store opened.

54

The rock sitting in Margaret's stomach lessened somewhat as the morning waned. After checking that her phone's battery was juiced up and the signal clean, Margaret had to believe her daughters weren't having too bad a time of it in school. She'd made a decision to let Katie and Robin go in, if for no other reason than to free her to do some initial errands with minimal distraction. She left her cell number with both girls, along with a note for their respective teachers. If anyone bothered them, they or the school were to go to the office call her and she'd come get them. Margaret asked the girls not to talk to anyone about what she had told them the night before. She wasn't certain if word had reached Katie's class or Robin's preschool. Doubtful, but gossip traveled fast in that environment.

Al l she wanted was this one day before the weekend started. Margaret rolled the shopping cart down the home supply store's wide aisles. The second errand would come after lunch. Father Nick Mayhew had been more than happy to meet with her, even on such short notice. The priest had taken extra steps to stay involved in Margaret's family since Vince's death, keeping a quiet eye on them, asking questions after Mass. She wondered how much he had heard about the “crackpots” and their end-of-the-world preaching, and almost smiled, expecting his concern for her would blossom again by the time they were done talking.

She had no list for shopping. Whenever she entered an aisle, she would think of the dream and recall every detail. Already her cart was filled with three large gallon-drums of shipper’s glue, nails of various sizes, wood putty, and some smaller boards and lumber. A portable rotary saw weighed the cart down, and the duel folding plastic saw horses jutted at odd angles making navigation of some aisles problematic. Still, these she could wrangle these into the tailgate once she got outside. It was the lumber she worried about.

A man sporting an orange nametag turned and smiled as she rolled into that department. She had to act rational. This was going to be an interesting order - more so if the man listened to the radio.

Thankfully, her request for forty eight-by-four foot sheets of plywood, along with two-by-two and four-by-two beams of low-grade oak, was taken graciously. She then explained that she would need the wood delivered. Her heart skipped a beat, dreading what was coming next, but the man simply smiled and told her to give all the delivery details to the cashier at the lumber desk. He led her to a large square counter in the center of the store, behind which two clerks rang up orders for other customers. Contractors most likely, stocking up for the next Big Project. She supposed what she was doing was not much different. That’s what she told herself as she waited her turn.

The wait was shorter than she would have liked. The customer in front of her moved aside, leaving a shopping cart's width for Margaret to roll toward the smiling young girl behind the counter.

“Do you have a lumber order? Otherwise you'll need to check those items - oh, thanks.” She took the form Margaret proffered. It took a few minutes for the hand-written manifest to get into the computer. All the while Margaret's heart beat furiously. What was she nervous about? What would anyone care what she was going to do with the wood?

Because, eventually, everyone would know. And Margaret didn't think they would like her too much when that happened.

“OK. There. Now, can I have your name?”

“Margaret Carboneau.” She spelled her last name.

“How are you going to pay for this?”

She held out the Discover Card. It's the end of the world, but why not get cash back? she thought without humor.

“Address?”

Margaret gave the address. Beat-beat went her heart.

“And you want delivery to this address?”

The girl was already typing when Margaret whispered, “No. Not there.”

“Oh.” Backspace a few times. “Sorry. Where would you like it delivered?”

“The Lavish town square.” When offered a blank look, Margaret added, “The grassy area in front of the fire department. Between Center and Cambridge Streets. I’ll be there when they come and can point out the exact location.”

Another pause, then a wide smile. It looked forced, but the girl said, “Great! What are they going to build?”

Margaret's mind whirled. What to say? Tell her an ark, she thought, and say goodbye to the order. No, definitely don't tell her. Yes, tell her. Margaret smiled sheepishly as her cheeks burned. “To be honest, I'm really not sure. But it's supposed to be ready by early June.” Then Margaret actually laughed. A nervous laugh, to be sure, but the girl behind the counter smiled and typed in the delivery instructions. Something began happening to her expression. The cashier typed slower at first, then stopped. When she looked up, the smile had faded.

“Early June?” She looked sideways, as if doing some mental calculation. Margaret felt tiny balls of sweat running from her armpits. The girl added, “You don't know what they're going to build?” Her eyes bore into Margaret, as if begging for a straight answer.

The look wasn't accusing. It was something else - enough to make Margaret say, “Yes, I do know, but please,” a quick glance around the store (please let her know what that means), “don't ask me. Not now. Please.”

The young woman's face went pale, but she completed the order.

Margaret looked at her nametag. All it said was “Holly”. The name filled her with an unease she didn't understand. Margaret needed twenty-seven people, not counting her own family. Was this how missionaries felt when they arrived in the darkest corners of the world?

Holly fumbled her way through the rest of the order, including the supplies in the cart - all of which were barcode scanned with shaking hands. She looked more relaxed as the credit card reader screeched and whined and the slip printed out.

Margaret signed it, paying no attention to the sale total. What did it matter at this point, except to threaten her credit limit? The girl behind the counter said, almost as reflex, “They should deliver the lumber tomorrow, sometime between eight and noon. I'm sorry I can't be more specific.”

The girl’s nervousness had the inverse affect on Margaret. She felt a sudden calm as she aimed the shopping cart towards the front of the store. She hesitated, then whispered, “There's room for you. Please, come join me. I could use the help.”

Holly grew more pale and actually swayed for a moment. She muttered something Margaret didn't catch, something about clay, then looked away.

Margaret left, not wanting to seem pushy. As she worked her way outside and searched for her car, the scene played itself over. The girl hadn't laughed, nor made her feel like a nut. On the contrary, Margaret couldn't help but think she believed in what she’d been told, or not told in this particular case.

This small belief filled her with... comfort? Maybe a simple hope that she might not end up alone in all of this. She wondered if she'd see this girl named Holly again. If not at the store when she returned, then maybe on the town common.

Maybe.

You're insane .

Maybe .

*     *     *

Boston’s Faneuil Hall marketplace swam before him as Jack stood on the sidewalk and spoke the Lord's words. Most people kept a safe distance, eating their sandwiches and talking amongst themselves.

“Mothers will cling to their babies and howl for mercy. One will scream ‘Take me but spare my child’.  She will watch her innocent one disappear under the waves. In weakness and despair, she will know the ultimate horror, then fall herself into suffocating darkness.”

The words were not his own. Perhaps he knew them once, when he lived a normal life and his brain worked as it should, but not now. Jack moved awkwardly in a small circle atop a short, two-foot wall. God's power surged through him as he preached. He fed off this power, needing nothing but the blessed manna from heaven – on the power of His words. Words which Jack spewed forth to those feigning disinterest in what he said.

He stumbled. “I will...” The world swayed again. He saw the sky. No! Seeing the sky meant he was falling. He couldn't fall. Time was short. He jerked his head down, saw the ground moving. He thrust out one long skinny leg and caught himself.

Had someone giggled? No matter. He was still standing, could still proclaim. Only that mattered. Sweat trickled down his back under the multiple layers of clothes. It had been warm today. Others around him still wore their winter coats but unzipped, fluttering in the breeze. Summer weather would come early this year. Spring would never come again.

“I will stand here when the deluge comes. God has lavished such gifts upon the Earth, and all - “

“Jack.” An arm on his shoulder. Jack pulled away.

“- you people have done is fattened yourselves on his graces. Now -”

“Jack!”

The arm spun him around. He almost fell off the wall again, half-expecting to see the angel Michael standing before him. He didn’t. The man was shorter than Jack, but wore the dark blue jacket and cap of the Boston Police Department.

“Good morning, Officer. Please, I'm in the middle of my sermon.”

Mitch Leary shook his head. “Jack, I've asked you a half-dozen times to stay away from here.”

“God has asked me - “

“God's not responsible for keeping scary people away from the lunch crowd. Now come on.” He pulled the preacher off the wall and onto the sidewalk. Jack resisted and tried to regain his footing.

“You don’t understand. We're running out of time.”

“You're going to jail, Preacher.”

Jack froze. Jail. No, he had a duty.

Officer Leary saw the look on the preacher's face and sighed. Keeping his hand on the man's shoulder, he led him away from the crowd. They stopped at a round ticket kiosk, still closed on weekdays this early in the tourist season.

“Listen, buddy, I don't want you in jail. But if you don't knock this off, especially in such a public place, I'm going to have to take you in.” He stopped and eyed him warily. “Unless, that's what you're shooting for. Free meals and all.”

Jack felt his face flush. Already he felt time slipping away and this man thought he was doing it for charity? He tried to hide his anger, but the policeman saw it nonetheless. Leary raised a hand defensively.

“All right. I apologize. You're on a mission from God, right?”

“That's correct.”

Leary whispered, “Stay away from Fanueil Hall, that's all. There are plenty of other places. Try the Wharf over there.” He gestured past the twin rows of buildings that made up the marketplace. Jack knew he was implying Long Wharf on the other side of Atlantic Avenue. A long brick-lined park running along the inner reaches of Boston Harbor.

He whispered, “But they already kicked me out of there. You'll kick me out of there, too. I have to preach, and you can't lock me up. We only have a short time left.”

“When was the last time you ate, Jack?”

The change in subject made him pause a moment. “Ate? I don't know. This morning, I think.”

“What'd you eat?”

“I don't remember. I think someone gave me part of a muffin.”

“Part of a muffin,” the policeman muttered. “Here, take this.” He shoved something into Jack's hand and folded his hand closed over it. When the preacher tried to see what it was, Leary squeezed his fingers.

“Don't look, just take it and buy yourself something decent to eat. Maybe get a toothbrush. There's also a slip with the address of a shelter just around the corner. They can get you cleaned up. Just don’t buy any booze with it.”

Jack straightened. “I don't drink. I promise you that.” Already he felt an excitement at the prospect of finding the shelter again. God had provided. Had it really been just around the corner all this time?

Leary smiled. “Good. That's good.” He looked down for a minute, and whispered, “God's good that way, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothing. I've seen a lot of people in trouble, and they come out of it when they -” he made the two fingers of each hand into quotation marks - “find God.” He laid a hand on Jack's shoulder and led him along the outskirts of the marketplace, towards the waterfront. “Whatever it takes, right?”

“It's the only way.” Jack’s own voice sounded foreign to him. He was seeing something special in this officer, something long buried, and had the urge to begin preaching. Never mind the threat of jail. He was a messenger of God.

But he didn't preach. A quick peek in his hand revealed a ten-dollar bill. Ten dollars would buy a nice meal, maybe two if he found someplace cheap. His stomach turned in anticipation. This felt wrong. He shouldn't be eating, except what God granted he should have. But here he was, walking the length of the market with a man who could easily arrest him but instead was talking of God and giving him money for food.

For whoever does right by my brethren so he does to me . Something like that. The officer was talking, but Jack couldn't hear. He was too hungry.

They walked along the sidewalk skirting the traffic moving on Atlantic Avenue and underground into the expressway tunnel. Across the way the waterfront park was nearly deserted. Though April promised warmer days ahead, the constant breeze off the inlet made staying for any length of time daunting.

Not for Jack. Once again he found himself led to this place. This time he felt God's hand at work. He would not be relocated again.

“Promise me you'll eat something with that? Maybe over there?”

Jack turned around. Officer Leary had stopped ten paces ago and was pointing to the Blue Gull diner across from the Marriott hotel. Jack squeezed the bill tightly in his hands and smiled.

“Yes, sir, Officer. I promise. God bless you!”

“I hope so,” he said and turned away. Jack felt the world tipping again, and the policeman was lost in a swirling haze. If he didn't eat soon he might pass out. He held his fist to his mouth and whispered, “Thy will be done.”

He opened his hand, and stared with a growing joy at the rumpled ten- dollar bill. The wind caught it, and it fluttered away. For the briefest of moments, Jack watched it sail off, as if seeing it only in his mind like a sad memory. Then he realized what was happening and stumbled forward. In his peripheral vision, the city moved above and around him. The bill fluttered off the sidewalk, across the street. He couldn't lose sight of it, lest it blow into some rich man's overstuffed wallet.

At that moment, God opened one of the seven seals. A trumpet sounded throughout the heavens. A blaring klaxon promising death and redemption. A long, drawn out wail....

Jack never looked up. As he reached for the bill, something slammed into him, a building maybe, falling on top of him. It’s happening again, he thought, then shouted at the sudden pain and memory--turned, tumbled, felt every stone and piece of gravel from the road against him. His arm screamed in agony.

He lay in an unconscious heap in the middle of the road. The taxi backed up, its driver weighing his options of driving off, then the clicking of the gear going into park. The cab door opened. Jack heard these sounds from deep within the hole into which his senses had fallen.

*     *     *

An unnatural quiet permeated the air in Saint Mary’s rectory. It always had. During the funeral, Margaret marveled at how peaceful she felt sitting in the priest's home. As if some invisible barrier had been laid across the house, emanating from the equally-serene church next door. Unlike the more popular, flat-roofed, stucco homes in town, the rectory was a large Victorian, built by the diocese in the mid-twentieth century when the Catholic population had grown too large to be handled with one church for every three or four towns. Saint Mary’s was located on the western edge of town, the church itself an unassuming box with a short steeple. The rectory, housing Father Mayhew and - during the week days - his secretarial assistant, overshadowed the church in architecture and charm.

The young priest returned to his office and laid a cup of tea on the desk in front of her. The tea bag spread a thick brown wash through the water as it steeped. For his part, Nick had an oversized mug of black coffee. Instead of sitting in his usual chair, putting the desk between them, he sat at Margaret's side in the second guest chair, turned so he could face her without the whole scene looking like an ad-hoc confessional.

“How are the girls, Margaret?”

“They’re fine. Katie misses her dad something awful, and Robin plays along. I sometimes wonder how much of that is just imitation of her sister. I mean, she was only two when it happened.”

Nick nodded. In his heart, he knew Vince was with God. The man had been devoted to his family and his faith - a rare thing these days. He had a feeling Margaret had something specific to talk about, so he merely waited for her to begin.

Margaret glanced at her tea, decided it needed to steep a little longer. “I hope I'm not putting you out, Father. I guess I needed to talk to someone, well... someone who knows about these kind of things.” She kept her gaze on the tea.

Nick thought of a dozen humorous quips, but kept them to himself. “What would you like to talk about?”  His old mentor after seminary, Father McMillan, taught him never to make assumptions by saying “What is wrong?” or “What's bothering you?” Everyone had their own reasons for speaking with their priest. Make an assumption that something is wrong and you could sabotage the conversation before it began.

Margaret looked into his face for a moment, then back to her untouched cup. “Have you been listening to the radio, seen anything unusual on TV?”

Nick smiled. “Not that I can think of. I don't watch a lot of television, and if I turn the radio on in my car it's usually to listen to cassettes. I'm currently listening to a series on evangelical ministries in Zaire. Very fascinating how --” He stopped and took a sip of coffee. “For another time.” He smiled and set the cup down. “No, to answer your question. At least I don't think so. Why?”

Now Margaret looked directly at him. “What would you say if I told you that God, or an angel of God, has come to me in a dream? More than one dream, actually.”

She gave him a general overview of the first two visions, deciding to leave out David's angry outburst the other night. “But it's not just me,” she added, looking at him squarely. No more nervous gazing at her tea. “Lots of other people, thousands maybe, have been visited by these angels. They all say the same thing. The exact same thing. Build an ark...” her voice was beginning to break, “…a boat to carry thirty people and no more. Then, just let everyone else die.”

Tears were running down her cheeks, one stream curving at the corner of her mouth. She said, “I know this sounds crazy, but I swear it's true. Maybe I am going nuts, but everyone else? And --”

“Margaret.”

She stopped. Nick lifted his coffee mug and leaned forward. “Margaret, hold on. This is a whole lot to take in.”

She nodded, picked up her tea and took shallow sips while the tears kept falling.

Nick began, “I --” then stopped. He had no idea what to say. He'd heard nothing about any of this. He tried to remember when Vince had died. Was this an anniversary? He didn't think so.

“Let's back up a little. You said God Himself came to you in these visions? These dreams?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, not really God, but an angel, yes. His name is David.” She laughed then. To Nick it was a small but healthy sign. “Listen to me. I sound like some lonely little girl talking about her imaginary friend. But I'm not imagining things. I swear. These haven't been like any other dreams. And other things, too. From people - seeing me...”

“Okay. Okay.” Nick leaned back, giving her as much space as his chair would allow. He took a sip, stalling while she regained her composure.

Something occurred to him. “Margaret, you’re forgetting an important detail. God’s promise to Noah not to destroy the world ever again with a flood. Granted, there are instances in the Bible when He changes his mind on some things, but this...?”

“That’s just it, Father. I don’t think this is any Wrath of God situation. David – that’s the angel – made it sound like God’s trying to help, to save us. As if what’s going to happen isn’t some typical natural disaster, but something so massive He’s warning us ahead of time.”

The last thing he wanted was to make her think she was frightening her pastor. It all sounded ludicrous on the surface. But hearing this from a woman Nick had long admired as a strong, rational person, he felt his pulse quicken. He was frightened. Fear of something unknown. Maybe seeing someone he had considered very rational begin acting irrational, yes. Or maybe there was something. No, he was letting her fear take over his judgment. Yet another lesson from his schooling. Be neutral. Be a sounding board. Don't judge.

“Father?”

Too late. He'd been staring at her with an expression he could only guess at.

“Ah, yes. Okay. Sorry, Margaret. Perhaps....” Think. Be rational. For her sake. “Perhaps you heard a reading during mass that put the thought in your head. I believe that particular passage from Exodus is coming up soon in the Lectionary cycle...?”

She looked away, considering.

He found himself saying, “Of course, though…” before catching himself and falling silent. Margaret looked up.

“What?”

Nick shrugged. “You mentioned there were many others who seem to have had the same dream? That must account for something.”

What was he doing? Feeding the woman’s delusions. Still, as off-the-wall as the story was, something about it, something subtle, had a ring of truth to it he couldn’t explain. He long thought these intuitions were, in fact, the whisperings of God, leading him along his path every day. That idea now sent gooseflesh along his arms.

They were both silent for a time. Margaret stared at Nick without really seeing him, lost in her own considerations. Her tears had stopped.

Nick was the one to speak first. “Margaret, if it’ll help, I’ll make some calls, see if I can get to the bottom of things a little - “

He was interrupted by tiny electronic piano music from inside Margaret’s purse. As she fumbled to retrieve her phone, she said, “Sorry. It’s a Veggie Tales tune. Robin picked it out. Hello? Yes, this is Margaret Carboneau.” She listened for a moment, then, “Oh, no.”

*     *     *

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

Light, blinding. God's light shining upon him. Jack smiled. The light moved, turned away. In its place a dark-skinned woman in a white lab coat giving him a somber look. She was young, pretty. Was this a new angel?

No. Something was wrong. This place did not look like Heaven. Jack turned his head, saw a curtain drawn beside his bed.

His bed . He was in bed. This wasn't right.

“Sir,” the woman repeated. Through half-closed eyes, Jack watched her click off the pen light she'd been holding and pocket it. Jack understood. He was in a hospital. Something dark and broiling tried to find its way free of some lost, forgotten closet in his brain. He held it, held it... until at last it went away.

The woman straightened and scribbled something on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard. When she looked up, gone was any trace of concern in her eyes. She almost looked bored. “Do you have a name, sir?” Something in her voice, an accent.

“Jack.” His voice sounded funny, thick. His head hurt. His side hurt. His arm was heavy.

“That’s correct. Mister Lowry, I'm Doctor Ramprakash, the attending physician. Do you know where you are?” Her accent was thick and she spoke too fast for him to easily follow.

And she knew his last name. He didn’t even... no, think of other things. Jack raised his right arm. A white cast stretched from elbow to wrist, shiny, like plastic. He looked back to the doctor, wanted to ask her name again, tried to remember the question. He said, tentatively, “The hospital?” His tongue explored the inside of his mouth, sending throbbing pain through his gums whenever he poked too hard. It was like that every day but, still, something was missing....

Doctor Ramprakash nodded absently. “Yes, that's right. You are at Forest Grove Hospital. You had quite a spill. Do you remember what happened?”

Jack realized what was missing. “My teeth. I lost a couple of teeth.”

“Most likely that happened during the accident.”

Jack stared at his arm, tried to remember where he'd been. He’d gotten some money. He was hungry... his heart beat frantically. How did I get here? When Jack tried to sit up, a man and a heavyset woman moved into the curtained area. The man whispered, “Need help, Nee?”

“I don’t think so,” the doctor said, never taking her eyes from Jack. The other two slowly retreated, leaving them alone again. “Try not to panic, sir. Being in the street one moment and the hospital the next can be a bit disconcerting.”

Jack followed most of her words. He nodded and said, “What happened to me?”

“I'd rather you tell me. Can you remember?”

“I fell, I think. On the road....” His voice trailed off.

The doctor nodded. “Good. Where were you when you fell?”

Jack knew this, and even as he spoke he was remembering more. Much more. How could he have forgotten? “I was going somewhere. I was hungry - what time is it? “

He tried to sit up, but Ramprakash touched his chest gently and said, “Shhh, hold on. I'll help you up.” But she didn’t. Instead, she pushed a button under the bed and Jack felt his head rise and the bed fold upward. It made him dizzy for a moment.

“Do you remember being struck while you were in the street?”

“Struck?” The policeman. “My money. I lost my money. I almost had it when something hit me. Someone hit me and stole my money. Officer Leary gave that to me - “

Scribble, scribble on the clipboard. “You were struck by a cab as you ran out into the road, Mister Lowry.”

“Jack,” he said defensively. This woman using his last name stirred up the dark thing inside him, but it needed to sleep. His right arm continued to throb. He fingered the bumpy plastic coating. “My arm broke.”

“I'm afraid so. But it's a miracle you weren't hurt more than that. Your face has suffered some lacerations.” She paused at his worried look. “That means you have some scratches and scrapes, but aside from a clean break in your arm, you're doing okay.”

“Then I can go?” Jack shifted in his bed, but felt no burning desire to get up. Every time he moved, he became dizzy.

“I'd rather keep you for an overnight. A concussion is very probable. I don’t suppose you have any insurance?”

Jack laughed and shook his head. “God is my insurance.” He suddenly realized he was naked, save for a single sheet covering him up to his belly. “Where are my clothes? What happened to my clothes?”

The doctor’s expression tightened. “Jack, your clothes were torn by the accident, not to mention being a health hazard. We had to dispose of them.”

This time Jack did stand. Oblivious to his nudity, his entire world had just been tossed into the trash. The woman doctor didn't seem to notice or care. “All my stuff was in them! All of it! You had no right!”

She raised a hand, whispered, “We saved all your stuff, I promise, and someone from the Salvation Army will be coming along to give you a whole new set of clothes. New shoes, too. Now, unless you want everyone in the emergency room to see you naked, I suggest you get back into bed.” She guided Jack under the sheet, tucking him in like a stern but loving mother.

“My money.... I think I got that bill before - “

“You'll be all set. We're going to have you transported to an overnight room, so we can keep an eye on you. I'll make sure someone comes by to speak with you before you leave, gets you some clothes and your stuff.” She smiled. It was a tired smile, and Jack didn’t feel any real compassion in her voice.

He remembered.

“Doctor!”

She turned slowly, reluctantly, back. “Yes?”

“I can leave tomorrow, right? I have to preach! I stopped, to get food, and God punished me for my sin! I have to leave.”

The Indian woman (that's what she was, Jack realized, India-Indian) looked down for a moment as if weighing her next question. “You’re a preacher?”

Jack smiled with what teeth he had remaining. “Yes, ma’am. Everything happened so fast, all this excitement, I'd forgotten. But I remember, now. God has commanded I spread His Word before it's too late!” He shouted these last words. The doctor raised a hand.

“Please, sir. Keep your voice down.”

“I must spread the new gospel! I've been chosen by the angel Michael to give testimony to all who will listen, and I have forsaken my cause. No longer! God's judgment is upon us! His vengeance is nigh! Fear all you who will not heed -”

Neha Ramprakash rolled her eyes and motioned for the nurse. She turned her back on the preacher’s words and pointed to her own arm, putting two fingers up. The nurse nodded, and began filling a syringe with two milligrams of Haldol. She then made one last attempt at quieting Jack down, but he would have no part of it.

When the nurse gave the injection, Jack's voice began to soften. His words lost their edge. Neha turned to leave and heard, “...the flood will fall upon every household. Every street will fill with God's wrath.  We will drown in our own sin...”

The voice trailed off, unable to maintain its train of thought. Neha waited a moment more, tried to keep the shock from her face.

Just a coincidence , she thought. That's all.

With that, she stepped past the curtain and wandered towards the entrance where a crying woman holding a bloody rag to her nose was hobbling in with the help of two friends. Neha moved in their direction. Work was important now. Work was the only thing she should be thinking about.

*     *     *

“I asked you not to talk about it to anyone!”

Robin stood beside the kitchen table, tears pouring down her face. Her older sister sat at the other end, glowering at having been yanked from school - again. Margaret didn't know whether Katie was truly angry or trying to mask her fear.

Ignoring the accusatory look of their teachers, Margaret had gathered both girls up and driven straight home. All along the drive she'd said nothing. Katie and Robin, perhaps worried whoever broke the silence was going to get punished, stayed quiet.

In truth, Margaret did not feel comfortable discussing their situation outside the house. No one could hear them now. No one could judge. She knew too well that when the load from the store arrived tomorrow morning, all of that would change.

“I'm sorry,” Robin wailed. “I want Crystal to come onto the boat with us! I don’t want my friends to die!” She collapsed, sobbing, into her mother’s arms.

“Shh,” Margaret whispered. “It's okay. It's okay. Go ahead and cry.”

Katie fought to retain the mask of irritation, but the corner of her eyes were twitching, fighting her own tears. She was afraid, and her little sister's words were hitting home. Their world might be centered here, with her, but there was also school. Homework, teachers, and friends. Friends who would die when the waters came. It just took Margaret longer to see the truth. As she held her daughter, rocking back and forth, she tried not to think of the people in her own life - her parents were gone, already safe in God's hands. But what about everyone else? Faces from college, neighbors, the other teachers, cousins scattered across the continent, mostly still living in Minnesota. Faces that in her mind's eye might soon be staring skyward and screaming.

The phone rang.

“Don't answer it,” she whispered, though Katie hadn't so much as glanced at it. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. Margaret heard the click of the machine, but no voice. The volume was turned down. She'd make it a point to leave it that way from now on.

*     *     *

“...as soon as you can. Please.”

Nick hung up. The call to check on the girls was genuine, but he had to admit it was more an excuse to touch base with Margaret. Her story sounded ludicrous, but Nick had heard other, more insane stories in the past, which the Church itself confirmed as true miracles.

This mustn’t be their last conversation. Too many things had been unsaid. He'd made enough mistakes in that one meeting to last him a lifetime.

The rosary was in his left hand. Simple white plastic beads strung together with thin loops of metal. Still, the feel of it against his palm reminded Nick of prayer, and thoughts of prayer brought calm. The parish’s oversized Bible was open on the desk, to Daniel. Before that, of course, Exodus and the story of Noah.

There were many references in the Word that discussed how the world did end. But these were not by water, but fire. That difference should be important. Something told him to check the Gospel of Luke. He would, later. Of course, Margaret hadn’t actually said the world itself would be destroyed. Devastated, perhaps. And what of the animals? She’d made no mention of them, but Nick had a hard time thinking the Lord would begin this ark business all over again and leave that part out.

He slammed the book closed and rubbed his eyes. What was he doing? Getting caught up in a parishioner's delusions. He got up and poured a fresh mug of coffee, checked his schedule. Rounds at the hospice on Avery Road in an hour, then at seven a promise to stop in the church basement to bless the weekly AA meeting. Something he did only when invited; otherwise he respected their need for privacy.

An hour to himself, then. Nick turned on the stereo and fumbled through his small CD collection. Something to sooth his mind and lead him to no other decision than to simply listen. Gregorian chants, perhaps.

When it clicked on, the stereo was tuned to National Public Radio. A story about a Senator from Arkansas caught in a paternity suit. Nothing he wanted to hear. Margaret had mentioned the radio, however. He hit the tuning knob, letting the receiver scan for the next clear signal. Rap. Scan. Something harsher, which he hadn't thought was possible. Scan. More music.

He pressed AM. Static. Scan. Sports. Scan. Sports. Scan. Another talk show, but not about sports. The moderator was rattling on about the school system and the latest rounds of test scores. Nick looked back at the CD. Monks chanting, calm, pure, holy, perfect. That's what he wanted.

Nevertheless, he laid the jewel case unopened on the floor, and sat back against a chair. He turned up the volume but ignored the words, walked across into his office and opened the browser on the computer. He Googled “Great Flood.” Added “dreams.” After ten minutes of dead ends, he found a blog. The owner kept apologizing while repeating the same story, almost word for word an echo of Margaret’s dream. Different setting, different angel, same –

“....yes, I know. We're all going to die.”

Nick turned around in his chair, listened to the too-loud voices in the other room.

“You talk like this is some joke... but I can hear the fear in your voice, sir. Fear of death, unatoned sins, of how they could still be washed clean -”

“You can wash for the next year and never clean all the crap you're slinging our way. Bye-Bye!”

Nick's heart raced. He walked back into the living room, feeling like a child afraid of being caught at something he shouldn't be doing.

What was he afraid of? For all he knew, they were talking about something entirely different than Margaret's visions.

The moderator on the radio continued, “All right. Looks like our lines are getting a little heavy with these Noah’s Ark wackos, so what say we just purge all the lines and start fresh? Sorry for anyone calling about something worth discussing. We promise...”

Nick sat on the floor and stared at the receiver, but the moderator made it a point to discuss everything but people’s dreams. He looked towards the wall clock to be sure not to be late to the hospice. He still had twenty-five minutes. The computer screen beckoned from the office. The priest took a breath, let it out slowly. He walked to the desk and finished reading the blog, moved on, scanned every major news page for anything related. Nothing yet CNN-worthy, but local news sites had plenty to discuss. For the next fifteen minutes, he stared intently at these early news reports, to snippets of chat room conversations and miscellaneous references unfolding before him on the screen.

As he prepared to leave for the hospice, already late, one thing was obvious. Though Nick could not yet bring himself to believe what the callers and reports were saying, the fact was that Margaret had been speaking the truth.

*     *     *

It was dark outside. Jack turned away from the window. His throat was dry. He considered ringing for the nurse again, but she took so long the last time, and was short with him when she arrived. Still, he’d gotten a free glass of ginger ale, then. Everything was free here. There wasn't much food. Beggars can't be choosers, he thought. And he was a beggar, wasn't he?

His arm hurt. He should leave. This quiet place was both frightening and familiar. The latter sensation was the most troubling, however; nothing he wanted to dwell on for long. There were two others in the room and one bed unoccupied. The old man across from the foot of Jack's bed whimpered softly in his sleep, fighting some unseen monster in his dreams. Jack risked a glance beside his own and gooseflesh crawled up his arms. The man next to him had the bed raised into a half-sitting position, the nurse having long forsaken asking him to lower it. He was a white kid, young, with long, stringy blonde hair. Jack thought he recognized him, but memory wasn’t his strong suit. The kid was awake, staring wide-eyed at Jack across the small chasm between them. It wasn't an expression of surprise, nor fear. Jack wasn't sure what the wild staring meant, except that the kid might be crazy. Maybe just broken, like himself.

He returned the gaze for a moment, then looked back towards the window, feeling the other's stare linger on him but trying to pretend it wasn't there.

The old man across the room coughed, seemed to wake for a moment, then fell into silence. The only sound was a single, exaggerated exhale, as if he were expelling the demons which had plagued him most of the night. In the murk cast by the lights of the parking lot outside, hazy ribbons of light draped across the man's chest. Jack waited for a sign he was still alive.

“You're the preacher man,” the kid said, his voice clear but hushed in the darkness. Jack reluctantly looked his way, felt another wave of fear. This guy was off. “You're the preacher man, I said.” The smile faltered. Jack realized it was a question, not a statement.

“Yes,” he said, his voice dry, cracked. God, he was thirsty. The pager was in his left hand. He pushed it. “God has sent me to -”

“Maybe you should give Crack Head over there last rights. I think he just kicked out.” A giggle.

Jack didn't look away. He stared at the kid's pale face. “God will care for all. That man was lucky.”

The kid laughed again. “Yeah, lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky. Clucky and lucky and dead and rotting, clucky and lucky and -” He stopped then, any trace of a smile gone. “What are you looking at?”

Jack lingered a moment longer, wondering what to do. He wanted to talk to someone, even this kid, talk about God and his mission. Of course, the last time he tried to preach in this place, they stuck him with a needle.

His neighbor said nothing else, though he slowly raised his hand to his chest. Jack had seen the white gauze earlier, with small red stains across the front. He wondered if he'd been shot, and why the hospital didn't get him a new bandage.

Jack turned back towards the window, closed his eyes. The kid beside him must have turned away, for Jack no longer felt his gaze on him. Maybe it was wishful thinking. He didn't want to check.

He was still thirsty. The bed was comfortable. He prayed the angel would return. Let him know he wasn't crazy like the kid next to him.

He eventually dozed. Lying in a comfortable bed was such a rare commodity, drawing him down even with a potential enemy beside him. Before falling asleep, he looked to the window, saw the neat pile of clothes on a chair. The folks from the Salvation Army had dropped them off earlier, but Jack pretended to be asleep. Why would he want to talk to them about Jesus? They were amateurs. He was the Chosen One. Officer Leary had come by, too. Jack chose to wake up for him, but the man only wanted to see how he was doing, didn’t stay long. As he’d turned to leave, Jack saw the cop stuff something into the pocket of the shirt on the chair. Jack hoped the kid in the other bed hadn't seen it.

His lids dropped closed. Maybe the Salvation folks left him some decent socks to go with the shoes.

*     *     *

Neha checked on the vagrant one final time before she left for the night. Not in person – she'd had her fill of that one. But she stopped at the night desk to verify his wake-up schedule, every two hours, and sign off on his progress. There were other forms to fill out, including one for a transfer to McLean if the need arose. She had signed it, but would wait before acting on it to see how the guy behaved overnight. In either case, it was painfully obvious his visit to Forest Grove would end up being courtesy of the Commonwealth.

That was to be expected. He was Jack Lowry, after all. Unwitting celebrity from one of Boston’s darkest moments in recent history – something that had happened two years ago. A moment that destroyed his life and permanently damaged his mind, psychologically as well as physically. She’d lingered a while, holding the transfer form. It would be best for him, but Neha worried about her reasons for filling out the committal form – worried it might have more to do with the vague connection she’d made between him and her own husband earlier. She left the form in his folder, and would sleep on it tonight.

The drive out of Boston was uneventful. Suresh didn't care for her hours, but she never heard him complain when the paycheck hit their account. Already it was almost on par with the pay from his programmer's job. He'd be patient. She'd only been at the hospital three years since beginning her residency. Suresh expected his wife to eventually settle into a comfortable practice with a more human schedule. Maybe at an HMO. Something to bring her home for supper every day. Neha would let him pretend, if that made him happy.

She enjoyed too much the dynamics of hospital life. The constant motion of people made her feel part of something bigger than herself. Caught up in the storm. Having an office of her own in some nondescript building meant hearing the ticking of the clock, watching dust settle in the light. An image that festered in the back of her mind every time Suresh mentioned how nice it would be when things settled down.

Of course a regular schedule, a routine, left open the option for children. Something neither of them talked much about, a silent agreement that raising a family was not part of either’s short-term goals. Unlike Neha’s sister, also living in the United States but with two children already. Neha was content to be the doting aunt whenever she had the time, which was rare. From the beginning, Suresh seemed the perfect match for her. Breaking tradition, she had made it a point to question him at their second meeting once they were left alone by their parents. He was concerned with getting his own career on track, more so than planning for children. One factor she hadn't counted on, however, was the influence of his mother and grandmother from the other side of the world. Subtle questions in their letters and emails. How are things with the two of you? Anything interesting planned? Any news to tell us? Neha would roll her eyes when Suresh relayed these questions, but lately she'd seen something new in his gaze when he read the notes, saw the furtive glances across the room after taking an overseas phone call. Doubt, perhaps. Fear of dishonor.

Route 128 was pleasantly un-congested as she pulled onto Winn Street from the off-ramp. She'd called her husband before leaving. He’d sounded normal enough, no talk of dreams. With these few days behind them, he'd come to the realization that it was only a dream and nothing more.

She'd never known Suresh to take to such fancies, and the fact that he was so shaken by the nightmare made Neha uneasy. Then, a snippet on a talk radio show on WBZ this morning, a half-caught conversation as she passed the break room. She had let these fragments swirl about her mind, then quickly discarded them, was only hearing these things for her husband's sake. Today’s ravings from the lunatic preacher almost made her believe there might be something more to this. But that wasn't possible. To have classified Suresh with that vagrant, or some crazy person on a talk show, was a sin she could never forgive herself for.

Not to mention the risk it posed to her career, a tightrope as it was. To the ignorant, being both a minority and a woman would appear to be an asset. Neha knew better, saw past the veil of Equal Opportunity to the stark reality of her need for networking, building a reputation and, most of all, staying far from controversy.

The lights were on in the house. He'd waited up for her. That was good. Unless Neha was working graveyard, she felt the two of them should go to bed together. It was Friday and Suresh didn't have to get up for work tomorrow. He was sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas when she entered, a cup of tea in his hands. Neha smiled. He was a handsome man, skin a consistent chocolate brown, nose straight and slightly flaring at the nostrils, hair thick (his mother's father had a full mane of hair until his death at seventy-four - Neha had inquired on that fact early on in their marital discussions), and odd blue eyes rare in their people, perhaps a trace of Slavic lost in his lineage.

Sure enough, there was a second cup of tea waiting beside him. Suresh's way of making sure his wife took no side trips. Do anything but head straight home and her tea would be cold.

She kissed her husband on the cheek and put her briefcase beside the telephone stand. Suresh yawned.

“Do my kisses bore you, my love?”

Suresh smiled. “I'm sorry, Nee. I dozed off on the couch earlier and you know what that does to me.”

She did, and began devising a number of ways to wake him up. Going to sleep after coming off-shift wasn't an immediate event for her. She needed to unwind.

Suresh sipped his tea as she went into the hall to hang her coat. “I had…” he said, then paused. “How were things at the hospital today?”

Neha froze halfway through hanging her coat. She'd heard the sudden change in the direction of his words. Her heart beat a little too fast. Please, she thought. Let this just be my wild imaginings. She feared she already knew what he would have said had he not changed the subject.

She was more tired than she'd realized. Neha forced a grimace before coming around the corner to the kitchen. “Fine,” she said, sitting across from him and taking a sip of tea. It was still warm, but the edge of heat had faded. “A busy day, not too bad. At least it didn’t snow like they predicted.”

“Mmm. Too late for that now, I think. Still...” His voice trailed off. There was something.

“We had a vagrant come in,” she said, “banged up, but not too badly. He ran in front of a cab.” No, don't go there. “All in all, a quiet night.”

Suresh was silent, nursing his cup. His silence spoke volumes to his wife. Neha didn't want to, but she asked, “What's wrong?”

“When I fell asleep on the couch tonight -”

No! It is not real!

“- I had that dream again.”

53

Neha sat in the small study off the living room, swirling the ice in her empty glass and glaring at the clock beside the bookcase. Two-Thirty in the morning. She reflexively wiped the corner of her eye, reassured by the lack of tears. She chided herself for having such an emotional reaction earlier, even to the point of crying. Just a few tears, but as soon as she'd realized they were there, she'd struck out against Suresh. A slap, to stop him from saying any more, knocking whatever was happening back into the Twilight Zone where it belonged.

Her husband had stared at her, dumbfounded, before stalking off alone to their bedroom. Even then, even in his rage, Suresh took a moment to mumble over his shoulder, “I know you didn't mean that, but I'd hoped for some understanding.”

Al ways ready to shoulder his wife's anger. Always the loving husband. Neha didn't want to see Suresh as weak, but standing in the kitchen after he'd left, shocked by the violence welling inside her, she knew that’s what he was. Another reason, perhaps, that she'd married him. Someone who would never overshadow her.

She sat now in the leather highback, a twin of the empty chair facing her opposite the small chess table. Suresh hadn't emerged from the bedroom. He'd likely fallen asleep by now. Neha knew she should have joined him, muttered soft apologies, offered an excuse for her reaction. She hadn't gone. Her anger, or fear, pulsed through her and denied any sleep or want of companionship. Maybe she feared the argument would continue. Perhaps in the morning she wouldn't treat her husband's concerns as trivial.

No, that was exactly what she had to do. These dreams affected Suresh in a deep, personal way. He was no recluse. He'd heard something on the news. A blurb at the top of the hour this morning on the way to work. Meant as a humorous outtake. It had frightened him.

And it frightened her.

Neha though about the bum lying comfortably in one of Forest Grove's beds. It was his fault. She would never have reacted so poorly if that man hadn't been brought in this afternoon and uttered his nonsense. He mentioned a flood, just like her precious Suresh. Dragging her husband down to his own pathetic level. An insect calling itself a hawk.

Her husband’s dream had  been so vivid to him. Spiritual beings claiming to be devas of heaven, speaking as if they might be Krishna himself, or Vishnu excitedly plotting the doom of the world. Suresh had called them angels of God. Too long in this culture, he was forgetting his heritage and faith.

Suresh looked so pathetic, a child afraid of shadows in the corner of the bedroom, wanting reassurances from his mother. She wasn't his mother. She was his wife.

Like seeing heavy clouds on the horizon, Neha felt the inevitable downturn of tonight’s conversation as soon as it had begun. She'd moved close to him, rested her long fingers on his face. Such a handsome face. “Suresh, please, when you talk about that dream, it frightens me. Your eyes...” She stopped, caressed one cheek with the back of her hand. “It was only a dream. I don't understand why it's eating at you like this.”

Suresh closed his eyes, held her wrists, but made no effort to pull away from her comfort. “I'm just trying to understand how others could be having the same dream. Always the message is the same. I must build a boat. An ark was the word. Something terrible is going to happen. It feels so true.”

Too many things came to her mind then, too many angry words needing to be wiped away before being spoken. Anger at herself. Her husband was terrified by images of the world being devoured in some god’s hungry mouth, and in her mind, she saw herself, walking along the hospital corridors, smiling at the doctors, giving direction with authority and confidence, the gray-haired director of emergency services Bernard Meyers finally acknowledging her existence, even to the point of pronouncing her name correctly for the first time. No room for the storm coming over the horizon. No time.

She'd suggested Suresh see a therapist. When he seemed to consider this, she imagined her husband locked away in an asylum, sprouting biblical nonsense while the looks from her co-workers turned to ice and pity. In her memory, the kitchen had begun to spin out of control.

Then Suresh said, “I think these are more than dreams. I have been chosen, like the other people we've heard about. I must not ignore it.”

And Neha had screamed, “Just shut up! You will ignore it if you love me! If you care for me at all you'll... just... shut up!” The slap was hard, though Suresh's head barely moved at the contact. She'd felt a tingle of fear and excitement, having never raised a hand to him before and not knowing how he would respond. A fear of reprisal, a desire for one.

When he simply walked from the kitchen, muttering his weakness in the hallway, it felt as if she'd lost part of him forever. As well, she saw clearly longer-term implications.

Maybe she was reading too much into everything, but the hours of running between patients as they stumbled or were wheeled into the emergency room, one crisis after another, it was all she could do to keep a finger on the pulse of her own career.

And her husband would eventually play his role. No talk of dreams. No flights of fancy. If she said she wanted, he would give. If she said no, he did not. Uncomplicated.

Until now.

Hopefully, tonight's small but significant violence would end the situation before it became too much. She couldn’t help feeling an added layer to these events, a darker twist in her beliefs. Something large and massive looming behind the storm clouds in her mind. It was too much to comprehend, so she did not try.

There was no God. No angels. No Krishna or Vishnu or Hunuman. They were old, stale characters. Children’s tales. No visions. No end-of-the-world. The universe simply was what it was. Judeo-Christians could have their constant doomsday views. She had her own life, and a few crackpots would not make her feel it was all for naught, especially her husband.

Neha sat in her chair, and thought about the derelict at Forest Grove, imagined him preaching in the halls, Suresh dancing behind him banging on a tambourine. She remembered the form she'd signed, just in case, in the man's folder. One slip of paper to tuck the Word of God away, lest Suresh happen upon him in the city one day and find an ally in his delusions.

Her finger swirled the ice, around and around.

She picked up the phone.

*     *     *

“Wake up, my friend.”

Jack opened his eyes. The angel Michael stood in the hospital room at the foot of the bed. The lights from the parking lot shone though the blinds, cutting his scarred features into parallel shades of light and dark.

“You!”

“Shhh.” Michael moved to the side of the bed and offered his hand. He whispered, “You have to leave now.”

Jack sat up and took the angel's hand. His body quivered with excitement and terror in this being's presence. “Why?” he whispered back, knowing his voice was too loud.

“Personally, Jack, I’ve started wondering that myself.” The angel wasn't smiling this time. “But it's not my call. Just get up and get dressed.”

Jack did. The pants were too big, but there was a belt and he cuffed the pant legs. The act of dressing was made difficult by the cast on his right wrist. More than once he had to stop as his arm twitched with blades of pain. Michael helped him finish. When he'd completely dressed, including shoes which felt almost new, he pulled something from the flannel shirt's pocket. It was a ten-dollar bill. He stuffed it back in and buttoned the pocket closed with his good hand.

“Let's go,” Michael said, “and don’t talk. We don’t want to scare the nurses.”

The bed across from him was empty. Jack paused, seeing the sheets tucked neatly over and under the vacant mattress. Had there been someone there? If so, they must have taken him away while he was sleeping. He tried to remember, could not. Michael touched his arm and led him forward.

Jack risked a glance at the bed beside his own. The kid was still propped upright, but he was asleep. His features were lost in shadow as he was turned away from the window, but Jack could see his mouth open, hear the barest traces of snoring. With his mouth open like that, the skinny kid seemed more like a skeleton. The bandage on his chest poked up from under the sheets. Dark stains on the gauze, as if the nurses had decided to keep their distance and let this one heal on his own.

They stepped into the bright, silent hospital corridor. The room’s door closed behind them. As they approached the nurses' station, Jack wondered what excuse Michael would offer for their departure.

He offered none. They walked past the desk, and the bleach-blonde nurse looked up for a moment then back down as if she'd never seen them. The doors to the elevators a dozen yards ahead opened.

Michael laid a firm hand on Jack's shoulder and guided him to one side, holding one finger to his lips as the stood against the wall and waited.

Two large men in white hospital scrubs pushed a gurney along the floor. Jack stared at the straps laid carefully atop it. These had some meaning but, like everything else in his life, that meaning was too vague to grasp.

His heart beat in fear. The men passed by. The hallway took on the feel of a prison, and he and the angel were trying to escape. Men and gurney stopped outside Jack’s room.

He understood now.

“Praise God,” he whispered.

One of the goons looked back, stared directly at him.

Michael's hand squeezed so hard Jack expected the bones of his shoulder to crack. The man in the hospital scrubs stared a moment longer, then moved with his partner into the room.

Michael moved quickly, guiding him through the double doors. Jack wondered if anyone saw them swing open and closed. They headed towards the window at the far end of the hall. A surge of elation tore through him with the prospect of flying away like Peter Pan.

They stopped at the elevator and the angel pressed the “down” button. Jack couldn't hide his disappointment. He sighed.

As Michael waited for the doors to open, he muttered, “You've got a problem with something?”

They stepped in. When the doors closed and the elevator dropped, Jack said, “How... how come we're taking the elevator? Why not just blink us to safety?”

Michael looked at him with a long-familiar expression of sympathy and restrained impatience. Jack got that look a lot. It hurt more, coming from this man. The angel finally said, “Because sometimes it just doesn’t work that way, Jack.”

“You don't like me, do you?”

Michael closed his eyes. “I'm an angel of God. I love everyone.”

Jack scuffed his feet on the shiny elevator floor. “You don't act like you love everyone.”

The angel began to say something in reply, caught himself and fell silent. A trace of a smile worked itself onto his dark face. He only shook his head. The elevator doors opened. Across the abandoned entrance foyer, the world outside was dark. The guard at the night desk hung up the phone and sat straight in his chair, staring intently at the elevator.

Looking for me , Jack thought. He remembered what the policeman had said about taking him to jail, and Jack felt a growing terror. He couldn't be taken away. God needed him.

“That's why I'm here, my friend,” Michael said, then ushered him past the guard and through the revolving doors. They disappeared into the cool, dark Boston morning.

*     *     *

Margaret Carboneau stood on the Lavish town common, watching the second of the two delivery trucks drive away, and tried to forget the looks of derision the men had given her. Word traveled fast. Beside her lay piles of lumber - forty-eight sheets of three-quarter inch plywood in one pile, forty-eight more in another. Stacks of two-by-fours, two-by-twos and one-by-ones. Boxes of nails. More boxes of nails. Twenty-three three-gallon jugs of boaters’ glue, twelve rolls of seam tape and two more piles of miscellaneous items including the tools she would need like the hand-held jigsaw and circular saw she'd bought yesterday. Vince had a lot of tools in the cellar but they didn’t include those.

The man from the delivery truck had explained the shipment of cinderblocks would be arriving separately, that they subcontracted that item and delivery came from a masonry plant in San Maria.

Plywood and glue. With this Margaret was supposed to build an ark to carry thirty people above a flood. She watched Katie and Robin running around the wood, whispering excitedly. Plywood and glue, to carry her daughters to safety.

She sat on the grass and dropped her face into her hands. Images from the angel David, every square inch of the ship's construction running through her mind like an eternal movie. She felt like Richard Dreyfus's character in that old movie. This means something, he'd said then. She began sobbing, trying to wash away the images with her tears.

God, help me, please. Where do I start? What do I do?

No thunderclap of divine instruction came to her. No angel David to run through his routine again. Just a breeze blowing across the common, lightly caressing the hands covering her face, cooling the tears.

“Mommy?” Robin's voice, a small touch on her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mommy. We won't touch anything.”

The innocence of the statement sent Margaret into a renewed fit of sobs, until a man's voice broke in.

“Margaret?”

She sniffled once and wiped her face as she pulled her hands away. Marty Santos stood over her but stared at the piles of lumber. The fire chief looked as if he'd like to say more. His mouth opened, then closed.

Margaret cleared her throat and stood up. “Marty, I'm sorry. It's just so overwhelming.” She waved a hand at the wood. “Everything. I'm sorry for lying.” Robin looked between her mother and Marty, then slowly walked back to join her sister waiting a short distance away.

“Don't....” He faltered again. “It wasn't a dream, was it? I really did see you out here the other night?”

Margaret nodded. “I guess… yes.”

“Who.... Margaret, what's going on?”

She couldn't tell if he looked nervous or irritated. She told him a condensed version – she didn't have the energy to get into details – but one that she hoped let him understand why she'd deceived him.

When she was finished, Marty remained quiet. Then he turned and walked away, stopped, looked back at the piles of lumber, and returned to stand beside her again.

“Margaret, do you know the least bit about building a ship?”

“No. I mean, not before the dream. God showed me how. I knew what to get, didn't I?”

“Well... plywood? You can't build a boat out of plywood. It'll fall apart.”

Details of the ship's construction hadn't waned in their circuitous journey through her brain. She saw everything, the finished product. The feeling was stronger now, building to some cerebral climax threatening to send her into madness if she didn't act soon. God's way of screaming, Get your ass in gear, woman! It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“It will float. If we build it right, it will float. God said it will.” She stood straighter, trying to sound convinced. “So it will.”

Marty tried not to smile. Or was it a grimace? He thought she was nuts. “What do you mean, we?”

Margaret shrugged. “I could use the help. At least for a while, until I can find others to join me. I mean, unless there's something else you have to be doing. I assume you're on duty, but - “

Marty raised his hand and said quietly, “Okay; okay. You're scaring me, Maggie. I've never heard you ramble like this before. I'm not saying I believe you. But I guess I can help. For a while, at least. Edgecomb is a jerk and will probably chew me out for doing this, but you know the old saying. Don't ask and they might not say 'no'.”

Adrian Edgecomb was one of Lavish’s three selectmen. The other two usually cow-towed to his belligerence so in effect he ran the town. Until this moment, it never occurred to her that someone might actually take some action against a person building a boat in the center of town.

Two other firemen approached casually from the station. Unlike the police who could cruise around town between calls, firefighters tended to hang at the station during any down time. They were always ready for a distraction.

The younger man, Ben, crouched down to listen to the girls as they gave him the basic run-down of events. Seeing them talk to him like that made Margaret realize she'd neglected one of their old pleasures from the time before Vince died. They loved visiting the station, being spoiled rotten by those on duty. As if on cue, Ben produced a tootsie roll, probably left over from their recent “Traffic Light” fund-raiser.

The second man was shorter, with a stereotypical bushy moustache. Margaret nodded to him, trying to recall his name. He nodded back almost imperceptibly. His eyes studied her for a long moment. It was the same look the men from the delivery truck had worn.

“Building an ark?” he finally asked. The eyes burned into her.

The chief tried to sound conciliatory. “We listen to the news, Margaret. This shit is the talk of the country. Oh, sorry, girls.”

Robin looked up. “Is 'shit' a bad word, Mommy?”

“Yes.”

Marty faced the other men. “Listen, guys. Like it or not, Margaret's planning on building this thing. She's alone,” he lowered his voice but not so much as to keep Margaret from hearing, “and she's Vince's widow.” Then, louder, “What say we help get her started at least?”

The man with the moustache glowered at her, then nodded his head and walked towards the lumber. Ben rose and said, “They're not going to like this too much.”

“Well, for the moment, I don’t really care,” Marty said. Ben hesitated and looked over his shoulder towards the town offices, then joined in undoing the metal braces around the woodpiles. The chief turned back to Margaret. “Well, you've got me, Ben and Al for a while at least.” His name is Al; thank you, Marty. “So? Where do we start?”

Margaret wanted to cry again. As much of an insane nightmare as this seemed, God was providing. He wasn't going to make her to fend for herself. Not today, at least. The details of the ship's construction played through her mind. She smiled and said with an authority in her voice that surprised not only her but the others, too, “Get those sheets of plywood separated. Lay six of them out...” she scanned the area. “...there. It's pretty flat. We need to build the floor first, then curve it down.”

She walked around the open green space between the lumber and the road running in front of station. “Here,” she said. “The ark will be forty-eight feet long, sixteen feet wide.” She raised and lowered her arms like a conductor. “Lay the sheets here first, two-by-two.”

Al looked up and mumbled, “No pun intended, I assume.”

She blushed. “No pun intended....”

*     *     *

“The truck will arrive sometime between noon and four o'clock on Tuesday. Sorry we can't be more specific.” Holly stapled the credit card receipt to the packing slip. The man nodded and moved off towards the front of the store.

“Another Jesus freak?”

Holly jumped at Clay's voice behind her. How long had he been standing there? She turned around and said, “No, just a regular order.”

“Just a regular order,” he repeated to himself. His lips tightened and the vein in his neck throbbed. Seeing these signs at home would send her on a stream of apologies, whispered, calming tones, to quell the storm before it grew. She felt safer at work. Most of Clay's other employees knew the look, too, and avoided it. He took the store's copy of the packing slip from her and scanned the list.

“Looks like he's doing a basement,” Clay said. He enjoyed guessing what projects customers were up to by analyzing what they bought. No one dared correct him, though the man who'd just left had mentioned water damage in a spare bedroom. Holly nodded. “I'll bet you're right.”

Clay stared at her, trying to decide if she was being condescending. He laid the sheet on the counter and said, “You scheduled the Carboneau’s order for first delivery.”

“So? Lavish is the next town over. It's the first place they'd hit.” Careful, she thought. In order to knock herself down a notch, Holly broke eye contact and slid the paper into the shipper's folder.

“So?” he repeated. “Bad enough there's going to be a run on our inventory by these nutcases, not that it's hurting business any. But I don't want to start thinking you're doing them any favors. Makes me think you believe this stuff.”

“You don't think it's a little weird that so many - “

“I think it's very weird,” he interrupted. “You don’t think so?”

She shrugged, afraid of answering either way. He took it as an affirmative and moved closer to her, as if preparing to kiss her, which she knew he'd never do at work. When he spoke, she smelled chocolate on his breath. “Don't even start,” he whispered. “You going to tell me next you had one of those dreams?”

Holly shook her head. She hadn't, and at this moment was very grateful for that. She’d have had a hard time lying when he was this close. Clay knew it.

He nodded, staying his ground a little longer. “Good. Did that woman yesterday ask you to join her?”

Time to lie after all, Holly realized. She looked directly into her boyfriend’s pale blue eyes and said, “No, Clay. I'm guessing she was too busy getting the order in. I didn't understand what it was all about until you figured it out later.”

Keep the gaze on him , she thought, make him look at my eyes. She needed to keep him from seeing the splotch of red on her neck, which showed itself like a birthmark whenever she tried to lie.

Her appeal to his ego worked. He nodded more vigorously, stepped one pace back. He looked around the store. Holly kept the I'm Lying mark on her neck turned away.

“If any of them come in again, just take their money and keep it business only. No more than that.”

“No problem.”

He moved around from behind the counter and strutted away. He strutted a lot.

Every time she had one of these close encounters with Clay's dark side, here or at home, Holly felt an overwhelming need to seek out Connor and hold her baby close. The thought sent her breasts to aching, though it wouldn't be time to pump for another hour. Interesting the way a mother's body reacted when she thought of her child. Maybe she'd go home at lunch and feed him herself, though Dot -- her best friend and babysitter -- would remind her that would waste yesterday's milk in the refrigerator at home. Throw off the whole schedule. She tried to ignore the sensation, and hoped she could last another half hour until break.

*     *     *

The base of the hull was a forty-eight foot rectangular plank of plywood, four sheets wide, twelve sheets long. They'd laid it out and attached each section with white nylon seam tape at the adjoining edges, then covered everything with the boating glue. They'd finished the initial layout by two-thirty. As Ben and the girls ventured off to get late-lunch sandwiches for everyone, Margaret led Marty, Al, and two other firemen (one being off-duty but having come by to check his schedule then deciding to stay and help), in laying out a second layer of sheets, staggered so that the seams of the first were covered by the second. Glue again, seam tape all around, then more glue to seal the wood.

Al 's moustache was caked in sawdust as he finished cutting off the protruding half-length of the upper and lower sheets. Along the outer edges of this plank, thin half-inch beams were glued then nailed. Katie and Robin, sporting oversized work gloves, carried the scrap wood to a new pile for use later. A considerable charge was going to hit Margaret's credit card for the supplies. She couldn't waste anything if she could help it. She expected a message at home from the bank asking if the sudden spike in purchases was legitimate. She wondered how many other sudden purchases were being made from home supply stores around the country.

The finished construction had been raised up on the cinderblocks which had been delivered an hour after the work began. The blocks were stacked five-high at each end, at what would be the bow and stern. More concrete blocks were placed on top, dead center, of the wood. When Marty put down the last of them, the forty-eight foot panel buckled under the concentrated weight, bowing until it touched the grass. It didn't happen all at once, as the half-inch beaming along the sides added some tensile strength to the structure. When it did touch bottom, Margaret felt a rush of excitement. The bottom hull was now curved front to back, a prelude to the finished shape.

By the time the decision was made to stop for the day, one of the sides had been constructed in much the same manner as the base. Forty-eight feet long, eight feet high, with seam tape and glue all around. This side was raised while Al and Marty climbed over the sagging floor, and fastened the side of the hull using nails through the half-inch support beams. More glue along these seams. Ben took his turn with the hand saw and cut the side corners away, as close to the curved hull as he dared.

The town common smelled of sawdust and glue. Margaret felt like both crying and laughing. She decided on neither, knowing that some of these men, though obviously having fun working on the project, already assumed she was insane.

At this rate, the ship would be done in a couple of weeks. It would look clunky and un-seaworthy, but it would be finished, and it would float. Such was God's promise.

Everyone gathered a few paces back from the construction to admire their handiwork. The men commented on their progress as if they'd been working on nothing more significant than a house deck.

It looked like a cross-section of an incomplete ship, with only one side up, but it did look like a boat.

Adrian Edgecomb pulled alongside the curb and slowly got out of his car. With an “Uh, oh,” Marty broke from the ranks and moved to intercept the selectman. The other firemen exchanged nervous glances as Marty and Edgecomb fell into loud debate. Why were town employees making “doll houses” on duty, and “what was that monstrosity doing” on his town square. Marty spoke in a lower voice, now and then looking towards Margaret and the girls who hovered close to their mother.

Ben and the two of the other firemen quietly debated the logic of hanging around and made noises about heading back. In contrast, Al busied himself laying out the planks for the starboard side, as if nothing untoward was happening. He'd said very little to Margaret the entire day, but she felt less intimidated by him. She stayed her ground, trying to catch snippets of the conversation at the roadside.

“I know what it is,” Edgecomb was saying. “They're starting to crop up everywhere. Are you.... she's one of those nuts, too? “

Low murmurs from Marty, and more derisive curses from the man who was, in every sense of the word, his employer.

Finally, the selectman got back into his car with a slam of the driver's door and pulled from the curb with a flair he usually reserved for the monthly selectmen's meeting. Visibly humbled, Marty walked slowly back to the waiting group.

“We're in Dutch, boss,” Ben said, “right?”

Marty looked at him blankly for a second, then, “Oh, are we in trouble, you mean? Kind of. He's off our backs for now, but he's not too keen on....” he stopped and gave Margaret a sheepish grin.

She finished for him, “On catering to the delusions of a madwoman?”

“Not exactly his words,” Marty said, “but that's the gist of it, yes.”

Ben slapped his palms together. “Well, I guess that's it then. Come on, guys, shift's over in a few hours anyway, and we still have to wash twenty-one.”

Marty raised his hand. “Hold on. We're not leaving Margaret with this thing half-done.”

Ben sneered. The young man's expression had darkened considerably since first arriving that morning. “Half done? What are you talking about? You heard the man; we're not supposed to be helping her. Besides, we're not anywhere close to half done.”

“We can at least get the other side up. “

“No way,” Ben said. “Listen, you may be the boss, Marty, but that guy's your  boss, and he signs the checks.”

Margaret tried to interrupt. “There's no need to - “

“There's no need is right,” said Ben. “I'm sorry, Margaret. I liked Vince a lot; we all did. But Sue's due in July and I can't afford to lose my job over... well, this.” He waved dismissively at the ark. “Personally, and I don't mean to sound snide, I swear,  but I think you need help, Margaret, but not what we can give you -”

“That's enough, Ben,” Marty said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is. Sorry.” He turned and walked back towards the firehouse. He moved stiffly, as if expecting to be tackled from behind.

Margaret's stomach tightened. She turned to the others. “You don't need to stay.” One muttered something about “making sure Ben's OK” and followed his path in retreat. Another followed, but the third looked at Margaret, then the chief, and moved to help Al tape and glue the starboard side together.

By six o'clock, the sun was setting and the western sky behind the fire station was afire in red and yellow. A myth from her childhood told her that a blazing sunset meant good weather the next day.

Reluctantly, she agreed it was time to stop.

Marty finished trimming the hull to conform to the curve. As he did so, the others leaned temporary supports against both sides to keep them from falling overnight, securing them with a few nails each from inside. The bow and stern remained open.

Katie and Robin had already forgotten the earlier tension, and were busying themselves stowing away the tools. Marty hefted anything portable into the back of Margaret's station wagon.

Waving at the other fireman as he wandered wearily back towards the station, Al brushed at his moustache and stood facing Margaret. He was looking beyond her.

“I think we've got company.”

Margaret turned. Throughout the day, cars had been pulling to the curb to see the spectacle taking place on their common. Some ventured out after parking on the far side, but came no closer than the gazebo in its center. Eventually, Margaret stopped noticing them. Now she turned and followed Al's gaze.

A woman with a 35mm camera slung over one shoulder and a yellow notepad walked briskly towards them. As she neared, Margaret could see a small portable tape recorder pressed against the notepad.

“Are you in charge here?” the woman asked Al, who merely pointed to Margaret before turning to help Marty with the last minute pickup.

“I'm Margaret Carboneau. Can I help you?”

The woman offered her free hand. “Kristy Cowles. I'm a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. I was wondering if I could interview you. I assume you're one of the people claiming to have a vision and --”

Margaret raised a hand between them. She was about to tell the woman she wasn't interested, then hesitated. How else could she reach the people she needed, especially now that her workforce was about to abandon her? “How soon,” she asked, “would the story run, if I agreed?”

Kristy looked taken aback at being interrupted.  She stared at the ark and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, if we can talk now, after letting me get some pictures of the boat before it gets too dark, we should make it in for Monday morning's edition. Tomorrow would have been better, since everyone reads the Sunday paper, but you know how it goes. Some things just won’t keep the presses from running.” She laughed.

Margaret's arms ached. All she could think about was an extended, hot bath. “Listen, I'd very much like to talk, but as you can imagine I'm pretty beat. I'll be here as early as possible tomorrow morning. Can we talk then? Will that make you too late for Monday?”

The reporter shuffled uneasily. “Well, that would be OK, I guess. I'd certainly like to be the first to get an interview with you.”

“If you can wait until tomorrow morning, I won't talk to anyone else. I promise. Come around nine o'clock.” Before the reporter could object, Margaret smiled weakly and walked toward Al and Marty, who looked ready for a bath themselves. She asked, “Is she leaving?”

Al nodded. “Yep.”

Margaret looked at the two men. “Thank you. For everything. I –” her voice broke. She looked down.

Marty put a hand on her arm and said, “It's okay. We'll try and sneak out tomorrow to help some more.”

Margaret shook her head. “You can't. Edgecomb will be back. You know that. I appreciate what you're doing, but I don't want anyone losing their job over this.” Not until she said it did she realize the irony of her words.

The normally silent Al said what she was thinking. “But, if what you're saying is true, Margaret, then having a job doesn't mean anything.”

Marty looked at him, then back at the supplies. “Listen,” he said, almost whispering. “There's no way you can stash all this stuff at home. I assume you'll be coming back tomorrow?”

Margaret nodded.

“Then we'll keep an eye on it for you. Shift's changing at eight o'clock, but we'll tell Rachel and company to do the same.”

Al said nothing, but seemed to agree.

Margaret smiled. “Thanks. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Al nodded. Marty hesitated, but just for an instant. “Sure, I'll come by. Promise.”

As they walked back to the station, Margaret felt a sinking in her chest. It was that last “promise” of Marty's that told her she was going to lose his help. The two men crossed the street and went inside. Al never looked back, as Margaret hoped he would. Some sign to confirm his promise.

“Mommy, we're hungry.” Robin again. She had been playing the role of moderator within the family today. Though her older sister appeared most of the time to be enjoying herself, Katie carried a brooding expression whenever the play stopped. In fact, Katie hadn't spoken directly to her mother all day, except through Robin.

“Okay; we'll stop for a pizza on the way home. I'm too bushed to cook anything. That all right with you, Katie?”

The seven-year old nodded. It was a start.

They headed for the station wagon. The dwindling crowd, sensing the show was over for the day, wandered off. There were still cars at various points along the curb, and another slowly pulling to a stop, but no one spoke as Margaret buckled Robin in beside her sister.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Margaret straightened, made sure to close the car door before turning around. The couple was older, in their early seventies, she guessed. The man who'd spoken stood slightly hunched, his head bald save for a few wisps across his scalp.

“Margaret,” Margaret said, and offered her hand. The old man took it. “My name is Harold Baker. Harry, please. This is Ruth.” The two woman nodded to each other.

“How can I -”

Harry interrupted, “We came by a couple of times today, but you looked busy. We're just wondering, well,” he didn't seem to know what to do with his right hand, letting it turn and twist at the wrist beneath his long-sleeve shirt. “What I mean is, you're one of those people who had a vision?”

Ruth added, “From God?”

Margaret said nothing; simply nodded.

Harry cleared his throat. “We're just wondering, if maybe you haven't filled up the seats yet, maybe we can join you. Be on the ship when the water comes.” He looked as if he was about to cry. His wife took his right hand, to give him support or maybe to stifle its random movements.

A sudden warmth spread through Margaret and she took his left hand and smiled at both of them. “Of course,” she said. “There’s plenty of room.”

They made quick plans for the couple to return the next day, after they'd attended mass – the first time in thirty years, Ruth reluctantly admitted.

Driving home, Margaret tried not to worry about how these people, the man, especially, as he seemed so frail, could help build anything. She decided they'd do whatever they could. God would provide the rest.

52

As he drove to the common, Father Nick Mayhew tried to remember the last time the Carboneaus had missed Sunday Mass, not counting vacations. Today being Palm Sunday, their absence was conspicuous.

At one-thirty in the afternoon, he turned with the traffic, onto Cambridge Street. The roads were crowded for a Sunday, and Nick wondered if some of the congestion was due to people flocking to witness the spectacle at the center of town. This morning, one of his parishioners, Lucille Thompson told him what was happening, a little too self-righteously he thought. In a conspiratorial whisper, she'd said, “Oh, I haven't been there to see for myself. I'm much too busy on the weekends.” Lucille then went on to explain that the “poor confused woman” had fallen in with “that doomsday crowd”, and was building a boat in the center of Lavish.

If it was true, Nick privately applauded Margaret's faith. He also feared it. Faith was like that. True faith. It's what led the saints to their own glorious deeds, and often their tragic demise.

Cresting the hill, he saw what loomed on the southern edge of the square.

“Oh, my God.” The embodiment of Lucille's words rose before him. He felt cold. Nick pulled the car over to the first available spot. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car.

Standing at the edge of the grass, the priest watched the small crew move about the boat. Margaret and two other men lifted a large wall against the front, or the back of the boat. It was hard to tell. Nick took a few steps forward, squinting away the bright sunlight, watching them raise the wall. A brief flash of someone inside, followed by the sound of hammering.

God bless you, Margaret Carboneau . He couldn't help but smile.

“Father! Oh, thank God you're here!”

From his left, a man and woman, both parishioners, were trotting his way. Nick smiled and nodded his head. “How are you two, this beautiful morning?”

The woman stopped, taken aback by her pastor’s good humor. “Why, I'm fine, thank you. Oh, Father,” she said, getting back into the spirit of her dismay, “you have to stop this. She's making a mockery of God’s Word! Do you know what she's building?”

Nick looked at the construction and nodded somberly. “An ark, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Mrs. Carboneau's gone crazy! Not that I can blame her, what with her husband dying so horribly – ”

Nick shot her an angry look; then, realizing what he'd done, said softly, “I would appreciate it if you wouldn't phrase it like that in front of her.”

The woman blushed. “Of course. I'm sorry. It's just that I can understand what she's going through. I mean, if I lost John, I don't know what I'd do.”

John simply looked at the ground, content to let his wife do the talking. He looked as uneasy as Nick felt. “Still, she might listen to you. I mean, if her own pastor says this is wrong, maybe she'd understand and get some help.”

Nick continued walking towards the ark. “Have you spoken to her yourself?” His question was like a rope, pulling her reluctantly forward. Margaret was now shading her eyes to see who was coming.

“Well, no. I'm almost afraid to. What if she takes it the wrong way? She's holding power tools, for God's sake. Oh, I'm sorry, Father.”

Recognition crossed Margaret's features. She dropped her hammer and ran towards them.

“Oh, no. She's coming.” In light of the approaching madwoman, all courtesies were dropped. “Please,” a quickly receding voice, “tell her to stop. She's frightening the children.”

“Of course,” Nick said and embraced Margaret. She was crying. He held her for a long time, until he felt her retreat slightly and knew it was time for space.

Her face was wet with tears, but she smiled. “Sorry,” Margaret said. “I've been crying a lot lately.” She laughed and pulled a handkerchief from her jeans pocket, wiped her face. When she stuffed it away, the woman waved her arms dramatically towards the ship-in-progress and said, “Welcome to my nightmare.”

*     *     *

“Holy Trinity, Father McMillan speaking.”

“Good evening, Father. It's Nick Mayhew.”

“Evening is a relative term, Nick. Need I remind you that you're three hours behind the east coast?” Father McMillan's Irish brogue was strong, despite the fact he had emigrated from Ireland fifty-two years earlier. The older priest blamed it on his Arlington, Massachusetts parish. According to McMillan, it was a venial sin to lose your accent in that predominantly Irish neighborhood, worse if you were the pastor of the church. Nick spent his entire residency at Holy Trinity under this man, until his transfer three years ago to California.

Nick looked at his clock. Eight-thirty, which implied eleven-thirty in Arlington. Still, McMillan had answered after one ring. “I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”

After an appropriate pause to imply that his answer would be given out of politeness only, the priest said, “No, not at all. How are things in California?”

Not in the mood for small talk, Nick jumped right in. “If my guess is correct, about as interesting as on your end.”

“Indeed,” the older priest said. Normally Nick found his pseudo-Irish brogue and high-browed speech ingratiating. Not tonight. McMillan continued, “I assume the west coast has just as many doomsayers as the east?”

“You sound skeptical.”

Another pause, then, “And you don't.”

Nick took a sip from his coffee, collected his thoughts. “On the contrary,” he said. “Though it's our job to teach faith, we're obliged to be critical of anything that appears as false prophecy. Anything that might draw the faithful away from Jesus' teachings.”

“I see, taken verbatim from the lesson books, was that?”

Nick's face flushed. “Listen, Tim,” he said, “do me a favor and stop your posturing just once?”

McMillan laughed. “Ah,” he said, “Young Nicholas comes of age. A bright spot in an otherwise frustrating day. I apologize for being such an ass, Father.”

Nick smiled in spite of himself. “No problem.”

McMillan took a deep breath, and said, “Strange times we're living in.”

“One of my parishioners, a woman named Margaret Carboneau, claims to have received the visions. She's building an ark in the middle of town.”

“How well do you know this woman?”

He told him, then added, “Do you, I mean --”

“Do I think these nocturnal visitations by angels are legitimate? That the people receiving the visions – what they've experienced – are messages from God? Is that what you want to ask me, Father?”

Nick felt himself sink deeper into his chair. He wondered if McMillan wasn't as sarcastic as he tried to sound. He thought about the question, felt a warm and familiar sense of certainty fill him. He said, “Yes, Father. That is what I'm beginning to think.”

“Under other circumstances, I'd stop the conversation right here, hang up and call Bishop Leonard to have you removed. However, as I assume you're also doing,” a hint of a warning in his tone, “I've been quietly inquiring of other parishes, and doing my own research.”

“And...?”

“We’re still having this conversation, aren’t we?”

The man's answer didn't sit well with him. Nick needed to hear something concrete. “But do you think it’s possible, Father? That these are from God, Himself, I mean?”

McMillan at first did not reply, but when his voice returned, even with his short answer, Nick felt his sense of reality tip. He was sliding into a dark new world. One that looked the same as yesterday, but felt completely alien.

“Anything is possible with God,” the priest answered.

*     *     *

The sanctuary was quiet at night. Ten thirty, and the usually darkened church was softly aglow in red candlelight. Normally, Nick would make his way through the church and extinguish any lighted votive candles, the prayers they represented having long reached God's ear. Since his conversation with McMillan, he wasn't yet ready to snuff the flames. The altar wavered in the light cast by the glass. He sat in the first pew, staring at the red-cast image of Jesus hanging on the cross behind the altar. It was comforting, sitting in the midst of Lord's refuge. He knew, even now, that it always would.

Nick didn't know which disconcerted him more. That a miracle of biblical proportions was unfolding before him, or that McMillan actually believed it. Most likely the latter. His mentor was always the voice of reason, taking the logical stance on every event. Keeping fellow priests and parishioners from drifting too far into speculative obscurity.

The man believed – or at least did not deny -- that God was, indeed, behind these people’s visitations. This belief somehow brought the ever-intangible spiritual nature of Nick’s own vocation home to him.

Red light danced on the image of Christ, darkening the painted blood on the hands and feet, setting the face of the world's Savior afire.

Father McMillan had relayed his own observations over the phone, of similar scenes to what Nick witnessed in the center of Lavish. One was being built in an Arlington front yard - no small feat considering the claustrophobic closeness of neighborhoods in that historic, over-built city. McMillan also planned a drive soon into Burlington a few miles to the north, where construction of yet another ark had begun on that town’s common.

A troubling point to Nick's visit with Margaret this morning was the crowd. The police had set up haphazard barricades around the perimeter of the building site, perhaps to show the townspeople they weren't ignoring what was happening. They didn't seem to know what else to do about it. Vincent Carboneau had been well-liked, and the police and fire departments were hard-pressed to hide their protectiveness towards his widow.

Their support was thin, however. Nick could feel the derision of some onlookers. More than simple mockery. He sensed fear. The what if she's right questions that might turn onlookers into a mob-like she's a threat.  When he mentioned this to one officer standing duty, speaking in a forced casualness, the man simply nodded and said, “That's what we're afraid of, Father.”

Now, Nick looked at his watch. Almost midnight. He rose from the bench and blew out  the votive candles one by one.

51

When Carl Jorgenson came downstairs for his usual, quick bowl of Cheerios and glass of orange juice, he knew something was wrong. His parents weren't very talkative this early in the morning, but halfway down the stairs, he could hear a heated, whispered discussion.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, the talk stopped. Dan and Sarah Jorgenson looked at him with somber expressions. Carl stood in the doorway and wondered who had died. He thought of his grandfather, and suddenly the sparse appetite he garnered every morning drifted away.

“What's up?”

His mother finished her coffee in one last, over-exaggerated swallow and stood from the table. “Nothing. You'd better get moving.”

Carl accepted the response long enough to pour himself a bowl of cereal and add the milk. The orange juice was already on the table, a routine his mother went through every day, preparing a glass for Carl and his father at the same time she poured her own. In fact, Carl was so used to this routine that if one day she did not pour the glass, he’d likely go without it and never notice.

At eighteen, an age when boys were supposed to think of their parents as being out-of-touch with the outside world, Carl appreciated how good he had it. They loved him but didn’t dote, were strict, but not overbearing. He felt fortunate to have realized this early on, especially when he contrasted them with some of his friends' families -- Max more than anyone.

He sat across the table from his father. The man was tall, with short cut hair and a moustache that never grew in thick enough to warrant the title.

“What's up?” Carl asked again. He held the spoon but dared not eat until he heard the news.  Dan Jorgenson smiled weakly, looked at his wife as if to say, May as well tell him. Carl braced himself for the first words he knew were coming: It's your grandfather....

When Sarah said nothing, Carl’s father flipped the sheets of newspaper and turned a particular page to face him. “It's your science teacher.”

*     *     *

Carl did eat breakfast, but not until after finishing the entire article. Its neutral tone was neither accusing nor flattering. It didn’t have to be. When you write about a woman who leaves her job to build a boat on the town square because God says there's going to be a flood, you don’t need to call her crazy.

And then there was the photograph. Random piles of lumber beside a makeshift construction of beams and plywood that looked no more seaworthy than a pile of bricks.

Al ong with Mrs. Carboneau, the article interviewed a few firemen who were quick to point out they were merely helping a colleague's widow (that was how one man phrased it). No mention of God from these people, nor a flood. In contrast, Mrs. Carboneau had no qualms about explaining why she was doing what she was doing. Her words were a rehearsed version of her brief speech to Carl’s class on Thursday.

When the article trailed off to discuss the fire last year that killed her husband, perhaps to offer some explanation for her behavior, Carl skipped ahead. There was no further mention of the boat, save a quick reference to the ark in the Bible and Mrs. Carboneau’s statement that there would be no animals brought on board. “Not this time,” was the quote that ended the piece.

Carl ate his cereal slowly. His parents busied themselves with preparations to leave. He wondered why no one had mentioned anything during baseball practice, or the two games played this weekend. Granted, Saturday's was in Medfield, but Sunday was a home game. Someone might have mentioned her, but that particular line of discussion had burned rampant among everyone since Thursday. After a few initial forays into the talks - usually centered around their teacher’s obvious nervous breakdown - Carl did his best to avoid them. He liked Mrs. Carboneau. She'd always struck him as the least nutty person he knew. The exception had been that day in the school parking lot, but....

Mrs. Carboneau was not the only one. Carl remembered this detail even before following the instructions to “See related story, page C4.” Another mention, though brief, of an ark going up twenty miles away, and another on private land near the Presidio in San Francisco. The latter was being sponsored by a televangelist named Mick Starr - a California nom de plume if Carl had ever seen one. Built within the compound of the Holy Rock Church, the project was “under a cloak of secrecy”.

“I have to go,” Sarah Jorgenson said, and she kissed Carl on the top of his head. “You Okay?” Her eyes told volumes of how she didn't think he was, remembering how shaken he'd been Thursday night telling them about the outburst in class.

“I -” He lost his voice. A sudden boiling up of emotions struck him in that moment. He swallowed them down, mostly because he didn’t understand what he was feeling. Sadness for his favorite teacher? Maybe pity.

Carl's father slid into his sport coat. Though his company no longer enforced shirt and tie dress, he enjoyed dressing up for work. It starkly contrasted the t-shirt and jeans he wore on weekends. “Carl, listen,” he said, “if there isn't anything pressing at school, well, if you want to stay home today, that's fine with us.”

He spoke as if Carl's teacher was dead. For some reason, Carl thought about his grandfather again. It felt like Mrs. Carboneau had died.

But she hadn't. In fact, she was only five miles away.

His mother did her usual mind-reading trick. “Carl,” she said quietly, “please stay away from the center of town. Please. After this article, it's going to be a madhouse over there.” She looked down. “I'm sorry. You know what I mean. But your father and I would appreciate it if you'd keep your distance. At least until we see how things turn out.”

Mrs. Carboneau had tossed herself willingly into this circus, Carl knew, the fringe of which he was only just seeing. He stared at his empty bowl, tipped it sideways to make the milk splash in mini-waves against the side. Mrs. Carboneau was doing all this because God told her to.

“Carl?”

Maybe if he'd been one of those kids dragged kicking and screaming to church every week, he'd understand her faith more. Or her madness.

He looked up. His parents were waiting for an answer. “I'll probably go to school. See what folks are saying there.”

Not madness. It didn’t fit with what he knew of his teacher.

His mother dropped her shoulders in relief. “Good. Thanks. Just hold off for a while. Maybe at the end of the week you could pay her a visit?”

Carl nodded. His father walked into the garage starting his car. Sarah followed and started her own. Carl watched the two cars pull slowly onto the wide driveway. They stopped when it narrowed.  Normally, his mother would pull ahead, toot the horn once, then his father would follow. But they seemed to be in a deep discussion through their open windows.

Carl tipped the bowl of cereal back and forth. Not madness. Faith. His mother tooted once and pulled up the road. Carl wondered what faith was. Really, really wondered.

Maybe Mrs. Carboneau would tell him.

*     *     *

The center of town was not the madhouse Carl's mother warned him about. Cars were parked alongside the curb, but since he rarely passed this way, he didn't know if the number was abnormal. What was abnormal was the half-built boat at the northern edge of the lawn.

He locked the car, a fifteen-year-old temperamental Honda that once had belonged to his mother, and skirted the common, not daring to get too close until he saw her. Carl had called the school office before leaving the house. The fact that he and his father shared the same voice was, for once, a benefit rather than an irritating reason not to answer the phone. What he was doing didn't feel like sneaking behind their backs. For the first time, it felt like he was acting completely on his own. Stepping into the world for a day to see if he could handle what he found there.

Mrs. Carboneau was on the opposite side of the boat, her back to him as she talked to a heavy man who, in turn, was writing feverishly in a notebook.

He walked, slowly, in their direction, hoping for their conversation to end before he reached them. He tried to be casual, watching the people work around the structure. Not many, he thought. A couple of little girls ran around the front, delivering to a big man with a thick moustache a roll of perforated tape, which he then used to seal the seams between two boards.

Closer to Carl, near the back of the boat, an old couple slowly painted the sides with a clear liquid which must have smelled bad since the old man had his mouth covered with a handkerchief. His wife stood behind him, pointing at spots he'd apparently missed. Carl came nearer, and caught a thick whiff of glue.

They’re gluing and taping the ark together , he thought and felt a renewed knot in his belly, reminded himself that he wasn't here to join their little gang. He just wanted to talk to Mrs. Carboneau.

When he reached her, the man speaking to his teacher turned towards him. “Hello. Kenneth Wright from the Examiner. And your name is?”

As if in answer, though she was merely speaking out of surprise, Margaret said, “Carl!”

Kenneth-Wright-From-The-Examiner wrote in his notebook and smiled. “Carl, nice to meet you. I'm afraid I didn't catch your last name.”

Carl imagined breakfast at the Jorgenson's the next morning. He couldn’t speak, merely looked at Margaret and quickly shook his head.

Margaret turned back to the reporter. “Please,” she said. “He's a student of mine.” She quickly added, “And a minor.” It was a lie but Carl understood perfectly why she'd said it. He’d be safe. The reporter looked at him skeptically, then nodded and said to Margaret, “I just have a few more questions, if you have the time.”

Carl saw something flicker across Mrs. Carboneau's face. Irritation? She deftly ended the interview with smiles and promises of follow-ups whenever Kenneth Wright would like, then sent the reporter on his way.

Carl kept his eye on the heavy man until he drove off, in case a camera suddenly emerged from the driver's window and gobbled up his image for the front page. Margaret watched also, then turned to face him.

“Carl,” she said. “What a nice surprise! I guess you read the paper this morning?”

Carl nodded. “Yeah, my parents saw it first. But I read it. I just -” He didn’t know what to say. Small talk didn’t fit. Margaret was smiling, but said nothing. Carl took a breath and let it out loudly. “Mrs. C, is this true? Everything you said at school, and in the paper?”

“Yes,” Margaret said quietly. She never hesitated. It was as if she expected the question, as if she'd already been asked the same one a dozen times this morning.

Carl looked into her eyes. What he saw was not the burning glow of having “seen God.” Just as importantly, he saw nothing that could be called madness. He stared at the clear blue eyes of a middle-aged woman doing something she believed in. These weren't the words going through Carl's head at that moment. Instead it was a feeling, something inside him that opened up, a flower turning towards the sudden light he saw in this woman’s face.

“And,” he said, falteringly, “do you believe, I mean really believe, that God wants you to build this boat?” What was he doing? He felt like he was about to cry. He didn’t understand, not completely, what he expected to do or say when he came, but this certainly wasn’t it.

Mrs. Carboneau laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, I do. I didn’t believe any of it at first. I thought it was a dream. But it is real. It is going to happen, God help us.” She realized the irony in her words and gave a quiet, little laugh.

Carl looked at the ship, at the rag-tag group of people helping. No sign of all the firemen from the article. Maybe there was an actual fire somewhere.

He looked deeper into her eyes, and said, “I don’t know if I believe this, not yet. But I don’t think you're crazy, Mrs. C. The paper tried to imply that you were, or maybe were trying to cope with losing your husband.”

The light in her eyes dimmed a little. “I'm sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean to -”

She interrupted gently, “You don't know if you believe, but...” She let her voice trail off.

“But... what?”

“You tell me.”

Carl looked around, saw a group of older men watching from beside their cars, drinking Happy Donuts coffee and talking among themselves. “But,” he said at last. “You're not the only one.”

“No. And I imagine before the week is out we'll learn exactly how many others there might be. But there are others. Many, many others.”

She sounded so confident. Carl supposed she would have to be.

Again, he wondered why he'd come here. The only reason he could come up with, besides curiosity or maybe concern, was that this was the only place he felt he should be.

And, if she was right, there wasn't anywhere else to go. For the briefest moment he thought of the night Max drove his parents’ Jeep into the ditch alongside Desert Passway Road, Carl in the passenger seat. Max only had his learner's permit and Carl was still in Driver's Ed. That eternally-stretching feeling as they rolled into the ditch, nothing he could do but watch it happen. Detachment.

And here he was, feeling like he was falling again.

Mrs. Carboneau said nothing, waiting. Carl looked at her and quietly said, “Looks like you need some help. Maybe... maybe I can stay for a while if it's okay.”

She replied softly, “As your teacher, I probably should tell you to be in school, but, Carl... I'm sincere in telling you that there won’t be a school after June eighth.”

He started to ask her what June eighth had to do with anything, then remembered the article. Fifty-two days left. Fifty one, he supposed, as of this morning. He noticed his right hand was shaking. What if she's right?

“I can stay,” he said. “As long as I can get home before my parents. You know how they can be.” He tried unsuccessfully to smile. She nodded.

“Maybe they'd like to help, too.”

Carl thought about that. He doubted it, but dared not even consider asking. If he did, then they'd know.

Know what? That their son was following the town loony? Is that what he was doing? “I can stay today. Maybe tomorrow. We'll see.”

Mrs. Carboneau's demeanor changed. Perhaps she'd realized the conversation was going on too long. She smiled and Carl noticed she had tears threatening to spill over when she patted his arm again and turned towards the construction. “Thank you, Carl. I really do appreciate it.” She began walking and he followed, a fearful urgency taking hold of him. Before he could say anything, she picked up a hammer from a sawhorse and handed it to him. “Here,” she said, wiping her face with the back of a hand. “Let me show you the inside of this contraption. We're trying to lay out the flooring.”

Something was missing, unsaid. As Carl followed her towards a ladder leading up the side, he whispered, “Um, not that I'm... I mean, if I help, and maybe stay on, not that I know for sure, after all....”

The woman smiled at him from her perch halfway up the ladder. She was, indeed, crying now. Quietly, no sobs, but a steady stream of tears rolling down her cheeks. She whispered, “There will be a place for you, Carl, on the ark.” Climbing up the ladder she said louder, “As long as you climb up here and get to work.”

Carl stood at the ladder's base for a moment, part of him wanting to run, knowing it was too late. Mrs. Carboneau had taken a leap of faith. Now it was his turn.

Though he cursed under his breath, he began to climb the rungs.

49

Father Tim McMillan watched the preacher move like a scarecrow across Christopher Columbus Park. The man looked as if he would blow away in the wind blowing incessantly off the harbor inlet. The park stretched between Boston's Long Wharf and Commercial Wharf, across from the tourist-laden Faneuil Hall marketplace. Wednesday meant rounds at Brigham and Women's Hospital, and McMillan embraced this part of his parish’s patient outreach. He enjoyed getting into the city every week, including a jaunt to South Boston to visit his one surviving aunt, ninety-three years old this coming July.

Being assigned so close to home all these years was a blessing he often thanked the Lord for. There had been a ten-year stint when he'd been the pastor of Saint Malachy's outside of Richmond, Virginia. A beautiful town, a contented parish, and the weather put Boston to shame. Even so, returning to these crowds and cars, curses and diesel fumes was a glorious homecoming.

He wondered how many more trips he could make to Aunt Corinne's nursing home if recent events proved more than mass hysteria. God lived in Father McMillan's heart, always had, and the sixty-seven year-old priest had seen and scoffed at many things. This time, it wasn't some cable-channel evangelist preaching salvation for a donation, embracing doomsday before the paying masses, although these people would emerge soon in great numbers. But they hadn’t been the ones to start this.

Normal people, living their lives one day to the next, holding down forgettable jobs, getting the kids onto the bus, paying bills when they came due. The media, try as they might to elevate them to its own sensational level, could not gloss over the simplicity of life led by most people portrayed thus far.

As far as he could tell, no politician, priest or rabbi, nor anyone in public authority had stepped forward to claim any visitations by angels.

It made sense, in a way. If he were to stand before his parish and claim that the Lord had spoken to him about the flood, most would follow him without question by virtue of his place in their spiritual world.

To follow an average person who had no prior influence save what day-to-day connection they might have, that took true faith.

It was a good theory. One he'd begun toying with to keep his growing apprehension at bay.

There had been no further word from the Diocese since an initial notice emailed to every parish, cautioning church leaders to refrain from condoning the actions of the “ark builders.” The Church needed to be consistent, and careful in its approach to these matters until such time as the Holy See in Rome evaluated the situation. No definite stand should be taken. Since reading the memorandum, McMillan's three calls to the bishop had gone unanswered.

Not that the Church was doing nothing. The Pope had called an emergency Synod of Cardinals and senior Bishops from across the world, meeting this morning within the protective Vatican walls. Like everyone else, the Holy Father was concerned by what was happening and, like every other religious leader, he had to make a decision without the benefit of his own visions. It was an interesting reversal of roles, McMillan thought. The shepherds struggling in faith with the teachings of their sheep.

He pinned his lunch bag against his leg with one elbow and took the last bite of a tuna fish sandwich. The taste was bland (he stopped adding cheese a few years ago to get his cholesterol back in line), but pleasantly filling. He freed the bag from under his elbow and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.

He watched the preacher, who, in turn, now watched him. The realization that he was the one being observed was unsettling. McMillan stood and brushed the crumbs from his black coat. The preacher continued to stare at him, like others tented to do when they noticed the stark black attire of a Roman Catholic priest. He wondered if being a policeman was similar. People acted either guilty or pious around him because of what he represented. He'd known others who could not handle this passive ostracism, an inherent byproduct of their calling. These men recoiled from society, found fringe brotherhoods or left the priesthood altogether.

The scarecrow preacher looked away as McMillan approached, resuming his sermon with renewed vigor. It was only babbling. Here was a man who most likely had received a vision, but did not possess the mental facilities to do much about it. He talked of God's justice, of waiting for the end, misquoting Bible passages like a politician.

He spoke his nonsense lines with such vigor and passion, however, a crowd always milled about. His passion was enough to bring McMillan to Faneuil Hall to seek him out before visiting Aunt Corrine. A number of patients he’d visited today mentioned the “wild man at the wharf.” The news media, especially those trying to downplay the emerging story, devoured the man’s antics with glee. As if to say, “See, folks? Nothing to worry about. Just a bunch of crazies like this guy over here.” Every local story invariably had at least one snippet of footage of the preacher on the wharf. It was just a matter of time, McMillan assumed, before the national networks picked him up.

And thus spread God's word, in its own remarkable way.

When McMillan stood in front of him, the other man looked like he wanted to run away, but never once wavered in his verbal tirade.

“My name is Timothy McMillan. What's yours?” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the shouts. The preacher stopped speaking and looked at him with a sideways glare.

“Do you believe in God, Friend?”

McMillan did not laugh at the irony of the question. “I do, indeed.”

The preacher faced him completely now. “And do you believe he is a merciful God?”

“He is merciful and loving,” McMillan said, disliking the defensiveness he felt. He tried to turn the conversation around. “You haven't told me your name.”

The preacher smiled. “My name is meaningless to the glory of God! To His Mighty Plan!”

McMillan pursed his lips. “Oh, I don't know. God gave us each a name, and would something he gave us be meaningless?”

Why was he harping on names, McMillan wondered. He didn't truly understand what he hoped to gain by talking to this man in the first place. To speak to some who's spoken to God, of course. To be closer to the Almighty, if only vicariously. The same reason the priest had been visiting some of the actual building sites. The couple in Arlington were friendly, unassuming, but fervent in their claims. The retired gentleman in Burlington wearing a blue Little League coach’s jacket who was skeptical of McMillan’s inquiries, asking more than once if he'd been sent by the Church to disprove him.

The preacher paused, obviously struggling with the question. The glint that had flowered in his eyes at the start of the conversation faded behind squinting lids. “My... name is Jack. You -” his eyes widened. “You're a priest, aren't you?”

McMillan nodded, suddenly wanting to leave. What could he learn from this one that he hadn't already gleaned by simple observation? “I am. Not much different than you, in many ways.”

The preacher nodded vigorously. “That's right. I am more so, because God came to me alone, to praise His name and prepare the way for judgment! I am the new John the Baptist, but I baptize the people in God's Word! Anoint them with the truth.”

McMillan pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and casually wiped the man's spittle from his face. “Indeed. And the others who have received the vision. They, too are preparing the way, are they not?”

Jack’s suddenly focused on him. He started to speak, stopped, looked away. He said, in almost a whisper, “There are others?” He sagged, as if his body was deflating. McMillan suddenly understood. This man thought himself the sole recipient of God's graces, thought himself special, unique. McMillan needed to pull him from the hole he'd just been knocked into. He said, loudly, “Others like me, those who preach to the people about truth, of Christ's love, God's mercy. Though I must admit, I have received no vision. I suppose in this manner, you are set apart from me.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, knowing anything else he said would just make matters worse.

As he began to walk away, the preacher turned back to him. “Wait! You've received no visions from God?”

“No more than the silent whisperings with which he always speaks to his flock.”

The skinny man smiled, and whatever force had been lost to him a moment before was back in full. “I am the chosen one. A child in God's eyes, but also His voice.” He began shouting again, speaking to no one in particular. Speaking to himself. “And he demands that we repent our sins and prepare to meet him face-to-face! Listen to me all of you!”

McMillan walked across the park towards Atlantic Avenue. He checked his watch. The bus to South Boston would be pulling in to Haymarket in fifteen minutes.

A young black man stood at the edge of the park, watching the preacher with a calm expression. As McMillan passed, the man said quietly, “That was a nice thing you did just then. Thank you.”

The priest nodded and walked past, then turned to ask how he could have heard from this distance. No one was there. McMillan looked in every direction, but could not see anyone except the same few stragglers continuing to watch Jack as they finished their lunch.

He remained a moment longer, checked his watch, felt a rush of excitement at the possibility that he might have just seen... no. He couldn't let himself get so caught up in this situation that he was looking for angels at every street corner. That road led to madness. He had to make his bus or wait an hour for the next. He whispered, “Your welcome,” to the air before navigating across Atlantic Avenue and merging into the crowd at Faneuil Hall.

47

Carl Jorgenson came back every day that week. Margaret greeted him calmly and without fanfare. Even so, he was skittish as a rabbit. He never said much but his youth and strength were a Godsend. Margaret wondered more than once if that was a literal statement - as soon as the firefighters had trickled away out of fear of reprisals, Carl appeared to fill some of the gap.

The exception was the fireman named Al whose last name Margaret had yet to remember. Former fireman, actually, because of Edgecomb's ultimatum two days ago - the day Al should have returned to work from two scheduled days off. The selectman had “allowed this little distraction” on Sunday, and could not tell the man what to do on his own time, but continuing with when he should have been on duty was grounds for dismissal. Marty Santos pleaded the man's case. The union stepped in to arbitrate on his behalf, but there was little ground for anyone to stand on. On Thursday, Al had shown up with a letter of resignation which he'd quietly handed to the chief; then he gave a slight nod to Margaret and got back to work helping Carl lay down the final cross-hatching for the upper deck.

Margaret tried to read accusation on the fireman’s face, but saw only the same determination. Marty Santos, on the other hand, gave her an angry glare of his own before stalking off.

The rest of that day was distracting. Uncertainty gnawed at her like a slow-working ulcer. Al had quit his job based on what she'd told him. Carl Jorgenson was risking ridicule from his peers and deliberately disobeying his parents. All because of her.

No. Not just her. There were others. Of any miracle or sign that God could have offered, none would be as strong as normal people like herself doing the same thing across the country, across the world. Carl arrived each morning with news reports printed from various websites. Stories from across the United States, Spain, England, South Africa. Everywhere. This morning, she’d glanced at detailed blueprints for an ark someone had loaded onto the web, drafted using crude computer software by a teenaged girl living in Ohio. Seeing this sent a chill through her that was both exhilarating and dreadful. Printed on these pages were the details which still played out in her mind every morning as she prepared the day.

Al l she needed to do was remember that these people existed, and any doubt faded. She wondered why David the Angel hadn't reappeared, but as the first week of building drew to a close, she thought she understood. Another vision would not have had the same impact. All it would serve to do was strengthen any self-doubt regarding her sanity.

There was power in numbers. God knew this to be true. Stand and sing praises in church on Sunday morning and do not question the sensibility of it all. Billions of people across the world would be singing similar songs, hands folded, praising God.

It was Friday, April twenty-second, and her workers (she preferred the term “workers” over “followers” which the media used) had increased in number to sixteen. A large-bellied powerhouse of a man named Dave Whitman, a drop-dead-gorgeous college student name Fae (“Just Fae,” she'd said, and got immediately to work), Tony Donato and his fiancée Jennifer. One of the more interesting new recruits was Jennifer's aunt Estelle. The flame-haired sixty-three year old woman was confined to a wheelchair. She lived with Jen and undoubtedly planned to continue the arrangement with the Donatos after the wedding.

When Estelle originally asked to join, a selfish part of Margaret, one that seemed to be rearing its ugly head more and more, wondered what this wheelchair-bound woman could possibly contribute to the project. Anticipating this, Estelle asked how Margaret was tracking the inventory of supplies, how she ordered and timed deliveries. Margaret showed her the shoebox of receipts and scattered notes, and within an hour, Estelle became the Clerk of the Ark, a title she’d laughingly given herself. The kicker came yesterday afternoon when she circled the ship, taking feverish notes when she wasn't navigating her chair around the obstacle course of wood and tools. She came to a stop beside Margaret, produced a cell phone and said, “You'll be running out of carpenter's glue before lunch tomorrow and we're down to six two-by-fours. Who's our supplier?”

Margaret smiled and ran through the increasingly-detailed image of the finished product in her head. She'd given Estelle the inventory they'd need for the next few days, then pulled her Discover Card from her purse, along with a register receipt from the home supply store, the phone number circled in pen..

“Just keep this and use it as we need to. They've already called twice asking if it's been stolen so they must be used to spikes in purchases by now.” Margaret had found the most recent credit card bill stuffed in a drawer last night. Scanning the details revealed nothing more interesting than a blouse ordered from a catalog and her monthly shipment of nylons. She went online and overpaid the bill with as much as she could spare from her checking account to cover the incoming flood of charges. Since then, she'd transferred more money from savings, tapping half of the money remaining from Vince's insurance settlement, but left some. When, or if, the waters receded, she might need cash. At some point, she would have to withdraw it all and store it shipboard. Of all the minute details the angel had imparted to her subconscious, none dealt with what to do after. All she could do was guess, plan for every contingency. Perhaps Estelle could become the ark's banker when the time came.

The rest of her crew was a mix ranging from a fast food employee to a vice president of an insurance company and his wife. He’d gotten halfway to work yesterday, heard the news on National Public Radio, and taken the next exit in search of the nearest building site.

Al l in all, it was a quietly cheerful group. They worked well together. The old couple who'd come on board Saturday hadn't returned Wednesday or Thursday, but were back this morning. The man was checking for gaps in the latest plywood sections before allowing them to be raised and fastened to the upper supports. These would form the upper portion of the hull, most of which would remain above water if they managed the proper ballast with their supplies below deck. His wife, dutifully performing in her role of Woman Who Follows Her Husband Making Sure He Does A Good Job, had been casting furtive glances at Margaret all morning.

Marty Santos stopped by a couple of times over the week. The fire chief explained he was doing what he could from “the other side,” and Margaret believed him. It seemed whatever he was doing was working, since all three selectmen, Edgecomb in particular, were staying off her back. Each time, she asked Marty to forget everything and join them. Maybe he would; there was still time. He was doing plenty of good where he was for now, she supposed, even convincing the town to assign a police detail during the day, arguing that observers on the fringe were increasing in number. Crowd control might become important, and not only for traffic. Though some of the faces on the north lawn changed during the day, the dark expressions many carried did not. News about the arks dominated the media, thanks in no small part to the dramatic preaching of the televangelist Mick Starr in San Francisco and other, less flamboyant prophets of doom. Those on the outside were becoming restless. A restlessness that might, soon, turn dangerous.

People didn't like to be told they would be dead in less than four weeks.

“Mrs. Carboneau? Mind if I run home for a minute? I glued my pants shut.” Andy was a junior from Carl's high school. His face was a plethora of red freckles under a mane of jet-black, shaggy hair. It was a combination Margaret couldn't ever remember seeing in another person. She found out later from Carl that Andy colored his normally carrot-orange hair “to try and look cool.” Under different circumstances, Carl would likely be doing his utmost to avoid people like Andy. The junior was clumsy, going through that late adolescent stage where his feet were ten sizes too big.

Margaret looked down at Andy’s pants. The boy must have dumped a full brush-load of glue across the front without realizing it. Now his fly was sealed shut, probably forever. She tried not to smile, failed, then laughed out loud. Andy's freckled face exploded in bright crimson, but he smiled, too.

“Of course,” Margaret finally said. “Hurry back.”

Andy awkwardly mounted his bike and, with jerky motions, partly due to his pants being cocooned and partly from the aforementioned feet, set off across the grass. Carl appeared beside her.

“We already had to take the hammer away from him.”

That sent Margaret into a renewed bout of laughter.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Carboneau?”

Another reporter, she knew at once. Margaret had become expert at spotting them, though in this case, the camera and television crew was a giveaway. The reporter approached with one hand outstretched and another already thumbing the microphone switch to “on.”

Carl turned away as soon as he'd seen the camera and scaled the ladder. His parents still believed he'd been going to school all week, though Margaret wondered how they could be fooled this long. She secretly hoped the camera caught him on tape. If anything, it would force him to confront the situation before the inevitable revelation caused worse distress than it likely already would.

She took the reporter's hand and led him away from the construction. The cameraman, a lanky, bald-shaven twenty-something, kept moving sideways to allow a shot with the ark as background.

The interview went much like the other two she'd given over the past days. Margaret had to endure them. Seven days into construction and only half a crew. She needed the publicity. Twenty minutes later, with the news van packed up and out of site down Cambridge Street, events took a turn for the worse.

The steady bleat of a car horn, then, “Carl! Hey, Carl!” More beeping.

At the edge of the square, a black, rusted SUV had parked across from the fire station. A young man in a high school varsity baseball uniform stood outside it, leaning in through the driver's door and pressing the horn.

Carl poked his head over the top of the hull and muttered to himself.

The new arrival shielded his eyes from the early afternoon sun and shouted, “What the hell are you doing up there, man?” Without looking at Margaret, Carl climbed down the ladder and headed for the SUV. Margaret busied herself with picking up scattered debris and putting what scraps she thought salvageable in one pile, tossing the rest into one of the large, green plastic trash cans. She did her best to listen to the conversation.

The visitor’s voice rose in volume, then dropped in response to Carl's hushed reply. Obviously, Carl’s call to the coach about not being well enough to play yesterday had worked as well as it could have. His teammate seemed genuinely shocked to see him here.

Carl's voice became louder as the conversation progressed. At length, it ended with the owner of the SUV yelling obscenities and Carl reciprocating with his own.

The car roared away, oblivious to the police station next door. The lone policeman on common duty followed its progress down the road, waiting with one hand on his radio while the car turned onto Cambridge Street. It did so slowly, without the expected squeal of tires.

The policeman took his hand from the radio and looked at Margaret, shrugging his shoulders in a defeatist gesture.

Carl stormed back to the ark and climbed up the ladder without speaking. Margaret didn't push for an explanation. She looked at her watch. Three-thirty. He had time to cool off before heading home and not telling his parents about school.

By four forty-five, Andy had returned with a new pair of pants and people were making end-of-day motions. The sun was curving behind the fire house as Carl climbed down the ladder. He brushed away a thick layer of sawdust from his jeans, being meticulous to get all around himself. Still, the smell of it permeated his clothes, and his tee-shirt clung to his muscular chest. Every other day, he had left an hour early to run his clothes through the laundromat down the road. He'd then take the cleaned clothes, crumple them up and toss them into the hamper at home.

A great plan. Margaret could tell he hated doing it.

“That was Max who came by earlier,” he said. “The dude in the car.” He gestured toward the road.

Margaret nodded.

Carl's half-hearted arm gesture was frozen in place. He continued staring across the grass.

“Carl?” Margaret followed his gaze.

A woman sat in a Honda and stared through the open driver's window. If such a thing were possible, Margaret would swear she saw the air ripple between her and the teenager.

“Oh, no,” Carl said, barely whispering.

The woman in the car looked on the verge of tears. She began to say something, stopped, then pulled from the curb without looking. Fortunately, there hadn’t been another car coming. Margaret watched the Honda’s window slide soundlessly up as it pulled away, and turned on to Cambridge without slowing amid the blare of car horns and the squeal of brakes.

Margaret looked quickly at the policeman, who was talking into his walkie-talkie. He caught Margaret's gaze. She shook her head. The man looked up the road, back at her, then sighed and said something else into his radio.

Carl stared off into space.

“That was your mother, wasn't it?” Margaret said.

“Max. Max must have told her.”

“He has her work number?”

Carl's forehead wrinkled in confusion. “No. Aw, no!” He shouted and turned to grab his stuff. “No,” he said, “but the coach does. “

He stormed across the grass to his car parked at the furthermost corner from the ship. Margaret ran after him.

“Carl, wait!” When he didn’t respond, she grabbed his shoulder and shouted, “Wait!”

Carl stopped. He was breathing hard, panicked. Margaret knew she had only a few seconds to say what she needed to. “Carl, don't talk, just listen; then you can leave.” She lowered her voice, “And leave slowly. The cop back there is itching to give someone a ticket.” She moved between him and his car.

“When you get home, they're going to ask you why you're here. You know that as well as anyone. Before they ask, you need to know what your answer will be.”

He looked at her, disbelief mixed with rage. “You want me to lie?”

“On the contrary. You need to tell them the truth. The question is, do you know what the truth is?”

He started to reply, hesitated, the meaning of her question slowly sinking in. She pressed, “Carl, you've been such a help to me, to everyone. You've come here every day and haven’t complained about anything I’ve asked you to do. The outside of the ark is only a few days from completion, and a lot of that is because of you. But listen!” She raised a hand to stifle any objection he might offer.

“Not since you arrived have you spoken about why you're here. When you face your parents, you know what they'll say. And when they say it, it might be with all the force - and love - they've ever mustered. Do you believe God wants us to build this boat?”

His expression went flat, as if the words had a physical impact against his face. “I.... I mean....”

“I.. I mean... isn’t going to answer your parents' question. I don’t know them, but I have a feeling they're good people. Are you willing to stand before them and explain that there will be a flood in forty-seven days and the Lord does want to save us and that you want them to join us? Or are you going to back down?”

“I don’t understand why - “

“Please, Carl, believe me. You've been avoiding this long enough. Before you get home tonight, even if it means taking the long way and grabbing a Big Mac first, you have to know where you stand. Not where I stand. Not Andy. Not even your friend Max.” The mention of that name sent a new wave of emotion through the boy's face. “What you believe, Carl. God loves you. He loves your parents. He loves the world and wants to save as many people as possible, believers and non-believers alike. Whether He’s causing the flood or not, He is in control and you have to be on the ark when it happens. I haven’t preached to you before and I won't tomorrow, but I will now. Believe or don't! But do it before you face the very people who love you the most, or you'll fall under their faith instead of your own.”

Margaret forced herself to stop. She moved a step sideways, and without speaking gave her student a clear path to his car.

Faith .

Carl seemed to be mulling the word over, though probably not for the first time. This was the moment he must have known was coming. It was time to decide what faith was, what he really believed.

He only nodded and walked across the common, fumbling in his jeans’ pockets for his car keys.

*     *     *

Connor bit down joyfully on the teething ring, never taking his eyes off his mother. Holly knelt before the baby’s walker, watching his toes bounce up and down, barely reaching the carpet. She could tell he was aching to walk. From the steady stream of drool down his chin it wouldn't be long before the first signs of teeth emerged, too. Then what, she wondered? She would have to wean him off breast milk and onto the bottle. Clay would be the first to agree with that. For some reason, the sight of her nursing irritated him. He'd made her buy infant formula last week, but she hadn’t used it. He didn’t press the point, but it was only a matter of time.

Connor was always, it seemed, a sore spot between them. Clay was distant with the baby, never taking much more than a passing interest in him. Connor often reached up for him as he passed, only to lower his arms in disappointment. Though he had never said as much, Clay assumed the baby wasn't his. Whenever someone commented that Connor looked like his father, Clay grunted a half-hearted acknowledgement and changed the subject. He assumed, as she did, that the child was Brad's. Brad versus Clay, a decision Holly had been forced to make when she learned she was pregnant. At the time, Brad was moving to the Midwest for six months of basic training in the Air Force, and she was afraid to leave Clay, let alone for having gotten pregnant off a one-night fling with a football jock.

She wondered what would have happened if she had confronted Brad with her pregnancy, if he'd have taken her to Oklahoma with him. She wondered that often. She’d never know. Besides, Connor might be Clay's son. Anything was possible. But she didn't believe it, and neither did he, though he never mentioned the other man. Denial was one of the few things Clayton Griffin was good at. So Holly stayed. She had a home, and a boyfriend. Not a husband. It seemed likely that Clay would drag his feet on that matter until the end of time. As long as some doubt remained, he was satisfied with their common-law arrangement. After all, he'd argue, in California you didn't need to make anything “official”. Wait long enough and it happened automatically.

Wait long enough, and you can see if your son looks like you or that guy who used to work at the Ready Gas.

“Play time's over.” Clay was standing behind the walker at the entrance to the kitchen. “The least that baby sitter of yours can do is get supper going before she leaves, since all you ever do when we get home is play googly-eyes with him.”

Holly offered her son a quick smile, as if to say it's okay; Mommy and Daddy are just talking. She looked up. “We pay Dot half of what a day care charges and she doesn't complain. The last thing I'd ask a friend to do is cook for me.”

“Well, then, get moving.” Having said his piece, Clay turned towards the kitchen. Then he paused. His eyes scanned back and forth along the floor as if trying to remember something. Holly’s mouth went dry, but she forced herself to swallow. There was more he was going to say, and when he hesitated like that, it meant the subject was one he'd been thinking about for a while. Holly didn't like it when Clay thought too much.

“What?” she asked quietly, wanting to get it over with. “What's wrong?”

He looked at her sideways, and she was grateful that she was currently out of swinging distance. “You've been talking to the Jesus freaks again.”

She shrugged, hoping to let forced nonchalance mask her apprehension. “Well,” she said, “I guess so.” Then added quickly, “But just for taking orders and stuff. Nothing personal.”

He turned back to face her, filling the entrance to the kitchen. “You trying to tell me they're not asking you to join them?”

“No, just buying stuff.” As soon as she'd said it, she felt heat flush along her neck and saw the change in his expression. She'd blown it.

He took a step towards her. “Lizzie said she heard you talking with that guy from Soledad, the one who's too chicken to use the store in his own town. Said you were asking him questions, not the other way around.”

Holly fought the urge to stand, move away from Connor in case Clay got rough. She stayed put, not wanting to look defiant. “Well, I don't know. It's all kind of weird. I might have asked him some stuff, but I always talk to the customers.”

Two more steps. He loomed over the two of them. His face was red. When he spoke, it was with control that looked out of place on him. Maybe the baby-walker in his path was the cause. She instinctively put a hand to its food tray. The baby reached for her fingers.

“You,” Clay began, “will not talk to those people. You will not talk to them.”

Slowly, carefully, Holly stood up and moved sideways a half step away from Connor. She heard his teething ring fall to the tray with a thud but kept her eyes on the man in front of her.

“Do you believe any of what they're saying?” she asked softly, the voice she used in pre-explosion moments like this. “Isn't it kind of weird there's so many people saying it? Maybe they're not crazy. Maybe -”

“Maybe they're not crazy,” he repeated in a child's taunting manner. Bad sign, she thought. “Maybe, maybe, maybe. You telling me you've had dreams like them, too?”

She shook her head. “Oh, God, no. Not at all.”

“Oh, God no,” again in that voice. “Maybe they're not crazy, but God no, not me. I'm not crazy!”

“Clay, don't - “

He stepped forward until there was only an inch between their faces. “It's a fake. It's all a fake. I know one hundred percent that it is, and you just listen to what I say and do what I say.”

Holly could tell Clay was clenching and unclenching his fists. She felt her muscles tighten, preparing for the inevitable. The baby bobbed up and down in the walker, trying to navigate closer to his mother.

He continued, “Don't be thinking too much about all this, and don't be asking stupid questions. I'll know. I'll know and you know what will happen then, especially if you think you can just saunter over to some psycho town like Greenfield or Lavish and shave your head and chant at the airport selling flowers!”

He wasn't making sense, but neither was he calming down. “I won't, Clay. I promise.”

“Because if you try to leave now, leave me with this kid, or even take him with you, I'll find you and - “

He stopped. Eyes darting back and forth. His words, if you try to leave now, played over in her head. It was a strange way to say it.

“I won't. I promise. I was just curious.”

“Yeah, well, curiosity... well, and all that. Don’t forget I’m your boss, too. If I have to fire you, I will.”

She held her palms up before him. “Clay, please. I already said I won’t. We need both incomes; you know that.”

Her spoken acknowledgement of his power over her, even if most was in his own half-hearted self-ego, released some of the fury he'd been building. He sighed, a lengthy dry expiration that offered hope. Holly dared not relax. Not yet.

“You just remember that. No one in this house is going to be chasing angels around in public. I mean it.” His voice was quieter, the calm after a storm passing overhead but not quite breaking.

She bent down and lifted Connor out of his walker. “I'll get some supper going,” she said, and walked past Clay into the kitchen. Holly didn't begin shaking until she was past him and safely into the other room. She heard him flop onto the couch followed by the television’s tinny voice. As fast as possible, she got Connor into a high chair and got him a few Cheerios to gum down, then went to the far corner of the kitchen, out of sight from the living room, and waited for the shaking to subside.

*     *     *

Carl Jorgenson did stop at McDonald's on the way home and bought a large Diet Coke and a couple of tasteless Fajitas. He ate them slowly, as the engine idled in the parking lot. Eventually the meal, and time, ran out. He could either go home to face his Mom's wrath (and likely his father’s - Dan Jorgensen would have come home a half hour ago unless he'd been delayed at work), or drive back to the common and hide. Reluctantly, Carl backed from his parking space and pulled out of the lot, turned right, headed home.

His parents were waiting. In fact, as Carl stepped in through the kitchen doorway, his mother had her jacket on and Dan was looking resigned to whatever direction his wife was going. She was about to head back to the common, Carl realized. Whatever his decision in the parking lot had been, he understood that avoiding this moment would not have been possible.

Sarah stared at her son for a long moment, her face tight with rage. She said nothing, only tore off her jacket and stormed from the room. She disappeared around the corner to the living room and Carl heard her sit angrily in one of the chairs.

Dan stared at his son, his face a mix of concern and irritation, something Carl had seen on the faces of the spectators around the common.

“Hi,” Carl said. He dropped his keys onto the counter, then regretted the act. What if his mother tried to hide them? She might do that. He remembered the spare key in his wallet and felt less exposed. He left the keys where they lay.

“Carl,” Dan said. “There's a lot we need to talk about, but it has to be said together, as a family.” He turned and followed his wife's path into the middle of the house. “Let's go,” he added, without turning back.

*     *     *

“All week? You've been there all week? Why hasn't the school called?” All of the blood in his mother’s body had raced to her face. Still, she remained in her chair. His father had taken a spot on the side of the couch closest to her, but not so as to make it look like an us versus you setup.

Carl sat in the other armchair. He'd told them everything. It was the only plan he could think of. All week he'd lied, made up quirky little stories about school or practice whenever they'd asked, enough to quell any fear they may have harbored about something dark lurking under the covers. If he lied now, however, they would know. They were looking for lies.

“I called the school the first three days,” he said quietly, hands folded between his knees. “I didn't call yesterday or today.”

“Why not?” his father asked.

“I don't know. Maybe I wanted them to call. They didn't, though, did they?”

His answer succeeded in pulling his mother out of her chair. Dan lightly touched her arm. She stopped but remained standing. His father said quietly, with a growing irritation, “Let's stop bantering about with trivial nonsense. Carl, why didn't you tell us? Why did you have to sneak behind our backs like this? If you felt some responsibility to help your teacher, we could have - “

“We could have told him again to stay away from that loon,” Sarah spat. “That's why he didn't tell us.” She began to pace in front of the couch.

Carl stood up. “She's not crazy!”

Sarah stopped and looked at him. “No, a middle-aged woman who sees angels and builds a boat in front of the fire station is not crazy. Not at all.”

Carl squeezed his hands together behind his back. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with his mother. “Mom, I love you. I really do. But aren't you hearing the news? She's not the only one! They're all over the place. People are suddenly building boats in their front yards, facing others like... people who think they're crazy. Why would they do this if it -”

“Is that it? This is some new fad, the cool psycho stunt to pull? Let's build an ark and yell Halleluiah, God's a comin'!”

“Sarah, that's enough.” Dan patted the cushion beside him. “Sit. We're a family having a conversation about something that's important to Carl, and being sarcastic isn't going to help.”

For a moment, Carl felt hope. His father's voice had been reassuringly calm. But there were other, subtle signs that someone outside the Jorgenson household wouldn't notice. The vein on his father's neck, pulsing quickly; the man's tight-lipped expression when he wasn't talking. He wanted to believe that his Dad's anger was towards Carl's mother, but he couldn't afford such illusions.

Sarah sat back down on the couch. Dan looked at his son. “Carl, we don't want you to be out there with Mrs. Carboneau. There's not much else to say.”

Carl felt the wind blow out of him. There was no discussion. His father had calmed the woman down only to turn and lay down the law, as if his son was still nine years old and had to obey without question. All he could manage to say in reply was, “What?”

“You heard me. Maybe you think you're doing the right thing; maybe you're even a little afraid of all the stuff she's saying. But you'd have to be blind not to realize that everyone in town thinks she's a little crazy, along with anyone who might be down there helping. We'd rather you not be part of that.”

Heat filled his stomach; his chest tightened. Carl tried to remember what Mrs. Carboneau said to him as he left the common, but all he could picture was her set expression, her total seriousness, not the words themselves. She wasn't crazy. She was frightened, much like his parents but for different reasons.

Then again, maybe they were all scared of the same thing. He didn't look up when he said, “Dad, Mom. Do you believe what she's saying? About the flood, I mean?”

“Absolutely not!” His mother's answer, quick and with no hesitation.

Carl looked up. “Dad?”

Dan said, quietly, “No, Carl. I don't.”

“I do. I believe every word of what she's saying.” His mother squirmed in her seat and Carl raised his hand. “Hold on! I don't get to have my own say? Is that it? You haven't talked to her! You didn't see the fear in that lady’s eyes. Yes, it's fear. She doesn't want to be out there building a stupid boat! She was ordered  to!” Now he was standing and pacing, and suddenly his parents seemed very small.

“I'm going back there tomorrow, and the next day, and I wish you'd both come with me because I don't want you to die! Please come with me before all the spots on board are taken.”

Dan Jorgenson didn't look small any more. He slowly rose from the couch, giving his wife a gentle push on the arm as he did so. Sarah remained seated as her husband stepped forward. “Don't you think,” he said quietly, rage burning behind his own eyes, “that this might be some new form of doomsday cult? That come the final day you'll all be on board and forced to drink poison, or simply be shot dead? It's happened –”

“Oh for God's sake, Dad! These aren't religious fanatics. They're housewives, fathers, regular people like us! They're not going to hurt anyone. They're trying to save us! God’s trying to save us!”

Dan took another step closer. “You're not going back there.”

Carl forced himself to keep eye contact. “Yes, I am.”

He saw the man's fist as an after-image which vanished a moment after it connected with his face, before the room faded quickly to black.

46

“Tell me, Doctor Ramprakash, will the world be around in forty-six days?” Bernard Meyers grimaced and added, “Hoo, boy! Let's hope this coffee isn’t.”

The director put down the styrene cup with two fingers as if it was covered in filth. He meant the comment lightly, but Neha felt a knot turn in her stomach. She'd been less affected these past few days by the increasing news reports, since she and Suresh had come to an agreement. The morning after the fight, Suresh found her still in the study, asleep in the chair. With sleep, restless and uncomfortable as it was, came the ability to deal with her husband. Seeing his concern, his true love for her as he knelt in front of the chair, her tears came easily. They had been comforting, and useful.

Neha had fallen into her husband's arms that morning, like the starlets in the countless Indian films they enjoyed, pouring out her heartfelt but controlled apologies for her earlier reaction. This seemed all Suresh needed to pull his wife to him. But Neha could not leave things open-ended. With sobbing drama, she begged Suresh not to follow the dreams, to maintain things as they used to be. How frightened she was, for him, for what others might think. She was careful not to fall into specifics of her own reputation, but kept her concerns directed towards him. They had built so much, she explained, had so many plans.

Getting him to agree, to look in her drying eyes and promise that he would put her before anything else, was a prize she carried with her through this week. He'd kept his word, not bringing up the subject unless she initiated the discussion. Which she did, twice, in order to gauge his response. Thursday night she was home in time to watch the six o'clock news. As she expected, there was continuing coverage of another ark, this time in a North Andover back yard. She sat, feet curled below her, nestled against Suresh's chest and asked, “Have you had more dreams?”

He had actually stopped breathing for a moment. She felt his heart speed up against her ear. Then he slowly let out his breath and said simply, “No. No, I haven't.”

He’d been lying, but more than that, she heard such sadness in his words. Sadness because at that moment, curling tighter against her husband, she knew that he would ignore the dreams, respect her wishes. Respect their growing place in the world.

Sitting now in the hospital cafeteria with her employer, Neha took a sip of her own coffee and made a contented noise. “Better than the stuff in the ER. I don't believe they've cleaned that pot since they bought the coffee maker.”

Bernard Meyers smiled at the comment and nodded. Still, he didn't touch his own cup again. He cut a piece of pork chop, chewed methodically, and only after swallowing said, “You didn't answer my question.” Spoken causally, no accusatory tone. “This whole thing about a new Great Flood is rather odd. Have you been following it?”

Neha smiled, thinking of Suresh. Knowing that he would keep his word gave her the confidence to be frank. “I can’t really say. I have been seeing reports, and it does seem to be a global phenomenon. Hard to believe this many people, spread across the world, can be part of some major conspiracy.”

“Then you think it's legitimate?”

The sharpness of his question, the fear she could almost smell beneath the older man's skin, told her what her answer must be. She smiled, took a bite of potato, and said, “No. No, I don't. This may be on a bigger scale, but I can't accept this as being anything different than that cult who thought God was an alien coming to get his people in the tail of a comet.”

Meyers said nothing, merely cut a fresh piece of meat and chewed. He looked across the tables in the cafeteria, at nothing in particular. “My wife, Linda, said pretty much the same thing.” Bingo, Neha thought. He continued, “I don’t know. You're both probably right. Weirder things have happened in the world.”

Neha felt brave, and said, “Name one.” She held her breath for the reaction.

Meyers laughed, a full, relieved laugh. “Called to the rug,” he said, still smiling, and cut another piece. “Of course, there's that story I heard this morning about flocks of birds migrating east all of a sudden. Experts are blaming the growing pollution levels on the west coast. Normally, environmental ditties like this don't catch my attention, but with the boats going up and all.” He shrugged.

Neha felt a tightness in her belly. Hearing about abnormal behavior of any sort these days sent her into a panic. Meyers didn't seem to need a response, however, so she did not provide one. Too much risk of exposing weakness.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The cafeteria was crowded, though the official lunchtime had passed an hour before. Twenty-four hour food service was one of the nicer perks of working for a large hospital. The director had called Neha in for her second consult that week - this time a teenager complaining of stomach cramps. The invitation to offer her opinion on such a simple diagnosis spoke volumes, and she recognized the opportunity of a few one-on-one minutes with her employer. Moments like that, and this subsequent late lunch, pulled her out of the general flock and into Meyers' eyes as an individual - a physician the man knew personally.

His next question, after swallowing his last piece of meat, proved the point, more than Neha could have dreamed possible. As he slowly gathered the trash together on his tray, a silent signal that lunch was over for both of them, he said, “Listen, Nee. Linda and I are hosting a small dinner for some folks from the hospital on Friday. It's nothing fancy, just a chance to get to know some of you better over food that's only a slight improvement over what we've just had.”

I doubt slightly is the right word, she wanted to say, but was too dumbstruck to speak. Instead, she raised her eyebrows in as casual a look as she could muster.

Meyers, obviously sensing her shock, continued, “We'd love to have you and your husband join us. What is his name?”

“Suresh,” she said, proud for not spitting food as she spoke. Meyers stood. Neha quickly gathered her own things, careful to toss a rumpled napkin over the rest of her lunch so it wouldn’t appear she'd cut her meal short because of him.

“Grand,” he said. “Eight o'clock. I'll have Elizabeth get you the directions.” Elizabeth Valdecci was Meyers's watchdog administrative assistant. Neha would have to go to her in person for the directions. Email, even in this age, was a rare thing for doctors. They just didn’t have the time to use it, and though Elizabeth Valdecci could email easily enough, she demanded people come to her in person for information.

She followed close behind Meyers as they dumped their trays at the cleaning station and pushed through the doors into the hall.

He said, “I assume this flood business will only get more interesting by then. If I'm not mistaken, on Friday there will be only forty days until the Big Day, according to those people.” He smiled as he said it, but Neha thought she detected a slight hitch in his voice. She knew at that moment that the dinner would be an excuse to surround himself with “unbelievers”, comfort his own doubts. She’d just passed his test with flying colors.

At that moment she thought of Suresh, and felt the hallway tip. She forced herself to walk steadily alongside Meyers, but excused herself as soon as possible.

*     *     *

Carl Jorgenson lay on his back. His bed, always a bastion of warmth and comfort, had never seemed so uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that he'd rather be anyplace but atop it. Over the past twenty hours, Carl had been a prisoner. He'd sat, lain or slumped against every piece of furniture in the room. That was, when he wasn't pounding on the door and cursing through the wood. At one point his mother shouted back that he could scream all he wanted. He was staying there for his own good and she'd knock him unconscious herself if he didn't shut up.

Carl knew she meant it. Though his father was the one who'd acted so rashly, Carl knew his mother wasn't far behind. He'd continued to curse them but in a quieter voice, almost daring his mother to try and stop at least that small revolt. Carl soon learned that his silence grated on their nerves more than his earlier ranting, so he hadn't uttered a word since waking up this morning.

Somehow, they'd managed to lock him in. There was no mechanism on the door. He assumed his father had shoved something in the gap between door and jamb, perhaps run a rope between the outside knob and something a lot sturdier down the hall. Regardless, turning the knob now was almost impossible against the unseen pressure outside, and pulling inward had no effect.

More than once throughout the night, Carl had thrown open the window and seen his father sitting on a folding chair two stories below. Even if he could jump down without breaking his neck, he'd likely land on him. If either survived intact, a fight would undoubtedly ensue. So far, at least, Carl wasn't ready for that. Not that he wasn't just as big, but his father still had that mental edge a parent held over a child. When he woke up this morning, he wondered if the night’s events had been a bad dream. Then he touched his bruised face, and a renewed anger welled up. He'd been sucker-punched by his own father. Whether or not Dan Jorgenson was down there waiting, regardless of the danger of the fall itself, Carl was going out tonight. His parents couldn't expect to keep an eighteen year old, a Varsity athlete at that, locked in his room for long. Could they?

His left eye throbbed at the sound of his father's footfalls from the hallway. Sounds of grunting. Dan was obviously working on whatever he’d used on the door last night. Then a clink of coins. Eventually, the door opened slowly, and his father stood looking at him with eyes that likely hadn't seen sleep since he'd knocked his son unconscious. He looked very tired, and just as sad.

For a fleeting moment, Carl understood what must be going through his father's mind, how someone would go so far to protect their child.

Then he blinked, the bruised eye twitched in pain and any pity for the man was lost.

Dan said, “You can leave, if you really want to.”

Carl stood slowly, but stayed beside the bed. Maybe this was a ruse. His father's face was sunken with exhaustion. Carl didn't think he had the energy to lie.

“Why would you let me go now?” Carl said.

Dan walked to Carl's desk in the opposite corner of the room and sat. The chair creaked. “Oh,” he said, then sighed. “For a number of reasons. Mostly because it seems every major de-programming group is backed up three weeks with this ark-building crisis. I suppose, had we known what was happening earlier, we'd have gotten on their list before the rush.” He laughed, a slight, breathy sound. “But we didn't know sooner, did we?” He rubbed his eyes.

Carl clenched his fists. How dare this man act like he was some kid getting into fights at school? How dare he patronize him like this?

“I don't need re-programming,” he said. “I think you know that.” He wanted to say more, but knew it would be pointless, perhaps re-ignite his father's refusal to let him go. Carl needed to be free, and starting a new fight wasn't going to do that.

Dan looked across the room, and almost began crying. Carl watched him suck his lower lip into his mouth, perhaps even bite it, before finally saying in a quiet voice, “I love you, Carl. We both do, more than you ever can know. Part of me wants to leave you here, somehow, anyhow, and wait the three weeks to see what they can do about getting to the root of what's happening. The other part of me knows I can't leave my son locked up like... an animal.” He cried then, briefly. Just a sound, a suppressed cough, then a quick spurt of tears. “I'm sorry for hurting you, Carl.”

Carl moved to the center of the room and looked at his father. He played the man's words over in his head. The unreal quality of the past day welled up like a tidal wave in the room. His father kept transforming into some unknown creature, a stranger. Was this what being a parent was really about, pretending to love and care for your son, until he does something you don't like?

“Carl?”

Until the day comes that you show him how much of a jerk you really are, and you beat him up?

“Carl! Stop it!”

Beat him and lock him up like a dog?

“Carl!” His mother's voice, behind him. She grabbed his arms, and with a strength that belied her size pulled him backwards to the floor. Carl landed against the foot of the bed, saw a piece of a long-lost sock covered in dust beneath it. He stared at it, only the sock, not wanting to look back across the room.

“I'm fine. Sarah, get off me, I'm fine.”

“I think he... oh, Carl, I think you broke your father's nose! Look at me! Look at me!”

Slowly, he turned and looked at his parents. His father half-sat, half-sprawled on the floor in front of the desk. Blood was pouring from his twisted nose. He tried to stem the flow with a crimson-soaked handkerchief. Carl tried to remember what had just happened, but the past couple of minutes were a blur, just a clear image of a sock in the dust under the bed. His mother looked alternately from her husband to her son, but said nothing more.

What was there to say? The calm, happy life of the Jorgensons was gone. Carl knew it. His parents had accepted it the moment Dan knocked him unconscious last night.

“I'm sorry,” Carl whispered, still struggling to remember doing that to him. “I'm really sorry.” He stood up, walked past his parents to the bureau and pulled out a handful of clean underwear and socks. He opened another drawer and shoved whatever jeans, shorts and shirts he could hold under one arm, then walked out of the room.

No one tried to stop him. Nobody spoke. The keys to Carl's car were still on the counter in the kitchen. He backtracked to the front hall long enough to slip on a pair of loafers, then went outside to his car. He'd deliberately parked in the street last night, in the event he needed a quick getaway. This wasn't the escape he'd imagined, but he was grateful he didn't have to call upstairs and ask them to move their cars so he could leave. As he walked down the path into the street, he felt the pain in his eye and his bruised fists. Their sensation was all-encompassing.

45

The traffic in the center of Lavish was thankfully light, which was to be expected so early on a Sunday morning. Easter Mass wouldn't start for over an hour, but Margaret planned on attending, and getting there early. Partly for herself, but mostly for the girls. They had jumped into their mother’s surreal project with an acceptance only children could muster. She knew they needed to sit in the quiet majesty of God's house, at least one time every week to hear, and understand, that he is a good, loving being. An hour to step away from the anger, the occasional derisive remark tossed their way from the spectators and sit in a mini-world where their beliefs were accepted without question. No reporters pulling their mother aside and constantly asking Why? Why are you doing this? Why?

The angel David returned last night, in a relatively good mood. In that backyard dreamscape, she’d felt like a child, craving the approval of a parent, of someone in authority. It was a nice change since, during her waking hours, she was cast in the role of leader, foreman, even prophet.

In the dream, David explained that although things were quiet now, they would become more heated.

“As the time draws near,” he said, walking beside her in a yard much too big to be her own, “those who choose not to follow God's word will react in different ways. Out of fear, some will come to you. Others will laughingly point out to anyone who will listen - and there will be many - that they are right. These people are the majority, but not the ones you must be cautious of. Rather watch for those who observe quietly, nursing an anger borne of the fear. 'Who is she,' they'll say, 'to tell me I'm going to die? Who is God to frighten us like this?'“

He offered a faltering smile. “You've done well to keep things calm, Margaret. The Lord will not deliberately test your faith. He's done enough of that as it is; don't you agree? But giving his people free will means they react in different ways.”

They'd begun walking back towards the house. As in the other dreams, there was no moon, but the stars shone brilliantly overhead. “We're approaching the time when it will be forty days before the appointed hour. There will be one final sign to those who balk at the faith of others, and need something more tangible to shake them into action.”

“A sign?” Margaret's voice sounded so harsh, so human, compared to his. As if this night was for the angel alone.

David nodded. “That's right. Forty days before the appointed time, rains will come. You need to be prepared. This will only be one final sign to the people. It will not last. It’s an obvious parallel, but sometimes the crowds need the obvious thrust under their noses in order to accept.”

Now, in the bright sunlight of morning, Margaret tried to understand what David had meant. If there was going to be a flood, why wouldn’t it last? Al Hawthorne – she'd finally broken down and asked the fireman’s last name – was checking Estelle's latest inventory list against what lay scattered in piles around and inside the ark. Estelle herself, along with her niece and soon-to-be-nephew had not yet arrived. They attended the Methodist church in Greenfield, and wouldn't be on-site until after lunch. Margaret had suggested to the group, which was bigger since yesterday by three people (that is, if Carl ever returned), that anyone belonging to a parish, be it Protestant, Catholic, Jewish or Islamic, attend their respective services this weekend.

Katie and Robin scooted about the common in a game of look-for-the-missing-piece whenever Al was unsuccessful locating an item from Estelle's sheet. The old couple who'd been with Margaret from the start walked slowly towards her. The man kept his gaze towards the ground. His wife kept a constant hand on his shoulder.

Margaret met them halfway.

“Good morning, Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said. “I'm glad you're here. We need to talk.”

Uh oh , Margaret thought. A bit too formal. “Is everything all right?”

The man nodded almost imperceptibly. His wife said, “Well, no. Not really.” They were near one of the many scattered benches, and without speaking further, they moved to it and sat.

“What wrong?” From the furtive look the man gave her, and the fact that the woman began with the old catch phrase, “Well, where should I begin?” Margaret knew her crew was about to be reduced by two.

*     *     *

Jack felt a new energy, unlike any other day since his ministry began. His purpose was clear. He was the disciple of God and God's angel had given him the responsibility of passing on Heaven's warning. A sign, the angel Michael had said, a sign coming soon from God for all to see and heed. A sign so plain and obvious that soon the crowds would flock to him at this chilly park along the wharf. The days had begun to warm significantly, even with the constant breeze blowing off the brackish Boston Harbor, but the nights had been too cold to preach. Now the heat of so many believers hearing his word would allow him to preach day and night.

Eight o'clock, the sun down long before, but the lights from Faneuil Hall and its associated Marketplace cast a glow among the leaves in the trellised walkways of Christopher Columbus Park. Not all of the lights lining the park shone; some had turned off. A select few were programmed to burn all night. Soon, when the weather turned warmer, his church would be constantly illuminated. He walked along the damp cobblestone walk, unconsciously scratching at the worn cast on his right hand, reaching for an itch under its surface. He sang tuneless praises and stopped at one of the concrete pylons along the path, marking the border to the main road beside the hotel. The lights were bright in the marketplace across the street. People milled in and out of the shops which faced the avenue. Many of the glass storefronts were closed, but those that remained open offered overpriced clothes and chocolates, toys for rich kids to squeeze from their mothers only to toss neglected and unused in their rooms two days later.

Of the crowd, most were college students in this early season, rushing out to see the sights they'd avoided during the frozen winter. Now they emerged to spend and flirt and talk. The mating ritual of the young.

Jack stared across the road and watched one couple walk slowly from the lights, hand-in-hand. She, of the long blonde hair falling over her ankle-length black coat, teeth perfect, visible even from Jack's vantage point, looking at her companion with desire. The boy was built big, a sportsman, but moving in a gentle, slow gait.

“Gentle,” Jack whispered, seeing another face, so different from this one save the natural beauty. Dark complexion, long, braided, black hair, brown eyes staring into his with the same love and warmth and lust and friendship which the blonde girl so freely offered to the boy. A choir of angels around them singing praises as she smiles and says, “I do....”

“Praise God! For he has chosen the instrument of your deaths!” Jack squinted away the image and focused on the strangers across the way. He stepped up onto one of the cement pylons, balancing his feet on either side of the rounded top like a miniature version of King Kong on the Empire State Building. The wind whipped behind him, tossing his loose shirt in the gust, exposing his pale skin to the passing headlights, forcing him to balance, to forget. As he yelled, his chest contracted, revealing ribs, giving him the look of a skeleton in the pale hue of the lamps.

“He has shown me what will come! He has told me of a sign which He will cast down upon you all, so you can understand for yourselves that this is no false prophet you see before you. On the fortieth day, He will pour the rains upon your heads!”

Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing the new Mr. and Mrs. Jack and Anita Lowry! Music playing, Anita’s face glowing beside him, and flowing across the banquet hall’s floor and... No!

“Come hear God's plan for all of you! If you do not listen, then you will die without His saving hand! You will drown clinging to the side of the boat! I - “

He faltered, wondering what boat he meant, thinking of the priest last week, trying to remember what was said. It didn't come; too many other images clinging to the side of his memory like hands on the rails of a ship. Other moments, a picture on the paper he'd seen through the grillwork of a newsstand. Others and more others, still. He tried to regain his train of thought.

Across the street, the couple had slowed their sojourn and were now watching him. The boy had taken a step back towards the shopping area, holding the blonde's arm between them like a bridge. For a moment, Jack's gaze met the girl's. She smiled. He reached out.

“Come, please, and save yours –Ah!” His foot slipped. Jack stumbled from the pylon, his shin connecting with the concrete. Just as quickly, he righted himself and tried to ignore the pain, staggered to walk it off. “Forgive me, Lord, for doubting you,” he shouted to a sky partially obscured by the artificial lights around him. “I have sinned, and yet you still believe in me!”

He looked across the street, thrust both hands into the air, in her direction. “Please! How can you ignore this! You must listen. You must fall to your knees and beg God for forgiveness before it all ends. You must be purified and redeemed in Christ's blood, born again into the mercy of His light!”

The girl pulled herself free and walked to the edge of the road. Jack hesitated, unsure what to say next. She kept looking through the flashes of headlights running through the river of Atlantic Avenue, her face soft, caring, darkening to that other vision, that other face, his bride, his love, squeezing his hand while a man Jack should know raised a glass and spoke and no… and no and this is not true;  please stop  – .

The boy ran up and laid a hand on his date’s shoulder. Jack squeezed his eyes tightly shut but opened them when all he saw was his brother – the other, he does not remember – speaking. When he opened his eyes, the girl was hesitating at the edge of the road. Of course, he realized, she’s pulled by God's words, by the Truth.

A tractor-trailer roared by and blocked his view. When it had passed, the girl stood on the island separating the north and southbound lanes. The boy shouted something to her from on the far side – a scream as the best man raised the glass to his lips , a roar and the world shook and lurched. The ceiling buckled the same moment as smoke tore into the hall from –

Jack stared at the girl's face, urging her on with the words which God had planted upon his lips, reaching her soul and pulling her while he shook his shoulders violently, trying to cast away the demons attacking him from behind with false memories.

The boy started across, stopped as a car raced by, swerving, sounding its horn. The way for the girl was clear now and she ran across, stopping as soon as she reached the concrete pylon which had been Jack’s earlier pulpit. The boy finally crossed over and moved to her side.

“Do you believe,” Jack said, never taking his eyes from her soft face. The blonde hair fell forward and she pulled it aside. “Do you believe that God loves you and wants you to be with Him in Paradise when the rains come?”

“Let's go, Kim,” the boy said, and grabbed her arm.

“Release that Child of God and repent your evil, or God will destroy you where you stand!” Jack felt a rage he did not understand. At the boy, at the faces on the television screen that first dark day of his Awakening into this new, confusing world, faces long dead staring at him in grinning conquest... no, it was the Rage of God. The power of Jesus Christ surging through his veins towards this unbeliever. His thoughts were making no sense, the images were of the Devil, he had to focus!

The boy's scowling face mirrored Jack's mood. “You want to make me, Bonehead?”

“Sam, no, stop.” Kim’s voice was quiet, calming, still loud enough to be heard above the traffic. “One second.”

She fished through her coat, removing items and stuffing them into her pants’ pockets; then, she removed the coat altogether. The wind coming over the hill behind them from the harbor, the breeze of the passing cars and trucks, fought to carry it away. Jack felt something stirring within him, seeing such beauty taking off her coat.

God, forgive me. I am a sinner. I do not want to feel this way . He straightened. “God is love, and power, and is forgotten by all. He wants to be heard.”

“Come on, Kim! What are you doing?”

She stepped past the pylon and held out the coat. “Here,” she said. “Take this. I can get another one, but I want you to have this.”

“Oh, for the love of...” The boy reached around and tried to take it from her. She moved enough to keep her arm extended beyond his reach.

“Take it. It's cold out here, and you'll catch pneumonia.”

Jack looked at it. All sound around him faded; all was silence. The coat was thick, rough textured and heavy. For him. She was giving it to him. He reached out, not taking it away from her but feeling its coarseness on his fingertips.

The boy reached around suddenly and ripped the coat from her hands. Before Jack could react, the coat sailed forward and covered his face. “Take the stupid thing. Is that what you want? There, he has it now. When they fish his drunken corpse from the harbor tomorrow and the coat’s ruined, don't whine to me. That's where it's going to end up, you know. On a bloated corpse, like all these people end up, stinking up our water.”

Jack screamed and pulled the coat from his face but it was too heavy, crushing him down, pressing him into the earth. Where was his wife? His family? His world? Too heavy, pressing harder, no sound now, no hand in his, no hand no hand only a hand no hand.... Jack whimpered, blinked away the pain, saw the boy holding the girl’s arm. Her perfect skin buckled and stretched beneath his fingers.

“You're hurting me,” she said, and pulled her arm free. “You're such a jerk!” She looked back at Jack. “It's yours. That's all.”

“Bless you,” Jack said, shaking, still able to stand upright. But the memory of the crushing weight lingered, and the pain, of his heart. He looked at the boy, forced himself to focus on the present, on the true world. Again the images on some forgotten television mounted to a wall above a bed, smiling, evil. He was speaking before he could stop himself, “And may God condemn you for your sins. May your skin blister and burn for eternity for your cruelty to so many innocent people....”

The boy hesitated for a moment, confused, then his face burned red in the street light and he straight-armed Jack in the chest. The world spun; he saw the lamps, then the stars. He hit the ground, came up facing the direction of the open-air restaurant at the end of the wharf, illuminated but deserted this cold night. He almost walked in that direction, forgetting what had just happened, wondering where he should stand, wondering if he should find the shelter where he'd been staying the past two nights. He suddenly couldn’t remember how to get back there.

But when he stood up, something shifted under his feet. The coat looked like a gutted animal, bunched up as it was, and he remembered. No, he did not remember; there was nothing before, nothing but darkness and pain. He was free now.

“I'm not going back!” the girl's voice yelled. “Not until I know he's okay.”

Jack spun around. The boy was standing over him. He reached out and caught Jack's ears, one in each hand. Jack kicked and pounded the other's arms with his fists, ignoring the cast. He had no strength. “I am God's messenger! He will destroy you all - ah!” The boy twisted, pouring liquid fire into Jack's head. Everything went black, then blinding daylight, something too large moving off his chest, painful lights, someone screaming “Over here!” but the pain in his chest was too much as the concrete slab was rolled away and his head flopped sideways to see a hand in his own. Jack screamed.

“Let him go! All right! I'll leave; let him go!”

Once again Jack fell to the sidewalk, but only from his own weight, the weight of the world blown away in a moment, taking everyone to a better place but leaving him to whimper and suffer for his sins. ...I need to focus, I need to preach...

“About time,” the boy said. Jack couldn’t speak, couldn’t move except to look up in time to see the boy take the girl’s hand. She looked back towards him, her body obscured by tears filling his vision. Without looking in either direction, the boy pulled them both into the road. A car blared its horn and the couple waited until it passed; then they ran together across the street.

Jack watched them turn past a light post. The girl never looked back. He waited for her to do so, waited with an uncomfortable yearning to see her face again, her eyes. Then they were gone. Jack fell sideways and cried, and cried, face bathed in tears that washed the hurt away in small streams falling to the cobblestone walk. No one came; no one noticed him curled beside the pylon. After a time, it ended. He was empty, and cold. He stumbled to his knees, then used the pylon to pull himself upright. The coat was still there. He picked it up, gathered it in his arms. He turned and walked, slowly, almost painfully, into the night-shadowed park.

*     *     *

“How do you have it?”

“Black.”

Margaret handed Carl the mug of decaf coffee.

He took a tentative sip, then said without looking up, “They're good people. They just panicked. That's...” he took another small sip without finishing the sentence. “They just panicked.”

Margaret sat on the opposite end of the couch. Though the night wasn't cold, she'd lit a fire in the underused fireplace, and hoped the last cleaning six years before was enough to prevent a chimney fire. There weren't many California houses with fireplaces, but she'd always equated a comfortable home with one, having grown up in the Midwest. It seemed appropriate to light a fire tonight, give her new guest a calm environment.

Carl's left eye was a thick swell of blue, a smear of yellow along the edge of his temple. It was an obvious sign things had gone wrong. When he hadn’t returned on Saturday, she assumed the Jorgensons needed time to work things out among themselves. There was a chance he wouldn’t return, but that possibility seemed remote to her. When Margaret returned to the ark from church with the girls, he was there. They noticed his eye. He never explained completely what had happened, even when Katie and Robin insisted, but he did allude to the fact that his parents would “pretty much do anything” to keep him away from the project. He’d slept last night in his car, parked in a far corner of a supermarket’s parking lot.

The thought that Carl’s father, Margaret had assumed it was his father, had punched his own son... it filled her with a lingering sadness. Not so much for Carl, but because she understood what his parents might be going through, the desperation to take things so far.

Like the earlier episode with Robin, terrified that her friend Crystal would die in the flood, how much more did Carl now fear for his parents? After what had happened, he probably didn't feel much sympathy. But the angel David's words came back to her, how those on the outside would think of her as the days progressed. Those who did join her and the others, did so knowing they were leaving everyone they loved to die.

Margaret and Carl sat in silence, watching the fire and sipping their coffee. The house was quiet. Margaret routinely disconnected the house phone after nine o'clock. If any of the crew needed her, they used the cell. Most nighttime calls were cranks, offering detailed instructions on the best route to hell. She'd gotten good at bowing out of these discussions gracefully, usually earning only two or three repeat calls. Though one legitimate call might mean a new volunteer, as it had for the college student Fae and the pot-bellied David Whitman, they could simply call before nine.

Katie and Robin had fallen asleep two hours ago. The days spent running among the construction had one advantage - the girls never objected to going to bed when they got home.

“So they're not coming back?” Carl asked, speaking of the old couple who had bowed out that morning.

“No. In a way, I guess I understand. It's like we're all on the Titanic, and it's only just sinking in, no pun intended, that the ship's going down. I guess they feel keeping their family happy is more important than staying around a few more years. At least that's how they phrased it.”

The woman had explained to Margaret that her children and grandchildren had begged and pleaded with them to “stop this nonsense” and stay home. They pointed out that Margaret’s “gang” was taking advantage of them, vying for their meager social security checks. The woman assured Margaret they did not believe their family’s fears, even if her daughter had seen it once on Sixty Minutes. Happened all the time.

Happened all the time , Margaret mused. Sure. Every year, thousands of people get a message from God and start building arks on their lawns. The couple had to choose between living out their final years alone, knowing their children were dead, or living a lie for a few more weeks in the graces of home. They chose the latter.

“God knows what's in our hearts, Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said. “Certainly you don't think He would forsake his children simply because they weren't on the boat at the appointed hour? Besides,” she took Margaret's hand in hers, “what we'd be doing is giving up two spaces for someone with more to look forward to when the waters recede. I like to think God will take that into consideration when the time comes for us to be judged.”

At his wife's words, the man looked up and nodded. This apparent sacrifice should have filled Margaret with wonder, but she'd felt a strong trepidation. Why, she couldn't say. But their sacrifice made her uneasy. She relayed this all to Carl, hoping the unspoken message would sink in. If his parents chose not to join them, maybe it didn't mean they were lost forever. Everyone had a chance for redemption, up until the final moment.

Margaret's coffee was gone. The fire was still going strong, though it was only a Sterno log and would burn itself out in another hour. “We should probably get some sleep.” She rose and gestured to the couch with her empty coffee mug. “There's a bed that unfolds in there. I'll bring out some blankets and a pillow, and there should already be some sheets around the mattress - if you don't mind them being wrinkled.”

He smiled, but made no motion to get up. “Thanks, Mrs. Carboneau.”

She almost asked him to call her Margaret, but caught herself. Best to keep things formal between them. Bad enough his parents would be on her case soon enough for stealing away their son. Calling her by her first name would be enough to start all sorts of rumors flying.

As she wandered over to the closet for the pillow and extra blanket, she thought about Marty Santos. He had feelings for her, or at least she suspected he did. These past few days, he'd been distant. Likely for his own sake - Selectman Edgecomb was never too far away. She wondered why any of it mattered. After Vince had died, she decided she'd never remarry. It might have been an impulsive decision then, but why was she pondering any of it now? Especially now?

As she returned to the living room, she watched Carl, who in turn was staring blankly at the fire. The teenager looked older in the dying light, pushed further towards maturity than he would have liked.

After she said good night, Margaret brushed her teeth, closed her bedroom door and changed into a nightgown. She crawled under the sheets. Not since the months following her husband's passing had the bed felt so empty. The thought was a dangerous one, so she ran the schematics of the work yet to be done over in her mind, and eventually fell asleep.

Carl continued sitting on the couch after Mrs. Carboneau closed her bedroom door. His arms, legs, head felt as if they’d been emptied, wrung out like rags then filled with Play dough. It was exhaustion. The eye still hurt, but not as constantly as last night. His right hand, bruised and bloodied on three knuckles, shot pain every time he flexed it.

He was tired. The remnants of the anger he’d felt when leaving his house –  perhaps for the last time – kept him too much on edge to want to sleep. He was getting a headache from staring at the fire, so he looked around the living room. From the side table, Carl picked up the two magazines lying there, having to move aside a black book that lay atop them. The first magazine was Woman’s Day. Not one he’d ever considered before, but nevertheless, he leafed through pages that sported cheesy baked potatoes and chocolate cakes, headlines like The Diet You’ve Been Dying To Avoid. He tossed it back onto the table and considered the second, Christian Parenting. He wasn’t a parent, so back onto the first it went.

He should try to sleep. He found himself staring at a bulge under the magazines. He lifted Christian Parenting and pulled out the black book he’d moved aside earlier. He read the spine for the title.

Oh.

Carl tried to remember if he’d ever held one of these in his hands before. On the few occasions his family had gone to church – usually Easter and Christmas – the church used some kind of mini-version called a Missal. But this... this was an original. He flipped the pages. The print was small. Still, somewhere in here, maybe, was the secret of Mrs. Carboneau’s faith. Some kind of explanation for how she could so willingly do what she was doing. Maybe this book could even answer why he, himself, could so willingly do what he was doing.

Carl was tired. He was edgy. Until these two opposing forces could work some compromise, he opened the Bible to a random page and began to read.

43

Suresh Ramprakash had not been visited by the deva since last week. Whether the spirit, who never offered his name, was truly one of the countless denizens of heaven called angels, or Krishna himself, did not matter. The visit had felt final then, that within the dream that was not a dream, he had to make a decision. Choose forever: action or inaction.

He had to decide while in the deva's company. This was no fancy. These events were shaping the future, forming history for perhaps the next twenty-five thousand years, as when Krishna first stood with Arjuna on the battlefield. Suresh was chosen, standing in a place much like the grove of his childhood though cleaner, more open than true memory. Suresh felt this mystic world calling him, and knew he could not turn from it. The angel forced him to turn and face the curved and naked shape of Neha sleeping on the starlit path before him, one arm cast beside her and partially hidden by a tree. Her body was perfect. Suresh swelled with admiration and love.

“Is it truly love, or lust?” said the deva. “The rajo-guna of your faith has two faces, rage and lust. Is true love having this woman's adoration and respect, or merely the occasional touch, the feel of her skin on your lips, the joining of your bodies?”

The spirit spoke frankly, not with judgment but simple curiosity. Suresh had thought about the question, walking forward in the grove and kneeling beside Neha's body. He touched her arm, warm, dark, glistening in the dewy starlight. He did want her, physically, yes, but that was not all.

“I do love her,” he whispered, finding his gaze drifting over her body but returning always to her face, the curve of her jaw, the soft blanket of lids over eyes that were full of fire when awakened. The visitor from heaven said nothing, but Suresh felt him watching.

Suresh stood then, and looked away from his wife. The mango trees swayed in a slight wind, rustling their leaves in whispered song. It was beautiful here, as beautiful as the sleeping form behind him. More so, perhaps, but he loved Neha and that was enough. “I do love her,” he repeated softly. Then, with more conviction, “Action rightly denounced brings freedom, does it not?”

The deva said nothing at first, his face soft and radiant but without emotion. He looked past Suresh, apparently at the woman, then simply nodded. Before the dream ended, he said with the same, indifferent tone, “Truth, rightly denounced, also brings untruth, does it not?”

Suresh awoke, rolled over to look at his wife in this real, tangible world. She was not there. Of course not, he realized. She was on duty until eleven that morning.

That had been last Thursday, and when Neha had later inquired about his dreams as they watched the evening news, watched the story of those who had not turned away from God, he lied and said the visions had stopped.

It felt as though her question was in fact the deva speaking through her, asking one more time if he would repent his decision. He did not, breathed easier knowing he was trading one responsibility for another. One truth for another. Whether or not this other was a lie, as the angel implied, did not matter. He’d made his decision. It was enough.

Now, he turned right off of Massachusetts Avenue. The lunchtime traffic, even in such a residential community as Arlington, was heavy. The old historic city was a major pass-through between the congested Route 128 traffic and the back roads into Cambridge. Still, as he pulled from the main thoroughfare, skirting the center, he thought there were still too many cars. At a red traffic light, he checked the map he'd printed from the Internet, outlining the neighborhood. He'd have to cut over to Route 3A which eventually led back north to the highway, but break off before the town line onto a small road named Macomb Street. From there, he had only one more turn and he would find what he was looking for.

They would be back in this area on Friday, he and Neha, further up Mass Ave in the wealthy suburb of Lexington. They'd been invited to attend a dinner by Neha's employer. An older man from the way Neha described him. She had clearly stressed the importance of the upcoming event, and had been gracious in not asking him more than a couple of times to refrain from participating in any discussions about the “Flood People,” unless he was asked pointedly. He agreed. She seemed content with his promise. Neha acted as if her husband’s earlier visions never truly happened, that perhaps it was she who dreamed the whole thing.

The light turned green. Suresh followed the traffic until it stopped at the next light. On his right spread a massive cemetery, so many headstones he wondered how they found room. He stared at the markers, at the grass only beginning to shimmer that brilliant new green which he and Neha so loved about this country. Spring meant joy for people and plants alike.

There would be no more. Perhaps not all of this would be destroyed; perhaps the forces behind the pending deluge would only prune, snip away the overgrowth like a woman tending her garden.

The horn of a car jolted him from this reverie. Suresh jerked his car forward. Already the gap between his and the next leading car was enough to make the Dodge Ram behind him try pulling around. Heaven forbid us to have open space on the road, Suresh thought, and pressed the accelerator to close the gap. The Ram was forced to move back into its place, but not without a flannel arm stuck from the window with the official Boston salute.

Macomb Street was on the left. All but two of the cars ahead of him turned that way, waiting for those coming south to also turn in. The Ram blared its horn again, but Suresh assumed it was directed at the entire crowd of cars this time. After a few minutes, and an appropriate gap in traffic, Suresh pulled his Chevrolet onto Macomb. Two things became obvious. He was not the only one with this particular trip in mind today, and if he was going to get back to work this afternoon without using up a vacation day, he would need a new tactic.

He checked his map, glancing quickly at the cars ahead to be sure he wasn't driving into someone's bumper. His destination wasn't far. Suresh pulled the sedan into the first open spot by the sidewalk and turned off the engine.

It was a nice day. He could walk.

As it turned out, he'd chosen well. The closer he came to his destination, the fewer parking possibilities remained. The sidewalk ran along the tree-lined road, heavy roots occasionally pushing through asphalt. The leaves neared full bloom, casting him and the other walkers in a soft, luminous green. The constant smell of car exhaust, though not eradicated, was greatly reduced here among the old neighborhood homes. The smell of cut grass was life, cool, always moving. He walked by a rose bush. Two yellow bees emerged to fly about his head, offered their obligatory warning, then buzzed away to continue feeding.

The houses were mostly shingled in yellows and browns, perhaps due to some unwritten town rule, or perhaps to cover the slow deterioration of the homes they adorned. The house with the rose bush was vinyl-sided in a powder blue. It stood out from the others in an embarrassing social faux pas.

He walked at his own pace, yet moved faster than the cars traveling the narrow road. The houses were bigger on this street than where he’d parked, by a small, but noticeable, margin.

It was a calm neighborhood, peaceful.

The crowd on the sidewalk grew more congested. Suresh had to bend and twist to pass some of the slower walkers. He was still five houses away, curving around a thick-trunked tree which was inexorably tearing itself free from the sidewalk, when he saw it.

The ark's frame was massive. The walls were curved planks and, from what Suresh could tell, perfectly aligned. Round holes had been roughed out in the sides, near the upper deck. Portholes, perhaps?

The bow was raised, by what he could not yet see, so that its prow pointed at the sky, waiting for the rain to come.

Suresh slowed his pace, waiting for those in front to move, following them, feeling part of a herd, or a log floating downstream, bumping into obstacles but continuing forward. How many people were here today? A hundred? Two? Not that many, but it did not take much to fill the sidewalk.

When he reached the front of the neighboring property, the ship didn’t seem as large as he’d first imagined. The front yard on which it rested was roomier than most, since many of the other houses were set close to the street to create more room in the back.

The ark stood at a diagonal away from the house, the bow cresting over the short, chain-link fence. Suresh continued forward until the front of the ark was overhead. He reached up into the yard, over the waist high fence, and could just touch the wood, rough, covered in a thick layer of dried glue.

The instructions the deva had given him played out in his mind, though the angel had mentioned using plywood, and this ship was plank and beam. Solid. The builder must have been fortunate to know something about shipbuilding.

“Makes you wonder how a nice boat like this could have been built by such a raving lunatic, huh?”

Suresh lowered his arm quickly and turned towards the speaker. The man was taller than himself, and massive in the shoulders. He wore a tee-shirt under an open blue Mobile Service work shirt, the faded name “Bill” on the breast. His curly red hair was matted down on one side.

Suresh nodded and looked back into the yard. “It is,” he agreed. “So big for such a small yard. I wonder how they bring in supplies, with so many cars.”

Bill looked up and down the road, hands in his jeans pockets, and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe they got all their supplies ahead of time.” He laughed. “'Cause they sure ain't getting deliveries now.”

Suresh looked about the yard and tried to distinguish among the crowd, milling within and about the vessel like ants next to an anthill, who might have been chosen, who might have seen what he had seen.

“I wonder who is the one who had the dream,” he said, to himself more than the other man.

“That one,” Bill said, pulling his hand from a pocket and pointing to a tall man in overalls. The tall man was speaking with a woman while pointing to something on a clipboard. “Name is Craig Johnson; used to work as a clerk at City Hall in Waltham. Then one night he goes nuts and starts building this thing. Says God told him, but I guess you already know that.”

Suresh looked back and realized Bill, like himself a moment before, was talking more to himself. The man's face was screwed up in concentration, as if trying to remember something important.

Suresh said, “Have you been here before?”

The mechanic bit his lip for a moment, let it flip free, and said simply, “Yep. Pretty much every day.” He looked at him then. “I just like to see how they're doing.”

“Hmm.” Suresh nodded and looked at Johnson. The tall man looked up from his clipboard, waved to them; then to Suresh's surprise, gave the clipboard to the woman and began walking in their direction.

“Oh, Man,” Bill said, “here were go. He keeps trying to convince me to join his little band of merry nut-heads.”

But you still come , Suresh thought, every day. Craig Johnson was stopped by a teenaged boy who obviously needed an immediate answer to something.

Someone yelled from further down in the crowd, “Hey, Sid, you moron!” The teenager looked up, his face flushing red; then he mouthed a curse and stormed back up the ramp.

Craig Johnson whispered something, apparently to the speaker in the crowd, and looked back towards Bill.

No , Suresh thought. He's looking at me. Why is he looking at me? Not once did Suresh consider that his dark Indian skin might stand out among the predominantly winter-pale Irish and Italian faces. Or perhaps it was something else; the way Johnson held his gaze a moment, a flicker of recognition. But that was absurd. Suresh wouldn’t have spotted him if Bill hadn't pointed him out. Would he?

Johnson walked the final steps towards the fence. Bill muttered, “Hey, Craig.”

Craig turned, as if having forgotten the man was there. “Hi.” Recognition smoothed his expression. “Bill, right? Nice to see you. How does it look? Care to see the inside?”

“No,” Bill said, a little too loudly. Still, he stayed where he was. Johnson turned to Suresh. “Nice to meet you. My name's Craig.” He extended a hand.

“Crazy whack jobs.” It was the voice who'd spoken to “Sid” a moment before, calling out from the crowd. “All of you. Friggin’ sick loons!”

Johnson's hand was still extended. Suresh took a step back and muttered, “I need to get back to work.”  He looked at the mechanic. “It was nice talking with you, Bill. Good luck. You should go with them. It's the only way you will live.”

The mechanic looked confused. Suresh began to work his way back through the crowd. He knew that if he didn’t leave then, Bill would have been obliged to offer some retort to save face within the faceless crowd.

When he looked back, through the bobbing heads moving in the direction he'd just come, he caught Johnson's gaze a moment, before the man turned and spoke with the red-haired mechanic.

A bottle sailed into the air, probably from the invisible speaker. Something spilled from the open top, curving in on itself as the bottle spun and bounced off the side of the ark.

Suresh moved away as fast as possible against the flow of people. He heard Johnson bellow with rage, the rattle of the chain link fence. Was he climbing over, going after the person who'd thrown the bottle? Was he coming after Suresh, seeing him as one of the “chosen?” Maybe that man’s angel had known he was going to be coming today. Wanting to stop him from choosing his own path.

Suresh wanted to scream, wanted to run down the road, past his car, down into the throes of Route 3A, propel himself into traffic and let it all end. Shouts from behind him, a fight breaking out.

The world will fall apart before the first water falls from heaven , he thought.

The crowd thinned as he turned onto Macomb. When no one grabbed his shoulder from behind, Suresh began to calm. He thought of his wife's face.

Neha . A goddess's face in a world of mortals. He thought of her smiling - smiling at him. He would think of Neha for the next forty-three days, and no one else. Nothing else. Nothing but Neha.

41

Jack had not returned to the wharf since the incident with the boy and girl. Each time he considered going back, a deep sadness filled him. Already, he had trouble remembering what the girl looked like. Sometimes her face was a lustrous pale, at other times a smooth chocolate under the nighttime shadows. Details of those moments became fuzzy, indistinct. He tried to hold onto them, not wanting the image of her to slip away like the rest of his life. But it did. It always did.

Other things came back, sharp jagged pieces of the past. These lingered longer. Jack wondered if someday he would remember everything. He hoped not. He would make sure of it, dive into the sea of God’s word and die when the time came. Die and leave the intrusive memories behind forever.

The coat had been a blessing from the Almighty. He wore it, always, and for a while the next day he smelled the girl, felt her love and warmth surround him. Holy Mary, Mother of God, who had come to him in a vision made flesh. Come to clothe the naked and feed the hungry. Amen, amen.

It wasn’t Mary who had come to him later that night, though. The angel Michael found him, lost in the upper corner of an overpass. Michael who'd chased the lingering rats away, led him along dark streets to the doorstep of the Back Street Shelter. The man who'd answered the door knew Jack's name, so it must have been the right place. He'd been here before. The bearded man asked nothing else.

Jack would return to the wharf tomorrow. His mandatory chores at the shelter were done. The men’s bathroom was clean, at least cleaner than he'd found it. After Jack had dished out the mashed potatoes for dinner, not touching any until everyone else had been fed, he found a place at one of the tables in the open hall and ate his own meal. Warm, good food. Clothe the naked and feed the hungry. Amen.

Jack stood outside, now. The night sky was clear, from what he could see in the open rectangle above the alley. It was warm tonight, but it was always warm now that he had Mary's coat. When he was taking a nap that afternoon, on the cot he'd been assigned, Michael visited him in that long ago dream place and reminded him of his duty, of the sign God promised to the world.

The power of God had been temporarily doused away by whatever had happened to him these past few days, but now the inferno raged. As soon as he'd finished his dinner, Jack had stood upon the bench and told his new congregation God's plan.

“Tomorrow, the rains will begin! Tomorrow is fourteen days until God's judge-”

“Forty days,” the old man beside him corrected, between spoonfuls of corn.

Jack did pause then. That correction was important. He continued, “Forty days until God's judgment!” He did not look down as the old man with the corn giggled. “Behold the rains as they fall! Behold the Power of God!”

He'd managed a few more lines before the man who ran the place, Rick, his name is Rick, gently escorted him off the bench and explained that he was to refrain from preaching inside Back Street.

“Save it for the wharf, Jack.”

Jack had been shocked at the statement. “You... you know of my ministry?”

Rick laughed and led him outside, to the alley where, per house rules, folks had to go to cool off. He lingered outside with him and said, “Jack, the whole city knows who you are. You're actually kind of famous.”

“Famous?” The word felt like glue in his mouth, vile and putrid in its connotation. “I've done nothing but preach - “

“Preach God's word; yes, I know. You don't think the news folks were visiting you just for kicks, did you? I saw you once myself, on Channel Five news.”

The fire in Jack's soul ignited. “Praise God.”

Jack didn't know how long he stood in the alley after Rick nodded and went back inside, but now his legs were stiff.

A flame flared across the alley. A face Jack recognized behind a cigarette which licked the fire and burned red at its tip. The face was pale, hidden in the shadows and behind greasy strands of hair, eyes staring across the short distance.

The kid from the hospital. Jack had forgotten him, as he'd forgotten most everything. Except for Michael, taking him down in the elevator. Not flying out the window as he'd hoped.

“I hear it’s gonna rain tomorrow,” the kid said. White smoke burst from the shadows and drifted lazily towards him. Jack inched a little closer to Back Alley's door. The kid said, “I ain't gonna cut you up, if that's what you think.” He began to whisper a tuneless song, “Ain't gonna cut you up, no baby, ain't gonna cut you up.”

Jack said nothing. The long-haired man took another step forward. Smoke drifted lazily from his mouth when he added, “Do you know who I am, Jack?”

Jack whispered, “From the hospital.”

The kid smiled again. “I’m more than that, my friend.” Another step. “I figure that Other Guy has been having all the fun lately, so it's time for me to step in. You see, Jack, I’m the devil.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “No, you’re not.”

The kid paused halfway through his next step, lowered his foot. “Oh, yes, Preacher Man. Haven’t you wondered where I’ve been all this time? While the big guy upstairs is having all of you running around like chickens with –”

“You’re from the hospital,” Jack interrupted. “You’ve come to me so you can hear God’s word.”

The other took a quick drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke into Jack’s face. “No. I am the devil!”

“No, you’re not. Praise Jesus.” Jack was still smiling. The smell of the cigarette played across his face. Jack wondered when the last time was he had one of those. Maybe a butt on the street, but nothing to light it.

“Want one?” the kid asked, seeing where the preacher was looking.

Jack nodded.

The kid was in his face, holding the cigarette out of reach. “I only got one pack, friend. You trying to steal Satan’s stuff?”

Something recent in Jack's mind turned over. Someone hitting him, someone turning his ears. He growled, a low, rumbling sound.

“Hey, Man, be cool, I'm not -”

“Ahhhhhhhhh!” Jack grabbed one of the kid’s ears with his left hand and squeezed. He stepped forward. His right hand couldn't compete with the cast on his wrist, so he settled on pressing it against the long-haired, greasy head. The kid stumbled backwards, one arm still held outward so as not to lose his smoke. Before he hit the far wall, his knees buckled and he went down.

Jack towered over him, twisting his ear. The kid whispered a scream, the pain in his head overwhelming the common sense to make as much noise as possible and bring help. He slammed the lit end of the smoke into the fabric of the jacket, aiming for Jack’s hand but missing and hitting the arm instead.

It had the same effect, however. Jack let him go, stepped back and patted at the burn mark, sparks of red and yellow where the burning tobacco had lodged into the fibers. Even after the smoldering was extinguished, Jack continued to pummel his sleeve, picking at fibers to be sure they weren't going to start back up. To save the coat given to him by Mary.

Al l the while, the kid knelt, prostrate before him.

Jack stopped, at length, and looked down. The kid looked up, then quietly asked, “Is it gonna rain tomorrow?”

Jack took a moment to collect himself, then finally said, “Yes.” He was panting.

The kid smiled again, chuckled softly. “It better not, my friend.” He rose. Jack kept his place, afraid of losing his advantage, however brief. The kid took a couple of steps away down the alley. He looked back, then was gone, lost in the darkness around the corner.

Jack’s heart hammered in his chest. Had the kid just threatened him? Couldn’t be. He was proclaiming God’s word. He patted his left hand fingers against his right sleeve, feeling the cast beneath, fearful that the burning would spark back up. The coat no longer smelled like Mary. It smelled like cigarette, and burning fabric.

He turned for the door, intent on pouring water over the mark before he forgot. Michael was standing just to the side of the door, his black skin cloaking him in the shadows. The angel looked down the alley, and when he turned back to Jack, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m thinking I should probably spend more ‘quality’ time with you. Full time, I mean. What do you think?” The angel laid a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe get you a soda or something while you’re preaching. Keep you out of any more trouble.”

Jack smiled. The angel was with him always, and would not let anything bad happen. “He...” Jack nodded back down the alley. “He wasn’t really –”

“No,” Michael said, laughed and changed appearance, just a little. For a moment, he looked more human than Jack could remember. The blessed angel coming to Earth to help God’s children see the light. They walked together back into the shelter.

He'd said something about getting a soda, too. Jack remembered that. Amen.

40

The clouds began forming later that night, rolling out from various points across the globe. Many of these had been expected by the forecasters. The initial reports were of no concern.

“Rain starting this morning, ending by mid-day,” said the meteorologist in Providence, Rhode Island.

“Rain starting late morning, possibly continuing into tonight,” said the woman to her audience in San Francisco. “Tomorrow should be sunny and warm, in the high seventies in the Bay Area, mid- to upper-eighties across the bridge.”

“Clearing tomorrow.”

“Clearing tonight, mid-sixties tomorrow and partly cloudy.”

The reports from the Midwest began as “Sunny all day, but with a chance of a storm front moving in along the jet stream....” to “Looks like a storm is brewing from the west, and rain should be coming in tonight....” to “Well, everyone's wrong one time, ha, ha; the clouds are building now, and rain is expected...”

“Rain is expected...”

“Rain today, maybe into tomorrow, depending on when this massive storm front moves off.”

Within the various weather bureau offices, meteorologists were not smiling. There was no camera to broadcast their fear to the millions of homes across the country and the world. Phones rang from every desk and coat pocket. Inboxes filled as one regional office emailed questions of those in other arenas. Weather-related internet sites could not keep pace with the sudden changes, nor with the surge of traffic coming their way from people wanting answers.

Few associated the weather with the sudden, sporadic loss of cellular service in many phones, or the flickers of digital static on cable television stations. One man did notice these occurrences, however, and they worried him greatly.

By nine o'clock in the morning, Eastern Standard time, April twenty-ninth, the weather experts stood at their desks or those of coworkers, looked at large screen radar maps in central tracking stations, watched with growing horror the former high pressure areas push out to sea. In their wake, low-pressure symbols dotted computer-enhanced maps. These low-pressure zones appeared like ghosts over the next hour, having no valid reason to be there.

White images on the satellite broadcasts spread like milk over a kitchen table. Meteorologists stared at the screens, felt their stomachs tighten.

Over every land mass, the digitized images of clouds grew, confirmed by satellite photographs. Every ocean and major body of water was smooth, untroubled. The low-pressure over the land squeezed in, held in place by the wall of high-pressure atmosphere stalled over the seas.

As the color images changed from white to blue, the people in the weather bureaus became the first to understand what was about to happen.

God was preparing to wring these phantom clouds out over his people.

*     *     *

Resolute Bay isn’t the end of the world, but you can see it from here . The words were printed on the front of Greg Nessun’s tee-shirt, currently buried by a thick wool sweater and insulated Canada Goose parka. He’d purchased it at one of the few shops and co-ops on his first visit to this small Arctic town and wore the shirt every time he traveled here from Quebec City. Usually, no one got a chance to see it. Greg shoved the long plastic compass into the deep pockets of his coat and glanced at the signpost in the center of town. Montreal, 2082 miles read one of a dozen placards jutting from the pole. Formerly only a weather station and military base, Resolute Bay was now home to an ever-changing population of scientists living amid the two hundred-plus Inuit natives who called this land their own. In past visits, the sense of magnificent isolation the distance marker implied gave Greg a boyish sense of adventure.

Not today. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not for another two years. But MIRP was having a nervous breakdown, and it was Greg’s job to investigate. Over the past week and a half the Magnetic Information Retrieval Program had been trying to keep up with the north magnetic pole’s declination – the amount of shift of magnetic North across the Canadian Arctic and away from true North – what everyone not in his line of business called the North Pole. The magnetic pole always shifted, slowly and invariably, southwest at a steady, predictable pace. It has been doing so since the Earth’s formation, eventually readjusting itself to a more northerly locale only to begin a new, slow trek south. Over and over, ad infinitum.

Why, then, in the past few weeks, had observers begun to report extreme and sudden shifts above the usual one-percent-per-decade declination? If reports were to be trusted, and they have been in the past, the last two weeks revealed a shift of almost nine percent. An anomaly, nothing more, but one that triggered the call from GSC chief Francois Gourmond and Greg’s hastily-made travel plans. An anomaly, yes, but one which happened often enough there was no need for panic.

So here was he was, three years early, at the northernmost point of Canada to which commercial flights still dared travel. Greg needed to take his own measurements, find the pattern, and calm the growing mania that something more was afoot than a simple shifting of the planet’s molten core. The media hadn’t caught on to this newest development, but it was only a matter of time. Every day they searched out new angles and rumors, loose or non-existent, to connect with the Great Flood frenzy around the world. When the Geological Survey of Canada picked him for this trip, it was almost a relief. In a town where the primary objective was simple survival, imaginations rarely got as out-of-control as the rest of civilization.

He walked brusquely down Main Street towards Maheba’s Grille –one of a myriad of clustered pre-built square structures huddled a few hundred yards from the bay’s frozen shoreline. Nothing was pretty here except the landscape, not even the two hotels in town. Everything practical and strong, like the people, built to withstand the harsh, unrelenting winter always swirling around the Cornwallis Islands. Nothing out of place that he could see in the now-constant daylight around him, masked at the moment by the heavy cloud cover of a typical Artic storm blowing in since the weather began warming to a balmy negative ten Celsius. Just another day at the top of the world.

Nothing more.

He pushed through the door into the heat of Maheba’s Grille, and wondered why he was so shaken up.

“Well, look who’s back! It’s Greg, right?”

Dora was a heavy, fleshy woman with the Mongol features of her Inuit tribe. She had the most welcoming smile on the island, and she always remembered his name. She remembered everyone.

“Morning, Dora,” he said, and unzipped the parka, throwing the hood away from his curly, salt and pepper hair. He hadn’t fastened it tight enough and both ears burned in the sudden warmth. “At least, I think it’s morning. Hard to tell these days.”

She laughed politely and tossed a frayed menu on a table across the room. He accepted the implied invitation, shrugged the coat completely off and laid it over the back of the chair before sitting. Dora held a steel carafe and said, “Coffee?”

“Please, thanks.”

She poured. “You up here to fix my satellite TV? Been nothing but fuzz the last couple of days.” He heard, or thought he did, the worry. The one thing he did not want to hear from anyone in this place, this last bastion of sanity.

“Sorry, no. I don’t do televisions. Just up tracking my wandering pole, as usual.” He hesitated. “Reception’s bad here, too?”

She pursed her lips, nodded. “Hmm, mm. Cell phones, you name it. If it needs a satellite, it sucks wind last few days. But I guess you know that already....”

He did. Satellite interference was one of the most irritating side effects of an overactive magnetic field. The coffee was stronger than he liked it, but it was hot. The stinging of his ears slowly faded. “Yep. Declinations a little extreme right now. Jumping all over the place. Not to worry; does this all the time. You should know that, Dora, being around us tech heads all the time.”

She nodded, poked the menu. “Let me know what you’d like, Honey. Things are slow with the weather. You got here just in time for a doozy. I doubt anymore flights will be coming for a while.”

On cue, the wind slammed against the side of the building, picking up intensity as he studied the menu. Nothing new, he reminded himself. By the time he finished his meal, it would have calmed then started back up again at least twice. “Sounds like it,” he said and continued studying the menu, seeing none of it. Seeing the compass hidden away in his pocket, Dora watched him.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

He gave up any pretense of reading and sat back in his chair. “I assume you mean the pole, not the weather. It’s just a bit mischievous. This kind of thing has never been a bad omen before. It’s perfectly – “

“Some folks,” she said, interrupting, looking out the window at the storm whipping by like gray-white smoke, “they say there’s some giant, supernatural storm brewing everywhere, all over the world. Like the Great Flood in the Bible, you know?”

He nodded. “Yeah, Dora, I know. The pilot was rambling on about it during the descent. But what we have going on up there,” he pointed to the nicotine-yellowed ceiling, “has nothing to do with that, if that is what’s going on and not just some overblown news reaction to a rainy day. Just a coincidence. How’s the beef today?”

“What?” Her eyes came back into focus. “Oh, fine, fine. Got fresh chuck in day before yesterday.” She raised her pad, grateful for the distraction. So was he.

“A burger then, My Good Lady, with fries if you got ‘em. Just keep the coffee flowing. Anything else will just freeze in my gut on the walk back to the hotel.” He smiled, kept his tone light. She smiled distractedly, wrote the order and was soon the old Dora he remembered before everything in the world went insane. During the plane’s descent to Resolute Bay’s small airport, minutes before the clouds rolled in, he’d scanned the horizon for signs of any arks. He saw none, and wasn’t about to ask now.

Dora walked back to the counter, slid the order through a large rectangular window where a grizzly bear of a man glared at it from over the grill. He nodded silently before moving out of sight. Greg reached behind him, felt the compass in his coat pocket. He wanted to check again, see if anything had changed. Of course, even if magnetic North had moved in the few minutes since he’d taken his initial, baseline reading in the airport’s terminal, he’d have to assume something was wrong with the instrument. His time was booked at the Howison Building’s facilities for nine-thirty tomorrow morning. He’d get his most accurate readings there, before trekking further north when the storm let up. Still, the itch to check one more time was strong.

Dora was back. Greg pulled his hand from the pocket. He wouldn’t check, not with her waiting for him to tell her the end of the world was coming.

“Tell me something,” she said. “Some folks had been saying on the news –” she sighed, “maybe they still are but my satellite’s busted... anyway, they say that we’re due for one of those, you know, pole flips. North becomes South, and vice-versa? They say with things getting all fuzzy lately, and –”

“Dora,” he raised a hand. He hoped he wouldn’t have to repeat this to every local while he was up here. “I promise you one thing, if I can’t promise anything else about what’s happening lately – aside from the fact that we probably have another few thousand years before that ever happens... if it ever happens... the media is going to put more meaning on it than it deserves. The poles are driven by hydrodynamics in the Earth’s core, not the weather. If anything, the weather’s driven by the poles, not the other way around. Even if such an astronomically rare event should happen tomorrow, the most amazing thing you might notice are auroras over Africa. Nothing else.”

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 then he could check the compass’ reading. Just one more time.

*     *     *

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.

Thirty people. She had been reminded of this limit by the angel who appeared briefly in her otherwise dreamless sleep the night before. She'd pleaded with him to tell her why, give her some reason for the set figure. But the dream faded, and Margaret had awoken only momentarily, wondering if she and her fellow humans weren't the only ones having to accept so much on faith.

Thirty. She played the number over in her head as she worked with the waterlogged but still beautiful student Fae draping another blue tarp over a pile of two-by-fours.

One o'clock in the afternoon. The swirling vortex in her gut increased as the rain fell harder. Puddles on the grass, water waiting for an opening in the already saturated ground. Three more cars. Some people with ineffective umbrellas strolled out, approached, wandered to the side, circling like sharks, her beleaguered nerves imagined.

The weather kept the news crews busy with other matters, watching the rising levels of rivers and creeks. Flash flooding in the long-dried arroyos were the highest concern. The Channel Two van had pulled in by mid-afternoon to film her but, seeing nothing interesting, withdrew its crew and moved on to greener, and wetter, pastures.

Their departure was ill-timed. Twenty minutes after the van pulled away, a drove of cars pulled alongside the common. Margaret wondered if perhaps their occupants had waited for school to let out. It didn't matter.

It -- whatever it was going to be -- had begun.

As the newcomers stumbled from their cars, splashing into the hundreds of puddles across the ground, those waiting in and around their own cars saw any earlier opportunity they might have had slip away. They raced out into the storm and ran for the ark. Women in trench coats, newspapers over their heads, sometimes children in hand, men in business suits or jeans, umbrellas sagging from the weight of the water, teenagers whose fear shone brightest in their young eyes, all moving with distinct purpose across the lawn.

The rain fell in sheets across Margaret and her crew. They all wore rain slickers and hats, bought after David's initial warning. They watched the approaching mob, for that's what it had suddenly turned into.

Even as the first people reached them, more cars arrived. Their headlights were weak through the rain.

“Please,” the first woman said, “is it too late? I didn't know what to believe; it's all so insane, but now, the rain –” Her hair was in her face. She’d donned only a light windbreaker. The woman was pushed aside by a bald man in full outdoor attire, including crotch-high hip boots. He began to climb the ladder, trying to work himself under the flapping blue tarp.

Al Hawthorne grabbed one of the man's boots then stepped back as the guy lost his footing and fell. He scrambled to his feet, almost falling again as he fought against the awkwardness of the boots. “What the hell are you doing? I was here first. You touch me again and -”

“You want to sign up with Mrs. Carboneau,” Al said, quietly but with a fire in his gaze Margaret hadn't often seen. “She's over here, and if you wait your turn, we can see if there's room.”

His statement wasn't just to appease the other man. Already more than a dozen people were trying to get Margaret's attention. Those they'd arrived with, teenagers and spouses and small children, circled the ark and its flapping blue tarp as if searching for alternate routes inside.

Margaret thought of the story of Christ crowded with followers wanting to be healed. She felt herself drowning in the rain and the surge of fear and desperation of the crowd. Faces pleaded; angry words spoken she couldn't concentrate on long enough to understand. The ring of people, thicker every moment, closed in.

Through the bobbing of heads, she saw others try to climb the ladder. A sneaker came down from beneath to stomp on someone's fingers as a woman gripped the rungs. The rest of Carl jumped down, barely missing the girl he'd kicked away, and Margaret lost sight of him as the wall of people closed in.

“I was here first!” one man yelled and pushed another away. The latter’s place was filled with a crying woman. The first man shoved himself in front of her.

“Please!” Margaret yelled. She was caught in a stampede, all rushing headlong her way. “One at a time. I don't have enough room for all of you!”

Too late she realized the mistake in saying that. The crowd exploded in panic, arms pushing faces aside, reaching out. A fight broke out less than six inches from her. Someone grabbed Margaret's hair from behind. She found herself staring into the rain as she opened her mouth to scream. The person behind her pulled harder. She stumbled backward, away from the center of the human flood, lost her balance.

The world went out of focus. A teenager appeared above her, half-kneeling on her chest. She didn't recognize him, but wondered if he knew Carl or Andy. Then she saw the knife. A long woodsman's blade.

“Stop this rain now,” he hissed, “or I'll cut your heart out.” He flicked the flat side of the blade across her chin for effect. Margaret heard someone scream, but could only focus on the boy. Rain poured into her eyes. She saw his liquid shape fly off her, felt the sudden loss of his weight. A second shape passed overhead, then was gone. Margaret rolled onto her belly. The first thing she saw was the knife on the ground. She grabbed for it, tucked it beneath her.

Carl knelt over the boy, one arm then the other raised in a crooked arch, slamming down into the boy's face. “Carl, no! Stop it!”

Al roughly knocked Carl aside then checked on Margaret's attacker. The boy was dazed and bloody, flailing his arms. Al rolled him roughly aside and lifted him, arms pinned against his back. The boy's nose was a mass of blood. He screamed, “Stop it! Make it stop!” For a moment, Margaret thought he meant Carl's punches, then understood. Make the rain stop. Please make it stop.

I can't. I'm sorry .

Al shoved him towards an approaching police officer.

Margaret stood slowly, after pressing the knife into the soft, wet earth, point first. She cried out of fear and exasperation, then turned to face a worse nightmare unfolding.

It happened quickly but her brain tried to slow events down. How long had this been going on? Five minutes? People had forgotten about her and were pulling each other off the ladder to make room for themselves. The ark rocked back and forth on its tentative perch. Margaret heard screams from inside.

The girls.

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Get away from there! This is not the flood; it's only a warning.” She pushed past two people, but her presence only blended with everyone else’s, contending for passage on the ship. Still, she pushed and shoved her way through dozens of people. Someone elbowed her in the face. For the second time, Margaret found herself stumbling back. She put a hand to her mouth, felt pain. Blood on her fingertips.

Katie and Robin still screamed from inside. More voices. Carl tore into the crowd in a blind rage, forearming and shoving men and women, scraping them off the hull like barnacles. Someone hit him. He kicked backwards. His attacker screamed and fell.

When Margaret heard the heavy groan and creek of the wood, she knew what was going to happen.

“Katie! Grab Robin and hold on!” The rain swallowed her words; the screams of the mob swallowed her words.

The ark tipped towards the crowd, rolled back on its supports, and this time did not stop. Even as people continued to scale the sides, the ark rolled away from them, listed on its side and hesitated for an eternal moment. Then it fell. The supports along the bow and port side snapped. The side of the ship hit the ground with a thud, then seemed to sag into the grass.

The screaming inside stopped. People outside fell or rolled away in confusion. A few turned and stared at Margaret as if just seeing her for the first time. She pushed them away. The realization of what their panic had caused took the fever from some of the people's eyes.

The blue tarp was partially detached and fluttering in the wind. Even as Margaret and the others climbed over the side, more cars approached, squeezing past those crowed on the sidewalk, joining the cars on the grass in a makeshift parking lot. It wasn't over yet.

Katie poked her head from behind the tarp. “Mom! Mom!”

“Katie, here. I'm over here.” Margaret crawled along the upended side of the hull and waved. Katie saw the motion and brightened. She looked back into the chaotic interior of the capsized boat and said, “It's OK, Robin. Mommy's here.” Robin's cherub face poked over the hull, crying, but unharmed.

Margaret pulled her daughters from the opening and held them. They were followed by other angry and frightened people who had been inside. David Whitman's face bled from a gash just above his thin hairline.

It wasn't until Margaret worked with Carl and others to remove more of the tarp that she realized someone might have been on the other side when the ship keeled over.

She fell to all fours, tried to see anyone underneath, some sign.

“No one was there,” said a shouting voice behind her. “No one but me.” Estelle wheeled her chair closer. One wheel sunk in a patch of mud. Her hands slipped on the wet rubber treads. Margaret remembered that they'd extended the tarp out over a section of grass on the port side as a shelter for Estelle. They hadn't found a need to get her inside the ship yet.

Estelle gave up trying to move the wheelchair and held one hand over her eyes. She held thumb and forefinger close together and tried unsuccessfully to smile. “Missed me by that much,” she said. She laughed without humor.

“We're so sorry,” a woman's voice behind her said. Margaret ignored her.

The second wave of arrivals crowded in. Margaret could already see the stirring of bodies, their fear recharging at the sight of so many others come before them. Katie and Robin grabbed their mother’s legs. More cars were coming. The streets were choked with them.

Rain dripped into Margaret’s shoes and down her legs. A warm rain; the air was thick with humidity. Her slicker had come open; her blouse and jeans were soaked. Katie and Robin pulled the slicker around themselves. Margaret felt not as much like Jesus now, as the Ghost of Christmas Present with the two Sorrows hiding under her cloak.

She was losing it. Her mind, her control over her crew and the ship, the common itself. People reached for her, begged her to sign them on. Estelle screamed at them to move aside, and was eventually wheeled away by someone Margaret could not see. She heard Estelle's furious shouts of, “Get your fucking hands off my chair!”

The crowd began trying to right the ship.

The common was awash in flashing blue and white lights. The police cruisers whooped their sirens and hit their horns. In less than a minute, they’d formed an imperfect ring around the construction site, trapping those at the fallen ark within and the rest outside.

The blue lights flashing atop the cruisers cast the faces of the mob in a nightmare wash of soundless lightning. Red lights now, as the two large engines emerged from the fire station and lumbered onto the grass, horns blasting at people too confused or mindless to notice them. These joined the ring, circling the ship. Firemen in heavy coats and helmets added their bodies to the barrier.

*     *     *

The Meyers’ dining room was tucked in the far corner of the house, big enough to seat ten around a rosewood table, plus accommodate the matching serving table and buffet.. Rain pattered against the glass of a pair of French doors leading to a patio. The room was warm, the weather outside held at bay by a real fire in the fireplace centered against the adjoining outside wall. Orange flames licked around a single, fat piece of birch.

It was comforting. Heat, fire, the antithesis of rain and water.

Eight were seated for dinner with the two chairs immediately before the fire removed to avoid subjecting anyone to its direct heat during dinner. Conversation circulated from general hospital gossip to the Red Sox’s early-season losing streak. Try as everyone might to avoid it, the weather outside lingered behind every topic. The youngest of the group, Karen and Devin Jahns, steered the discussion from Red Sox to Bruins, whose surprising berth in the Stanley Cup playoff seemed to be the most amazing event they'd ever witnessed.

They also talked of recent stories about unexpected or unseasonable migrations of wildlife eastward, from all across the world.  Topics changed to medicine, the stock market, everything except the weather. Suresh did his best to remain quiet, neutral on all topics.

A sudden, heavy gust battered the French doors. The meal was served by Meyers' wife, Linda, to whom Suresh and Neha had been only briefly introduced before the woman scurried away with their wet coats. Now, she placed the main course on the table, a sizzling half-round chunk of beef. It was accompanied by steamed vegetables and various slices of fresh fruit that would normally be served as an appetizer or dessert. The perfect compliment to the heavy fare, and a relief to Suresh, who was vegetarian.

When Linda Meyers sat beside him, Suresh noted only the slightest trace of a perfume from her, rosewater. He thought of the grove in his dream, of Neha lying among the blossoms.. Bernard Meyers carried most of the conversations, or led them in varying directions if he detected one or more of his guests was losing interest.

Noting a pause in the conversation, their host said casually, “It would seem, however, the biggest topic of conversation today has been the rain.” He paused. People were not quick to respond.

As if on cue, the French doors rattled as wind tossed another bucketful of water against the glass.

Neha was the first to offer any real comment. As she finished serving herself a modest helping of vegetables and accepted the plate of fruit, she said, “Rain is rain,” and smiled. “Though I suppose there are some out there who would say otherwise.” Suresh saw her consider the beef, but in deference to her husband, she did not take any for herself.

Polite laughter at her words, a couple of nodding heads. Maureen from radiology acknowledged the statement with an exuberant nod of her head. “Absolutely,” she said. “There's an ark right down the road in Arlington whose builder is probably dancing in the rain right now, saying 'I told you so'.” She giggled and took a bite of meat.

The director raised an eyebrow. “You sound skeptical, Maureen. Don't you believe them?”

Derek Jahns waved his fork for emphasis, “I saw the satellites on the web this morning. The whole country is suddenly under one big cloud!”

“Some say the timing is definitely fortunate for those people,” Neha said. “But I'd venture to say it's un-fortunate for them, as this is only going to feed their delusions.”

Suresh chewed his food and stared at his plate, seeing not his meal but Neha again, in the grove, in the warm soft light of a million stars.

The guests quickly, but subtly, took positions of cautious worry, blatant scorn (Neha already staking herself in that camp), or professional curiosity. Meyers and a silent, white-haired Eurasian man – a neurologist named Kane, if Suresh remembered correctly – took this latter stance, inquiring softly the views of both sides. Only their hostess seemed without a view or curiosity on the subject, more concerned with making sure glasses were filled and plates were not empty.

Suresh watched Meyers as the conversation and ensuing debate grew to a well-kindled fire of discussion. The older man kept looking to Neha and listened raptly to her elaborate arguments, hoping to prove his fears wrong. She said as little as possible, but projected a calm, unwavering assuredness that left no room for doubt that what was rattling against the doors and the side of the house was a typical Springtime Nor'easter and nothing more.

“But it's a Nor’easter that’s flooding parts of Phoenix,” Derek said.

Maureen giggled. Karen Jahns looked at her, obviously picking up the flirt in the laugh. Maureen returned the look with a smoldering, interested stare that actually made the other woman blush. Suresh smiled in spite of himself.

Meyers excused himself once during dinner to add two smaller birch logs to the dwindling fire, talking now of nothing but the preternatural predictions – or ravings – of those building the arks. As Linda began clearing plates to make room for dessert, no one seemed tired of the topic. None of the discussions, as heated as they sometimes became, ever turned biting. The fire, the food and the general atmosphere warmed spirits and cooled temperaments.

Suresh mostly avoided any part in the conversation. He had, in fact, begun to enjoy the banter, when Maureen turned her smoky gaze his way and said, “And what of you? I hold a certain affinity for the tall, dark and silent type, but I admit I'm not too clear on what you think of all this.”

Suresh smiled and waved off the question, feeling the icy tendrils of his wife's fear between their chairs. “No, no. I'm enjoying listening. My opinion -”

“Counts as much as anyone's,” Maureen interrupted. Suresh looked at the table where his plate used to be, and without trying to think of any answer and risk the pause revealing him in some way, said, “Perhaps it's not so much a question of what will happen, as much as how people are responding to the events themselves. That what these people claim is true might not be as important to the rest of us as whether they actually believe it.”

He shrugged, “The Gita states that we should choose a course of action and follow it fully, not let the pull of the world drive what we do. Only our own sense of what is right and wrong.”

He took a sip of wine and silently wished Linda Meyers would come back with dessert. Most of the others nodded, though Suresh assumed they were trying to figure out what he had just said. Maureen took a sip of her own drink, and smiled. Suresh knew instantly his generalizations hadn't fooled her.

“Still,” she said, “you haven't told us whether you believe in their stories or not.”

Fully aware of Neha’s presence beside him, Suresh smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “You do not see me building an ark, or joining any of the others. Whether I believe or not is not the issue. Not to me at least. Some of the ships look strong and seaworthy, while others I have serious doubts will weather any storm. Perhaps the issue with the Divine God is simply that they are building them.”

“Then you think God is going to wash us all away.”

Sensing the inquisition, Derek Jahns leaned in and said to the group as a whole, “Have you noticed the sorts of people building these things? Just regular people, no priests or Senators, folks like that? I hadn't, until the press picked up on it. Now that's all they seem to talk about lately.”

Suresh felt his wife's subtle touch on his leg. She gave a squeeze. He let out a quiet sigh in response, relishing his wife's appreciation.. He avoided Maureen's occasional gaze, wrinkled in amusement, and let the conversation carry itself away from him. He again visualized the grove, reminded himself he'd made the correct decision. His wife's hand never left his leg. She was able to debate the sanity of those fearing the end of the world quite well with the other.

The wind and rain continued to batter the doors. A small puddle formed along the raised door jamb, catching the light of the fire. Linda Meyers rose again to mop the water up with a dish towel.

*     *     *

The drive home from the Meyers’ took longer than the trip there. Many more roads were flooded. The rain had not let up since the morning. As during the earlier drive, neither Suresh nor Neha turned on the radio, not wanting to hear any “sensationalist news reports” about the storm.

The major difference about this trip was Neha's attentiveness to her husband. Suresh forced himself to drive carefully, even as Neha teasingly pinched his earlobes and ran a finger along his cheek. Eventually, he pulled the car into their driveway. Instead of getting out, Neha turned his face towards her own and kissed him, long and with great wanting. Suresh lost himself in her passion. The constant barrage of rain on the car roof was a symphony around them.

Neha kissed her husband and listened to the rain. She thought of Meyers, his approving nod as the Ramprakashes said their goodbyes and ran to their car. Suresh had done well, so she pulled him closer, her need almost as strong as his. She would give him the ever-promised reward, now, in the car like American teenagers. But it was not over. She held her husband and listened to the rain slamming down all around them. It was far from over.

*     *     *

It felt like the middle of the night. Margaret glanced up at the clock. Only eight-thirty. Without speaking, Al placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, laid a hand briefly on her shoulder before moving on to converse quietly with his former co-workers. The fire station buzzed with the influx of people. The entire contingent of firefighters had been called to duty, woken or paged from their private worlds.

Margaret wanted to ask if the coffee was decaffeinated, decided against it. If it wasn't, she'd be up all night. If it was, she probably wouldn't feel much different. She was tired. Exhausted past anything she'd felt since the days following Vince's death and subsequent blur of wake and funeral. She took a sip and winced when the coffee burned the small cut on her bottom lip.

“But, how? Plywood's not exactly waterproof.” The man beside her had given his name, which Margaret quickly forgot. Not that she'd been listening when he came into the station, shadowed by Carl and Marty Santos. The fire chief had taken the role of receptionist, screening anyone wanting to speak with Margaret within the dry confines of the station's upstairs living room. Carl wasn't accompanying Marty but simply checking in. He'd been arrested, along with half of Margaret's crew and a dozen others from the mob who’d refused to move outside the circle of cruisers and fire trucks. Then, Margaret had shouted to her people to go quietly. She'd get them out when she could. With the crowd subdued, or at least contained, Al had gone to the police station and, in his words, “Had a hell of a time getting anyone to even talk to me.” In the end, he'd convinced the night Sergeant to release the crew. They left under the wails and derisive shouts of those left behind in over-crowded cells.

Margaret made notes along the edges of the paper, writing as legibly as possible with her cramped fingers. The sheets had been printed from one of the detailed web sites Carl found on the Internet, offering “blueprints” of the ark to anyone interested. Not everything was exactly as she envisioned, and those points she corrected or amplified with the pen.

“You need to get enough sealant tape to cover every seam,” she said, “and lather the glue across the whole exterior. You can't miss one seam. Here. I'll start a clean sheet for a list.” The man beside her nodded, a little too often for Margaret to think he was taking much of it in. Still, she discussed wood and nails and cross-supports and the short mast, pointing out the storage compartments and making sure he understood that the lower deck required additional beams to support the harnesses. Thirty of them.

Al and Carl stood close by, listening intently. Though Margaret had covered the erection of the additional beams with them, she hadn't said much about the harnesses. Their installation wasn’t yet required. Estelle was the exception, responsible for tracking and monitoring supplies, and her obvious situation with the wheelchair. Margaret had gone into this particular requirement with her early on.

The only thing she was not able to explain, to either Estelle or the man sitting beside her, was their actual purpose. It seemed like overkill. In the worse storm that might happen at sea, she could think of better handholds, more conventional seating during calm weather.

But the harnesses, adjustable for the largest man or the smallest infant, were a requirement burned into her brain as deeply as the placement of every nail. She could not question it.

The man beside her did, and Margaret tried to press home the one point that was now a natural assumption for her. He had no choice. These specs were from God, and there was no room for modifications. The man nodded. Again. She saw in his contemplative expression that he was already changing things in his mind.

Carl and Al moved on to other distractions, mostly standing by the window and staring at the ark capsized on the grass. The area was bathed in rain-dimmed brilliance from twin halogen spotlights, powered by electrical chords running from the station. The two men kept any questions they might be forming to themselves. Carl held Margaret’s Bible in both hands, absently turning it over and over. When she’d learned the teenager had spent a lot of that first night at her house reading it, she gave it to him. He’d refused at first, having seen the inscription from her late husband on the inside cover. In the end, they’d compromised on him borrowing it for as long as he wanted, or as long as it took for him to get his own. She would have liked to spend more time with the boy, answer his questions, but there never seemed to be any time and there would probably be even less as June approached. Maybe later, she thought. After.

Margaret brought her attention back to the moment, drawing rough schematics with her Bic pen when the printed image was not enough. This man was planning on building on the opposite end of the common. Margaret reminded him again that he was free to inspect her own ship, see what her artless scribbling actually meant.

The well of knowledge implanted in her was running dry by nine o'clock. The man looked tired. A few minutes ago, Estelle had called from Margaret's home to say the girls were in bed, though not yet asleep. Fae had returned from the house with extra dry clothes for her and Carl.  the day after he arrived at her door, Margaret had sent him to Wal-mart for a new wardrobe using her credit card. The rest of the crew, save Carl and Al, reluctantly returned home. It made no sense to try righting the ship tonight. Privately, Margaret wondered if it wasn't better off where it lay. Not much rain could build up below deck in this position.

Not long after Fae arrived with the clothes, Margaret caught a glimpse of Adrian Edgecomb. The selectman had stormed through the town hall and police station, and judging by the occasional shouting during the evening, he'd paid a number of visits to the fire station. He was not happy. The town had been turned into a circus. His words. Three people were in the hospital because that nut decided she was a twenty-first century Noah. Those were snippets of conversation Margaret overheard during his brief visits with Marty. She didn't want to know what he was saying about her. She did wonder about the other two selectmen. Edgecomb seemed to have taken the most vociferous stance so far.

Edgecomb posed more of a threat to her completing the task than any mob that might come in the future. Her free ride on taxpayer property, yet another quote, was about to end.

No sooner had she begun wrapping up her overview with the man beside her, and organizing her notes, than Marty Santos walked in with a dour expression. He was followed by a woman similar in age to Margaret, heavier, wet hair matted against her dark skin.

“Mrs. Carboneau,” the woman said from behind the chief. “My name's Alicia, and… “

“She wants to build an ark, too,” Marty interrupted, no longer trying to hide his irritation. Alicia looked at him for a moment, then simply nodded.

Margaret looked at Carl standing by the window. He shook his head. She needed sleep, his look said. He was right.

“Can I see these for a minute?” She gently took the stack of papers from the hand of  the  man beside her. He held on a moment longer, but a quick tug and she had them back. “Marty, I don't suppose you've got a copying machine somewhere handy?” She held up the papers.

*     *     *

Fae pulled into the fire station a few minutes past midnight. Her hair was tangled, matted down on one side as if she'd been sleeping when Margaret had called. The cell phone connection was worse than earlier. She didn’t remember rain ever wreaking so much havoc with phones in the past. Margaret looked back at Carl. “You sure you don't want to come back to the house tonight?”

He gave her a quick hug and ushered her into the passenger seat. Rain dripped from his face and onto her lap. “Too many women in one house for my taste,” he said. “Me and Al will stay here and keep an eye on things tonight. The guys said it was okay.”

Al waved from inside one of the large empty garage bays. The engines remained on the common, save one called for a downed power line. His face was lost in the shadows. She waved back.

Fae drove her home in silence. Margaret had fallen asleep by the time the car had pulled into her crowded driveway.

39

The rain continued throughout the day Saturday, falling as unrelentingly as when it first began. The news covered the ensuing hysteria across the world, mob scenes like the one in Lavish. Some were less dramatic, others bloody. In some states, governors threatened marshal law. The builders of the arks pleaded over newscasts that this was only a sign, a divine warning that the visions were true. The real flood would be upon them soon enough.

Flooding had already begun, however. Estimated rainfall figures ranged from eight inches to over a foot. Margaret thought these numbers were exaggerated, even with scenes of rivers cresting their banks and pouring into streets. People waved to news cameras from second floor windows. These were low-lying areas, already prone to flooding. The rain showed no sign of abating, however. Forecasters pointed with shaking hands at the unmoving mass of clouds.

The rain served its purpose. Margaret now had a full contingent of crew, and imagined the same was happening everywhere. A wicked and faithless generation seeks after a sign, Jesus said once in Matthew’s gospel.

Al so receiving a boost was the widely-covered construction of the San Francisco televangelist Nick Starr. His massive ark looked more like a small ocean liner. According to his press release, all three hundred seats within the two lower decks were nearly sold out at a price of one thousand dollars a berth (fifteen hundred for a limited private cabin). “At the rate we're going,” he’d chirped merrily during an interview, “I'm gonna have to build us a second ship!”

Margaret had paused before the television to watch the story, then walked away knowing that Reverend Starr and his passengers were probably all going to die.

Over the course of the day, the fire trucks pulled away from the building site to more areas of flash flooding. Normally dry riverbeds had begun claiming people and livestock. The 911 system was a steady necklace of lights. “I haven't heard from my daughter. She was playing in the street and now she's gone.” “The water's up to the baseboards; should I try and shut off the power?” “I can't find my dog.” And so on.

The crowd around the common never thinned, but made no further move towards the ark, which lay on its side like a misshapen whale. Cars, pickups and mini-vans held vigil, waiting for Margaret and her people to return to work.

Her people . Margaret stood at the second story firehouse window and watched the rain pound against the ship's hull. A full crew. Thirty including herself and the girls. More wanted to be included. The man with whom she had shared the ship's architecture last night had nearly a full crew already, most from her own waiting list. He wandered in the rain at the far side of the common with his recruits, waving at various points and obviously explaining what they'd have to do. Alicia, the woman who'd listened with less nodding and more understanding decided to build her ship in her front yard in Greenfield. The town where, an eternity ago, Margaret's husband had burned to death.

And the people waited in their cars, late-comers praying for an opening in one of the projects, or vultures waiting for a chance to take what others had built. Margaret thought she could tell who was who. The late-comers wrung their hands, stepped out of their cars more often, looked around for any sign they were welcome. The vultures sat behind the wheel, staring through the watery windshield with calculated expressions of patience and loathing. They emerged from their cars only to run to the House of Pizza one block down, for food or to use the restroom.

Margaret watched them watching her, waiting for the rain to stop.

The opening in the ark’s upper deck, facing away from the station, was completely covered by the triple-sewn tarp. Carl, Al and a few volunteers had rigged it last night after Margaret went home. As long as the ground water didn't rise, the interior wouldn't take on any more water.

At six fourteen in the evening, the world became dark. The clouds looked black in their thickness. The rain fell, and fell, then dropped suddenly to a drizzle.

The blackness of the clouds faded to a swirling gray.

The rain stopped.

The change was sudden, happening within a couple of minutes. At first Margaret wasn't sure what was different. The window was rain-spattered, but there was no sound on the flat roof. Everything had stopped. The constant rush of water down the drain pipes flowed with less urgency. Draining, but no longer filling.

She disbelieved what she was sensing. The world outside lightened. No shadows. No bright sunbeam tearing through the clouds, but there was a discernable glow filling the world.

Margaret walked across the room, considered waking Carl asleep half-on and half-off the couch, the black book open against his chest like a sleeping child. She left him and walked downstairs to the garage bay. The doors were closed. She pressed a red button and the town square slowly opened before her.

She took two steps outside.

The rain had stopped. Water dripped from the garage doors, from the sapling Juniper tree on the small, grassy front yard of the station. Dripped from the twin spotlights, which had not yet been turned on for the night.

Margaret went no further towards the common. She waited. Slowly, car doors opened. Sides of mini-vans slid aside. A hundred people emerged from their sanctuaries. Many looked her way, but none approached. Ben, one of the firemen who'd originally helped her begin work on the ark, walked up to stand beside her. Since the day he and the others had stopped helping out of fear for their jobs, he hadn't spoken to her. Margaret understood. Can't make it seem you're one of them.

He stood a while, watching the twilight sky lighten above the thinning clouds, then said, “Is it done?”

“Sure seems that way,” she said with a sigh.

Ben turned to face her. Margaret returned the gaze. Unlike most of the firemen in the station who sported either a moustache or beard, he was clean-shaven. His face was pockmarked with the scars of childhood chicken pox. According to Vince, Ben had almost died from it when he was three years old.

“I mean,” he said, “is it done? All of it?”

Somehow the question, the quietly desperate tone with which it was asked, filled Margaret with a sorrow so deep that she wanted to cry. For Ben, for the late-comers and vultures emerging from their cars like butterflies from chrysalises. They would all be asking this question and she would have an answer, just not one they wanted to hear.

“No,” she said. “It's not over.” She straightened, deciding that if she was to save anyone at all, she needed to be honest. “In thirty-nine days,” she added quietly, “the true flood will come. I don't know how. I don't know if the rain will come back in a few days or next week. Save for those on the arks, the world as we know it will be gone.”

Ben chewed on something, tight-lipped, working it around and around. He looked up to the sky, where a few patches of early evening blue were beginning to show, pouring late sunlight down on the earth like the rain that had preceded it.

“June eighth,” he muttered. His face hardened and the childhood scars faded. He looked at her again, and said quietly, “Fuck you and your stupid boat.”

Margaret laughed, a tired and uncaring sound. She said in a false southern drawl, “Why, Mister Fireman, you say the sweetest things.” She flashed her eyelashes at him. Ben's expression softened, and if Margaret stayed, she might have seen him smile. But she turned and walked back inside. If they were to get the ship righted before nightfall, everyone would have to get back here. Estelle and the others were still at home. The thought of going out among the milling masses did not appeal to her while she was alone. Upstairs, she playfully kicked Carl in the leg and picked up the telephone.

*     *     *

Neha had worked an abbreviated shift, her light two-day schedule courtesy of Bernard Meyers as an additional incentive for his dinner guests to arrive on time and stay late. The rain stopped at nine-fifteen that night. The clouds thinned, then broke to reveal a sky so clear the stars nearly outshone the barrage of streetlights and lanterns dotting the neighborhood.

She was curled up on the couch, leaning heavily against Suresh. Knowing his wife was coming home at a decent hour, he’d stopped at the Market of India both for food and their extensive Hindi movie collection at the back of the store. Neha was far from the film addict her husband was, but her rounds – shortened as they had been – had been wearing. Forest Grove was more insulated from the flooding casualties because of their location in Boston's Back Bay. Hospitals such as Choate and Winchester, with their suburban clientele, were inundated with drowning victims when the Charles River, already running high with melting snowfall, flooded into streets and basements.

Neha treated three people for electrocution - two from standing in their flooded townhouse basements replacing fuses in their outdated electrical boxes, one from a live wire fallen across Commonwealth Avenue. This, on top of the usual crowded emergency cases that invariably arrived when the weather turned sour.

Neha and Suresh both looked up when the rain stopped. Suresh pressed “mute” on the remote. “Listen,” he said.

Neha did not reply. She slowly sat upright. A steady drip of water on the back porch. She sighed nervously, expectantly. Together they walked to the front door.

The street glistened in the light of the overhead lamps. In bare feet, Neha stepped onto the front porch. Water dripped from the roof into her hair. She laughed, softly, and when she turned to face Suresh, he felt heartened at her obvious joy, and wary. For in such joy, in that wild gleam in her beautiful brown eyes, something was emerging. More than a simple “I told you so” expression. Perhaps a hint of rage, anger at having felt, even subconsciously, that she was in danger.

He wrote off the feeling as paranoia when Neha, beautiful, god-like Neha, kissed him hard on the lips, pulled him with one hand down the steps to the lawn. She released him, laughed, twirled barefoot on the wet grass.

“You see?” she said under the emerging starlight. “No more rain! It's over! Over!” She twirled again, almost stumbled. Suresh ran to catch her. He held her in his arms, kissed her again. This time, the kiss lingered, lips pressed so perfectly that he felt his soul melting into hers.

“I love you,” he whispered, “with everything that I am.”

She touched his face, smiled and said again, “It's over.” Neha twirled away like a school girl across the lawn. Suresh watched her, tried to smile as full and boldly as his wife, and fought to suppress his growing apprehension.

38

Father Nick Mayhew read Sunday's Gospel passage and finishing with a pronounced, “The Word of the Lord,” as he raised the book above his head.

The congregation answered automatically, “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” and sat. Nick moved out from behind the pulpit to address the crowd, pacing in a tight circle before the altar. Hovering behind the pulpit too long bred wandering minds in the listeners. At least that had always been his theory.

The estimated seating capacity of the pews in the small church was two hundred and fifty. All were filled. The remainder of the visitors stood along the walls, beginning to the left of the sanctuary beside the organist, around the back of the church, and returning up to the point where a small railing stood guard before the tabernacle housing the Eucharist.

The church hadn’t even been this crowded at Easter last week. Faces the young priest recognized were wedged into the pews or forced to stand among a multitude of newcomers. People had come to learn the truth. To hear that they don't have to worry, that they can go about their usual business.

Since the rain began Friday, Nick barely had time to perform his regular duties, let alone eat a decent meal or get more than a few hours’ sleep. They sought him out as soon as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Regular parishioners, long-absent Catholics, people from other denominations in town unable to locate their own pastors but driving by and seeing lights shining through the windows of the rectory office.

Everyone wanted to know the truth about the rain.

“Is this God's doing, Father?”

“Are we going to die, or just the sinners?”

“Does this mean Mrs. Carboneau is right? Should we sign up?”

As the world slowly dried, the sea of faces inside followed his slow progress from one side of the sanctuary to the other. Faces which expected their pastor to denounce recent events as trickery, as a sin upon those people wise enough to disregard a madwoman's ravings.

“Last week,” he said, “we celebrated the most holy of Christian holidays. Two thousand plus years ago, our Lord Jesus Christ rose from the dead and began His reign as high priest over all the world, over all our hearts. A perfect example of God's love for us, a perfect sacrifice.”

The microphone clipped to the collar of his robes carried his voice, even to the crowded crying room in the back of the church. “Yesterday,” he said quietly, “the rain stopped. The strange, magical rain that came from nowhere and went away just as quickly, was much like the human life of our Lord.” He stopped pacing. “All of us stepped from our homes and looked skyward, saw that our fears had been unfounded. The rains were gone. The danger had passed.”

The congregation stirred. Nick could tell they liked where his sermon was heading. “Many of you are here so I can tell you everything is over. The sirens have wound down; the air raid has ended.” He resumed pacing. “You want to hear that God was never behind this, that He wasn’t the one who sent the waters. That He would never inflict upon the world another Great Flood.”

He looked down only for a moment, to let any murmurings die away. “Well,” he said finally, “that’s true. He wouldn’t. He promised as much thousands of years ago, didn’t He? But the Earth itself made no such promise. It has cast the waters over the land before, destroyed cities with hurricanes, leveled towns with tornadoes. Such is the nature of our planet. Such is, well, nature. The Lord is not going to send a flood to the world.” Smiles, cautious looks of hope. Nick continued, “But the flood is coming. Not by His hand. He’s told this to his messengers. But by His hand, held out to us all,” at this Nick held out his own, palm up, “we could all be saved. Live another day, have a second chance.”

The smiles had dropped away, mouths opened in shock and fear. No turning back, he thought. No going home.

“According to Margaret Carboneau and so many others across the world, in thirty-eight days the flood will come and the world will be lost to us.” He raised his voice. “They tell us that on June eighth, we're all going to die unless we climb aboard one of these arks. Or unless we build one ourselves to God's specifications.

“Like you,” he pointed to a couple with two squirming children in the front row, “and you, all of you, I've had to witness these events unfolding and decide on faith, alone, whether I saw and heard an act of God or just a bunch of well-organized lunatics. I'm very, very sorry to say, my brothers and sisters in Christ, that lunatics, especially that many, are not so organized as to come out in public at the same moment and say the same thing. These people are not insane. They're normal people living mundane, spiritual lives. Others may have been sinners, perhaps even drug dealers, rapists, murderers. Who knows? One thing is for certain...”

He stood now between the two front pews. Those in the back craned their necks to see him. Nick lowered his voice again, fighting to remain calm and speak in a calm and natural voice, from his own heart and not some prefabricated evangelical tongue. “They are not crazy. They are not lying. Everything they're telling us is the truth.” He pointed behind him to the statue of Christ dying on the cross. “God's honest truth. The flood is coming. God wants us to live, and has given us a way to do just that.”

*     *     *

“Amen, amen, I say. Amen, God says.” Jack walked among the crowd, his motions jerky, like a beggar among the masses. His steps were uncertain, but his eyes, his gaze, pierced every heart he passed. People took an involuntary step back as he stumbled by them. But they listened. Oh, yes, he could see in their faces that they were listening. “For God himself has spoken, has shown all of you the way of your demise. Has warned us with these rains, that what He says through his prophet, which I utter to you now and forever is true. Amen, amen.”

He stopped, tried to remember the train of thought along which he'd been traveling. It was a good one, he knew that. He cursed his weak mind, his unworthiness to stand here and be the mouth of the Holy One.

The crowd sat wherever they could find a dry spot. Jack stood, motionless, now silent in their midst. He finally remembered what he was saying and resumed his sermon, his awkward gate punctuating the words.

“God does not pick and choose those he loves. The Lord Most High does not decide one man shall fall, while another shall live. We will all be with Him, in the glorious kingdom of light and love, if we fall to our knees and admit in silence and repentance the filth our lives have become. We must clean our souls and prepare for the day, soon, when He shall sweep His Mighty Arm across the world and gather our dead bodies up to him. He will burn the weeds, and pick the flowers. Repent now! Fall to your knees and beg Him to look down and see your shining light, before His gaze passes you by forever!”

He was shouting, waving his arms in random patterns - patterns he knew were guided by God's strings. Shreds of dirty white gauze, worked free from the plastic coating on his cast, sailed in the breeze as he moved.

A man in a business suit stood in front of him. He rolled his eyes when Jack looked at him, then walked away. Jack shouted after him but did not follow. “Do not turn your back to Heaven's word! There's so little time for you to be saved, for your soul to shine!”

To his glorious joy, he noticed a young man and woman deep in the crowd’s outer edges, fall to their knees and begin to pray. The sight, glimpsed through the restless bodies surrounding him, filled the preacher with energy. The Power of God. This Power slowly tore him apart, then rebuilt him as a stronger, more worthy child of the One Being.

He spun, smiled, and preached.

*     *     *

The parishioners of Holy Trinity in Arlington were restless this morning. Father McMillan stood behind the pulpit and spoke in a calm, reassuring voice. Unlike many of the younger priests emerging from the seminary these days, McMillan was not one to parade around the altar during his homily. Staying in one place allowed the people to focus, not be distracted from God's word as their priest wandered around like someone uncertain of what to do with himself.

The people were frightened. He saw it in their eyes. They needed comfort. “In today's gospel, we heard of Thomas’s doubt. He needed proof that the Lord had risen. We are preparing to celebrate the Ascension of Jesus into heaven. We will celebrate his glory in all its accouterments as He is lifted up. Like Thomas, Jesus Himself had doubted for that one moment in the garden, of what he was doing. Was it right? He followed the path laid before him and was rewarded by his Father in heaven. We should remember that in our own lives.”

People stopped fidgeting, were in fact paying more attention to his sermon than the priest was used to. McMillan knew why, knew they feared the past days' events. He understood that the worse thing a priest could do at this moment was to feed those fears. His sermon seemed to be heading of its own accord in that direction, however. Scanning his notes, he skipped the next few points.

“Our jobs seem pointless; perhaps the children were loud this morning, wanting more syrup on their pancakes.” He paused and smiled. The usual chuckles from the parents did not come. “Why do we do this... this everyday routine of life? Because it is God's will that we provide for our children. That we live our days not in one new adventure after another, but in normalcy, in the day-to-day victories that, as a whole, make a solid spiritual life.”

Normalcy . The key to calming the waters. The people were visibly calming. The soft look of contented listening crossed their faces. Boredom, perhaps. He hadn't been a priest all these years without accepting the inevitability of parishioner inattention. But he would rather they be bored than afraid. They should not be afraid. Not in church.

He continued, “Saint Malachy, in his days, wondered many of the same things.”

He would give them what they need, what they crave. Slow things down. Keep things simple. Do not let them become afraid, as he was afraid. “Many of the other saints and martyrs would turn to God and ask why....”

*     *     *

Some in the crowd talked loudly amongst themselves. Frightened sounds, angry words drifting over the people’s heads. Nick knew he’d lose control soon if he didn't keep talking.

The young priest stepped back onto the altar so everyone could see him raise his arms. The crowd silenced, save the sobbing of the older children - many of whom obviously understood what he was telling them.

They were going to die.

“I'm not trying to be a sensationalist,” Nick said, lowering his arms. “I'm not trying to scare you. I'm not trying to be a prophet like these other people, though they most truly are.” He put his hands flat against his chest. “What I am is your priest, the one you turn to, to learn the teachings of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the laws of Moses and the psalms of David. I took an oath,” he swallowed, pushed on, tears now falling down his face though he tried to keep any emotion from his words, lest it stop his sermon. Not this time. Not this one. “I swore to God that I would devote my life to His people. He brings you all before me. I swore to be unwavering in my devotion, to serve as the light which so many of you need to find God.

“How horrible if, when faced with something of this magnitude, I turned away from you, sinned against you by covering the truth. God has given us such strong and vivid signs.

“Even without taking anything else into consideration - think of the rain. Of the storm which appeared from nowhere. Think of its nature, raining over every land and leaving the seas at peace.

“It was a wake up call, my bothers and sisters. God is shouting from heaven for us to listen. He hates the sin and corruption, the violence and self-servicing materialism of the world. He's tired of being ignored, of being written off as an old-fashioned, old age concept. He's as real and tangible as you or I. More so, even. And He demands that we stop looking away, and look at Him! Even so, even with our apathy and ignorance and rebellion, He loves us and wants to give us as much time to give ourselves to Him as possible. The thief in the night is coming, my beloved ones, and the Lord is shouting for us to wake up and prepare!”

*     *     *

Now and then someone shoved Jack aside if the preacher wandered too close. One burly man in a Red Sox jacket grabbed him by the collar of his long coat. Michael pushed his way easily through the crowd, but before he reached the skirmish, a police officer grabbed the man and pulled him away.

The cop looked familiar. Perhaps he’d been here before, listening to Jack’s sermon instead of catching bad guys. Maybe the cop knew there would be no more criminals in a short while.

“Okay, friend,” he said to the man in the jacket, “get going.” As soon as he was released, the man muttered the usual curses about the “loony” needing to be locked up. With a cop in his path, he stuffed his hands into his jacket and walked away.

Mitch Leary turned around to offer Jack advice on avoiding collisions with people, but the preacher was heading off in the opposite direction, spouting his nearly unintelligible sermon to the growing crowd. The policeman didn't think Jack recognized him anymore. Not that it bothered him. The crowd bothered him. Before the bizarre storm the preacher had garnered more news coverage than followers. Now, he estimated three hundred people milled about Christopher Columbus Park, many under the pretense of touring Boston’s Long Wharf. Some looked amused. Some angry. Everyone, in their own way, afraid.

Al l of this emotion gave Leary a growing sense of dread. Across the way, Sullivan caught his eye. The officer had been assigned to the corner of Atlantic Avenue by the hotel. Mitch gave a quick nod, meaning things were still okay. Rany Washington, a stunning young woman who'd come on the force only three months earlier, kept her place further down, between the crowd and the pathway leading to Commercial Wharf. She was gazing at Jack, her attention to the scene admirable. Mitch hoped that her focus was more on the crowd than the preacher's words. There were times when he wasn’t so sure.

“Time to pray,” Jack said, his voice a scratchy, pained sound. “Father!” He raised his arms to the sky. His skinny wrists poked out from the sleeves of the long coat, the cast all but hanging from his right. “Forgive these people! Forgive me! Lead us unto your salvation!”

*     *     *

Nick stopped for a moment, lost in his own swirling thoughts, confused about where to go next. He closed his eyes, tried not to picture himself the bedraggled street preacher he imagined he must sound like to some. He was their shepherd, had to be, now more than ever before.

He opened his eyes and began to whispered, “For our own –”

“You're insane!” A tall, bald man abruptly stood, then realized what he'd done. He hesitated, face was red and blotchy with anger and embarrassment. The man added quietly, “You're all insane.” He pushed past the people in his pew, shoved past more at the back of the church and left. A few others stood, though with less of a display, and led their children out of the church.

Nick knew he had to ignore them, though all he wanted was to run down and beg each of them to stay and listen.

“Whether you choose to believe what they're telling us or what I'm saying today, that's your choice. Whether you walk up the ramp in June and board one of these ships, or join me here in the church to celebrate Mass, you need to believe. You need to take hold of your heart and soul. Look closely at what and who you are, in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of God.” His own words suddenly registered. It was the truth, once he accepted without question standing here before his flock. Whether they were his own words or that of the Spirit did not matter. They were Truth. He would not join Margaret’s crew, even if there were any spaces remaining after the past couple of days. His place was here, with these people. Nick had to serve them for what time he had left on this Earth.

*     *     *

“Good morning, Betty.” Father McMillan took the old woman's hands in his. She smiled up at him.

“Thank you, Father,” she whispered, “for not falling in with all these crazies telling us the world is coming to an end. Just a little rain storm and everyone's shouting about doomsday.”

“These are always questionable months for weather in New England, Betty. We should be thankful for the warm sun this morning. After all,” he raised a palm skyward, “it's not raining now.”

She smiled. “Thank God for that.”

“But it will rain,” a teenage boy said behind her. “That's what they're saying. How come you didn't talk about it?”

McMillan didn't recognize him. This was often the case lately. People who did not frequent church were now attending in droves. This morning Holy Trinity had twice the usual attendees. He forced himself to smile, stay calm.

“It's not my place to spread unauthenticated rumors, as so many others are doing.”

“Unauthenticated? But you saw the weather. That rain -”

“Stopped,” McMillan interrupted. “If there was to be a flood, I would think it would have continued on for a while longer, don't you?”

“But they said it was a warning. That it wasn't the final storm!”

McMillan wasn’t deaf to his undertone of pleading. Parishioners continued out of the church. Some heard and nodded in agreement; others showed exasperation with a dismissive wave or rolled eyes, and continued down the steps. Some of the first group looked ready for a fight, so hung back. The priest's heart began beating faster. A situation might develop. He prayed for his self-restraint to calm the others.

“I'm not saying one way or the other. The Holy Father in Rome is convening now with the Cardinals. I think we should wait for them to - “

“But they didn't get the visions! What would they know?”

“Young man,” snapped Betty. “You show some respect for the Holy Father!” She counted her next points on each gnarled finger. “The Pope is infallible, and like Father McMillan here, he is not going to rush to judgment over a few loose cannons! He’s - “

“Loose cannons? Have you listened to them? I don't mean that nut-job at Faneuil Hall. I mean everyone else.”

The crowd closed in. The air grew thick with tension. McMillan interrupted the boy with a wave of his hand and as stern a voice as he could manage. “This is not the place to discuss this. People are trying to leave the church.”

“People should be going to church, every day. Not leaving!”

“I repeat, this is not the place to discuss this.”

“Then where?”

“Do like the priest says and shut your mouth!” Elmer Brevan was an old, old man who’d been an usher in the church as long as McMillan could remember. He broke ranks and leaned over the boy. His hands were raised into fists. McMillan moved between them.

“I won't have this sort of -”

Elmer shoved him aside, not realizing what he was doing in his anger, then stepped towards the teenager. The boy hesitated, uncertain whether he should fighting such an old man. Elmer had no such qualms. He opened his hands and shoved. The kid stumbled backwards and waved his arms to regain balance. He managed to grab the iron railing at the top of the stairs. Someone held the old man by the shoulders. The boy took advantage and lunged forward, throwing awkward punches into Elmer’s face. A women pulled him back by digging her fingernails into his cheeks and yanking sideways. He screamed then toppled sideways down the old brick steps. Father McMillan recovered from his shock enough to look for help, saw only a fist as it slammed into his left eye. In the flash of pain, he saw more people stepping over the boy and running up the stairs to join the fray.

The police officer on traffic duty knelt beside the teenager at the bottom of the stairs and shouted into his shoulder-mounted microphone. The kid waved him away, embarrassed but bleeding from small cuts in his face. McMillan turned to see who had struck him but was suddenly disoriented… too many people behind him, some running down the second staircase, some with wide-eyed children in tow.

Behind the priest someone shouted, “She's got a gun!”

McMillan turned around, the words registering as he stared into the face of a young woman glaring back up at him from the sidewalk. Under her sweatshirt’s hood, her greasy blonde hair framed the rage which twisted her face and froze the man's heart. That, and the pistol held in front her.

Everything fell into slow motion. The front of the gun flashed silently. Someone fell sideways against his shoulder, an older woman, Gina Hamer, he thought automatically. Her black hair tumbled forward, obscuring his view of a police officer tackling the hooded shooter onto the ground. Gina’s weight pulled McMillan down to his knees. He rolled her sideways, and only then realized half of her face had been shot away.

*     *     *

By the time Nick's sermon was finished and he’d gone through the motions of the rest of Mass, nearly half of the congregation had walked out. Not all because of anger or disbelief, but because their sons and daughters were crying, sometimes screaming in terror.

Praise God for your mercy and love , Nick thought as he and the lay-minister distributed Communion. In your mercy save these children. Save their parents, for through the mother and father are the little ones saved.

He prayed Margaret and the girls were OK.

From the looks he’d received during Eucharist, some frightened, others angry, Nick decided to break with tradition. When the service ended, instead of leading the processional down the aisle and out the front door where he could greet everyone as they went home, he stepped from the altar, turned right, and proceeded directly into the Sacristy.

The murmurs grew louder as he did this. Nick hoped the people would understand. Those who needed counsel knew where to find him.

*     *     *

“Pancakes this morning, Dora. And some sausage if it’s not from last year’s kill.”

“Don’t let Grim hear you say that, Hon. Good to see you ordering real food. Haven’t seen you much for a couple of days, and when I did, you left most of your food on the plate. Shouldn’t waste like that, even if you did pay for it. You been sneaking into that hotel’s cafeteria?”

“I’d never cheat on you, D. Just celebrating a return to normalcy. How’s the TV?”

“It’s wonderful! You do something to fix it?”

“Nope. Mother Earth fixed your reception, not me.”

“That doesn’t sound too scientific... more coffee? You need to drink slower or you’ll burn your throat clean out of your body, what with the way I make this stuff.”

“Heh, sorry. Please... thanks. I told you things would go back to normal, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. You just didn’t sound too convincing yesterday. Your little North pole go back home where it belonged?”

“Yes, ma’am. Declination’s still a bit further south-west than a couple of years back, but that’s to be expected.”

“My Lord, I should be on Jeopardy with all the hundred dollar words you people teach me. Heading home soon?”

“I... well, no, not quite yet. They want me to stay... for a while longer. Take daily measurements, see if anything changes. Too soon to assume things have righted themselves permanently; too expensive to keep coming back when things get weird. I’ll be here a few more weeks. Sick of me already?”

“No... you keep tipping me with that voluminous expense account, and slip me more of those hundred-dollar words– “

“Like voluminous....”

“(chuckle),  and I’ll be your own personal waitress until you leave. Few more weeks?”

“Yeah, that’s what they said; why?”

“Oh, nothin’. Nothin’. I’ll get your order in before Grim falls asleep back there.”

“Dora?”

“Hmm?”

“You OK?”

“I’m fine, Hon. I’m fine.”

32

The following week went smoother than Margaret could have imagined after the events of the weekend. Aside from a few reports on CNN about the auroras appearing at night in places that had never before experienced them, the weather was clear and sunny. Normal. The earth dried, tempers abated, fears calmed. Somewhat. The crowd, though no bigger at the end of the week than during the rain’s apex over the weekend, did not wane. Faces changed, but the number of cars crowding around the town square forced the police to enforce the one-hour parking limit. No sooner did one pull away than another took its place. The waiting list maintained by Estelle grew longer.

Two newly-joined members of Margaret's crew had quit, the blue skies and increasingly hot days burning away their foreboding. Before that day had finished, however, Margaret had two new members from the list, and still more approached whom she could refer to Eric Benson’s ship across the common. She’d finally gotten his name memorized. Benson now had a full crew and his own waiting list as his ark quickly took shape.

The woman from Greenfield, Alicia, who had spoken with her that long, rainy night last Friday also made good strides. Margaret made it a point to call her for a few minutes every day to see how she was doing. Alicia had even stopped by a couple of times.

Margaret’s crew had made great progress in less than a week. The bulk of the ark’s exterior was complete, but so much more was required inside. They would finish construction on time, though, and well before the final day.

There was one more hurdle looming ahead of them. The selectman for the town of Lavish, California, were to convene a public town meeting Saturday. The single item on the agenda – whether to allow Margaret Carboneau to continue to violate multiple zoning ordinances, or “finally put a stop to her madness once and for all.” That was a quote from Adrian Edgecomb in the weekly local paper.

As if playing the role of coach, David the Angel appeared to Margaret early Saturday morning.

The soft, star-filled sky she had come to expect in these visions was comforting, like a homecoming, reminding her that if she was going mad, at least her madness was consistent.

She sat on the back porch steps, a warm breeze playing across her face. The fact that she was never bothered by mosquitoes or Mayflies was another positive aspect of this ethereal landscape. David sat beside her, hands folded between his knees as he looked out into the dark yard.

“There will be those who will support you tonight,” he said. “But they'll be the quieter ones. They always are.”

Margaret nodded. “The ones against you are always the loudmouths.”

“Two of the selectman are uncertain whether anything should be done. It’s Edgecomb who's leading the fight to stop you.”

Margaret turned to him. “That excuse for a pompous dickhead wants to close the whole thing down.”

David smiled. “I recommend you refrain from calling him that during the meeting, but yes. The reasons for his objections are no different than anyone else's. What sets him apart is that he has the power to back them up.”

“All three of them have a vote, don’t they?”

The angel nodded. “In any group like this, there's always one who's stronger than the others. In this case, it's him. You can be sure he's going to bring many people from town who will take his side.”

“But this is insane! How much do I have to do? I've dropped my entire life on the side of the road to build the ark. Now I have to stand in front of the town and justify it? You're in with God. I'm doing this for God. Why can't he just send a lightning bolt down and settle this whole thing?”

David was quiet for a moment, then said, “This isn't about you, Margaret. Sometimes it probably feels that way. It's about every person in your town, and in every other town. It's about every soul on the planet. You just happen to be the one getting the visions. But it's your job, and the responsibility of everyone who chooses to follow you, to spread God's message. You have to reach as many hearts as possible before it's too late.”

“But I'm only allowed thirty people! Am I supposed to build a hundred of these things?”

David smiled and shook his head. “God's message isn't that people should get onto the ark, Margaret, if they want to be saved. Only if they want to live. There's a difference. There are many who will not board any ship, but who will, in the end, give their hearts to the Lord.”

Margaret said nothing, but stared at the angel’s perfect face. He returned the look and added, “The ark, the faith you have exhibited and which I’m sure you will continue to show, are merely lights upon a hill. Symbols for others that there is something, someone, higher than the world itself. God is real. He is the master and maker of all things. If they acknowledge that, if they truly accept His Truth, then the waters may kill their bodies, but their souls will belong to Him forever.”

David shifted on the stair until he faced her. “Tell me something, Margaret. Do you think everyone who’s going to board the ships on June eighth will have perfect faith? Will every man, woman and child accept what you tell them because they believe in God, that they’ve accepted Jesus Christ into their hearts, or because they don't want to risk dying in the face of everything they've seen? Playing the odds, as it were.”

“I thought... I don't know.” But she did, and David knew this because he suddenly stood up and took a few silent paces away before turning back.

“It's going to get harder before the end. Even before the town meeting tonight.”

The yard was darkening. Margaret assumed she was about to wake up. David blended in with the darkness. “Hold fast, Margaret. Don't be discouraged, no matter what happens when you awaken.”

She didn't like the sound of that. The dream faded. Bells rang. In the darkness before her, green lines formed, swirled. The bells were shrill, electronic. The green lines came into focus. Her clock. It was four twenty-nine in the morning. The cell phone beside the clock rang again. Estelle's phone, which the woman had insisted Margaret keep with her since so few people knew the number. She in turn used Margaret’s and handled any calls from the increasing number of people who had learned her cell number. Margaret had permanently disconnected her house phone.

She sat up, fumbled with the small device until she found the right button.

“Hello?”

“Margaret?” Al's voice. It was tinny with digital static, the connection broken but still a vast improvement over the nearly unusable signals during the rain last weekend.

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You need... get ov... ere as fast as possible.”

*     *     *

In ten minutes, Margaret was dressed and driving her car towards the town center. Her hair was pulled back in a hurried ponytail, which pressed against the back of the seat. She’d woken Jennifer Donato to tell her where she was going. She and Estelle remained at the house to be there when the girls woke up, but Tony insisted on coming with her. Even before rounding the corner to the common, Margaret saw the emergency lights. Red and white flashing against the front of the House of Pizza, the post office and the fire station. With the driver’s window down, the smell of smoke was pungent.

Carl waited at the curb, removed the orange cones left to preserve her parking space. The scene was awash in spotlights. The flames had died down, but the smoke still twisted and roiled into the air, lost in the pre-dawn sky.

*     *     *

They weren't allowed to approach the ark until after eight o'clock that morning. The back of the ship, the stern, was gone - either burned out or hacked to pieces by the firemen as they fought to contain the blaze. They'd caught it early enough that the bulk of the ship was still intact near the bow. The morning air smelled like a wet campfire. The stink was more powerful when Margaret stepped though the charred opening into the lower deck. She stared through the hole that once was the back of the ship. She wanted to cry, to fall to the floor and wail like a child with a broken toy. She wanted to give up. They’d won. The people could not accept what she was telling them and struck out rather than accept that it would not stop what was going to happen.

Margaret’s throat ached with the wet, burning stench, and she silently cursed the angel for not warning her beforehand so this could be prevented. What horrible sin had she committed to be laden with this? Why did God make life so hard sometimes for people who believed in him?

Outside, Al, Tony and Carl looked through the hole. They nodded to her, but spoke to each other, pointing to the closest intact beams. Already, they planned how to rebuild. It wasn't coming any easier to them, at least not from what Margaret saw of their faces, tight with rage. But they were doing something. They weren't wallowing in self- pity.

She clambered above deck, did a cursory inspection before heading down the ladder and rounding the hull to join them. Only then did she think to look across the common, where the second ark had been making such great strides. Benson's ark was a pile of smoldering ash. The fire crew had responded to Margaret's fire first, perhaps deciding her nearly-finished ark was more valuable than the few days’ growth across the square. She hoped Vince Carboneau's widow hadn’t simply gotten preferential treatment.

Benson and his crew were standing around the ashes. He did not look up. Margaret was grateful for that. She would walk over there as soon as she and the men worked out what they needed to do with their own situation.

“It's gonna stink,” Carl said. “No matter what we do. I suppose we can cut a few more vents up high, and hang a lot of air fresheners or something.”

Al 's moustache twitched. “I suppose. Let's cut out the hull at this point.” He pointed a few inches in from the burnt wood. “Cut here, square, all the way around, double the beam there, and work our way back.” He sighed. “I suppose we could just close out the stern at this point instead. It'll make the overall size a little shorter, but the extreme back was going to be for shelving anyway. We can move those four post and harness points forward a bit, double up a little. Save us from trying to build it all out and risk the integrity of the hull any further.”

He looked at Margaret. “What do you think? A slight deviation from the plans you got, but I'd have to assume accommodating the right number of people is all that matters, anyway.”

His expression was calm. And he was mostly right. Margaret said nothing, just stepped forward and hugged him. He hugged her back awkwardly, then cleared his throat as Margaret stepped sideways and hugged Carl then Tony. “Thank you,” was all she could say.

*     *     *

As the sun rose higher and the morning chill burned away, the rest of the crew arrived. When a handicapped van pulled onto the grass, Tony ran to it. He and Jennifer helped Estelle and her chair down the small lift. Katie and Robin walked slowly across the grass, their eyes moving back and forth between their ark and the remains of Benson's across the way.

When they saw their mother they ran the few remaining steps into her arms. Robin was crying, Katie darkly silent. The older girl said simply, “Is it over now?”

Margaret froze. A small question that could mean a dozen different things. She held a hand to Katie's cheek and whispered, “No, Katie. We're going to fix it, and keep going forward.”

The girl’s eyes focused sharply, glanced at the others gathering around. Her jaw worked back and forth. Grinding her teeth like that was a recent habit. “Are you sure,” Katie said at last. “It looks pretty bad.”

“Yes. It'll be OK.”

She pushed away her mother's hand and stepped back. “No, it won't!” Tears rolled down her face. “It won't be okay. Everyone hates us because we tell them they're going to die. Now they're really mad! They're probably going to kill us! Why can't we just stop this and go home? Why can't I just go back to school? Why can't I have my friends back?”

“Katie, don't -”

“Shut up!” the girl screamed. “Shut up! Shut Up! Why don't you all leave me alone! I don't want to do this anymore!”

Little Robin buried herself against her mother's shoulder, her sobbing growing louder as her big sister shouted. Carl put a hand on Katie's shoulder, but she swatted his arm away and ran across the grass towards the Donato's van.

Margaret watched until her daughter clambered into the front seat and slammed the door shut. Katie hunkered down, out of sight below the window.

*     *     *

The Lavish High School auditorium was warming quickly with bodies and tempers. Even before the meeting was officially underway, loud discussions and one shoving match between two fathers nearly closed the meeting. Every available police officer and a handful of firefighters were on hand. The police were positioned at every door, along the back of the hall and onstage. Like many of the townspeople there that night, they looked frustrated.

Margaret was seated onstage with Edgecomb and the other two selectmen. She didn't know their names, never having to worry herself with town politics before. One of the men she recognized from Vince's funeral; the other was elected only last November. He was older, sparse white hair barely covering a spotted scalp. All three looked nervous, understanding the potential mob scene as clearly as did the police.

Not surprisingly, Adrian Edgecomb took control of the meeting.

“Ladies and gentleman, can we please quiet down now? We're about to begin. Normally, even for special town meetings such as this, we would proceed with a normal round of motions and what-not. Considering the heat, and the fact that most of you are here for one reason only, we'll dispense with most of the formalities tonight.”

Murmurs of appreciation. Margaret scanned the crowd. Nearly everyone seated was looking at her. In the back, standing next to one of the policemen, Father Nick caught her eye and gave a slight wave. He looked tired, the dark rings under his eyes apparent even across the sea of bodies filling the auditorium. She felt the warmth of one who realizes she has at least one ally.

Edgecomb quieted the group with two raised hands before continuing. “Many of you already know my opinion of recent events. For those who don't, let me be frank. I think Mrs. Carboneau's little project on our town square is not only a disgrace, but a public safety hazard. I've said this from the beginning, and I think last night's arson attack is one more way of showing that I am right. Thankfully, no one was injured. If I had my way, this whole affair would be put to rest now. Building a structure of any kind on public property without an approved permit is against zoning bylaws two-nineteen, two-twenty, two-twenty-one, and about a dozen others. We can probably go through the book, line by line, and find more that would fit this case.”

Margaret was sure Edgecomb had done exactly that. She remained quiet, listening, making notes now and then on the yellow legal pad she'd brought with her. She wrote the mentioned bylaws on the first page, with “Estelle to check?” beside them in the margin.

“Now, I'm not saying - believe me I'm not - that something odd isn’t going on around the world. I'm not saying that Mrs. Carboneau is the only person to be doing this.” He turned and glared at Margaret. “I am saying that what other people, in other towns, are doing does not concern this governing body, or this town. What happens in Lavish is our business. We need to uphold the laws set down by past administrations and to ensure the safety, both physical and mental, of our residents.”

Applause from half the crowd. Margaret admired how the man had memorized his opening remarks. He'd likely been rehearsing them since calling the meeting. Still, she said nothing. She would have her chance. She had no idea what she'd say. When the time came, however, she'd say it. Whatever it was. As Edgecomb continued his arguments, sounding more and more like a trial lawyer, Margaret scanned the crowd until she caught sight of some of her people scattered like apostles among the crowd. Al, Tony and a few others had remained at the common to guard the ship since most of the police were tied up here.

Edgecomb finally relinquished his “chair” to Mr. Major, the other selectman whom Margaret had recognized earlier. To her surprise, the man said simply, “I reserve my time and offer it to Margaret Carboneau. I'd like to hear what she has to say.”

Edgecomb objected, “She'll have her time to talk.”

“That's right,” Major said. “And that’s right now. Mrs. Carboneau?”

Margaret did not smile but looked at the man a little longer than she needed to. A silent offer of thanks. She stood, and walked slowly toward the microphone mounted on a single long pole center stage. She wished there was a podium, something to hang on to.

“Hello. As you all know, my name is Margaret Carboneau.” She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them and said, “A month ago I received a vision. Like many of you, I thought this was nothing more than a frightening dream. In this dream, an angel of God told me that in sixty days a flood will come upon the earth, and that I must build a boat to hold thirty people. No more, no less. I was also shown where to build it. On the very spot where we -- I and my crew -- have set up camp.”

Some cat calls, people talking over her.

“Quiet,” said Edgecomb, obviously hoping she would sink herself.

“Like I said, I ruled it out as a dream. Then I had another one. Still, I couldn't accept what it was telling me. Later I heard news reports, about other people, regular, normal people having the same dreams. Some had even begun building by then. The more I heard the stories on the radio or TV, the more I had to face the fact that their stories and mine were the same. Everything, down to the smallest detail, with one exception - everyone seems to have been visited by a different angel.”

More laughter. Margaret's face reddened.

“Listen,” she said, louder this time. “Even now, I sometimes question my sanity. How can I not? Sometimes I lie in bed and assume I've just gone completely bananas and only think I'm hearing these reports. But there are others... everyone on the whole planet is telling me the same damned thing: If I'm crazy, then tens of thousands of others are, too.” The crowd was now silent. She was saying what they already knew, and suddenly she understood that was her only weapon. Don't preach; just spout facts.

“Drive around other towns. Even before the sign last weekend of the rain, there were arks being built. Some like mine, some a lot fancier, sprouting up like... like weeds. Everywhere! I'm living a nightmare right now, having to abandon everything I've known, isolate myself and my girls to do this. And on what basis? Faith in a dream, in the words of some individual in my dream who tells me that God wants to save us from what’s going to happen to the planet on June eighth. I can only imagine what you people must think, not having been through what I have.”

She paused, swallowed, and tried to make contact with every face before her. “I can't really imagine, to be honest. A woman from town telling me that the world’s going to end in sixty days, then going off and building a boat. Doing the same thing Noah did five thousand years ago. Then having that rain come down like it did. Most of you -- and I would have, too, in your shoes -- became so amazed or frightened by these events that you are reacting in one of two ways. Believe, or fight against what you’ve seen. Struggle to hold on to some semblance of the old reality because, frankly, you don't know what else to do.”

“Mrs. Carboneau, your allotted time - actually Mr. Major's allocated time, is up.”

She ignored him. “But believe me when I say, I don't know what else to do.”

Edgecomb was standing now.

“Please,” Margaret continued to the crowd, “if you really think I'm just a nut, and I might be a nut, then I honestly can’t hurt anyone by doing this, except maybe myself and those who believe what I tell them. All I ask - “

Someone had her arm. It was Edgecomb. He pulled her aside and spoke in to the microphone, looking into the crowd though his words were directed to her. “Mrs. Carboneau, we're having this meeting for your benefit, but we have to - “

“Take your damned hands off me!”

The selectman's grip loosened, and a few in the audience snickered. When he saw the unbridled fury on the woman's face, he let go completely.

“Let her talk,” someone shouted from the crowd. “This is why we're here!”

“It's not her meeting,” someone else said. “She has to follow - “

“I don't care about protocol, if that's why - “

Voices rose and vied for attention. Selectman Major stood and worked his way between Margaret and Edgecomb. He spoke calmly, and his amplified voice won over the others.

“That is exactly right. We're here for the sole purpose of determining whether or not this town should continue to allow Mrs. Carboneau to finish her ark.” As he spoke, he rested a hand on Edgecomb's shoulder in a gesture of unity, while very subtly pushing him aside. Edgecomb understood he was being given the chance to step aside gracefully, and relented. He did not sit, but did take a couple of steps under his own power and allowed Major the floor.

“There is the issue,” Major was saying, “of the current zoning laws, even with the passionate division among religious and societal issues. If we are to allow, or deny, any variance in these statutes, we need to hear all reasons for such.”

He turned to Margaret. “Mrs. Carboneau, we will allow a five minute extension of your chair, after which we will ask that you be seated until such time as you may again address the assembly.”

She nodded, and Major stepped aside. He remained standing beside Edgecomb whose anger smeared across his red face.

Margaret took her five minutes to express her one wish to the town. Label her as a prophet, or a lunatic, but give her until the eighth of June to finish her work. If that day came and nothing happened, they could lock her up and throw away the key. Have a special ark razing ceremony. Do whatever they’d like. Have the biggest “I told you so” in the history of the town at her expense. All she asked was that they wait. Wait and see. At this point, all police duty was being paid from her and her crew’s personal savings. All she asked from the town was patience and a small plot of land, and even then only temporarily.

For those angry with her, who hated her for what she and her people signified, she asked only indifference. Ignore her, and in thirty-two days, she would go away.

She promised.

With her speech completed, the meeting continued for another two and a half hours. Twice, Margaret asked for the floor when she realized truths were being twisted by Edgecomb or various townspeople waiting their turns to speak. One of these people was Sarah Jorgenson. When taking her respective turn to speak, Carl’s mother glared at Margaret with unhidden malice. Her take was an effective one -- that she was frightening the children of the town, going so far as to “steal away” her son into her cult. This launched a series of comments from other parents, describing nightmare-ridden nights with their children, behavior problems with teenagers who justified their actions by stating their decision to “do whatever I want because the world's gonna end in a month anyway.”

Thankfully, Carl managed to work his way to one of the microphones set up in the middle aisle for public commentary. His arm had been raised for an hour, and not until Margaret caught Major's eye and pointed him out was he recognized to speak.

Carl had to walk past his parents to get to the microphone. Sitting with them was a much older man, and from the resemblance he held to Carl’s father, and the teenager’s short-lived look of happiness when he saw the man, Margaret wondered if this was his grandfather. Carl’s smile paled under the old man’s angry stare. Dan Jorgenson, for his part, kept his hands folded in front of him as if in prayer, fists clenched so hard his fingers had gone pale. Margaret found herself staring at these hands, even as Carl began to speak. The side of Carl’s face still sported the fading, yellowed bruise. Most people likely didn’t notice it, but Margaret was certain his father did. A new wave of sadness for the couple washed over her. Carl was brief but effective in his assertion that he had made his own choice, and to Margaret's surprise told the town how his father had struck him and locked him in his room to keep him from returning to “Mrs. Carboneau's ark.” By the time he was finished, Sarah was crying loudly, the wail of a mother grieving a lost son. His father’s face was dry, a statue in the crowd. Carl kept his head, and averted his eyes when he passed them. She wondered if the boy was also avoiding his grandfather’s disapproving stare.

The only person who did not address the crowd, which surprised her, was the white-haired third selectman. Now and then he looked her way, or took notes on his own legal pad. Never once did he stand to address any issue or question.

Father Nick Mayhew had his turn to speak, which he took briefly, as did Kaufman the high school principal and a half-dozen other teachers and former co-workers. To her delight, all but Kaufman had glowing appraisals of Margaret’s work prior to her leaving the school. Some students managed to find the microphone, and though Margaret was expecting some more positive feedback from them, all but one thought she was a crackpot. Back and forth until eleven o'clock when the selectman called for a vote by tally. At Major's insistence the tally would be counted before the meeting was adjourned.

The question posed to the townspeople was, “Should Margaret Carboneau be allowed a variance on zoning laws one-fifty-one, two-thirty-seven and two-thirty-eight, specifically, in order to allow her to complete construction and man her ship, until eleven-fifty nine PM, on the night of June eighth, after which time the zoning laws will again be put into effect?”

As soon as the question was asked, three separate lines formed in the three aisles leading to the auditorium stage. Edgecomb seemed content with this approach, and Margaret assumed he'd stacked the attendance enough to win. Still, he could not control the arguments presented, especially not with Major insisting on acknowledging those Edgecomb ignored.

Margaret had nothing to do while the lines slowly moved towards the tabulation boxes, except nurse her third Diet Coke and wait. At one point, she was startled by the realization that all arguments tonight revolved around her own ark. No mention, save a quick reference to “arks” as a plural by one person, was given to Benson's ship. The man himself was nowhere to be seen.

Father Nick joined her on stage after he'd cast his own vote. She mentioned her concern for Benson as the priest pulled up a chair from the back of the stage. He patted her on the shoulder and said simply, “You've been at this a month already, Margaret, which probably feels like a lifetime. It took a lot to stand in front of an entire town and say what you said - which you said quite well, by the way. The gentleman who started the second ark has been at it for less than a week. I'm sure just starting one in the first place, especially without having any of the dreams, was hard enough. This,” he gestured to the crowd, “must have been too much.” He smiled. “I suppose he's relying on your gift of public speaking to pull him through.”

Margaret laughed. She looked at him closely. “You created quite a stir on Sunday, I hear.”

Nick grimaced. “Yep,” he sighed. “Didn't do wonders for the collection basket.”

By midnight, the three women assigned to counting were busy at work. Behind each stood one police officer, under pretense of protecting the counters from any undue influence. Margaret noticed their eyes remained riveted, not on the waiting crowd, but on each individual vote and how the women marked them on their sheets.

By the time the sixty-four percent “yes” vote was announced, Margaret was too tired to offer any reaction except a relieved sigh. She hugged Nick, then Carl when he joined her onstage. She thanked selectman Major quickly before being led from the building by two police officers who insisted on driving her home. She tossed her keys to Carl who’d follow in her car.

Three television crews and a handful of newspaper reporters, barred from the proceedings, were waiting outside. She begged them off, offering plenty of interviews for the next day. A fourth news crew waited in front of her house. The police sent them away before allowing her out of the cruiser. When she and Carl entered the house, accompanied by a small round of applause from those waiting up for them inside, Margaret looked out through the curtain. One cruiser pulled away after a brief discussion with the driver of a second pulling to the curb. The remaining policewoman looked up at the house, got into her own car, but did not pull away. She turned off the headlights and from her silhouette cast by the street lamp was settling in for the evening.

The ad-hoc celebration ended quickly. Carl was soon stretched out on the couch. In the girls’ room, Robin was wrapped up in her sheets, breathing easily, her face soft in the glow of the nightlight. Margaret turned to see Katie staring back at her from her own bed. Her expression remained as hard and angry as that morning. When her mother moved to approach, the girl rolled over to face the wall.

Margaret left without speaking and lay atop the folding cot in the kitchen, for she’d given her own bedroom to Estelle. Even with the heart-splitting sorrow at Katie’s reaction, she was asleep in minutes, and did not dream.

27

The ark across the common was never completed, nor was any effort made to re-build what had been started. The day after the town meeting, Margaret's group learned of Benson's suicide. He had lingered all day at the building site after the fire, not saying much to either his own crew or to Margaret when she'd offered whatever help she could. The next day she was struck dumb by the news that, as she’d stood on the stage and pleaded her case with the residents of Lavish, Benson had climbed a ladder to the roof of his house under cover of night, secured a rope around the chimney and then his neck, and jumped, or slid, along the shingles and over the edge. He left no note, his legacy reduced to an ex-wife living near Baltimore and a pile of ashes in the center of town.

The rest of his crew were like sheep without a shepherd for most of Sunday. A tall, ungainly man with a poorly-trimmed goatee emerged from the flock as leader and organized the shipping of what unused lumber hadn't been burned to his own back yard. Margaret and her crew never heard from them again. No one had come to her for the specifications with which to rebuild. Either the goateed man had worked it out himself, or they hadn't gotten very far before giving up entirely.

Over the next five days, Margaret's crew managed to jury-rig a new stern, cutting and re-forming the beams and wall, sealing it with nails, seam tape and shipper’s glue. Even with the added ventilation, the interior reeked with a dark, burning odor. Margaret accepted that they would never get the smell out. Jennifer built a few makeshift shelves along the back and laid out vases of flowers, potpourri wreaths, anything she could find to compete with the stench. The result was more overpowering than the smoky odor they'd started with. The repairs tapped them of most remaining lumber, leaving inventory well shy of the required work left to do.

Thursday morning found Margaret and Carl back at the lumber store. The warehouse-sized building looked like a department store on Christmas Eve. Many shelves were empty, dozens of pallets lay discarded on the floor or stacked against the walls. Margaret hadn’t come back herself since last month. Even with the recent reports of lowered inventory since the rain, she hadn’t adequately pictured how bad it had become.

The girl behind the desk looked familiar. She'd been working when Margaret had ordered her first load of wood.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Carboneau,” she said. “We had a small shipment in on Friday, but it wasn't much. Demand's been so high.”

“That's all right,” Margaret said, keeping a neutral expression to hide her disappointment. “We don't need much.” She handed the list Estelle had written up that morning.

The girl, “Holly” according to the nametag pinned at a crooked angle to her shirt, looked over the list. The fact that her face didn't register any sort of relief wasn't a good sign.

“Well,” she whispered, not looking up from the paper. “Maybe I can get some of these things.”

“I'm afraid not.” A man in a green shirt similar to Holly's approached from behind and did a quick scan of the order. He looked at Margaret and Carl. “I'm afraid we can't help you anymore.”

Carl leaned against the counter. “Why not? We're paying for all this - “

“I understand,” the man interrupted. “Not that this ark nonsense hasn't been good for business, but you aren’t my only customers.”

The man was obviously a manager though he wore no nametag. Margaret laid a calming hand on Carl's arm and said, quietly, “What does it matter who buys your wood? We'll pay double what you're asking.”

The man's expression softened, but Margaret felt this turn of mood had nothing to do with a change of heart. “Listen,” he said, “I've got over two hundred contractors, some big, others only one-man shows. They depend on my inventory to keep their businesses alive.” He waved an arm indicating the store. “Look around you, lady. Our suppliers can't keep up with the hysteria you caused over that rain. You're sucking us dry. Business may be booming now, but next month when you shrug your shoulders and say 'Oh well', where's that going to leave me? My regulars will have found a new supplier - not that other stores are overflowing with wood lately, either.” He added the last caveat more to himself, looking around his store as if suddenly forgetting he'd been talking to someone.

Margaret kept staring at him. He did not look back. She felt the muscles of Carl’s arm tightening and loosening as he opened and closed his fists. She said, “Next month all of your regulars will be dead. Next month, this store will be gone. Next month, we intend to be on our ship per God's instructions, one way or another.”

Carl's muscles stopped their flexing. Her bluntness had caught not only him by surprise. The manager looked back at her, the fire behind his eyes no longer suppressed.

He hissed, “Get the hell out of my store.” Holly stood between him and the desk and looked terrified, as if this man would at any moment beat her up, if only to show he meant business. “And don’t think I didn’t hear the threat  - ‘One way or the other’. You try stealing one piece of sawdust and I'll blow your Jesus-loving brains across the floor.”

Carl hopped over the counter, shoved Holly aside and had the man's shirt bunched up in his fists. He spat a steady stream of threats and obscenities, face a hair's length away from the manager's. Margaret's first instinct was to run around the counter and pull him away, but she waited. Carl didn’t hit him, did not shake him back and forth but merely stood there, shouting words and curses so vile Margaret would have laughed at their absurdity if the situation had been different.

Then a crowd of men in similar shirts were running up the aisles, converging on the center sales desk.

“Carl.” She spoke his name, calmly, and Carl stopped, his face lingering for another moment before he shoved the manager backwards. The other’s face was red, but he said nothing, merely watched as Carl jumped back over the counter, surrounded by employees who weren't sure what to do.

Margaret and Carl walked from the store in silence. No one stopped them.

Holly watched them go. Only when they had disappeared from sight did Clay move. He stared at her, but she knew better than to look back at him. He took a step forward. Her shoulders bunched up in expectation. People were crowded around the counter, shouting questions at both of them. Too many people, she thought. Finally, Clay told them to shut up and stalked off towards the stockroom. As he did, Holly heard him mutter, “I can't wait until they all float away and leave the rest of us alone.”

His words were intended for no one in particular, but they struck her with more power than his fists ever had. I can't wait until they all float away. What did he mean by that?

Having watched the Carboneau women and her teenage son walking down the aisle, Holly felt a new panic rise. It was going to happen. She believed that. She’d always believed it. Did Clay?

She thought of Connor, her baby. The store disappeared around her. Now was the time, if ever. Holly wondered if Clay was going to go home. Probably not. Not yet. People lingered about the sales desk, asking questions, but she ignored them and picked up the phone, dialed '9' then her home number. All the while, a sense of nervous urgency filled her. If she was going to go through with her plans, she sensed somehow it had to begin now.

“Dot? Hi; it's Holly. Is Connor sleeping? No? How’s he doing?”

She hoped her friend Dorothy Lang did not hear any panic in her voice. The woman merely proceeded to describe Connor's morning. Hearing the adoration in Dot’s voice reminded her of how good a choice she'd made in picking her friend as a full-time baby-sitter. Dot had been laid off from the Gonzales school system a month before Connor had been born, and was more than happy to be doing something, especially since she and Phil hadn’t been able, not yet at least, to have any kids of their own.

Holly only half listened to Dot’s words. She and Clay had driven to work together this morning. Holly had the keys. Clay couldn't leave without her. She had a chance. She let Dot ramble on about Connor's adventures with creamed carrots. He'd only started solid food last week, and it had been a glorious adventure getting him to try. With Holly ignoring their questions –  her attention riveted on the lighted button of the phone – those gathered around her migrated away from the desk and back to their own depleted department shelves or into the back to get answers from Clay.

When she was alone, Holly interrupted, “Dot, listen, do me a favor?” She looked around. No one was close enough to hear. “I'm leaving work a little early. My chest is killing me and I think I'd better nurse Connor myself instead of pump.” A pause, listening. “I know, but phasing that out has to be gradual. And Dot? Can you dress him up for going outside? Get his diaper bag ready and a change of clothes... in case he makes a mess. Yes. I'm taking the rest of the day off, thinking of bringing Connor to the park for the afternoon. That’s right. Thanks, Dot. Bye.”

Talking about feeding the baby set off the inevitable physical reaction in her breasts. The nursing response still amazed her. The sound of a baby crying in the store was enough to get her body producing milk. Still, it was a secondary consideration at the moment. She'd have to nurse Connor when she got home, but only enough to take the pressure off. It wouldn’t be long before Clay realized she was gone, and he'd grab the first person with a car to see what she was up to.

Holly looked around. As casually as possible she grabbed her pocketbook from under the counter and left the store. As she got in the car and pulled out of her space, she kept looking in the rear view mirror, expecting to see Clay running out the door after her. She saw nothing but the ever-dwindling crowd of customers walking in and out.

She didn’t have much time.

*     *     *

“What are we going to do now? I say try Dexter's lumber down in Soledad. They're bound to have better stuff anyway.”

Margaret kept her eyes on the road. “Have you ever been there?”

“Well, no. But what choice do we have? We have to try someplace.”

Margaret found herself taking random turns, navigating through town but not having any real destination. Carl was right. What choice did they have? Not that she expected to find anything different wherever they went. Already, an alternative plan was forming in her mind. One that seemed so radically permanent in its scope that it frightened her to consider it.

Instead, she said simply, “What's the fastest way there?”

*     *     *

The temperature that day had reached eighty-nine degrees at its zenith. With the evening came a refreshing coolness pushed in from the ocean seventy-nine miles to the west. Daylight lingered longer every day, and as Margaret's crew gathered in her front yard at seven-thirty, she estimated they still had an hour of workable daylight left.

The store in Soledad had been more responsive, mostly because she hadn’t been recognized. It didn't take long for people to figure out who she was, and subsequently her purpose for the materials. Still, she and Carl had managed to get half of Estelle's list. As they left, the manager caught her at the door and in a beseeching tone asked her not to return. Carl's face burned with a newfound rage, but he kept any comments to himself. When Margaret explained that the man's customers would not need the wood in a month, his reaction was opposite that of the manager at the first store. He simply nodded his head and said, “I know that, ma’am. But that doesn’t change what my boss thinks, and that's where the decision comes from. I'm sorry.”

Margaret wondered if she'd ever been called “ma'am” this often before the dreams. Already, her alternate plan looked to be the only way out. She explained it to Carl on the way back to Lavish, and he’d shifted uneasily in his seat. His ranting about the “lunacy” of the plan made her begin to doubt his belief in what was going to happen. She told him so, in quiet, hurt words. He fell silent, and as they'd approached the town common to call everyone together, he simply muttered, “It just seems so much like the point of no return.”

The point of no return , she thought. So be it.

Margaret explained her intentions to the group when they’d re-gathered on her front lawn. They would have to be careful not to cause the house to collapse on top of the supplies being stored in the basement – the glue, forty gallons of heavy black grease unopened since being delivered a month earlier, and the harnesses. If the worst happened, she supposed they would simply excavate it all from under the rubble and move on. Everything between this evening and the eighth of June would have to be this way. If it hadn’t been obvious before, it was now.

Her home was a lumber mine, waiting for excavation. What choice did she have left?

As she outlined her idea, no one objected. They simply stared at her in what she took as silent resignation. The cynical side of herself thought, Of course, it’s not their house we’re about to demolish.

“Estelle, what exactly do we need, measurements and everything?”

The woman adjusted her wheelchair to face the group. As she read off the list, rattling off the measurements for each piece still needed, Margaret broke people into groups, told them which room to use, and sent them in. Carl had temporarily shut off the power. Even so, Margaret sent each group in with, “And be wary of the wires. Don’t mark anything for cutting above an electrical outlet if you can help it.”

She accompanied Carl and Al up the ramp, which had become the only way into the front door since Tony Donato retrofitted the porch for Estelle. Every time she walked into her house, Margaret imagined herself boarding the ark. Each time she entered her home, there were butterflies in her stomach, a fear slowly building in her gut, reminding her how far she'd come in only a month with the complete dismantling of her life.

Katie was inside, watching with horror as people began removing photographs, dragging the china cabinet aside to expose a large section of bare wall. Margaret looked at her daughter but said nothing. She'd deliberately specified to everyone that the girls' room was off-limits. Katie was lost enough these days, and Robin had begun having her own tantrums, emulating her big sister. Neither needed to see their last refuge taken apart piece by piece.

The expression on Katie’s face when she looked at her mother cut a hole in Margaret's heart. But the girl said nothing, simply turned and ran into her room. Margaret heard her screaming once the door was shut, accompanied now and then by something hitting the walls.

She tried to put it out of her mind. Now that she was inside, she realized the amount of daylight had been misleading. Inside, a shadowy gloom pervaded every room. With the power off, it was already too dark to see any detail.

“Clear stuff away,” she repeated as she went room-to-room, “snd try to measure and draw out, but let's hold off on any cutting. It's too dark to risk any mistakes.” She sent Carl back downstairs to turn on the master power. Soon, every house light was on. Every bare wall had large rectangles drawn in marker or crayon across the wallpaper. They would cut each piece as big as possible, then trim to what was needed. The walls were plaster board. Margaret didn’t think they would work as well as straight plywood. But it might work for inside walls, especially coated with shipper’s glue. They’d have to wait and see.

People marked their cutting for the next day across wallpaper and painted walls, across the dark paneling of Vince's old den. Margaret reluctantly wandered into Katie’s room. The girl was on her bed, the lamp on its side atop the dresser, still lighted. The girl sobbed into her pillow. On the other bed, Robin sat upright, holding a stuffed dog. She stared with quiet, sad eyes at her sister.

Margaret sat on the side of the bed and reflexively ran her hand across Katie's back. Both of them tensed. She waited for the girl to explode with renewed rage against her crazy mother. Instead, Katie rolled towards her, half crawling along the bed, and crumpled in her mother's lap, still sobbing, but now crying against Margaret. She never spoke, nor looked up. But that one small gesture, and the sudden appearance of Robin on the bed beside her, hugging her mother and crying a little herself, told her that, at least among her small family, things might be all right.

26

Everyone slept in the house, scattered throughout the rooms in sleeping bags or covered with a single blanket. Except Carl, Al and Tony. Once everything had been marked, they left to stay with the ship. With the second police guard she'd added to her payroll at the common, Margaret insisted the threesome wouldn't need to stand watch. Nevertheless, they left in Al’s car. Margaret mused that the fire had burned more than the ark. Since the incident, most everyone carried something dark within them, as if they'd been personally violated. Each seemed to privately wish for someone, anyone, to try it again while they were there. These three especially, as they'd become nearly inseparable over the past days. Margaret could see the look of sadness come across Jennifer’s face when Tony stormed out with the other two. She’d be without him again tonight. Not that anyone considered doing anything more than sleep together in a house full of people, but to be able to hold someone close, and be held, was something Margaret felt envious of. That night, she, Katie and Robin all slept fitfully on Katie’s narrow twin bed. Robin had given up at some point before dawn and crawled under her own sheets.

The men returned to the house by seven the next morning. Margaret and the others were eating breakfast, mostly bagels Jennifer had gone out to buy earlier.

As soon as everyone was ready, Carl shut the power down again. That was when they'd all made an irritating discovery. None of the power tools worked. Thus began the slow process of shutting off one breaker, then the next, marking which outlets worked and which didn't on a sheet of paper Carl eventually taped to the circuit box door. Using extension chords, they were able to isolate the power to a select few outlets while shutting down the rest.

The cutting began. Margaret watched the large wall in the front room, the wall which once had held photos of Vince and the girls, of their wedding and her parents' wedding, explode in sprays of dust as David Whitman cut along the measured lines with a circular saw. As he progressed along, the large man kicked at the cord with his leg, keeping the bulk of it behind him. Margaret observed this interplay between cord and leg. Watching the actual cutting hurt too much. If she looked up, and saw the powdery gash following the progress of the blade, she felt dizzy. Eventually she left the house completely and grabbed a folding chair.

Estelle had gone out before the deconstruction began. Margaret put the chair beside hers, and laid her head on Estelle’s shoulder. She wanted to cry, wail in despair like Katie had last night. Instead, she only sighed. Estelle reached up and patted the side of her face. Neither woman said anything. They listened to the sounds of cutting and the shouts of the workers as they slowly, methodically, dismantled the Carboneaus’ home.

23

“Would you like some more water, Aunt Corinne?”

The old woman raised her right hand weakly, muttered something, which Father McMillan understood after so many visits to mean “no.” He took her hand gently and said, “Well, you just squeeze my hand if you want some, all right?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. Though his aunt did not normally turn her head to him during these visits, she did so now. She moved her lips, as if in conversation, but no sounds came forth save the paper-wisps of her breath. Her furrowed brows told the priest more than any words could. She was confused by his visit. Even as she slipped further away from him, more every week, he was invariably caught off-guard by her sudden displays of lucidity.

He could pretend not to notice, but the woman's piercing gaze suggested otherwise.

“I suppose,” he said, almost sheepishly, “you're wondering why I'm here on a Monday rather than the usual Wednesday?” He shrugged, as if any answer he might offer was not worth her trouble to ask.

She squeezed his hand. McMillan smiled. “You truly amaze me, sometimes, Auntie.”

Her gaze narrowed, an unmistakable “get on with it” look.

He gently shook her hand. “It's nothing to worry about, really. I've just been taking some days off and thought I'd surprise you with an unscheduled visit. I always assumed on the days I don't come you're probably jumping on the bed causing all kinds of mischief.” He immediately regretted his words. Someone lying at death’s door didn't need reminding of the fact that they'll never jump on any bed again.

Corinne looked at her nephew for a moment, then away and up. McMillan turned to see what was grabbing her attention. Nothing there, save for a darkened television set.

His heart sank. Did the staff turn on the TV for her?

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back towards the woman in the bed. She was staring at him again, her gaze soft. The look was such that, if she hadn't been so dehydrated, McMillan was sure he'd see tears running down her cheeks.

“I -” he began. “You watched the news?” He tried to make the question sound casual, but felt his composure crumple as the thin, fragile hand within his own gave a soft squeeze. He felt the bones, and the love, in that grip.

He sobbed once, fought to control the emotion as he’d done the night he'd cried himself to sleep after the police left. “I tried to stop it,” he whispered. “I tried to calm them! Why make everyone panic, frightened, when there's nothing they can do?” Another sob. He was losing control. Father Doiron, the associate pastor whom McMillan had abandoned to handle all the duties of the parish these past two weeks, tried to talk to him about the shooting that night, about the arks, but McMillan had only shouted in anger, asking if anyone cared about the elderly trapped in their houses, in nursing homes with nowhere to go. Did no one care how frightened these people probably were, knowing they would never be able to board any boat to save themselves?

They deserve to be told the truth, and the truth is only what their shepherd believes it to be. You believe, yet you let your people wander in the dark.

The words were not his, yet he heard them in his own thoughts, in his own inner voice. He heard them every day, try as he might to ignore them. His aunt continued to stare at him, occasionally squeezing his hand with whatever strength she had. Could she be talking to him now, passing to him in her stare what she could not speak?

You have abandoned your flock to the wolves, rather than set their hearts on the path of preparation.

“No,” he whispered, and now his Aunt's expression changed, not understanding his remark. He wiped the tears from his face. Of course, she wasn't talking to him. It was his conscience, taking advantage of this sudden lack of control.

“I'll be all right, Aunt Corinne. It's just hard, knowing what's going to come.”

She mouthed words to him that he would never hear. Staring at her lips, he thought she might be saying, “No one knows what's to come,” but she could just as easily have asked for a drink of water.

He was alone, it seemed, in sorting this out. He should confide more in Doiron, who was a staunch denouncer of the prophecies uttered by the ark builders. And he would remain so, until the Vatican gave their official stance. A stance, McMillan feared, that might never come. The visions were for the sheep, not the shepherds. He wouldn't be surprised if God had already intervened to prevent the Holy Father from making any statements on the matter.

The thought sent shivers of fear down his back.

The priest rose, and the old woman's hand followed, refusing to release him.

“I have to go, Aunt Corinne. I'm sorry. I'll come back Wednesday.”

He kissed her on the forehead. So thin was her skin, so hard the bone. She held him one final moment, then released his hand. Never once did she take her eyes from him.

He did not return the next day, though he wanted to. Going back would have confirmed his aunt's suspicions that he was not returning to the parish. He spent the majority of the morning near Long Wharf, watching the derelict preacher. The man had lost a lot of weight since McMillan had seen him last. He wondered if he’d make it to the final day.

Aunt Corinne died at eight-thirty that night. He learned of her passing from a sullen Father Doiron when McMillan returned to the rectory near midnight, a practice the associate pastor learned to ignore as soon as he realized McMillan wasn’t going to confide in him. That night, though, the small man was waiting for him when he arrived so he could relay the message.

Seeing the shock on his pastor’s face, the deep sadness, Doiron laid a hand on McMillan's arm and said, “I'm sorry, Tim. I didn't know how to reach you. They contacted Monsignor Carelli instead for the last rites since he's the primary on-call for Catholics at the home. I wrote down what details I could. I assumed you'd want to contact them, or Carelli himself. Perhaps to preside over the - “

“Thanks,” McMillan interrupted, not wanting to hear any more. He sat down slowly, repeated, “Thanks, Father. I will.” He laid a hand on the pad of paper with the phone number and other details on his aunt’s passing. McMillan stared at the patterns of ink without reading. “I will, tomorrow. I just need to sit here a while if you don't mind.”

Doiron looked as if he wanted to say more, then sighed and said, “Good night,” before hurrying out. The phone was ringing in the other room. It rang all night these days. After midnight they generally left the machine on, especially since Doiron needed the extra sleep now that McMillan was “taking a few days off to recover.”

He sat in silence, hearing the priest in the other room consoling yet another parishioner. The calls would be coming in earnest, as the end of May approached.

Father McMillan lifted the pad of paper but still could not focus on the words. In the other room, Doiron hung up the phone. McMillan listened to his tired footfalls ascending the stairs.

The phone rang again.

McMillan got up quickly, put on his coat, and left the rectory through the back door.

18

Austin “Ozzie” Shaw felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. Normally, he worked in the back of the lumber warehouse, hauling stock in and out as the Jesus Freaks rushed in to build their asylums. It was good work, but under normal circumstances, Ozzie could scarcely pull together a forty hour week from that jerk Clay. Lately, though, he was lucky to crawl into his apartment by nine o'clock and have one beer before passing out on the couch. Forget about trying to drag himself out to meet everyone at McCatty's.

Then four days ago, Clay – no longer a jerk in Ozzie's opinion – had pulled him aside. Ozzie assumed he was a dead man. Every since Holly dumped him and took off Clay prowled around the store, kicking the arkies into the street and making life miserable for everyone else. He'd gone so far as to smack Bennie Litz in the back of the head with a pack of work gloves. Bennie wasn't exactly a tiny guy, but he took it. Everyone did. Clay was seriously nuts.

Secretly, every man there was thrilled his girlfriend had bolted. Quiet little Holly was the best looking girl in the place and everyone knew Clay beat the crap out of her. Now she was available. Even with her kid, the prospects were enticing. That is, if anyone figured out where she'd hidden herself, and if anyone had the nerve to actually try and make moves on a psycho’s girlfriend. Looking into Clay's eyes four days ago, Ozzie was pretty sure anyone who tried would end up with a screwdriver in the back of the head.

That day Ozzie had waited for whatever abuse Clay had in store. To his astonishment, the prick was semi-decent. “Listen, Shaw,” he'd said, constantly looking around the warehouse for any lurker he could fire if they looked like they were listening. “I'm going to make you an offer, and you're going to accept it, and you're not going to tell anyone? Got it?”

An offer you can't refuse , Ozzie had thought glumly. “I guess,” he said. “Sure, Clay. Name it.”

Ozzie made Clay repeat the offer, thinking he had to have misunderstood. Sure enough, for the past four days he was being paid for forty hours work, plus another ten at time-and-a-half, to sit in his car in the center of Lavish all day and night to watch the crazies build their boat. Of course he couldn't leave, no matter what, except twice a day at staggered times to get food and go to the bathroom. If he couldn’t wait for the latter, he was to use an empty milk jug. He usually waited until his appointed break.

Bizarre as the request was, the offer made some sense. All Ozzie had to do was read his magazines, listen to the radio, and observe who visited the ark.

As soon as Holly showed up – and Clay was convinced she would – he was to call Clay on his cell and report in. Then came the tricky part, one that Ozzie thought was at least better than being paid to sit around all day. If Holly left before Clay got there, Ozzie was to follow her and learn where she was staying.

Ozzie Shaw, Private Dick . He smiled at that. If he carried this off, who knew? A new career on the horizon. He was pretty sure Clay was sending other folks to other sites for the same reason, leaving a diminished crew on hand but, in Clay's words, “They can all take a flying leap with a spoon if they don't like it.”

Clay the poet , Ozzie thought. Seriously nuts, that one.

Al l four windows in the car were open. The breeze kept things cool. The weather so far had been a miracle in and of itself. Ozzie only needed the A/C a couple of hours a day, just before and after lunch. Nice weather, but a little bizarre for California. Still, it wasn't raining. He could tell that this fact was slowly irritating the arkies as they finished their boat.

He was almost disappointed when he saw Holly walk across the grass. She kept looking around, expecting Clay to jump out from behind one of the shrubs. He supposed that wasn't far from the truth. She looked haggard, even from this distance. The kid wasn't with her. He wondered how she managed to find a baby-sitter and still keep hidden from her boyfriend. Ozzie didn't dwell on it, as he was listening to Clay's cell phone ringing after dialing the number.

“What?” came the answer.

“Hey, Clay. Your girl's here.”

“Who's this?” The guy sounded way too wound up.

“Um, it's Ozzie. You told me -”

“Ozzie,” Clay's voice interrupted. “Ozzie... Lavish town square?”

Was he drunk or just nuts? “Yeah, Man. She's talking with the Queen loony right now.”

“Where are you?”

“What? The Lavish to-”

“Where are you parked?” Clay sounded out of breath, like he was running.

“Red car, near the corner before the fire station.”

“Keep an eye on her. If she leaves, follow her, and call me.”

“That's the plan, Stan.” But Clay had already disconnected.

*     *     *

What am I doing?

Holly asked herself that question with every step across the town square. She was in the open where everyone could see her. Clay was looking for her. He’d gone to Dorothy Lang's door once every day for the first few days, demanding to know where she was hiding. Gratefully, Holly hadn't told Dot where she’d really been going that day, and Dot could truthfully say as much. When Holly finally talked to her on the phone this morning, her friend explained that it hadn’t been until her husband threatened to beat him senseless that Clay finally backed off. Not that he hadn't kept calling on the phone, but at least he stopped darkening their porch. When it came to someone standing up to him, Clay lost his nerve pretty quick.

She’d stocked up with supplies when she first picked up Connor eight days ago, stopping at the closest supermarket and ringing up a major hit to Clay's credit card for diapers and food. She got extra baby clothes at Wal-Mart then drove three towns over, paying for the motel room with the cash she’d built up over the past few days by maxing out the ATM withdrawals from their joint checking account.

There she stayed, going out each morning to drive the half hour to a Williamson ATM to take more from their account. Clay must have gotten wise and eventually changed the PIN. The rejected transaction was enough to keep her indoors after that.

Eight days of feeding and playing with Connor. Eight days without Clay, of relishing the joy of spending so much solo time with her baby. Connor kept babbling, trying out words only he understood, but which filled Holly with such happiness to hear. She'd lift him into a standing position, walked him around the small, single-bed room, and he'd smile and smile! According to all the books, ten months was a good age to start training him like this.

Eight nights of terror when Connor slept and there was nothing but the darkened television staring back at her. She didn’t watch TV, except for late night news to keep up on what was happening with the ships. That was the limit of her interaction with the world. She didn't want anything else but that one small room and her little boy all to herself. Sometimes, she'd pull up a chair beside the Pack 'N Play and watch him sleep.

Every slammed car door, every raised voice outside sent her jumping to the window. She couldn't live that way much longer. She couldn't stay, and she couldn't leave.

But she had to leave. Time was running out. During her stay in the motel, Holly had time to think about why she left him. The risk of Clay finding her.... Why did she do it?

She knew, and it took until today to finally admit it to herself. She believed what was happening. She believed Margaret Carboneau when she said the flood was going to come. Staring down at Connor, at his perfect face, the slightest bubble of spit coming from his lips as he slept, she knew. Clay would see them all die before he’d let her save her son. Now, it was probably too late. She had to try.

When she called Dot to say where she was, the woman burst into tears.

“Oh, my God, Sweetie. How long do you think you can just hide out there? You’ve gotta let me come with you to the police. God knows, I'm not big on getting them involved in domestic stuff. I mean they usually screw things up worse, but it beats living in a motel the rest of your life!”

“I know, Dot. I really do. I have a plan, but I need your help. Do you think you can watch Connor for a little while? Here, I mean, while I sneak out?”

“Of course, I will. You got a car, Hon, or will you need to borrow mine?”

Her car . The thought had suddenly struck her with so much force she had to sit on the edge of the bed. Holly’s car had been in the motel parking lot for eight days, right out in the open. Then she realized, no one had seen it. Eight days and they hadn't found her. She smiled at herself in silent congratulations. She’d done something right for once.

“I have a car,” she said, “but now that you mention it, maybe I'll borrow yours. Mine’ll get recognized.”

Dot laughed. “Girl, you're starting to sound like James Bond. It's a deal. And if I can find you an exploding fountain pen on my way, I'll pick one up.”

Dot's car, thankfully, was an automatic. Holly had never learned to drive standard. She watched Connor smile and drool as Dot lifted him overhead in a joyous reunion.

Now Holly was in public amidst a hundred faces, wondering if coming had been a mistake. Margaret Carboneau was standing on a short ladder, shouting to someone inside the ship through a porthole set high in the hull. The ship was clunky, and big.

“Ms. Carboneau?”

The woman turned, her expression dark for a brief moment. Then she brightened and climbed down off the ladder.

“You work at the supply store, right?”

Holly tried to smile, failed, and began to scan the cars parked around the common. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, turning back. “I'm sorry; I won't take up your time. You look busy. I'll come back -” Then she caught herself being the pathetic weak thing that had gotten into this mess to begin with. She wouldn’t be able to come back. “No, I'm sorry. I need to talk to you now.”

Margaret folded her arms across her chest and smiled, warily. “I'm all ears.”

Holly stumbled over her words, talking quickly so as not to let the woman interrupt until she got her say. “Can, can I join up? Sign up? Whatever. I don’t know what I can do, but, actually, I wouldn't be able to. I can't leave where I'm staying. Someone's looking for me, and if he sees me –” She stopped, realizing she sounded like a raving lunatic.

“It's okay,” Margaret said. “Are you asking to join us here on the ship?”

It was as if she'd lost a hundred pounds. “Yes.” She sighed. “Yes, that's right. My boy, Connor, he's just a baby. But he's real good. Him and me. Just the two of us. Really only one if you combine us.” She laughed.

Margaret's face darkened again. Not an angry expression, but there was sadness in it. Pity. The weight that had fled Holly a moment ago poured back, centered in the middle of her chest and stomach, threatened to pull her to her knees. “I'm sorry,” Margaret said. “I really am. But we're full up, and I can't take any more passengers. It's not allowed. If I could, I would. Please believe that.”

Holly wanted to cry, to beg and fall to the woman's feet. But the realization of where she was came back to her. Vulnerable. More so now that she was being turned away.

Margaret continued, “There are others being built, though. They might have room. I have a list. Here, let me get it.”

“No,” Holly sobbed. Tears were blurring her vision. “They'll all be filled, too, won't they? Filled or just never going to be built. Right?”

“I'm sorry.” How many times, Holly wondered, had this woman had to turn people away? She wiped her face with her arm, but it didn’t work. She lifted her shirt partway up and dabbed her eyes.

Connor was with Dot. She had to get to him. Think of what to do now, where to go.

“We have a waiting list,” Margaret said. She pointed to a red-haired woman in a wheelchair across the way. “Please, go over to Estelle and give her your name and number. There are others on the list before you, but people do leave now and then. There's always a chance.”

Holly heard the words but could not respond. After having dried her eyes she instinctively scanned the common looking for Clay. What she saw instead was Ozzie, watching her from behind the wheel of his car. When Ozzie realized he'd been spotted, he gave her a little wave, then shrugged his shoulders. His hand hovered there a moment, then he looked around.

Clay’s with him , she thought in panic. Oh, my God. He's looking for Clay.

Ozzie reached down and lifted up a cell phone. He was saying something. She stared, ignoring the questions from the woman beside her. Ozzie’s face took on a nervous urgency. As she tried to see what he was saying, she took a couple of involuntary steps forward. Then she understood what he was saying.

He's coming .

She turned and ran. Margaret Carboneau called after her, but Holly did not stop. For a panicked moment, she forgot where she'd parked her car, then remembered she'd driven Dot's Taurus wagon. There it was, three cars away.

She bumped the car in front with the wagon when she put it in gear. Its alarm blared. Muttering nonsensical words, which sounded more like Connor's language than her own, she pulled into the street, having to wait an eternity for an opening in the traffic. She was grateful her car was facing away from Ozzie, or she'd have to drive past him.

He's coming.

The tears kept falling, but she didn't dare wipe them away. She hit the button to roll down the windows, and let the breeze air dry her face. The edges of her vision crystallized, but she could see. As she’d planned before coming, Holly veered off the main road and followed a roundabout route to the motel. The office had plenty of maps to sell her, and she'd worked out two different routes in addition to the highway.

Al l the way, she checked for familiar cars in the traffic. No sign of Ozzie's red Chevy. No sign of Clay's white Saturn. Following her at the moment was an old woman in a small Toyota, and further back a blue mini-van. Even in his current state, Clay wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those.

She had gotten away. For the time being, at least.

*     *     *

Ozzie pulled from the curb, chiding himself for screwing up like that. Had Clay seen him warn Holly? No, he couldn't have. She had already reached her car when Clay pulled up alongside him. In a mini-van, no less. He would have laughed if he hadn’t seen the death mask that was Clay's face.

“Where,” was all he said. Ozzie described the car he'd seen her get into, and pointed. Clay looked ahead of him, eyes darting, searching; then he pulled away slowly, in calm pursuit.

*     *     *

“I have to go. Here, Connor! Come here, Baby.”

“I'll say this one more time, Holly. What is going on?”

Holly's face was streaked with dried tears. “Ozzie saw me. He works at the store. He said Clay was coming.”

“Clay knows you're here?”

Holly paused. Did he know where she was? She never saw his car, never saw any flash of red to indicate Ozzie had followed, either. “No,” she said at last. “No, I guess not.”

Dot played with Holly's hair, trying unsuccessfully to untangle it. “Is this place still paid for?”

Holly nodded. “I paid up until June eighth.”

“Well, that's good. Why June... aw, Honey. You don't believe those stories, do you?”

Holly almost denied it, but what would be the point? She nodded. Her friend laughed, a heavy, tension-cutting sound and tousled Holly's hair, having obviously decided the rat's nest was beyond fixing. “You go on and believe what you want. Come June ninth, you can stay with me and Phil, OK?” She took Holly in a loose hug. Connor gleefully squirmed between them. “I'll stay here with you the rest of the day, see if Mister Big ever shows up. If not, I'd have to say you're in the clear. He's never been a very patient man.”

A shadow by the window caught Dot's attention. When she looked up, there was nothing. She'd opened the blinds while Holly was gone, then the windows to freshen the air. From here, she could see the parking lot, and as far as she could tell, nothing was different except her own car which Holly had come back with, and a blue minivan now parked across the lot. It, too, was empty.

By seven o'clock that evening, Dot prepared to leave. Holly had re-closed the windows, turned on the air conditioner and shut the blinds.

“It's like a cave in here,” Dot said, giving a kiss to baby and mother in turn. She paused by the door, talking while typing a long text into her phone. “Phil is probably calling the National Guard for me by now. The man worries too much. I'll call you tonight. You promise to stay put?”

She promised. Dot went home.

An hour later, Holly fed Conner, burped him, and laid him down to sleep. It was dark outside, and Holly lay on the bed. She couldn't sleep, but she knew she had to relax or it would affect her milk.

Twenty-five minutes later, the door to the motel room opened with a subdued thump. Clay stumbled inside. He smiled as he straightened up, then lingered at the doorway, patching up the lock. He said nothing, just occasionally turned to her and smiled. She never moved, except to creep towards the far side of the bed. She almost expected him to say something bizarre like, “Hi, Honey, I'm home.” But he never spoke.

The door fixed, he closed it and wandered to the closet, got the suitcase she'd bought at the store along with the diapers and Pack ‘N Play, methodically opened and closed the dresser drawers, throwing whatever clothes he found into the case. He snapped it shut, looked down at Connor and gently lifted his sleeping form.

Every muscle in her body tensed, ready to spring if Clay made any threat. He didn't. He smiled again and handed Connor over to her, folded up the Pack 'N Play, lifted it and the suitcase and walked to the door.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Time to go home.”

Holly hesitated. Clay turned back. He wasn't smiling. “Now, Babe. Or I'll kill you both right here.” She looked into the two dark orbs that used to be his eyes, and knew he was telling the truth.

Holly cradled her son closer and followed Clay to the mini-van parked across the lot. They did not speak on the ride home. She tried not to think what was going to happen when he had her back in the house, in the place where he felt safe enough to act out his true nature. When he got her inside, she had to make sure Connor was safe in his crib before Clay killed her. At least then her son would have a chance of surviving. This was all she had left to cling to, as she watched the white lines of the highway ticking off their passage back home.

15

“Doctor Ramprakash!”

Neha stopped with an unexpected pang of happiness on hearing her name pronounced correctly. Over the past month, Bernard Meyers had made it a point to acknowledge her in the hall whenever they crossed paths. Aside from this small token of recognition, nothing else seemed to come of her participation in his dinner the month before.

She paused only briefly, pretending to note her place on the chart she carried for Mrs. Rondeau in room 316, then turned and raised an eyebrow, an expression of passive interest.

“Doctor Meyers, how are you this morning?”

Meyers walked quickly to her side and Neha fell into step. He didn't want to keep her from her destination, protocol for any ad-hoc hallway meeting. He seemed in a hurry himself, and she admired how the older man never looked winded as he whirled about the hospital.

“I won't keep you long,” he said. They turned the corner. “Just wanted to extend another invitation to you and Suresh.” Again, Neha was filled with hope, knowing that Meyers would have done some research to remember her husband's first name.

“Another dinner?” she asked lightly.

Meyers slowed as they neared the third floor nurse’s station, then stopped altogether. Obviously he wanted their conversation to be private. His face flushed, and for a moment Neha thought the man was going to ask for a date. But no, he'd mentioned Suresh, hadn’t he?

“For obvious reasons, some quite political as you'll soon understand, I hope I can count on your discretion.”

She kept her face an expressionless stone as she whispered, “Of course.”

He waved a hand casually in the air. “Oh, it's nothing too earth-shattering, honestly, only I don’t have much room at the cottage and need to be careful not to bruise anyone's feelings.”

Al ready Neha felt herself shift, mentally, into a new state of expectation. His cottage, and only a few people. She kept herself calm, breathing deeply through her nose, not wanting to seem eager. “I understand,” she said.

“Linda and I have a small place in Colorado, near Westcliffe. Mostly for skiing in the winter, mind you.” He paused a moment as two nurses came by, wheeling a woman out of 319. Drake, Neha thought automatically, x-rays and blood work. She smiled at the director, ignoring the curious glances from the nurses.

When their small section of hall was deserted again, Meyers continued. “Now and again we decide to open it for a week in the summer. Sometimes Linda organizes it herself. Taking time off from this place is problematical at best for me. But we figure, with so much hysteria around lately, it might be nice to get away for a while. Take a long weekend, just a few days.”

Neha smiled. “That sounds like a great idea. Things are only going to get weirder around town.”

Meyers nodded emphatically. “Yes. Which is why we thought we'd invite a few folks along, you and your husband included if you're interested. Perhaps for a few days early next month?”

Neha calculated the risk of her next statement before speaking. “I assume these few days would span June eighth? Even across the country, we'll be able to hear the collective sighs of relief when nothing happens.” A quick, calculated laugh. The risk paid off. Meyers’ demeanor lightened visibly. He returned her smile.

“Exactly. That's what I like about you, Doctor. You're not flustered by the madness that’s taken hold of everyone.”

She shrugged one shoulder, never taking her eyes off him. “I try not to be. And we would be honored to get away for a few days. I'll have to check with Suresh, see if he could take the time off.” She frowned suddenly. “It might be harder for me to get those days off, however, I - “

“..have nothing to fear,” Meyers interrupted. “I got you off for dinner last month; I can get you off again.” He smiled wider. One of his teeth had a silver crown. Neha hadn’t noticed that before. She replayed his last words over in her memory. Had that been a come-on? No, probably not. Still, better safer than sorry. She offered him a tempered but smoldering look. “If you could do that, I'd be in your debt, Doctor Meyers.”

“Good! Good. Well, I'll have Elizabeth get the information to you. And don't worry about airfare. We'll get that arranged on our end, once we know which specific days you can take off.” He paused. “Obviously, it would be great if you could stay at least through the eighth.”

Naturally , she thought. The man's a nervous wreck. Neha would not be surprised to find the same Bernard Meyers Support Group in Colorado as had attended dinner during the fizzled rainstorm. A half-dozen or more surrogate parents running around telling him everything was going to be all right. The suspicion that Meyers's “cottage” was most likely in the mountains, safe haven from any flood, did not escape her. She was to fly out there in order to pat his hand, coo sweet comforts in his ear.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” she said.

The cliché was their cue to part company, so both doctors turned in separate directions. Neha wondered where she was supposed to be at that moment, or that day. For the next hour, all she could think about was the trip.

As the afternoon waned, the distractions mounted. Memorial Day weekend would be on them in a few days, and there was the usual inventory work to be done beforehand. The holiday weekend invariably brought waves of back problems, ankle sprains, and other more bloody problems as people broke out the lawn mowers and chain saws. Lately, bursts of street fighting had been on the rise, arguments spontaneously erupting on every corner. The trip to the Meyers' place would be good not only for her future, but for her sanity. The chaos on that prophetic day would be far beyond them.

Suresh had been good about not following up on his dreams - almost too good. Following her around like a pathetic dog wanting a pat on the head. Wanting her with him more than ever, both physically and mentally. As if she owed him her undying devotion, now that he'd given up this insanity. Well, she might have to butter him up a little more now. Give him a taste of paradise. Privately, Neha knew her husband still expected the world to end in two weeks regardless of his silence, and was trying to make the most of their time together.

She would wait on acting any further. Make Suresh happy, do the trip, make an impression, get in good with Meyers, then when the issue of getting a divorce didn't seem as much of a stigma to her reputation, leave sad little Suresh behind with his devas and visions.

When her shift was over, she stopped by Elizabeth Valdecci's desk. The secretary’s office offered a comfortable waiting area for those lucky enough to make it onto the director's calendar. Elizabeth didn’t usually leave until six o'clock, so Neha assumed she'd catch her. As she took the elevator to the second floor, she wondered if Meyers had invited her to this little outing. He wouldn't leave his trusted sidekick behind. Would he?

When she arrived, Elizabeth Valdecci's desk was unoccupied. Taped to the front, hanging over the edge as if in effigy, was a legal sized envelope with the name Ramprakash in the woman’s stark handwriting. Neha pulled the envelope free, leaving the strand of tape dangling from the edge of the desk.

She held the envelope but did not open it. She knew the woman well enough to know the pre-confirmation sheet, rental car and a typewritten set of directions and recommendations on items to bring would be neatly stacked inside. The fact the Elizabeth had left the information in such an unprofessional manner made Neha uncomfortable. It was inconsistent with the woman she knew and everyone feared. Each time something like this, something out of place, happened in Neha’s world she felt another pang of fear. Not a small tug at her nerves, but true terror. These minor changes in routine set off the same thought - the world is winding down.

She walked along the corridor back towards the elevator. Elizabeth just had to leave early today. If this had happened a year ago, you wouldn't even blink. Suresh and his mind games, she thought, and silently cursed them all.

14

The work at Margaret's home took nearly two weeks, and over that time the house became more of a spectacle in Lavish than the ark on the common. As she'd feared, applying the glue to the porous and crumbling wall board had not resulted in any useful material, at least not if they wanted something strong enough to withstand the constant shifting of the food and water stored under the lower deck. Eventually, they stopped taking cuttings from inside. The kitchen table was made of oak. They took that. The countertops were Formica, and would be useful in their durability as shelving and dividers inside the hold. Eventually, not yet wanting to resort to the daunting task of taking up floor boards, they moved outside.

Shingles were removed from the back of the house, exposing the sturdier plywood beneath which they desperately needed. Pulling these from the house was another issue entirely. Instead strategic holes were cut inside to reach the outer wall and bang the nails loose enough to be pulled free. It was a long, slow process. They were occasionally forced to cut through beams, never certain which ones were critical for the integrity of the overall structure.

Once the first sheets of outer plywood were removed Margaret could see into the house from various points. One afternoon, standing in the front yard as the men tore up the shingles to get at the “meat” beneath, she understood they could no longer sleep here. She pictured a heavy spring storm blowing in one night and pushing the damaged beams to their limit, crashing the roof on them as they slept.

The decision made, the house held less meaning to her. She announced that the ark would be their home for the final two weeks. Taking care to preserve the outer look of the ranch no longer made any sense. They cut and dissected where the wall length met their needs.

The town's attention was riveted on the dismantled home. After wrapping up an interview and sending her cameraman to circle the house for the “best shots of the damage,” one reporter remarked off-handedly that Margaret wasn't the only person doing this. Good lumber was scarce. Some of the more future-sighted contractors realized early what was happening and bought twice or even ten times their usual amounts of lumber. “Hoarding before the storm,” the reporter had said, then quickly wrote the phrase down. She'd just given herself a workable tag line.

That particular interview had a theme. “Two Weeks Until Doomsday” was written at the top of the reporter's question-filled clipboard.

Margaret didn’t think the woman actually believed it. She silently prayed for her as the reporter drove away with her crew to find one of the fabled contractor-hoarders.

Margaret looked up at the blue sky. The sun caressed her tanned face. The day was cool for California, this late in May, barely passing eighty degrees. Two weeks left, she thought, and God chose to give his people the most beautiful weather imaginable. As she had been doing more and more, Margaret wondered how it would all be destroyed. More and more, she felt certain this was not some delusion. It would happen, as they’d been warned. She could taste it in the air, heard it whispered in her ear, carried along on the breeze.

Even so, how could such devastation come with the skies so clear and perfect? Even those on the periphery, the angry and frightened ones, stared at the sky and laughed. The world was not going to end. It was easy to convince themselves of this as the clock wound down. Angry shouts and curses changed to laughter and derision.

Then Margaret understood. The weather was perfect for that very reason. If someone did not believe, then the Lord would allow the illusion. Better to let the wolf think it is full, than allow it free reign to slaughter the sheep out of anger or malice.

She got into the car where Jennifer and Fae were waiting. They needed more food and water. As they pulled out, Tony Donato and three others followed in a second car. The small caravan moved across town in their seemingly never-ending quest among supermarkets and wholesale outlets. They'd learned their lesson from the lumber stores and made it a point not to buy too much at one time, or in any given location. So far, it had worked. If Margaret's theory was right, however, as they neared the start of June, even the most basic supplies would become scarce. Then, it would be too late to do anything about it. But they would be ready.

11

Holly lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There – another water spot, the fourth she'd seen. Why hadn't she noticed them before?

The past week had proven uneventful. If anything, Holly learned that Clay wasn't the beast she'd built him up to be prior to her running away - her stupid eight days acting like a frightened child in that motel room. Whenever she thought of that time, the deep sorrow for their loss, for those moments alone with Connor, was squashed with the realization that she was a twenty-two year old, foolish little girl. Clay had been patient, more than she possibly could have hoped.

Yes, he did hit her. Her plan to get Connor into the crib as soon as they'd arrived home last week had been a wise choice. Clay had taken the time to walk across the house, toss the mini-van's keys onto the table. Holly had an urge then to ask if he'd bought the van while she was gone, but thought better of it. Connor stirred only slightly from his nap when she laid him in his crib. For a moment, she worried that he'd wake and start crying. But he hadn't. That was good.

She lay on the bed now and shifted a little, thought of how wonderful a boy he was. Though Clay wasn’t the most attentive father, he never laid a hand on her baby. Neither in love nor rage. Something to be thankful for.

Her fingers tingled, getting numb again. She wriggled them in the pattern she'd learned over the past few days. Eventually the numbness faded, leaving only the tingling she knew would not dissipate until five-thirty when Clay untied her wrists and ankles so she could feed Connor.

She might have been mistaken, but water spot number two seemed bigger than a couple of days ago. She'd have to keep a close eye on it.

“Stop doing that finger-thing!”

“I can't,” she said, “I need to keep up the circulation.”

“Do it when baby's milking you. Not now. It's distracting.”

She slowed the wriggling, but did not stop. She could speed the action up later, do it gradually so Clay wouldn't notice.

Talking was easier today. She'd been convinced Clay broke her jaw that first night. When she emerged from Connor’s room, he’d lifted the picture of his mother off the living room wall, turned it sideways as if looking for flaws, then swung so quickly Holly had to struggle later to remember what had happened. She remembered a crunch, a grinding in her jaw or maybe her head. Clay hadn’t given her much time to think. A punch into her back knocked the wind from her, followed by a few kicks and blows to her arms and legs. Not too many; at least she didn't think so. The memory was nothing more than a vague recollection of pain, of keeping her arms close to her side to protect her breasts. Sometimes it seemed what she was really doing was holding all her parts together while Clay tried to systematically rip her apart.

But he had stopped. And that meant something. He wasn't a murderer. She'd awoken, later, tied to the posts of the spare bed in Connor’s room, spread-eagled on her back and wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing when he'd found her at the motel. Clay was sitting on the which had been dragged into the bedroom, along with the television balanced precariously on the dresser. He ate his meals there from a side table every day since, another time he reluctantly untied her in order for her to eat whatever she could through the pain in her jaw.

With few exceptions, he never left the room. Always there, staring at her, or watching television. She relished those latter moments, when his attention was riveted to one mindless show or another. She could look away from the ceiling, scan the room, stare at the wallpaper, find alternate images in its floral patterns. Make faces at Connor whenever he sat up in his crib and watched her through the slats.

“I'm not leaving your side, Honey,” Clay crooned when she awoke that first time. “Me and you and baby makes three, right? All in one cozy room, just like that motel.” He'd spoken calmly, barely an inflection in his voice. His expression alternating from a blank stare to thoughtful and contemplative. “So, you're afraid God's going to kill us; at least that's what you want me to believe. I saw some of those guys up there, shirts off, banging in those nails.” He pantomimed hammering, but never took his blank face from hers. “Up and down, bang, bang. You know I almost made my entrance at the hotel as soon as I'd parked. I was going to bang good old Dot on the head and crush her skull, then just keep on going until you were dead, too.” He blew out air from pursed lips. “Whew. Can you believe that? I was kind of nuts. Good thing I hung out in the back of the van 'til your girlfriend left. Calmed me down. Gave me time to think.” Still, no expression.

He prattled on about how his love demanded he stay in the room with her until Judgment Day, and if that was going to be June eighth, so be it. If it ended up being twenty years from now, so be that, too.

It was then that Holly noticed the first water stain on the ceiling.

As the days wore on, her body healed. She didn't see how that was possible, considering how little movement she was allowed.  Now and then Clay would simply stand up and leave the room. A moment later she would hear the shower running or the toilet flush. Once a day, he would untie her and lead her into the bathroom. Holly's arms dangled wonderfully by her sides in those moments. She couldn't linger very long, however. Standing in the hall, Clay's patience was thin. Without warning, he would open the door to retrieve her.

Twice he'd called Dot from the other room, rattling on that he was falling apart without Holly and demanding that she tell him where she was hiding or he'd get the police involved. Holly heard only snippets of dialogue from the bed. Clay was a good actor. Dot and Phil had apparently been convinced by his performance because she was still here, tied to the bed.

People from the store stopped by occasionally, including Elizabeth to get her van back. At these times, Holly focused only on Connor. She willed her baby to remain silent in his crib. Listened as Clay held them at the door, sometimes sobbing and saying how he was falling apart with worry. She knew if she made any noise, something very bad would happen. If not to her and Connor, maybe to the unlucky visitor. Her only hope was the tone in Ozzie's voice yesterday. He was one of the few people who might actually suspect something was wrong. But after Clay's story of losing Holly, laying the blame on Ozzie for taking too long to call, he never came back.

At those moments, God bless him, Connor was silent save for an occasional cooing. She watched him playing with his toes, hands and feet poking up above the crib's bumper guard.

Connor, her only remaining friend now that Dot thought she'd left without a word. Her little boy kept her alive, made her gaze at the ceiling for hours to avoid Clay's stare. Three times a day, everything around her faded to an opaque white as she sat up in bed, unbound, and nursed her baby. Even when Clay had beaten her half to death, something inside the man must have known to avoid her chest. Maybe she'd simply protected herself well. At some base level, Clay might have known that if she couldn't nurse, he'd have to start buying formula.

He was just worried about her. About her running away again. He was really a good person.

Nursing her baby meant everything was going to be all right. When Connor suckled on her body, the bruises faded, her ribs healed. She stared at his face, watched him watching her, and fell in love with her son all over again. They would die on the last day together. She had to make sure that when it happened, they were like this. Clay might be there, in his chair, but she wouldn't acknowledge his existence when it happened. Mother and son were one in the eyes of God; wasn't that how it should be?

Water stain number two definitely was bigger. She felt Clay's unfocused gaze on her. She stared at the blemish, waiting for it to grow.

10

“Can you believe this guy?” The question was offered by a twenty-something man, probably on his lunch break judging from the employee badge flapping off his belt. It was much like the one Suresh had worn every day until this morning.

He smiled without replying, then looked back to the subject of the young man’s question. A large wooden box raised the preacher a foot over everyone's head. Viewed from the back of the crowd, he seemed to float on air.

Realizing there was no conversation to be had with the sullen Indian, the businessman moved on to find a more suitable lunch companion.

Suresh was alone again. Since the day after the first vision, he felt adrift on a barren sea. No one near, no land as far as the eye could see, his boat slowly sinking into oblivion. He thought in this poetic but saturnine way more and more. He could see the end. Next weekend he and lovely Neha would board a plane for Colorado, where she could hold her boss's hand for a few days, trying to milk a promotion from him. His wife did not care that there would be no opportunity for such mundane recognition. There would be no hospitals left, save whatever rotted miles underwater. Their ship was sinking, but the passengers kept dancing.

Suresh sighed, tried to pay attention to the preacher's words, but they made no sense. He merely spouted metaphors and clichés, mixed with spittle. Still, Suresh wanted to see the man whom the news stations dubbed The Wharf Preacher. He would stay awhile.

He had nowhere else to go.

Neha had given her ultimatum this morning. Tell his boss he would be taking the vacation days needed for the trip, or stay at home and she would go without him. She said this, of course, for the final time this morning as they got out of bed. With a carefully placed pout, she offered to go alone while slowly running her hand along his bare chest. Carrot and Stick played with the finesse of an artist. He knew what his wife was doing, lulling him towards the rocks with song. And he would follow.

He'd gone to work, not thinking about taking the time off. Suresh simply walked into his manager’s office with a mind cleared of all thought. He sat mute, and not until George shifted uncomfortably behind his desk and asked what the problem was, did Suresh take in a deep breath and say he was quitting. He removed his ID badge, placed it on the man's desk and got up.

As soon as he'd left the office, the pressing weight of fear and uncertainty fell away. He walked with purpose to his cubicle, took his bag and keys and everything else that would be useful in what remained of his life. There might be something in the briefcase he could use, especially on the flight, so he took it with the intention of sorting through it in the car.

George must have been too stunned to react immediately, for he didn't catch up to Suresh until he was halfway down the hall towards the exit. He argued. Where was he going? If he had no other job then it was probably “this flood mania sweeping everyone.” Why didn't he simply take the days as vacation? Think about it!

Suresh was tempted to agree, just in case, but it would have done the message of the deva a grave injustice. Everything would be gone in ten days, and he did not need a contingency plan.

George finally stopped in the middle of the parking lot, shouting that Suresh might still have a job if he came back after this hysteria was over. Suresh did stop then, turned and almost told him that no one would have a job after it was over. But he'd sworn to Neha he would not do this, and he could not betray her as he had done momentarily in Arlington weeks before. He simply smiled, and waved goodbye.

The Boston Police department issued a statement last night on the news that they would allow the preacher to continue until the end of the day on June eighth, at which time they hoped he would agree that his “services would be no longer needed.” Suresh heard a few laughs from the unseen audience of reporters.

The truth was that if they sent him away, the preacher would return the next day. Rather than arrest him, for the officer on the radio admitted he was breaking no real laws besides a possible Creating a Disturbance; they decided to wait him out. Then the officer said something surprising, to Suresh and possibly the reporters at the press conference as well, for no one pressed him on the subject. The man had said, “Besides, he feels that he's doing the right thing, as do a number of other people around the world. If they’re right, we'll know soon enough. If they're wrong, then they'll stop and join the ranks of the Y2K prophets from the turn of the century.”

Suresh now sat on a small grassy slope amid a field of bricks and cobblestones, facing the preacher and the inlet beyond. The waters of Boston Harbor swayed up and down with the tide, casting plumes of seaweed and grime against the wall and the pillars of the adjacent boat moors. In the growing noontime heat, the ocean smell was strong. He would have to leave before low tide, when the stench would likely worsen.

What if Neha tried to call his work phone instead of his cell? He mentally shrugged. When was the last time she had done that? He would get some lunch soon, maybe drive up to Woburn to catch a movie. He didn't want his neighbors to see him come home at an odd time. As far as Neha was concerned, he'd simply gotten approval for the days off. He did not need to explain to his wife that their income had dropped considerably. He didn't like to see her 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 One Week To Go, in conjunction with the world turning their calendars to June. Sudden realization struck home, and the stores were inundated with panicked shoppers. Canned goods were tossed into overloaded carts, shelves of bottled water emptied, batteries taken regardless of their voltage. Milk, beer, dried foods. Everything bought, nothing left.

Just in case , they thought. Just in case.

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 larger ship before June eighth.” By all accounts, he would make his divine deadline.

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 time that she did? She hadn't thought so. Still, he seemed on edge more so this night than any other.

“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 something to the conversation. Her heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her ears.

“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 it, breathing on her, looming just beyond her vision. “Run,” it hissed, “Faster, faster --”

Faster and faster, the trees, houses, towns and images flashing, too fast, she was going too fast.

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 were gone. The people beside her likewise were only blurs below the waist, each holding a bowl like hers.

She watched their faces, white, pale, black, ashen, men, women, naked, in suits, teenagers, old men, all with terrified expressions. Some of them screamed. Wispy, ethereal creatures loomed behind each. Tendrils extended like clawed hands the barest breath away from ripping them apart. Everyone turned and saw everyone else, saw what chased them across the world, realizing something darkly similar was behind them. They screamed and ran faster.

The water sloshed gently in her bowl. Margaret's blinding travels were so constant, her steps like flying, that the water remained mostly at peace in its container.

“Faster!” thousands of spectral voices screamed, and the world raced by, around and around, a quick flash and Margaret saw her house, or thought she had. It was gone. She was gone, across the world.

Her legs were getting tired. But how? This was a dream - had to be a dream - not real.

Something ahead, a billion figures far away but each clear among so many indistinct shapes. She saw every face, every hand raised in terror as Margaret and the others approached them. Then screams and screams and screams!

David stood in front of her, right hand outstretched. “Stop!”

Somehow, Margaret stopped, as did the others in front of their own angels. David disappeared, leaving only the screaming multitudes ahead of her. Her bowl remained firmly in her hands. But the water poured forth. More than should have been possible.

As one, the stream surged forward and enlarged, engorging itself on the very air, merged with thousands more pouring out of thousands of other bowls. The sounds of the multitude's screams were lost under the deafening roar of the water rushing madly over them. Margaret screamed, watched the water pour into a billion gaping mouths, wash over them. Then they were gone. All of them lost below the tide.

The sound cut out. Everything became black.

Silence.

Margaret fell forward, screaming without any sound. She lay in the blackness, not the world any longer. No people, no sound.

Grass under her face, glowing in the starlight.

She touched it, stared at a single blade, for how long she did not know. She dared not look up, afraid of what might be watching.

A breeze, slight and cool, played on her face. Margaret eventually looked around. The common. Not her yard. The ark loomed like a beached whale beside her. The ramp was down and David the angel stood at the bottom, face solemn.

“Say nothing,” he whispered. “Just know, and be prepared.”

At that moment, Carl ran through him. David dissipated into tendrils of mist.

“Mrs. Carboneau? What are you doing out here?”

Margaret looked up, saw the sky graying with the dawn. She sighed and whispered, “Are you ever going to call me Margaret, Carl?”

The boy's shoulders sagged in relief. “No,” he breathed. “I don’t think so.” He chuckled. Margaret got up slowly and walked past him, up the ramp and down below deck. She fell back into dreamless sleep in the sleeping bag beside her daughters.

*     *     *

That had been last night. Tonight, Margaret again sat in the fresh air above deck. Almost midnight. The full moon waning into third quarter cast enough light to see the perpetual crowd camped out at a respectful distance across the square. Many were news people – waiting, they said, to cover late-breaking events. Others were either worried or curious as the last day approached. Occasionally a glow blossomed from cigarettes in the darkness. She couldn’t remember ever seeing so many smokers in one place.

Carl and a handful of others in the crew sat along the railing, as well as Father Nick who'd managed to lock up Saint Mary's for the night and sneak away for a long-overdue visit. Carl was spinning a basketball on his finger. It was a habit he'd picked up since sneaking home for some personal items a week ago while his parents were at work. The Bible was tucked between his leg and the deck. Over the past few weeks, the book had become more and more tattered. Though it had been a Christmas gift from Vince years before, Margaret felt a growing comfort seeing how her former student constantly read and worried over it, questioned and cursed its contents. The book was becoming as tattered as a child’s favorite stuffed animal. She would never say anything to him, though, and hoped it was a long time before Carl noticed its condition.

She had not seen the Jorgensons since the town meeting. She assumed his parents were biding their time, waiting to prove their son wrong in his delusion. For his part, Carl never talked about them, except in passing as when he'd gone for his things.

Margaret deeply wished to know what was going through his mind. What process could pull him so completely from his family to follow someone who was in truth only an acquaintance. She supposed she was more than that. She was his teacher. No. That was her pride speaking. He wasn't following her; he was following the one thing that tied them all together. Faith. He believed God's message, and was doing what he felt he had to. Some of the others on board, perhaps, believed as strongly. Maybe not. Margaret knew Carl better than most, and tried not to judge anyone’s motivation.

Father Nick reached into the cooler and took his second bottle of Bud Light. Pieces of ice clung to the glass, shining in the moonlight. “Is it always this quiet here at night?” He unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow.

Carl put a hand against the basketball and the spinning stopped. Without breaking his rhythm, he began to spin the ball the other way. Watching this, Margaret was filled almost to the breaking point with fear, but could not decide what was so frightening about what he was doing. That happened a lot today. Seemingly mundane events twisted in on themselves, forming something always vague but horrific. She took a sip from her bottled water and hoped someone else would answer the priest’s question. No one did.

“Um,” she began, swallowing one more time and forcing herself to look away from the basketball. “Yes. I mean, people have been coming and just sitting on the grass, or in their cars.”

“Like they're waiting for something,” Tony Donato added. Jennifer had fallen asleep leaning against him. She shifted when he spoke but did not wake up.

Nick was silent for a moment. “Same across town,” he said finally. “So many people, returning to church, coming to Mass. I've been given permission from Bishop Leonard to perform two masses a day, by the way. Did I mention that?”

Margaret shook her head.

He continued, “I keep thinking of the pros and cons. I mean, it's wonderful that this has brought people back to the Church, but...” He took another drink. “But I keep thinking that maybe it's too late.”

Margaret said, “It's never too late. Maybe this is why it's happening in the first place. More than simply to save us from what’s going to happen. More like one last call for souls. Or something. I don’t know.”

It was a version of the same discussion, every night. Always talking. Never finding answers but still, always talking. Exorcising the fear by staring into the darkness and trying to see form within it.

“I hardly sleep any more,” Nick said, to no one in particular. “The phone rings all night - mostly at night, as people lay in bed and think. They panic, then call me. What can I do? I'm their pastor. I have to be here for them even if I don’t know what to say.” His voice cracked, so he took another sip. “In the middle of the night when I’m in bed, awake, waiting for the next call, I think, ‘at least it will be over one way or another next week’.” He laughed.  “Isn't that a kicker? Imagine me thinking something as terrible as that.”

Margaret put a hand on his arm. “It's not terrible. Just human. Sleep deprivation does nasty things. Carl, please stop doing that!”

Carl grabbed for the ball but couldn’t get a grip. It fell off his finger and bounced away. Tony reflexively put his leg out to stop it before it rolled off the boat.

Margaret gasped. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap like that.”

Carl looked at her a moment and then shrugged. “It's okay. You've been pretty jumpy today. Did....” but he didn't finish the question.

Margaret smiled. “Yes,” she said. “David came back last night.”

The priest raised an eyebrow, though the gesture was lost in the darkness. “Who?”

“Mrs. Carboneau's buddy. The angel. More bad news I assume?”

“Ah,” Nick whispered. “Forgot he had a name.”

Margaret shook her head. “It's been bad news since day one, Carl. Nothing different. Well, a little different, but please don't ask. Okay?”

Carl raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. I know the rules.” He smiled then, a true smile that never failed to fill Margaret with a sense of well-being. Feeling the boy's love for her, not as a lover or even a potential one, but as he would his own mother, she chided herself - he did love his own mother.

The priest waited to see if they were done, then asked, “What time? Next week, I mean. What time is it supposed to happen?”

“Eight-fifteen in the morning,” Margaret answered; then the shock of what she’d just said hit her. She'd answered him automatically. No one had ever asked her the specific time before. She scoured her memory of past dreams to see when this small but significant fact had been given to her. “I…” she continued, “I honestly don’t know how I know that, but I do. Eight-fifteen is the.... is whatever it is.”

“The end,” muttered Tony.

“Yes.”

“It's no different than how you know all the details of this ship,” Nick said, waving his bottle in a slow arc across the hull like a wand. “God's given you foreknowledge of a lot of things, Margaret, and you only realize it's there when you need it.”

“I suppose.” She found herself looking across the deck to where the basketball lay trapped beside Tony Donato's outstretched leg.

“I'm tired,” she said, and got to her feet. “If Robin wakes and I'm not there, she gets nervous.” She looked down. “Father, please, stay here tonight. Get some decent sleep. What time is Mass in the morning?”

“Eight-thirty,” he said. “I really should - “

“You're not going to be any good to anyone this week if you collapse from exhaustion. Please. I'll feel better knowing you're sleeping here, at least for one night. Someone will make sure you're up by seven.”

Nick thought a moment. “Six-thirty. Long showers are a vice I've never been able to shake.”

They smiled, and she said good night.

“Margaret, wait.” Nick sat up straighter as she began to climb down the ladder leading below deck. “You don't come to church anymore. I suppose with the furor your presence might cause some people, I can understand that. Still, I'd like to come by every morning, beginning tomorrow, to say a quick service for you. All of you,” he gestured to the group. “Right after the eight-thirty Mass, or as soon as I can break away.  It'll be brief. I know you're all busy, but I can't stress enough the importance of receiving Eucharist, especially now.” He was half-standing. Gone was the exhaustion in his voice, only firm resolve. “At least,” he added, “those of you who can receive. But Mass can be for everyone.”

Margaret looked at him, at the certainty in his expression. She nodded.

“And I'll take confessions as well,” he added. As if this display had taken all of his final reserves, he slumped back against the railing. He picked up his bottle and took another sip.

Carl smiled. “I suppose you'll be passing the collection plate, Father?”

Nick nodded. “Of course. Something as minor as the end of the world would never get in the way of that.” He looked back towards the hatch, but Margaret was already gone.

6

Michael sat on the large wooden box and watched Jack standing alone at the edge of the park. The preacher stared out at the harbor inlet. Far off, buoys blinked red, then white, on and off at this entrance where few ships, save those moored beside the hotel, ever came. Most merely passed by as if in slow motion, heading for the main pier at Long Wharf. The tide was out, covering the park with the stink of ocean life.

The angel checked his watch, one of many earthly habits he found himself falling into lately. Almost one in the morning. The lights from Faneuil Hall still shone from over the hill. Adventurous young couples now and again crossed Atlantic Avenue to see if the crazy preacher was still there. Sometimes Jack offered them what they were looking for, but not tonight. Michael watched two come near, look nervously at the preacher lurking silently far down out of the light, and decided their time was better spent elsewhere. They moved off towards the hotel.

These people didn't bother Michael. Most of the time he wasn’t visible to them, anyway. Only if they presented some danger to Jack. The gangs of boys got his hackles up. They'd get themselves plastered at Marty's, a dive bar located a block and a half south. Once appropriately sauced, they'd come out to see if the “preacher man” was around for the killing. A simple beating wouldn’t do for these people. Michael saw in their hearts, when they’d come lurking the other night, only blood lust. And fear. Kill the prophet and stop the deluge. The other night they’d come close to this place, but there were too many people around and Jack was making enough of a ruckus to keep attention on himself. The gangs slithered back into their whiskey haze shadows.

And waited.

Sometimes Michael saw the glint of light from their eyes far off, felt their loathing drift like noxious gas towards them. He didn't like to let the preacher stay out here when he was alone. The exterior lights of the hotel on one side and Commercial Wharf on the other would shut down in a few minutes, along with all but every third of the park's. Enough to mask the area in a dangerous blackness, into which the jackals would emerge.

“Jack?” Jack usually forgot who Michael was, assumed he was another follower. That was fine. Kept him from being distracted in the angel's presence. “I think we need to boogie out of here soon. Now, even.”

Jack didn't respond. His uncharacteristic silence, staring out across the stinking water, did nothing to ease Michael’s apprehension. He walked over to stand beside the man, stare with him towards the buoys.

“We have to go. They'll be killing the lights soon. Then the kids I noticed the other night will likely come back and try to hurt you.”

This garnered a quick glance from the preacher, before he turned and stared back across the water. Still, his deep mediation must have been broken because Jack sighed.

“So little time,” he whispered.

Michael checked his watch, and Jack's hand came down gently onto his wrist. “No,” he said. “That's not what I mean. Besides, since when do angels need watches?” His smile revealed gaps in his mouth where long ago there had been teeth. “I still remember the vision from last night,” he said.

Michael put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and turned him away from the railing. “Let’s talk as we head back to the place.” Jack never could remember the shelter’s name, so both of them had settled on calling it what it was. The place.

At the edge of the park, Jack focused on a spot further down the road. Michael followed his gaze, and wondered if Jack could sense their approach. Jack sighed again, continued to walk. Michael fell into step beside him, guiding him in the right direction whenever they strayed off course. Once they’d crossed Atlantic Avenue and were moving a good clip away from the lights and thinning crowds of the marketplace, Jack began to speak. Michael had assumed he would, in his own time.

“The vision,” Jack said quietly, “was very frightening. And confusing. You showed me the flood. I think that's what you did. So many people screaming, the waters covering them over. So much power. You gave me a bowl of water. Millions of people, screaming for mercy. And there was no mercy. None at all. It all ended as was foretold.”

Jack sounded a lot more lucid than usual. It was how he usually was during the dreams. Michael felt a renewed sense of love for this man, knowing how hard he was struggling to keep it together.

“And that was confusing?”

Jack looked at him; his face twisted into a smile as they passed under a yellow street light. “No. Not that part.” They passed Amelio's Package Store. They were almost home. He repeated, “Not that part. What was confusing was that I wasn't the only one running. So many others beside me, holding their own bowls, running and running.”

Michael said nothing. Weeks ago, when the priest had tried to mention the others, Jack had gotten weirder than usual and wandered away babbling.

“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.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Bad joke. To answer your question, the official stand of the Catholic Church is that no, the theory that the various references to what these people call the Rapture is not what they describe. We don’t preach the concept that some will be taken up to heaven before the end time, and others not. We don’t denounce it, either. Interpretation of Scripture can be a slippery thing. In the end, I guess all will face Judgment on their own merits, and faults, when the Lord returns. Whenever that might be. But like I said, a good many disagree even on that basic tenant.”

Carl thought this over. The answer sounded too official to his liking so he asked, “What about you? Personally. Should all the really good people be taken up to heaven before quarter past eight on Wednesday?”

Nick sighed, and turned his head to face him. “Considering what might happen, I sure hope so. Do I think they will?” He closed his eyes, as if in sorrow. “No. No, I don't.”

The priest got up slowly, quietly, into a sitting position and stretched. He checked his watch, reached over and slapped Carl once on the foot. “Gotta go. Will you attend Mass when I come back?”

“If you'll take a Lutheran, I guess so.”

Nick smiled. “I love Lutherans. See you later.”

Carl never got up. From his vantage point, he watched the priest climb over the railing and land soundlessly on the ramp. He watched the fading stars and heard the man's soft footfalls, then nothing until the distant rev of a car. Finally he got up himself and stepped over the railing. Like Nick, he was afraid opening the small gate would make noise. He headed down the ramp, and towards the firehouse to pee.

5

“We have too many books.”

“What're you talking about? Two per person, and a bunch for the kids. Hardly takes up any space.”

Al didn't look convinced. He sat back on his haunches, hunkered beside the open compartment under the stern-side deck. The area was three feet square, packed tight with paperbacks, two Bibles (a small piece of two-by-four holding open a space for Carl’s if the kid ever got around to packing the thing away) a couple of hard covers, three photo albums and a row of children's books. He wriggled one out from the latter grouping and held it between himself and Tony.

“Goodnight Moon,” he read aloud. “Maybe I'm just acting like a perpetual bachelor, but what good is Goodnight Moon when we're stuck floating on the ocean somewhere?”

Tony smiled. He and Jen didn't have children. They weren't even married yet, but he had three nephews whose favorite time with Uncle Tony consisted of two things: wrestling on the living room rug, when they should be putting on their pajamas, and reading stories. He stuck a finger into the hole to keep the narrow slot open for the book.

“Spend however-many days we'll be spending in this box with two little kids and a baby and tell me these books won't have any use. I'll agree we could shove in a few more gallons of water, or more of that beef jerky you keep eating. But I guarantee you, Buddy, come a week and we'll be so desperate to amuse the kids we'll be reading them the ingredients off cereal boxes.”

Al waved the picture book before him a moment longer, then shoved it roughly into the space, banging Tony's fingers.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” He reached for the panel to secure the compartment. It fit perfectly, though the minor gaps on one side worried him. If any water got onto the floor, it would leak all over the pages. He lifted the panel again. “We really should seal these compartment doors with some kind of gasket,” he said. “Do we have any weather stripping?”

“Weather what?”

“You know, that stuff they line the doors with to keep the drafts out. Sticky on one side?” When Tony's blank stare remained, Al slammed the compartment back down. “No,” he said, “of course not. You native Californians don't even know what a draft is, unless it's in a beer glass.” He rose, stretched and headed towards the bow and the ladder leading above deck. “Try living in Seattle for a winter,” he called back. “I'm off to the hardware store... again.”

Tony adjusted the panel tighter over the compartment and locked the brackets in place. The boat could tip upside down and it wouldn't budge. Yet another of Margaret's frightening little design specs. He watched Al's foot disappear into the sunlight above deck, and smirked in spite of himself.

*     *     *

“What's that?”

Al held up the three plastic packages. “Weather stripping. I guess it's not as alien to this climate as I thought. Gotta seal up the compartments in the hold, in case it gets wet in there.”

Marty Santos shrugged. “Always something last minute, huh?”

Al nodded. “What's up? Thanks for the fire extinguishers by the way.”

“What? Oh, no problem. Still stink in there?”

“Not too bad. A little.”

Marty looked around the square. Every day brought more cars. Now they were parked two-deep around the area, regardless of how often the police sent them away. Closing in, he thought. “Al, what do you think all these people will do on Wednesday, when everything hits the fan I mean?”

Al looked at his former boss, squinting even though the sun was behind him. “Thought you didn't believe any of it.”

Marty looked at him. His expression was tight, the lines of his face flattened. “No,” he whispered. “I believe it. After that rain in April, well, I have to, don't I?”

Al wasn't sure how to respond. Weakly, he waved towards the ark. “Why... don't you get onto the list?”

Marty laughed. “In four days, do you think the list would ever get to me?”

“No,” Al said. “No, it won't. But - “

“But nothing. How's Margaret?”

“She's fine. Wonders why you haven't come by. Thinks you avoid her when she comes into the station for stuff.”

Marty smiled. “Yeah, well. You know.”

Al didn't, but decided to drop the subject. “You've helped us, helped her, more than you had to. Thanks.”

Marty looked at him for a while, a long penetrating stare which Al returned silently. Finally, the fire chief said, “The way you just up and joined like that. Dropped everything. Your career, your future.”

Al shrugged, and his mustache twitched in the only semblance of a smile Marty had ever seen on him. “I'm not a big fan of coincidence. It was too much not to believe.”

Marty wrinkled his brow. “You take care of Margaret, okay? Whatever happens, I can tell she's come to depend on you. I can see it, even if it's just from the station window.”

Al just nodded. Marty pressed on, as painful as it was for him to say. “Maybe, well, who knows?  You two can get together after. She's been alone too long.”

Al 's face broke into a wide grin then, making him look even more the part of the Marlboro Man as others often likened him to. “That's one thing you won't have to worry about, Boss.”

“I never said I was worried.”

Al patted him on the shoulder, still smiling. “Yeah, well, regardless. She’s not exactly my type.” He looked as if he was about to say something else, but only walked towards the ark, swinging the bag full of weather stripping packages beside him. Marty rubbed the spot where the man had had hit his shoulder.

Margaret emerged from below deck, saw Marty and waved. He waved back, thought of going over to her. Instead, he turned and walked slowly back to the station, feeling her gaze on his back. He couldn't say goodbye. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe never.

In a few days, they'd be sailing away. He had no idea how, but they would. They'd leave him and everyone else behind. He kept walking, feeling more weary with every step. For a moment he had an irresistible urge to lay down there on the grass and sleep. The town common swayed around him. He wasn't going to fall down. He was going to stay focused until the end. Five days, God, that's all I ask. Five lousy days.

The exhaustion faded. He continued towards the station with only a minor wobble in his stride. Maybe he'd lie down when he got inside, see if a few minutes’ sleep might present itself.

4

“Receive the body of Christ.”

Nick worked around one of the beams, brushing against a harness as he moved to the next person; hands were raised before them as they awaited the Host.

“The body of Christ.”

“Amen.” Jennifer took the communion wafer with her right hand and put it into her mouth. Like everyone attending Mass inside the ship, she was kneeling. Those not receiving had moved towards the back, though continued to kneel like the others. Nick stepped aside and gave communion to Margaret's daughter Katie, who had completed her First Communion class just prior to the start of this nightmare. Beside her was Robin, only four years old. Nick had the urge to offer her the Host anyway, but it was a fleeting whim. He put his hand on her head and said, “May God bless you and keep you all the days of your life.”

She smiled gleefully at this, like most younger children did when they came with their parents for the Sacrament.

“The body of Christ.”

Margaret said, “Amen,” and took the host.

Thank you, Lord, for allowing me this day , Nick thought. He continued moving among the tiny congregation.

3

“Attention, please. It seems we're slightly overbooked this afternoon. If anyone would like to give up their seat, we'd be more than happy to give you passage on the next available flight to your destination plus vouchers for free air travel to any destination in the continental United States.” The flight attendant looked nervous behind her smile.

“Damn greedy airlines,” Neha muttered. “Always asking favors from passengers but never supplying product.” Suresh nodded but said nothing. He had not been very talkative these past few days. Neha watched a family of four work their way excitedly up the aisle, dreams of a second vacation to the Grand Canyon or other such tourist trap dancing in their heads. Neha's own seat offered a sense of security she found discomforting. She didn't like her situation feeling so tenuous. It wasn't as if anyone had the power to force them off the plane, not now. When she and Suresh had waited in the hard plastic chairs in the terminal, they watched a line of people argue for seats. “You sold us the tickets!” they shouted, or “I have my online confirmation right here” waving a sheet of paper in the clerk's face.

So many people, arguments at booking counters, flights sold out. Looks of desperation on everyone’s face, even those who’d already checked in and held their boarding pass in trembling hands. One red-faced man had scanned the seated crowd. From what Neha had heard of his argument, he'd been screwed over and was plainly thinking of how to screw someone else in return. When his sweaty gaze met hers, she returned the look and thought, Mess with me and I'll cut out your heart. She continued with the telepathic barrage until he looked elsewhere.

Meanwhile Suresh took it all in from his seat beside her with a calmness that infuriated her. Now, thank God, they were sitting in the plane, watching the desperate flight attendant move back towards the microphone. Again, she asked if anyone else would like to take the airline up on its generous offer. No one did.

Neha  wasn't surprised. The flight was non-stop to Denver. Mountain country. High above the fray. Safe haven.

Morons .

Eventually, all trays were raised into their upright and locked positions. The attendants did their how-to-breathe-if-the-plane-smashes-into-a-mountain dance and the airplane mercifully backed away from the terminal.

Neha wondered what she'd expected to happen. Perhaps the red-faced guy would storm inside, gun in hand. People were hurting each other a lot lately. As the plane accelerated along the runway, she felt her fear fall away. The plane rose, banked slightly to the right, and sailed away from Logan airport, away from Boston and the East Coast. Leaving it all far, far behind.

She’d been staring through the small window since they took off. Now she looked at her husband. Suresh was holding her hand. When her eyes had adjusted to the interior light, she saw he was crying.

“What's wrong with you?”

She tried to sound comforting. Just a few days more, she reminded herself. Just a few more days.

Suresh smiled, a single tear finding its way down his dark face. “Nothing,” he said. “Everything is perfect.” He squeezed her hand. Neha couldn't stand it any longer. She pulled her hand away and reached under the seat for her bag. She'd picked up a random book at the gift shop. If Suresh was going to be weeping for the next five hours, at least she could mentally escape to a world other than the one containing her husband's sad, lonely face.

2

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been ten years since my last confession.”

Father Doiron listened to the woman on the other side of the confessional screen. She offloaded her sins of gluttony, the incident three years ago when she struck her son, the illicit thoughts for a man at work, which had not been acted upon. Doiron forced himself to sit straight in his chair, grateful that his parish at Holy Trinity still had the old phone-booth styled confessionals. These days, some merely used two chairs with only a thin screen between, if that. Normally, he thought of this modern method for the Sacrament of Reconciliation as noble. Not now. Not when there were so many people coming to unload their sins. He felt shame for wanting to keep this solid barrier between him and his flock.

So many of them.

“Father?”

Doiron spoke at once. “Is there not something you are holding back? A confession before God should be complete.”

The woman was silent for a moment, then, “No, Father. I don't know. Not that I can recall.”

“Very well. Are you sorry for these things, truly repentant in your wish for God's forgiveness?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then it is given.” He uttered the rite of Penance. The words, though sacred in his heart, came as automatic as breath from so much repetition. He then instructed her to pray three Acts of Contrition, a decade of Hail Mary's, explained to her what a “decade” was, and offered a final blessing.

Shuffling sounds as she rose and left. Someone immediately took her place. The priest leaned forward a moment and looked through the slats of his confessional door and into the rest of the church. Too many people to count, lined up along the sides of the pews all the way into the back.

So many of them . As he had been doing every day since the shooting, he prayed that Father McMillan would return. Even for a little while. There were so many people, so many in the parish needing him. Doiron felt as if there was nothing left of him to offer these people. Still, they kept coming.

He was so tired.

Someone on the other side of the screen whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

1

Father Tim McMillan walked along the streets of Arlington, Massachusetts. He knew these neighborhoods not only from his own memories, but from the intimate pictures - some happy and some dark - drawn for him over the years by the people of his parish. The houses and streets always offered something new each time he walked by them, especially at night. The world of day bred familiarity, but in the dark the world changed, cooled, washed away the dirt and grime built under the sun’s glare.

He hadn't been in this particular neighborhood for quite a while. Just a few miles from the church, this end of Warren Street was an area of the city relatively unchanged in the half century he’d known it. The majority of houses were two- and three-family homes, most standing since the Second World War, some since the turn of the last century when the Irish and Italian immigrants flooded into the region.

McMillan stopped in front of a particular two-family house. It took a moment to recognize it, so long had its alternating dark and light brown color graced the street corner. Like many of its neighbors, it sported new, younger tenants who had firmed up its sagging face and added vinyl siding.

He hesitated a moment, then sat on the porch steps. Somehow, being here brought comfort. Closure. He knew the former tenant well. For eighty-plus years, Nellie lived in the upper apartment, raised six children mostly by herself and by the graces of God, friends and relatives. She was stubborn, passing away at the glorious age of one hundred and one, still mourned by the vast family she'd brought into the world. Like so many others of her generation who had attended his parish, she would recite the rosary every day. Praying for those who had no time for such rituals, keeping the world turning one more day from the solitude of her chair, in front of the window or the television.

He did not feel like an intruder sitting on this porch, not tonight. Here in this special town, a priest walking along a street was not uncommon. People never hesitated to wave, say “Good evening, Father.” Not in vanity did he think this. Regardless of the century, they respected the collar he wore and what it symbolized, more than the man wearing it. Maybe not as much these days as in the past, of course. But it was there.

McMillan sighed. If anyone survived tomorrow, how would they view God and his church? Would they see what will come as His divine grace, or blame Him for everything? If dear old Nellie was not already bathed in His glorious light, McMillan felt certain what she and her kind would do. Smile, always smile, pray the rosary, beseech Mother Mary to intercede and ask Jesus to comfort those too afraid to ask for themselves. These disciples were the rock upon which God built this world. It made sense that they would be the ones the Lord would approach, now that the time had come to tear it all down and start anew.

Above him in the cloudless sky, a few stars gleamed strong enough to show themselves through the artificial light infusing the city. The air was cool. Early summer.

By now, Father Doiron had likely written off his pastor as one never to return. McMillan considered it often, if only for this final night. Maybe he would go back. Later. There was much remaining to consider, so many streets and neighborhoods to see for the last time. What did he have waiting for him back at Holy Trinity? Fears of parishioners more desperate every day, asking how to repent, how to say the perfect Act of Contrition, whether these words would do anything to save their souls? How many more souls could he save in such a short time?

Eventually, the old priest stood, dusted off his black pants, and resumed his journey along Warren Street, away from the church.

*     *     *

Everyone smelled like grease. Even for those not taking part in this final step of preparation, the smell of it soaked into their clothes. Margaret wondered how bad the stench was below deck. The smell was thick, but perhaps after the water came much of it would wash away. It wouldn't be needed once that happened.

“All set, Mrs. Carboneau,” Carl said. Even in the dark, Margaret could see by the light of the lanterns that the brush he held was stained up to the handle in grease. “The others are heading over to some of the houses to get cleaned up as best they can.”

Margaret walked up the ramp and onto the deck. Katie and Robin looked tentatively over the railing, their faces wrinkled in disgust and disappointment. The completion of the outer hull's coating meant bedtime for them. “Thanks, Carl. What about you?”

He turned and considered the fire station. “I might go down to Tony's house. I don't think it'll be in very good taste to wash up in there,” he nodded towards the station, “not considering what we've just done.”

“You understand, then, why we had to do this?” From the fact that no one had asked Margaret why, and the somber way everyone worked, she assumed they knew, or didn’t want to know.

“Yeah. Sounds weird, but this last thing probably scared me more than anything else.”

Margaret nodded. She wanted to ask about his parents again, if he’d made any peace with them, but did not. She learned not to ask too many personal questions of anyone at this point. If it was painful to wonder what Carl was going through, she could not imagine the actual pain he felt. His parents probably expected in a few days their son would appear on the doorstep begging forgiveness. But in less time than that, they would be gone. Carl knew this.

“Get cleaned up, then. I'll be here.”

Carl looked around at the mass of cars and people camped out on the lawn, just outside the police barricade. “You'll be okay for a little while?”

“We'll be fine. I've got to get the girls to bed.”

She turned away and ushered the complaining girls down the ladder. The smell of the grease was surprisingly diminished below deck. She supposed it made sense. The entire hull had been waterproofed. If water couldn't find its way in, neither would many fumes.

She got the girls into their sleeping bags and lay down between them. A short way along the floor, someone snored. Others talked softly to each other.

“Mom, I'm not tired.” Robin's exhausted voice beside her. Margaret allowed them to stay up this late in order to tire them out, deaden the anticipation of the unknown they'd have to face tomorrow morning.

“I know,” she whispered. “Just lay down and rest your eyes. I'll be right here.”

She lay on her back and the girls each slumped over her outstretched arms, which Margaret assumed would fall asleep before her daughters.

Katie was silent, but Margaret guessed her eyes were scanning the dark interior of the ark. Robin yawned, then whispered, “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I tried to call Crystal again today.”

Margaret’s heart tore. Robin had been going into the firehouse with either Estelle or Jen for the past week, each day calling her best friend. Just to talk. She had agreed not to try to get her to visit. Margaret explained that Crystal’s parents wouldn’t like that. Each time, her mother or father answered the phone. Each time, they'd refused to let the girls speak. The last couple of times, they'd simply hung up when they heard Robin's little voice.

“I'm sorry.”

“They just hung up again.” Robin was silent for a while, then, “Mom?”

“Yes, Honey.”

“Will I ever see Crystal again?” The girl's voice was eternally sad.

“Yes, Honey. Some day you'll see her again.”

“In Heaven? When we see Daddy?”

“Shut up!” Katie rose onto her elbow, reached over and poked her sister in the side.

“Ow! Katie hit me!”

“Katie, lay down.” Margaret continued to whisper. Katie lay back down.

Margaret waited a beat, then said, “Yes, Robin. When we see Daddy again. Now you need to be quiet so people can sleep.”

“But I -”

“Shh. Quiet. We can talk some more tomorrow.”

Katie was now sobbing into her mother’s arm, trying to be quiet about it. Margaret pulled her arm closer until her daughter was nestled against her. All this time, Katie had refused to call any of her own friends. Her reasons were her own, but Robin’s problems reaching Crystal must have had some play in them. When Robin realized her older sister was crying, she pulled close and tried to cry, too. But she hadn't the capacity, Margaret thought, to truly see the looming threat. Children that young took so much in stride.

Katie snuggled closer. Between stifled sobs, she whispered, “Mom? Are we going to be okay tomorrow?”

Margaret tapped her fingers against her daughter's arm. “We'll be fine. Now get some sleep.”

“I don't want to die.”

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 comment. Compared to his arrival, the noise was that of a hushed congregation. Jack tried to raise his arms but they were too heavy. He felt weak.

The voice of Michael in his ear, though he spoke from across the sea of bodies. “Go on, my friend. Now or never.”

“Now or never,” Jack repeated. Then louder, “Now or Never!” He smiled. Nervous laughter. “Today, you -” he pointed to a fat man in shorts, black socks and shoes, “and you -” a pregnant woman standing nervously near the angel, “and you -” his arm swept the crowds, “will be standing before God and cringing under his gaze. Soon, so soon, the waters will rise up and fill your shoes.” Some chuckled at that. Jack began to pace his small, designated area. The cameras followed. “It will dampen your designer pant cuffs, soak your underwear,” more laughs from the congregation, “fill your mouths. You will try to swim, but there will be nowhere to swim to. You will fall back, feel the water in your lungs. You will be crushed against the pillars of the tempest!”

A rock, or maybe it was a broken piece of asphalt, was hurled out of the crowd. It passed harmlessly into the stagnant harbor behind him. “And I,” he continued, “I will go down into the sea with you, and together you and I will face the Lord's judgment. Together we will beg for His mercy.”

*     *     *

“Connor.”

Holly's voice was hoarse. She'd screamed at Clay for over an hour last night, begging him to let her go. She and Connor. He'd simply sat in his chair and stared at her. She had tried to scream for help, for the police. None came. Everyone was busy, preparing for the end.

Connor let out a wet burp, and Clay quickly wiped the baby’s mouth with a cloth. He picked up the plastic bottle again, and was about to resume feeding when Holly said, “Clay, no. Please. Let me feed him myself one last time. Even just a little. That’s all I have now.”

Clay's pale face darkened from its usual pale to an ashen gray. His sunken cheeks gave him the look of a zombie, especially now that the sun was up and washing out whatever illusions of health the artificial lamp light offered. She wondered how much he'd slept these past few weeks.

“You're all dried up,” he muttered. His mouth was full of spit, as if he'd been the one who had just drunk half the bottle of formula. “Connor needs to eat.”

She wriggled on the mattress, needing to move. The sores on her back and butt screamed at her. She had to do something. “Connor needs his mother. I still have some milk, but I won't for much longer if you don't untie me. Please.”

Clay looked at her. Two days ago, after feeding the baby, Holly had moved to put Connor in his crib, but instead lashed out at Clay with her bare foot and connected with his chest. She’d bolted for the door with Connor in her arms. Clay was on her before she’d moved two steps. Holly immediately gave up, fearing for the baby. Head hunched low she had dropped the baby back into his crib. Connor cried loudly then, wanting to play, wanting more than simple feeding and sleep and moving the few feet available in the room with his walker. Clay hadn't beaten her. Holly simply lay back on the bed, and let him tie her up. She had cried, apologized, but Clay said and did nothing but tighten the knots.

He never untied her again, neither for feeding or to use the bathroom. Instead, he'd come in with a bottle when it was time for Connor to be fed. Holly had shouted that it wasn't time for a bottle, but Clay ignored her. His skeletal frame reached in and raised Connor up, and together father and son shared the only true moment that should have remained for her and her son. She'd wept, more so when her breasts had filled without relief. Milk spilled from her, but Clay ignored it.

He did play with the baby more after that. If the universe wasn't so close to ending, Holly would have wondered if the man wasn't going through some final change for the good, deep under the horrific transformation he'd been passing so quickly through lately.

“Please,” she whispered now, feeling time racing away from her. At this point, all she wanted was to hold her son, be with him when the water came.

Clay stared at her for a long time, eyes half closed. Connor reached for the bottle but Clay kept it out of reach. Finally he said, “You won't try to run?”

Holly instinctively looked at the clock on the dresser. An hour and a half. Where could she possibly go? “No,” she said, keeping eye contact with him when she answered. “I won't.”

Still, he stared at her. Slowly, as if his muscles had atrophied in the night, he rose up from his chair, dropped the wailing baby into his walker and untied her wrists and ankles.

She sat up. Clay then retrieved the baby and passed him to her. She lifted her stained shirt. When Connor greedily clamped his mouth to her nipple, Holly screamed in pain. The unused milk had clogged the pores. As the baby suckled, it took every bit of her willpower not to pull him away. She could not. It hurt so badly, but this was her last chance.

The room blurred with her tears, and she feared Clay would take the baby away. But his shape slowly sank back into the chair. She almost didn't hear him speak, but when she realized what he'd said, she almost forgot the pain.

“You promised me you wouldn't leave. You promised. I don't want to die alone.”

*     *     *

Bernard Myers held a crystal glass in one hand and shaded his eyes with the other. Nothing hung over his head but distant wisps of clouds drifting over the outermost peaks of the San Isabel National Forest. The eastern edge of the Rockies rose behind him, out of sight behind the crowded miles of forest. Linda Meyers moved from group to group. A thin white trail marked his wife’s progress as she sucked the life out of yet another cigarette. The sky, reflected in the lake before them, was as blue as yesterday and, if one believed the forecasts, as blue as it would be tomorrow. Bernard took a sip of his drink and tried to listen to the young doctor, to stare at her smooth dark face and not gaze upwards, to the sky.

“The one we passed on the way in, alongside Route 25, looked like it wouldn't even stand up to a strong wind let alone a flood.” Neha smiled and took a tiny sip of wine.

Maureen, the busty redhead from Radiology and former dinner guest, leaned too hard against Director Meyers and laughed. She looked sideways at Neha with eyes which were both amused and challenging. “No kidding,” she said. “You'd think God would have picked more carpenters and ship-builders for this business.” She straightened as best she could and put a hand on Meyer's arm. Her fingers were wet from the condensation of her beer bottle.

“I have an idea,” she added. “Bernard, why don't we sneak away, you and I, and go see what's happening with the arkies!” She leaned closer, ignoring Linda Meyers fluttering about the camp. She flashed her eyelids and said in a Southern Belle drawl, “I'd be oh so grateful! I'd do just about anything.”

Bernard was pleased to find himself somewhat aroused by the gesture. Doctor Ramprakash sipped her wine and turned slowly away, her gaze darkening when it locked on her husband sitting alone at the end of the boat dock. Meyers patted Maureen's hand and said, “My dear, if I hadn't been drinking most of the morning, I'd take you on a trip you'd never forget.” He raised his glass. “After the end of the world, perhaps?”

Maureen smiled and squeezed his arm. “It's a date.”

Derek and Karen Jahns walked casually up to join them. “Speaking of the end of the world,” Derek said, “how much longer do we have?”

Meyers smiled. Derek and his wife were perhaps the only true friends he'd invited for the event. The rest... well the rest were comforting, in their own distracting way. He looked at his watch. “Let's see. We're on Mountain Time now, that's what, two hours behind the east coast?”

Derek nodded. “Sounds right.”

Meyers tried to recall what the news had said, adjusting the time on the reports to their new location. He found himself lost in the steady progress of the second hand. When he realized everyone was staring, he looked up and said, “Forty minutes or so,” and quickly took another sip of his highball.

Derek smiled, kissed his wife on the cheek and turned around. “Forty minutes, everyone! If you have something you need to do on this earth you'd better do it now.”

On that, everyone drifted apart, except Meyers and Neha. He watched the Indian woman, who in turn glared at the man sitting at the end of the dock. To the relief of the director, she seemed to have forgotten for the moment about trying to make points with him. He swirled the ice around in his glass, and looked again into the clear mountain sky.

*     *     *

As soon as Father Nick donned his white vestments, the phone rang. Normally, he'd have time to answer it. Daily mass usually didn't start until eight thirty. Today was different. Already, the pews were filled to capacity, people lined up along the inner walls. Today’s service was beginning at seven forty-five. As early as five o'clock that morning Nick found people lingering in front, waiting for the doors to open. They were frightened, and their faith, even if spawned by nothing more substantial than fear, warmed him. He again thought about the circumstances under which the people now flocked to the Lord's house, his own emotions ranging from pity to deep terror.

The phone stopped ringing and the answering machine picked up. Nick adjusted the robes, straightened his sleeves and the portable microphone's wire. This morning, like all weekday mornings, he would go without the aid of altar servers, and there would be no walking up the aisle from the front doors. There was no call for pageantry today.

“Father Mayhew, this is Bishop Leonard’s office.” The woman’s voice startled him for a moment, until he realized it was coming from the speaker on the answering machine. “We’re trying to reach as many parishes as possible. The Holy Father in Rome is making a statement at this moment. Most of the news stations are carrying it live.” A pause, then, “Perhaps you’re watching it now. In any event, our office received the official transcript via fax from the Vatican twenty minutes ago. Father Mayhew, is someone there? Bishop Leonard needs all parishes to be consistent in their messages this morning. In short, the Holy Father is saying –”

Nick turned off the answering machine. It had taken him a moment to find the switch, while the bishop’s secretary droned on. He was glad he’d found it in time. In the other room, the television was off. It would remain so. What Nick knew and felt at this moment would not be swayed by anyone. Not now. He wondered what he would have heard had he listened, and why there had been such a delay in response from the Holy See. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what God was saying now, in whispers to everyone's heart.

The young priest took a breath and uttered a hurried Act of Contrition, as he'd done before every mass since joining the priesthood. For strength, and focus. He walked from the back room and stood in front of the altar. In the corner of his vision, he saw the crowded congregation stand.

*     *     *

Clay heard the shower start up. It sounded like a scream to him. Everything did. Outside, the morning sun tore through the curtains, taunting him. It's nice outside! it seemed to shout. Come out and play!

Come out and die. Die with everyone else.

He stared into the crib. Connor smiled up at him. The kid was always smiling. Something must be wrong with him. A familiar feeling took hold, one that welled up often, even before this mess with God started. Pain, a hole in his gut, seeing the boy in the crib, wondering who he looked like. Like Holly, of course. Not him.

Clay held the pillow against his chest, feeling his fingers curl into the thin stuffing. The pillow was stained in the center, where Holly's head had lain for so many days.

The sound of the shower was a constant background noise. She'd probably stepped in by now; the hot water didn't take long to crank up. She promised she wouldn’t leave. He knew she wouldn't. Not with her son stuck here with Clay the Monster. Her son. Her son...

He leaned over the edge of the crib, holding the pillow overhead as if to shelter the baby from rain. In a way, he knew, that’s exactly what he was doing. Sheltering the bastard from what was coming. Saving Holly the grief of seeing her son die.

The baby smiled wider, made a cooing, gurgling noise that was his trademark laugh. A sound of joy. It was a good sound to end with. Clay lowered the pillow.

“Clay, don't.” The woman's voice behind him was soft. Calm. He wanted to ignore it. The pillow hovered a couple of inches above the child's face. Connor gurgle-laughed and gripped the pillowcase with both hands, playing the game. As if sensing Clay’s muscles tightening for the final push, the voice behind him said, more sternly, “I mean it. Stop now.”

He didn't want to turn around, but neither did he lower the pillow.

“You're not real,” he whispered.

He sensed her moving closer, but like the other times when she'd come to him, she made no contact. He risked a look back.  The angel was more beautiful than he remembered, so much more beautiful than Holly with her earthly flaws and blemishes. This woman’s long blonde hair fell over a white dress, highlighting the perfect contours of her body. Revealing nothing. As before, Clay expected to feel a wave of lust when he looked at her, but did not. Just a strong, loving attraction. A joy from simply looking at her.

She said, “I know you sent me away. I'm back only to say what you're doing is wrong. It's too late for you to do anything.”

“You're not real!” he shouted, felt the rage, the comfortable, familiar surge through his body. That he understood. The anger.

“It might not be too late for them. For Holly, or the child. Nothing is certain, but there still is a chance.”

A sob caught in his throat. He said coldly, “The boy's not mine. He's not, is he?”

“What does that matter?”

“Is he?”

“No.”

Hands tightening on the pillow. As if sensing what was coming, Connor let go of the edges and let his small arms fall to the mattress.

The woman whispered, “It's never too late for redemption, Clay, even something as small as setting them free.” She moved closer until she was beside him, leaning on the crib. “It's never too late for damnation, either.”

“Too late for me. For everything.”

She nodded. “Maybe. You've been bad, that's for sure. It's not my call. What you do next, though, is your decision.”

Then she was gone.

“Not real,” he whispered. The sound of the shower stopped. Clay looked down and whispered, “You're not mine.”

*     *     *

Holly knew she'd spent too long in the shower. The heat allowed her to work out most of the stiffness and aches. Now she dried, feeling the soft comfort of the towel, and longed for clean clothes, to be whole again before it all was gone forever. She wrapped the towel around herself and stepped from the bathroom, paused. There was the phone, sitting on the table in the living room. She should sneak over and call Dot, let her friend know that she and Connor were okay, that they hadn't forsaken her friendship. She wanted to say goodbye.

Time was slipping away. She was wasting time with nonsense. Clay would hear her, and she'd been too long indulging herself rather than spending the time holding her beautiful son.

When she walked back into the bedroom, the stink assaulted her. So many days, too long accustomed to the smell. She fought a gagging in her throat.

Two steps into the room, everything seemed to stop. Connor was silent, though she could see his form (sleeping, she thought, he's sleeping) through the slats in the crib. Holly saw the pillow discarded on the floor. A stain in the center of it. Where she'd lain, of course, all these days. Just from her. Just -

She forced herself to move forward, staring into the crib, forcing her eyes to remain open. Clay said nothing as she passed his chair. He was slumped in his usual position. She kept staring at Connor’s body, forcing herself to stare into his face. His mouth was open slightly, and after she'd watched him for what seemed like hours, his eyes slowly opened as if from sleep. He saw her and became an animated little boy again. He reached up, little fingers reaching and reaching.

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God.” She lifted him up and held him against her, letting the towel drop. Connor stank like the room. Clay hadn't bothered to bathe him during their imprisonment.

Holly turned around, her heart still racing from the horror she thought she'd fallen into, tried to bring herself back to a proper calm. Why was the pillow on the floor?

On the bed, sheets had been folded up or curled into a tight ball against the corner. Sitting on the only clean spot on the mattress was a pair of shorts and t-shirt, white underwear, socks and sneakers. Hers. They were laid out carefully. Beside them, Connor's diaper bag, packed to the brim. The corners of one diaper poked out beside the unmistakable blue box of wipes and a Playtex nursing bottle in the side pocket.

When she saw the car keys beside the bag and her clothes, she stammered, “Clay, what...” She looked at the shrunken figure in the chair. It looked up at her with eyes too far back in the skull to be alive.

“Get dressed,” he hissed.

She scooted past him, laid Connor on a semi-clean area of the bed. When they fell across her body, the clothes caressed her like Clay's hands had done once, long ago when she thought he was perfect. She finished dressing except for her socks and sneakers. Clay looked ahead of him, towards the crib.

“Clay?”

He moved a little. Perhaps to indicate he was still alive.

“You can stay,” he said. “I'd like that. I mean, there isn't any place you can go. Not now.”

The image of the ark in Lavish came to her then. Like watching a movie, the Carboneau woman climbing aboard with her crew, waving to the crowds then disappearing below deck. Too late, she thought to herself. Too late for her.

Connor laughed at some unseen delight. Holly looked at him. Her heart resumed its rapid beating of earlier.

Clay was still talking. “Stay here. Stay with me. We can still be a family.”

His was a dry-paper voice. Holly stared at her son. Full of life. So small and tiny. A noise came out of her, half-shout, half-whimper. All she knew, all she could see, was her son, and the single thought in her head. Too late for her, but not for him. Not for him.

She lifted the diaper bag, slung it over her shoulder and grabbed the keys. She put them in her pocket and carefully lifted Connor. He squealed with delight. His diaper felt wet, but there was no time left. She didn't dare look at her boyfriend, but felt something brush against her legs as she passed, like a thin branch. Then it was gone. It was hard to walk. She was barefoot and her muscles, now that she was exerting them, threatened to knot up and send her toppling over.

Clay left his hand in the air. He couldn't close his fingers around her leg. Even if he had been able to find the strength, she wouldn't have stopped. Not this time.

The car started outside. He turned his head, looked at the clock.

“Holly!” he shouted. The word came out like a moan, unintelligible. A sound outside of tires on gravel, the click-click of the gears shifting. Acceleration. He listened as long as he could. The noise of the car's engine blended with the background hiss of the highway.

The numbers of the clock changed. He turned his head back and forth, looking for something to fix his gaze on, but everything had become blurry. He closed them, and pretended that Holly was still tied to the bed. Still with him. He didn't feel so alone then.

That voice, so perfect and calm, said beside him. “You did the right thing, Clay.”

He sighed and whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”

*     *     *

It was nearly Summer in the remote Arctic town of Resolute Bay, at least as much as summer ever came this far north. Greg Nassun pulled back the fur-lined hood of his parka and was instantly reminded that the season meant something entirely different here. It was still early in the morning, but the temperature would soon climb to plus ten Celsius. If it stayed this way for a couple more weeks, the thinning ice of the bay would break up enough to free the icebergs, allow an occasional cruise ship to pay the island a visit. The two weren’t normally associated with each other, but up here you took advantage of open water whenever it presented itself. Not that it mattered. Greg didn’t plan to be here much longer.

Though the cold seeped down his neck, the few minutes of un-obscured vision was worth leaving the hood down. His growing frustration would keep him warm enough for the moment. He knew why Francois wanted these readings done, especially today. He’d brought out a small card table from the hotel room and set it up on the hill, a short way past the distance marker and its Montreal 2082 miles teaser. Down the slope in front of him, the frozen bay groaned and cracked as it slowly, very slowly, thawed. The sound was momentarily overpowered by a flock of skimobiles racing across the ice. Two miles beyond them, a mountain of ice caught in last year’s freeze waited patiently for its chance to escape.

Greg checked the compass duct-taped to the top of the table. Nothing. One-point-nine percent declination over the average reading two years ago. These past four mind-numbing weeks Francois insisted on daily readings. The man was seriously nuts. If Greg had had any doubts, they were eliminated by last night’s phone call. Readings every hour today. Greg argued that magnetic North hadn’t shifted once in four weeks. Why would it do anything today?

Francois wasn’t listening. Greg’s boss was convinced something was going to happen this morning. He didn’t say this outright. But Francois Gourmond believed. Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been secretly building an ark of his own, on those rare occasions he was actually out of the office.

Fine. That was fine. He agreed to this charade only as long as Gourmond let him go home tomorrow. Four weeks without a sunset was long enough, thank you. He wanted to be back in Quebec, under artificial lights and real starlight. Vacation in the States, perhaps, pay a visit to Mickey Mouse or lay on a beach. Go someplace warm, where Greg could relax, become the happy, mellow guy he used to be.

The crowd behind him wouldn’t shut up. Do you think anything’s going to happen? How can anything happen? It hasn’t rained! But they’re all so sure. Everyone’s climbing aboard their boats right now!

Shut up, you idiots, he thought. Shut up shut up!

Even Dora, who’d come by with a complimentary cup of coffee twenty minutes ago, bubbled with excitement.  Everyone was either terrified or relieved that it would all be over in a few minutes, waiting impatiently for the allotted time to pass and praying nothing happened. Nothing at all.

On the table in front of him, the long, plastic compass remained stable, the needle’s position unchanged from yesterday, and the day before. He would do these final measurements today, log them, email them to Francois, pack and go home. The flight was booked –

The compass needle shifted. Damn, he thought. Don’t screw up on me now you piece of...

The needle stopped. Greg leaned over the table. He was fairly certain the letter N still faced geographical north. But the needle pointed almost due West. “That’s just wrong,” he sighed.

Someone in the crowd turned towards him. Greg swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was to become a spectacle for anyone so bored even this work seemed interesting.

He ignored the sudden, interested stares and took out another, palm-sized compass from the inside pocket of his parka. He needed to compare measurements, see how off the table reading was. The man who’d overheard him was speaking to Dora. The large waitress walked nervously to where Greg still hunkered over the table.

Both compasses, the one on the table and the one in his palm, pointed due west. “Something wrong with your compass, Hon?”

Yes, there’s something wrong. What he needed was... the needle on the large compass slowly righted itself. Greg’s heart had been beating so fast the back of his neck was cool with perspiration. Damn you, Francois. You’re making me as crazy as you.

The needle stopped. He did a quick calculation in his head, one done so often he rarely needed the calculator tucked in his other pocket. Roughly an eighteen percent declination. That was  impossible!

“Your needle keeps moving,” Dora whispered. People began to crowd around the table.

“Please,” he said, trying not to sound irritated, “let me alone for a minute. I need to fix this.”

“Look!” Someone pointed. “It’s moving again!”

Mutters in English and French. Someone began praying in Inuit, at least Greg assumed it was a prayer since the old woman had fallen to her knees.

“It’s not moving,” he shouted. “Back away, please!” But it was moving. Westward. When it again hit due West, the needle stopped. Not possible. Not possible. The needle spun around in a full circle, two complete revolutions before coming to a stop East-North-East. Behind him someone screamed, loud voices adding to the sudden explosion of sound.

Dora grabbed his arm. “Greg, what is it doing?”

He opened his clenched palm. The glass face of the smaller compass was wet with perspiration, but he could see where it pointed. Same as the table. Then it moved again, pointing to perfect, true North. So did the table version.

“Greg?” Dora’s voice was high.

“It’s not happening. Dora, this is nothing. It’s normal. It’s normal. It’s normal....” He kept repeating these two words aloud, fueling, rather than subduing, the panic around him. He stared at each compass, watched the needles drop, slowly, inexorably, to the West again, then beyond.

The ice in Resolute Bay began to crack with sudden, desperate reports. No one heard them over their own shouts and footsteps, running home, running away from whatever was about to happen. Greg only stared at the table, at his palm. The needle continued to move, stop, spin, then move again. He looked up, focused his gaze on the iceberg waiting patiently across the frozen bay.

*     *     *

The firehouse's living area was deserted save for the lone figure standing in front of the picture window. Most everyone else had gone downstairs to the garage bays, opening the doors for a better view of the events on the square. Technically, the crew was on standby, in case things got out of hand across the street. More so was their insatiable curiosity, or fear about what might happen in fifteen minutes.

As the morning progressed, some would come upstairs to stand beside Marty Santos, stare with him out the window to watch Margaret's crew ascend the ramp one by one then disappear below deck. The chief's silence was contagious, for no visitor tried to start a conversation. They would stand for a while, seeing what he saw, then wander downstairs to join the others in the garage.

Now, Marty was alone. Watching and waiting. He'd slept solidly in his bunk last night, had over the last few nights, in fact, and dreamed of Vince Carboneau. This time, it was a good dream. He and Vince sat on a bench in the Carboneau's backyard, their backs leaning against the picnic table. It was night in the dream. The stars shone so brightly their pinprick illuminations reflected in the cool drops of water coating their beer bottles. They drank casually but never spoke, simply looked up at the darkened house knowing Margaret was inside, asleep in bed. Vince didn't seem in a rush to go inside. He'd always been like that when Marty would stop over for a drink. Content to share such a rare and drawn-out moment with his best friend, outside under the stars, knowing that the woman he loved would welcome him beside her when he finally went in.

It was a nice dream, and Marty was grateful for it. Whether it was only that, a creation of his overly exhausted mind, or if the moment said more to what his fate might be in a few minutes, he'd soon know. He liked to think that the dream was Vince's quiet way of saying thanks for helping Margaret during the final days of the world. If it meant anything beyond that, Marty didn't care.

Outside Margaret and the teenager, Carl, had rounded up the last of the stragglers. Now the boy was up on deck. Margaret remained at the bottom of the ramp, looking around for anything left behind.

She looked up, saw the chief standing in the window. Marty watched her hesitate for a moment, then raise her hand. She waved slowly.

Marty swallowed, and raised his own hand. Before the moment could become awkward, he turned and walked away from the window. He found a comfortable chair across the room and sat down to wait.

*     *     *

“All set, Mrs. Carboneau. Everyone's nice and snug. The girls, too.” Carl looked at his watch. “Time to come up, I'd say.”

Margaret could hear the fear in the boy's voice. Their world had been spun on its head and here was Carl, tanned in a tee-shirt and shorts, a boy who should be hanging out at the beach with other kids. Instead he stood atop a fabled ark, telling his former teacher it was time to come aboard.

The temperature was pleasant, high-eighties. The grease smeared along the side of the ark shimmered in the sun, giving the ship a mirage-like appearance. Standing in the midst of the haze, Carl said more quietly, “Mrs. C, you have to come up now.”

Margaret nodded, and looked around the Common. People were camped out across the grass. On one marble bench, a man with a salt and pepper beard sat before an easel. He faced the ark and quietly painted.

Her gaze lingered on one family, a woman and three boys. The woman was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the bread laid out on plates across a large blanket. The mother finished making one, reached into a cooler and produced a can of Coke. She managed to snag one of the boys long enough to shove the meal into his hands and point to an unoccupied corner of the blanket. The boy hesitated to make a show for his older brothers, then sat down and began devouring his food.

It was a nice day for a picnic, Margaret supposed.

She stepped onto the ramp. In the corner of her eye she saw Carl straighten. At first she thought it was from relief that she was finally moving. Then someone grabbed her shirt from behind. She almost stumbled, took a step back.

“I'm sorry,” the young girl said. “I didn't mean to make you fall.”

Carl moved onto the upper portion of the ramp but Margaret held up a hand to stay him. She made a similar gesture to the security guard, past whom the woman had slipped. The girl was familiar, a few years older than Carl. She held a baby in the crook of her left arm. The baby smiled and grabbed at his mother's shirt.

“You work at the lumber store,” Margaret said, trying not to look at her watch but knowing that it was only a matter of minutes by the way Carl was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The girl nodded, gave Carl a quick sidelong glance then raised the baby between them. “I'm sorry. I know... I know you asked me long ago to join you. I didn’t, but I believed you. I listened to the radio, even saw you on TV. I never stopped believing. I swear!”

Margaret raised her hands, not wanting to touch the child. “It's too late -” she began.

The woman began to cry, heavy, tear-streaked sobs. When she spoke, however, the words were clear and came quickly. “I know. Really, I know. I'm not asking for me. I'll stay down here with the others. It's too late for me. But not Connor. Please! He's a good boy, and never cries, really. He won’t take up any room and I can’t let him die like this, please!”

Margaret moved to gently coax the baby back towards his mother. Holly used the opportunity to push him into her arms. She let go. Margaret was forced to take him. Connor cooed joyfully at this new game.

“Mrs. Carboneau….” Carl's agitation was obvious. “Please.”

Margaret waited a moment, feeling the wriggling child in her arms, not wanting to hold him any closer. The boy reeked of urine and feces, his face streaked with dried food. Margaret hardened herself for what she needed to say. The girl had been given a chance long ago, and she’d blown it.

That was when Margaret noticed the marks on the girl's wrists. She'd thought them tattoos or bracelets. No. They were rope burns. Red, swollen rings.

“How did -” she began but stopped. Seeing where Margaret was staring, the girl folded her arms across her chest.

Carl took a step down the ramp. “Mrs. Carboneau, you said yourself not to trust our watches. Come on!”

Margaret held Connor close now, and looked at the baby’s mother. She believed. This one believed, more so than the woman across the grass who'd managed to pin down her other two sons and give them their sandwiches.

But it was too late.

How strong is your faith, Margaret Carboneau?

The thought chilled her, for they weren't the words of the angel David nor anyone else. They were her own. Try as she might to suppress the next thought, it came. How far could such a faith carry you?

No! She’d gone this far. Damn it, she’d given up everything. What more could she do? In that moment, in the minutes before the world would fall, it no longer felt as if she'd done enough.

How far would you go?

No, please .

In those few remaining moments which seemed to stretch to eternity in her mind, Margaret had already decided.

Without looking away from the pleading face of the girl, she said loudly, “Carl. Hurry down here and take this baby with you. Then drop the ramp.”

No response. Margaret turned to face him. His expression would have been comical if she wasn't so frightened. Carl slowly shook his head.

“Carl, you said it yourself. We have no time. Please don’t question me now!”

“What the fu...” he began. His shoulders sagged. “Why?”

Connor wriggled playfully in Margaret’s arms. Forget it, she thought. Just hand him back to his mother and run onto the ship before this goes too far. Instead she said, “Carl, you haven't questioned one thing I've asked, or God has demanded, since this started. And now there isn’t any more time. Do this. Hurry!”

Carl didn’t move. Some of what had been said must have been heard through the hull, for there came muffled shouts of protest from inside the ark. One of the voices, Margaret was certain, belonged to Katie. Her older daughter screamed for someone to let her out of the harness. Her pleas were drowned out by louder, adult voices. Al’s voice boomed over them all, telling one person to “shut the fuck up and stay put!” She hoped he wasn't speaking to Katie that way.

Carl looked at his watch, gave Margaret one last glare of contempt. He whispered, “Please....” Margaret simply raised the squirming child before her like an offering. Carl let out a breath. Tears were running down both cheeks, but he bounded down the ramp. Margaret gripped Connor a little too tightly, afraid Carl was going to rip the boy from her hands and toss him aside. He took him from her gently. Through his tears, she saw so much rage and hurt in his eyes.

He ran back up the ramp. Holly cried out and took a step forward. Margaret reached for her, but the girl stopped under her own power before Margaret's hand closed around her elbow. She slowly stepped backwards. The two woman stood beside each other, watching Carl and Connor reach the top of the ramp.

The crowd around the ark, kept at bay all this time, murmured among themselves. Just a few voices, but it was obvious to Margaret that people had been paying close attention to the events. She thought of the nights seeing figures in the darkened cars, unseen faces watching and waiting. They were here now. She tried to pretend they weren't. She was alone, with the young woman, watching Carl reach the top and turn to face them.

Katie's voice inside the ship called, “Mom!” Margaret tried not to hear, listened only to the light breeze playing around her. She whispered, “I'm sorry, Katie. I'm really sorry. Take care of my babies, Carl.” Only the young woman heard. Margaret didn't know what to do next, so she looked at her watch.

It was eight-fourteen.

She led Holly two steps from the ark and knelt on the grass. Holly did likewise, still mute with the suddenness of what had happened, moving automatically.

Margaret cleared her throat, then yelled without looking up, “Carl, drop the ramp. We're out of time!”

Carl remained where he was, Connor in the crook of one arm. The baby was crying loudly now, sensing the others' distress.

“Hey, Lady!” A heavy man emerged from the crowd, a cigarette wedged between two pointing fingers. “What's going on? I'm on the list! Who was that little shit you let up there? I'm on the list!”

“Carl! For the baby's sake. Move it!”

Carl just stood there, staring down at her, mouthing “Why?” over and over.

The man stubbed out his cigarette and walked towards the ramp. “Like hell I’m letting anyone cut me in line!”

He never made it.

*     *     *

Suresh dipped his toes in the water. The midday sun exploded in short bursts from the ripples. He heard someone shout a two-minute warning. The couple that had been standing on the dock behind him walked quickly towards the voice. Suresh was left alone. Though the sun had burned down on him all morning, he shivered.

Bernard Meyers sauntered along the dock and stopped beside him. He looked at the sky and took another sip from the glass. All he got was a small sliver of ice.

“You don't seem to be enjoying my party, Mr. Ramprakash.”

Suresh did not respond. Meyers turned back to face the cottage. From this vantage, he watched the party-goers milling about uncertainly, laughing, looking at the sky. All but Neha, who pretended to be in conversation with Derek and Karen Jahns, but all the while was looking past them with a burning stare towards the dock.

He sighed and said, “What are you doing?”

Suresh made more ripples with his toes and said, “Praying... trying to, I guess.”

Meyers raised an eyebrow, though the effect was lost on the man as he continued staring at the lake splashing over his feet. He said, “You believe it's going to happen then?”

Suresh turned sideways on the dock and looked up at the doctor. “So do you.”

Meyers laughed suddenly, caught himself and tightened his lips. He looked around at the landscape and said, “So many people in the world. Thousands. They believe so strongly, threw everything away and built their arks. I've always wondered...” He trailed off, raised the glass to his lips but lowered it when he remembered it was empty.

Something caught Suresh's eye. He looked away from Meyers and stared at his wife. Neha glared back. Suresh looked past her. A colorfully adorned man, dark-skinned, perfect in his features, stood in the middle of the yard. Suresh’s throat went dry.

Meyers continued, “What I mean is, how many others actually had the dreams, the visions if you will,” he raised and lowered the empty glass unconsciously as he spoke, “but never did anything about it? Maybe they never believed in them.”

The figure's arms and legs were bent in a poetic gesture of running. One leg back and bent at the knee. The left arm behind his back in a similar, awkward gesture. The right arm angled before him. This dark man's right hand was open, palm-out. This was the pose of the god Hanuman, Suresh understood, sent by Rama when Ram's brother was struck down in battle. Hanuman, sent to find a special healing plant. Reaching the sacred mountain, he could not decide which plants to take, so he carried the entire mountain in the palm of his hand. Suresh peered closer, and saw what floated above Hanuman's open palm was not a mountain.

“...the idea is so ludicrous. And to throw everything away for a dream. Just a dream.”

Neha must have realized Suresh was looking past her. She turned, and when she saw nothing her expression doubled in its ferocity.

Floating above Hanuman's palm was a tiny rendition of the Earth. The longer he stared, the closer Suresh seemed to move towards the vision. Clearly he saw the blue and white globe, turning quickly above the palm. Then the god's fingers began to close, slowly, curling upward like brown teeth. They closed in, drawing tighter, and soon blocked Suresh's view of the tiny world which Haunman held within his grasp.

“It's time,” Suresh whispered.

Meyers stopped talking. He looked skyward. Nothing but a deep blue all around. And around. And around.

Meyers fell onto the dock, then rolled into the lake. He thrashed at the surface, letting go of his glass. He tried to get a footing on the muddy lakebed, but for the moment could not decide which way was down. The beach and dock seemed to heave and spin over him. He wondered how much he had drunk, before the water wrapped itself around him in a swirling undertow and pulled him away from shore. The sky tumbled below him. With a panicked thrash, he broke through the surface, only to see trees, then a road roll above him.

Suresh remained on the dock, face down and fingers splayed wide. His legs dangled over the edge, in the water, but the rest of his body pressed hard against the top of the dock. He tried to breathe. The world pulled at him from every conceivable direction but something pressed him down, holding him in place. The water raced away and his legs shot out behind him, desperate to follow. Suresh’s upper body remained pressed against the boards, gulping air into his compressed lungs as the unseen force of Hanuman's fingers pressed him harder and harder in place. He did not notice Bernard Meyers racing away within the retreating water.

*     *     *

No sound traveled into space. Earth, in its tremendous majesty, hung in the dark, infinite silence.  Its perpetual rotation had for so long been constant, unnoticed against the backdrop of the universe. Also unnoticed was the sudden interruption in this rotation.

Like a child's toy on a string, the blue and white planet stopped spinning. It remained motionless for a fraction of a moment. As Suresh struggled for breath against the dock and Bernard Myers released his empty glass into the lake, the massive planet began its rotation once again, in the opposite direction.

Tectonic plates, some the size of continents floating within their molten beds, should have crashed together, torn free of the land with a spray of magma and rock. They did not. Everything above and below the exposed land surface of the planet held fast under some monstrous, gravitational grip.

Oceans and lakes and rivers, traveling along the planet's surface with a millennia of momentum, moving a thousand miles per hour, always in the same direction, had no such restraints. At eight-fifteen Pacific time, the planet stopped and just as quickly changed direction. The water continued forward as it had always done, caught unaware. The proverbial rug that was Earth had been pulled out from under it.

*     *     *

The pressure holding everyone to the bricks along the park's walkway subsided, followed by the sound of hundreds of people heaving gasps of air into their lungs. Jack grabbed the iron chain-railing. An inner joy verging on ecstasy spun in his mind, more than the vertigo that had just seized them all. God is truth, he thought. His word is truth and He has delivered unto us His promise.

He wiped his eyes so he could watch God's destruction clearly. Circling the water, the neighboring hotel and Commercial Wharf were not a crumbling pile of metal and stone. Jack rubbed his eyes again. Something was happening. The screams of those behind him were overpowered by the roaring of the churning sea. Waves smashed into the slimy sea wall, then each other, sending towers of salty spray into the air. Jack raised his arms with unrestrained glee.

“Behold!” He shouted, “The Power of -”

He stopped. Like a leashed dog watching his master's car drive away, Jack stared helplessly as the waters of Boston Harbor smashed and roared away from him in a flood played in reverse. Out in open water an MBTA harbor ferry was swept away with its screaming passengers. It looked to Jack as if a plug had been pulled from a massive drain far out to sea.  He fell against the heavy chain-railing, his mind confused by the sight. Miles away the Atlantic Ocean surged with a momentum built over millennia. It rolled past the shores, then completely over the outer islands. Then the water was gone.

Al ong the milky horizon, the ocean moved eastward like a fading gray wall.

Someone struck him on the shoulder. Jack did not turn around. People grabbed his arms and hands; some with violence, others pleading. Now and then a microphone wormed itself between the bodies, only to be yanked away and tossed aside.

“What did you do?” a man spat, cursing and gripping at his shirt.

“Please, it's not too late, I know it isn't. Please touch me and bless me.”

“What's happening? What's going on?”

Jack didn't listen to their words. He stared across the glistening canyon of mud and whispered to the lost sea, “Come back. Please come back to me.”

“Turn around, you coward.”

“Forgive me, Father....”

“Make it stop. Make it stop; please make it stop.”

Jack's grip on the rail fell away. Pulled and guided and shoved into the throng of his self-proclaimed parish, he floated amid their hands and arms. He stared past the bobbing heads, into the sky. In a sea of a hundred faces that twisted and writhed into their own distinct emotion, Jack twisted, both of his own accord and by the flood of arms and fists. Someone slapped him; another pulled at a chunk of his hair. A woman appeared before him, muttering “Bless me bless me bless me” then she was swallowed up as more faces, angry, terrified, moved in her wake. Something stuck Jack in the leg. Pain shooting.

He could see nothing past the faces.

“Michael!” His shouts mixed, and were lost, amid so many other voices.

He was pulled suddenly to his feet. A Latino man in an oversized Bruins hockey shirt was screaming but the words made no sense. Then the man coughed. Blood sprayed from his face and he dropped from sight. The horde behind him parted like the Red Sea. At the far end of this new path stood the young man with the wild blonde hair. His arm was extended, shaking. Jack noticed the gun only when it sparked and something punched him in the chest.

Jack staggered back as another flash punched him again; then the kid’s chest turned red, like it was in the hospital – Jack remembered him, now. So long ago...

Both fell, the kid to the cobblestones and Jack backward over the chains. He tumbled once against the slime-coated harbor wall before landing on his back in the muck below.

He felt nothing now, only a sense of hovering above the filth. Michael stood on the edge of the park, looking down, hand held out.

“Come on, Jack,” he said. Then he smiled. So beautiful, that smile, erasing the scars and lines on the angel’s face. Jack was standing on the wharf beside him. Police forced the crowd back, back, but Jack found nothing of interest here. Michael held his hand. Together they rose above the chaos and the pain, flying like Peter Pan into the bright, bright morning sky.

*     *     *

When she could move again Margaret tried gathering Holly into her arms. She needed something, someone to feel beside her. To this woman who was no more than a stranger, she said, “Stay close.” She could not hear her own words. Holly had apparently not heard either, for she freed herself from Margaret's grip and crawled away. Behind, what had begun a few seconds earlier as a low rumbling now overpowered all other sound.

The ramp still led up to the ark from the grass. Carl pulled himself up using the railing. When he'd fallen to the deck, he'd tried to hold himself over the baby to shelter it. Knowing it was useless he'd roughly slid Connor aside to avoid crushing him. Though the baby now wailed in his arms, it didn’t look hurt. Carl held him carefully and stared down to the grass below.

Margaret shouted as loud as she could. “Drop the ramp, Carl!” Wind blew with a panicked force against her back. Traveling with it, or perhaps pushing it along, the roaring din sounded like a freight train storming out of control behind her.

Hoisting the baby in one arm, Carl knelt by the bolts holding the ramp in place. He looked again at Margaret, then slowly beyond her. His face lost all color. Margaret's continued pleas were lost in the wind.

A few feet away, her back to the ark, Holly turned and saw what was coming towards them. She screamed, the voice only a distant keening.

In blind unison, people on the common raced towards the ark. The heavy man who a moment before was storming in that direction fell under the rushing mob. The sudden motion around the perimeter broke Carl’s paralysis. He didn't have time to think about what filled the western sky. Only that it was coming towards them really fast. He pulled the first wooden dowel free then skittered sideways and yanked loose the second. Connor squirmed and wriggled in his grip but Carl held fast, no longer caring if he hurt the baby.

The ramp fell with an unheard thud to the grass the same moment Carl swung the hinged section of railing closed and set the latch.

The mob slammed against the hull. Men in suits tried to scale the sides, only to slip on the thick coats of grease and fall onto three others waiting below. Everyone looked behind them at the monster rising over the town. The woman with the sandwiches raised one of her children towards the deck. There was no one there to pull him on board. The boy squirmed, and someone grabbed his foot as if to pull himself up. Both came crashing down.

*     *     *

“Everyone stay in the Lord's house for these final moments! God is pleased you came to him and we must continue the Mass!” Some of the parishioners, mostly those near the front, calmed a little and knelt in the pews. These people were safe from the chaos at the back of the church. There, the crowd pushed in claustrophobic mindlessness towards the exit. One of the glass doors shattered. The jet-plane roar from outside shook the building.

Nick held one hand flat against the altar and tried to remember where he'd left off. The Host and Chalice were prepared, but he didn’t think it was time for the benediction. He looked at the front row, at the young couple huddled close with a small boy between them. Others stared back at him, oblivious to those who fought and struggled to get outside. The daylight drew away, dimming the brilliance of the stained glass windows.

Father Nick Mayhew closed his eyes and whispered a blessing for his congregation, both here and elsewhere. And for Margaret and her girls, that they would be safe aboard God's vessel. When he opened his eyes, raised his hands in blessing for the community, the front of the church ripped apart. Bodies flew towards the vacant front pew and altar moving too fast to see. Everything blew apart then was gone completely.

*     *     *

Carl slammed the bulkhead and bolted it with one motion. He jumped the last three steps and stopped. In the morning light streaming through the eastern portholes, he found Margaret's vacant harness. Beside it, Katie lashed out with both arms, screaming as if what was bearing down on them had already hit. Beside her, Robin was silent, staring ahead of her. It almost seemed as if she was singing, but the sound went unheard in the approaching freight train roar.

Carl ran to Margaret's harness. He didn't think, just hoped the relentless rehearsals weren't for nothing. He dropped Conner in, grabbed the two straps and pulled. The baby swung back and forth as the harness closed around it. The baby's head was below the harness line. That was good. Less room to bounce around. Carl tightened the straps further, ignoring the baby's wails. As an afterthought, he pulled off his t-shirt and stuffed it around the back and side of Connor's head. He didn't re-check the straps, only ran blindly in the direction of his own berth, past the shouting and crying passengers. His chest heaved with sobs he couldn't hear. The boat shook. He saw his harness hanging a few feet away. The deck of the ship tilted. Carl knew he wasn't going to make it.

*     *     *

The sound, reflected in the screaming face of the woman beside her, was the sound of surf magnified a million times. Margaret momentarily considered going to the young mother, holding her close, then decided not to. She was alone, and it now seemed she was destined to be so. Margaret closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her chest, imagined her girls with her. She leaned forward, pushed by the unrelenting wind. Two strong arms wrapped around her from behind, held fast. She wondered who was kneeling there with her, the angel or maybe Marty emerging from his self-imposed exile. It didn't matter. She opened her eyes but did not look back. The roaring of the wind faded in this invisible embrace.

The ark tilted sideways. The people outside hadn't noticed, so mesmerized were they by what loomed behind the fire station – a wall of uncountable leagues of salt water rising over them from the western horizon. The sun reflected off its face in immense ribbons of swirling color. Ahead of it all came the wind like a trumpeting angel, and the deafening sound of a thousand million high tides rolling towards shore but never cresting.

As Carl ran for his harness and the ark began to roll, a shadow passed over the town square. Then, like so many chess pieces, the trees and buildings and people of Lavish, California, were swept away forever.

*     *     *

The ocean rose higher across the western shore and beyond. The front of the growing wall tore across the landscape without thought to borders or property, continued to rise out of the deep bowl it had so long filled. The more the sea tore from captivity, the higher the wave became. Horizon to horizon, it reared up and across the United States, Canada, Mexico. Everywhere.

Eventually, gravity won over the heaving mass. The wall began to fatten, then fall. By the time the ocean reached the Rocky Mountains, it was a mile higher than the tallest peak. When the wave rolled across it, its underbelly tore open.

The wave crested. Miles of sea, rock and ice curved in upon itself and fell back to earth. A giant on a toppling beanstalk.

*     *     *

Bernard Myers stared at the sky. Clouds raced by, stretched thin by the wind. Though nothing seemed to be pinning him down, he could move neither his legs nor his arms. The house he’d glimpsed before the lake cast him down was gone. Shattered beams and even a bathtub rose in his peripheral vision. He wondered if the wooden stake protruding from some numb area of his lower body was once part of the same house. He also wondered if his back had broken.

From his vantage, Meyers could see the Rocky Mountains to the west. They rose high over the trees that once blocked his view when he stood in the camp’s backyard. A blurred gray bank of clouds rose over the snow-capped peaks. The clouds spread north and south as far as his paralyzed gaze could see. So the final storm approacheth, he mused. Thunder rolled steadily and unendingly overhead.

The rising cloud bank draped across the mountains. Brilliant streaks of white ripped into the gray blanket. What he had originally taken for thunder intensified. Then Meyers understood. The cloudburst everyone had waited for had come and gone. The floodwaters left in their wake advanced with a speed he could not begin to measure.

God, I'm sorry for every bad thing I did. I've never been to confession, as you probably know, but... . He sighed. Air and blood gurgled in his lungs. Oh, hell. Forget me. Take care of Linda. Please. She can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she's a good woman. He watched with resigned dispassion the approaching monster.

*     *     *

Arms flailing wildly, Carl hovered in the middle of the ark as it rolled over and around him. The darkness was complete save for occasional shadows whirling overhead. And the voices. Some were screams; others were calm, directed to the children or spouses. Others only howled in terror. He'd been tossed into a madman's carnival ride and expected to be deluged in water. But he felt nothing but an icy wind tearing through the upper portholes. Those, at least, should be spewing water over him, but they did not.

Carl sensed the beam, a dark foreboding shape rising from the gloom below before he actually hit it. He raised his left arm. When the two connected, the arm gave way. A bright flash in his head. His body went limp, rolled away from the beam in time with the tumbling of the ship. He landed on someone's chest. Two hands gathered him up from behind. Fingers dug in to his bare back and pulled him close. In the gloom, he thought he saw Estelle's screaming face before him. His legs tumbled out behind him. When Carl reached for his left arm, something hard and jagged protruded just below the elbow. Touching it sent an electric vibration coursing through his body. What he held between his fingers was the edge of a bone. The darkness expanded. He was passing out, but needed to stay alert. Estelle's breath was on his face. She may not be able to hold him much longer. The darkness continued to expand, swallowing everything, then Carl fainted.

*     *     *

Linda Meyers stumbled across the yard, fumbling with her lighter. When she finally ignited the cigarette on the ninth try, the smoke burst from her mouth, only to be whisked across the empty lake. Fueled by the nicotine, she ran towards the cottage, shouting, “Bernie? Bernie?” No one paid her any attention. They gazed through their own fearful stupor at the lake or the sky or each other.

Neha Ramprakash stood at the edge of the grass, for how long she did not know nor care, one foot tentatively on the dock. She stared down its length to Suresh, who hung awkwardly over the edge. The ground shook in chorus with the baleful roar approaching from behind her. She bit her tongue to keep the growing hysteria from showing on her face. More than the terror of the moment, or the growing understanding that her husband's delusions were true, she felt betrayed. Somehow all of this, foretold in Suresh's god-forsaken premonitions, seemed his fault. He was making this happen.

The sound and wind intensified. Neha wanted to believe in God and Krishna and heaven and hell more than she wanted anything in her life. She considered repenting, however that pathetic ritual might be accomplished. Maybe Suresh knew. The betraying bastard, sitting on the deck making her look like an idiot, summoning his demons and ruining everything.

She walked towards him. It was then, in the last five seconds of her life that Neha knew what she had to do. Kill Suresh; stop the madness. Kill the prophet and his delusions. How didn't matter. People were starting to scream behind her, but the reasons for their renewed outbursts didn't concern her. All she could see, all she could focus upon, was the man hanging over the edge of the dock.

Suresh watched Neha watching him. He wondered if she noticed the vomit on his shirt. His wife's face twitched with an effort to appear emotionless. He had seen her do this many times before. Now, though, a thin line of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, falling across the dark skin of her perfect chin. When Neha began walking, her gaze never wavered from his own. Suresh's hands ached. He slipped past the edge of the dock, keeping his head above the wood as if treading water. He wondered what he must look like. The cowering husband flinching away from his wife, a dog fearing the rap on its nose.

The mud at the bottom sucked at his ankles.

“I'm sorry,” he said. Like Linda Meyers' smoke, Suresh's voice tore away behind him. Neha must have seen his lips move for she spoke in reply. He was grateful not to hear. When she reached the end of the dock Suresh released his grip. He sank to his knees, wondering if he would continue sinking, away from the woman leaning over him. The trees and cottage, the very earth holding them all in place erupted behind her. Neha never looked back. The world was suspended in that final moment as she reached towards her devoted husband, the destruction only a quickly descending backdrop. Then the Pacific Ocean passed overhead, carrying them all away.

*     *     *

The first major crest rolled over the valleys between the mountain ranges. In a mad game of leap frog, the next wave tumbled overhead, rose back up. Torn between gravity and momentum it found its mark further east. In this manner the water moved from town to town and state to state. Each cresting wave surged lower than its predecessor until the sea, its initial enthusiasm spent, rolled across the Plains.

Miles later, it settled, finally spread as a level of rising salt water that broke and fell back against the first significant obstacle in its path.

At its furthest point, thirty-five miles east of the now-refilled Mississippi basin, the flood became a playground for children who understood little its source. They danced in the salty puddles; scooped mud into red plastic buckets, the nightmare of being pressed to the ground only an hour earlier forgotten with this new distraction. Trembling on porches, mothers and fathers stared westward and wondered why they had been spared. They leaned against poles, sat in folding chairs, watching the increasing number of olive green helicopters thumping with an angry urgency westward.

Epilogue

The sail flapped uncertainly in the wind. Carl leaned forward on his knees against the portside railing and stared out to sea. Now and then the sleek body of a dolphin broke the surface as it swam westward, following the receding tide. Not for the first time, he wondered why he searched for Margaret among the waves, rather than his own family. He tried to imagine what his parents went through in those final moments, but all he could summon was a still image of his front yard. The only reality he could envision at the moment was Margaret Carboneau, and she was gone forever. He thought about his discussion with the priest, if the man believed in the Rapture, God taking his chosen ones to heaven before the world came to an end.

Carl wondered about this now. Milling around the ship with unsteady feet, the passengers gazed across the water in every direction. These people had become his family over the past two months as they built the ark, yet most seemed strangers to him and each other now. Al stood at the bow, taking his shift with the binoculars, keeping tabs on the horizons. So far today they'd seen two other ships, drifting across the water, not trusting their navigational skills to draw too close to one another. When they'd emerged with a heaving flourish into a tempestuous sea six days ago Carl had been unconscious. Only yesterday did the waves calm enough to risk going above deck.

Tony and Jennifer Donato (though technically they still weren't married, she'd finally taken his last name) played dual roles of social chairmen, going from person to person to maintain morale, and surrogate parents to little Connor. They worked out a rationing schedule with the parents of the other baby, and were doing their awkward best to wean Connor onto regular (though evaporated) milk. Everyone had a role to play, mostly to keep the ark aimed eastward as much as possible. Carl, Al, the Donatos and Estelle had, willingly or not, taken up the leadership vacancy left behind by Margaret Carboneau.

No one prayed, at least not openly. No one seemed to know what they should be doing most of the time. Every morning Carl insisted on reading a passage from Margaret’s Bible as an impromptu worship service. Everyone had a role, and he wondered if this would become his. He didn’t feel qualified, but then there were too few on board to be choosy. At that last moment, before he dropped the ramp, Carl remembered looking at Margaret sitting on the grass and thinking, She's the only one who deserves to be on this ship and she's sitting on the ground waiting to die. Now she was gone, leaving the survivors to sort things out for themselves.

Maybe the Rapture had come after all.

Carl couldn't help noticing how many of the crew looked at baby Connor like it was his fault for losing Margaret to the wave. Sometimes they even looked at Carl the same way. Even now, Katie Carboneau was sitting back in the stern reading Horton Hears a Who for the tenth time to Robin. Fae sat a respectable distance away, keeping an eye on the two of them. For the most part, Katie ignored everyone but her sister, as if the responsibility for caring for Robin had fallen on her. Occasionally, she would stare silently at Carl, accusing without actually saying, You let my mother die. It made him sick to think he'd lost not only Margaret, but her daughters, too.

He looked over the railing to the sea. The sun was sinking lower in the eastern horizon, a bizarre twist in nature no one realized had happened until Al checked the ship’s compass. The chill of early evening was beginning to creep over the deck. Carl saw another ship far off, the barest glinting of a light on deck. “I wonder where we are,” he thought aloud.

“You should sleep for a while,” Estelle said, ignoring his statement. “If there's anyone out there they can get you to a hospital and set this arm right.” She didn't say the implied if there are any hospitals left. Carl felt a familiar pang in his stomach. This was the second time Estelle had made that comment about his arm. He should ask her what was wrong. The splint and makeshift cast used a considerable portion of the medical supplies onboard, and already had to be changed twice. For some reason, Estelle kept sniffing it. It was probably best not to ask if she had any real medical knowledge. The arm hurt like hell. Every time it ached too much, he made himself remember how bad it was when they tried to set the bone. Then, Carl had screamed so loudly his throat hurt for hours.

“Would you mind getting someone to help me back into my chair?”

“Sure.” Carl turned away from the railing and motioned for his schoolmate Andy. The kid stumbled across the deck towards them. Carl figured if any of them would fall overboard, Andy would be first. Ignoring Estelle's protests, Carl used his good arm to help lift her into the wheelchair which had been locked in position to prevent it from rolling off the deck.

“Thank you again,” Carl whispered into her ear. She patted his good arm. Her grip on him during the flood never loosened. Who knew how bad his arm would have been if he was allowed to flail about, let alone what damage he'd have done to other passengers? If anyone could have held him that long, though, it was Estelle with her over-developed arm muscles. The bruises on his back constantly reminded him of that, and was one more bit of proof that God might still be hanging around somewhere, keeping an eye on them.

He used the railing for support and swung his backpack over his shoulder, then moved cautiously towards the back of the boat. Katie stopped reading, but did not look up. When little Robin saw him she smiled and waved. She held no grudge. Mommy's with Daddy now, she'd said to Fae on their second day out. Carl waved back and forced himself to smile.

Katie finally looked up. Carl wanted to leave, go below deck, out of sight. But he waited. The ship rocked, forcing him to lean hard against the railing.

Katie looked back down, sniffed, and flipped the book back to the beginning, started to read again. Halfway through the first sentence, she hesitated and bit her lip. She lifted the book slightly. Without glancing up, gave it a little shake. Carl knew he was probably misreading the gesture, but his arm hurt, he was tired, and at the moment he no longer cared. Besides, he was certain Robin wanted him there.

He pushed himself off the railing and walked towards the girls. Robin scooted sideways, making room between them. Carl was slow to sit, expecting Katie to smack him with her book. She didn't. He laid his backpack under his knee and waited until Robin clambered onto his lap and leaned into him, before he dared lower his bandaged left arm to the deck. Katie remained sitting, stiffly, on his right. He opened his other hand. At first nothing happened; then the older girl put the closed book into his palm.

She whispered, “We already read this a hundred times...” letting the sentence drift away. Carl thought he understood. He considered calling Andy over, asking him to go below for another picture book, but remembered his backpack.

He put down the Horton book, cleared his throat, whispered, “In the pack, the front section.”

After a short hesitation, Katie leaned forward and unzipped the pack. She reached in, her hand emerging with Margaret’s tattered Bible. She stared at it, not handing the book over.

Carl said, “It was your mother’s. She’d want you to have it now.”

Katie’s hand shook. She pulled the book against her chest, and the three sat without speaking. Robin and Carl waited. Keeping her gaze to the deck, Katie handed the book to Carl.

“We’ll share it,” she said.

To Carl, those three words were the most powerful sentence he’d ever heard. He bit his lip, wanting to cry but knowing instinctively he should not. Not now. This moment was Katie’s. He held the book in his good hand, flipped random pages with his thumb.

As he began to read, Katie Carboneau slowly turned her face against his shoulder and cried.

Carl kept on reading.

###

About the Author

Dan Keohane’s debut novel, Solomon’s Grave, was a finalist for the 2009 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel. His short fiction has been published in a variety of professional magazines including Cemetery Dance, Shroud Magazine, Apex Digest, Coach’s Midnight Diner and many more. Many of his stories have been collected in Christmas Trees & Monkeys, Collected Horror Stories Volume 1. Many have received Honorable Mention in the Year’s Best Horror anthologies. He’s an active member of the Horror Writers Association and founding member of the New England Horror Writers. You can learn more about his work at his website: http://www.dankeohane.com, and whatever social network happens to be the rage at the moment. He’s afraid of clowns, but pretends he’s not, because that would be weird.

Content

Keohane Daniel G. Margaret's Ark