The Decision

In the dark place known as Twilight, a man must decide how he will handle a horrible incident that he is certain will bring wrath upon him.

1075 ADI

So much blood. It soaks his shirt and spreads out on the street around his shoulder. How do I stop it?! I can't. There's no way. It's everywhere—even on my hands. I stand abruptly.

They'll come for him. I need to not be here when they do.

This realization drives me through the open gate of the tangled scrap metal barrier that surrounds my property. I take no time to consider the pool of blood on the foldout chair in my outdoor cooking area and the speckles of blood sprayed on the concrete ground behind it. I pass between the elevated rows of potted plants that sit where gas pumps once sat, and run straight through the front door of my home, slamming it shut behind me. In the dim light from the lone kitchen window, I stand and shiver.

This is not good. Not good!

I swing around and bump the kitchen table as I look out the window. It makes a horrible noise and the items on top rattle. Joshua is still there, just outside the wall of tangled metal. 

Why is he still there? Are they waiting? Are they watching? Do they know I didn't do this?

I look down at my shirt. With one motion, it's off. I cast it from me. His blood is on it. It's also on my hands. I lift them as though they are diseased and rush to the sink. My eyes jump from the water bucket to the large funnel that acts as a tap to the dirty rag sitting by the soap. Everything I touch will need to be scrubbed.

I grab the bucket and fill the bowl at the top of the funnel, then grab the rag and open the latch to let the water pour out. Blood runs into the sink, across dirty dishes, and down the drain. When they're as clean as I'll get them, I rinse and wipe, and return to the window. They still haven't come. 

Why haven't they come?

It doesn't make sense. Do they know? How much do they know? Will they ask questions?

If they do, I'll need to be ready.

The details of the morning begin to replay in my mind. I can see Joshua peering through a hole in the front gate.

"Morning, Mark." His voice is pleasant, as always. "May I join you?"

I rise, walk to the gate, unlock it, unlatch it, and open it. It makes an awful squeak. 

"I've been meaning to fix that," I say.

"I can help."

"No. I'll take care of it."

I don't like it when he does that, offering to do things for me. It makes me think he is only here to impress the teachers by doing his good deed for the day. That is their currency: Good deeds.

I turn away and return to my cooking spot. He closes the gate and follows.

It was a foolish mistake. 

The scrap metal fence isn't there for show; it keeps the bad people out. But I was irritated. Oh, how that man can irritate me! Why can't he just visit? Why does he have to do nice things for me or bring me presents from the city?! His company is enough. Those other things just make me wonder if our friendship goes both ways—or if I'm just a project to work on. It wouldn't frustrate me so badly if I didn't consider him a friend. But that is what he is to me: a friend. They have to know that.

Do they?

Even when I believed angels to be messengers of God, I was never convinced that they were able to see and know everything. Now, after all the things I've read from the books I've found in the rubble, I'm no longer convinced that they are angels at all or that there is such a thing as an all-knowing God. But I don't doubt their power. I've watched men fall dead where they stand. That is the power of a god—but as for how much they know, that is up for debate. I don't want there to be any misunderstanding. I didn't kill my friend.

With shaking hands, I grab another shirt and put it on as I peer out the window. He's still there, lying on the hard ground. It doesn't make any sense.

Well, I can't just leave him to rot and become food for the vultures.

I force myself out my front door, eyes fixed on Joshua, determined to do something, anything, but I don't get to him. When I reach my cooking spot, I come to an abrupt stop and take in the gruesome sight. The blood-soaked chair, the gorey strands sprayed across the ground behind it, the trail of it out the gate.  My stomach twists and acid rises into my mouth. I want to clean it and erase it, but that's what a guilty person would do.

Stop acting like you're guilty. You didn't do this. It's not your fault.

But, on some level, I believe it is. My negligence got Joshua killed.

It doesn't matter what I think. Only what the evidence reveals. 

Surely they'll know I'm innocent. I replay the events of this morning in my head, starting with the voice of the first man who came to my gate. 

"Well, now, something smells good!" The voice is gruff and sinister.

A shiver dances down my spine as I realize I left the gate unlocked. Before I can react, the man enters.

Joshua's voice is surprisingly calm and friendly. "Why don't you join us, friend?"

"SHUT UP!" Says another man, stepping out from behind the first. He's not much to look at, but he is holding a rifle.

Both my hands come up as fear twists my guts. "Okay. Everything's good. I know the drill," I say, attempting to keep my voice as calm as Joshua's, and failing miserably. "This doesn't have to get violent. Take whatever you want. We won't put up a fight."

"We don't need your permission!" says the scrawny man. 

Another man lumbers through the gate.

How many are there? This is not good.

I force a diplomatic tone. "I wasn't giving you my permission. I—I just want to make it clear that we're not going to make any attempts to stop you."

"Here," says Joshua, reaching into his bag, I lean to see what he's going to offer the men—

CRACK!!!

The noise jolts my body and my eyes dart to the scrawny man; he is as surprised as I am.

Joshua groans and grips his chest as blood soaks his shirt and leaks through his fingers.

He. He. Shot him.

"Noooo!" I scream, jumping up from my chair. "He's NOT twilight!"

"You trigger-happy fool! What have you done?!" says the first man—the leader man.

The scrawny one backs away in horror, muttering, "I— I thought he had a…"

The leader motions to the big man. "Come on! Help me with him!" They move forward and grab Joshua. I watch, helpless to do anything to stop the horrific scene from unfolding.

As they struggle to lift him, I eventually find my voice. "What are you doing?!"

"Trying to save him—'cause it might just save us all!" he says.

They drag him out onto the dusty street where their supply bags sit. The scene is madness. The large man rips open a leather sack and starts pulling things out, medical supplies, I think. The leader examines the wound as the scrawny man watches in stunned silence, the rifle hanging loosely in his grip.

"You idiot!" says the leader over his shoulder, "I never should have let you keep that stupid thing."

"I'm sorry. I didn't…"

The leader digs into the wound. As he fishes around, he says, "It went through an artery or something." He grabs Joshua's face, smearing blood across it. "Come on now, stay with us!"

Joshua doesn't respond. There's no life in his eyes. I can't catch a breath.

The scrawny man's words and tone match the feeling of horror in my chest. "No. No. No …"

"We have to go," says the large one, stuffing medical supplies back into the leather sack.

The leader lets go of Joshua's face and wipes his hands across my friend's chest. With a push and a snarl, he rises, grabs two bags, and runs. The others follow.

I hurry out and fall to my knees next to Joshua, examining his body with desperate fingers. "Wake up! Please wake up! I'm so sorry. I should have locked the gate. Stay with me. I'll get help. I can run and get help. You'll be alright." There is no response. His chest is no longer expanding to take breaths. He's gone. My friend is gone.   

I shudder as I return from the memory, and tears flood my eyes—tears that would not come before. Now they flow easily. 

My hand rises to wipe them away but I stop. We hide our tears in Twilight because they are seen as weakness, and the strong prey on the weak. But I need to let them flow. They are evidence that I cared for Joshua. 

Does it matter now? They're not coming.

If they were coming, they would have been here by now. There's no case to be made. I don't need to prepare a defense.

So, what do I do? I can't leave him here. If he were twilight, I would bury him in the soil behind my home. But he isn't. I look in the direction of the city. If they aren't coming, I need to bring him home.

After a long silent pause, I turn and walk back into my compound, past my cooking spot, and into the garage to get my horse. She quietly looks out from her stall and my heart lifts.

I'm glad they didn't stay long enough to take you. I've lost enough today.

I draw near and gently put my cheek against her face.

"I guess it's just you and me again," I say softly. "It might be time to give you a name."

I don't usually give my horses names because we don't stay together long; the bandits see to that. But she's always quiet when they come, and that keeps her safe.

I lead her out of the stall.

"I've lost so many I love because they don't know when to keep quiet. But not you. You're quiet as a mouse. I think I'll call you Mouse. What do you think? Do you like that name?"

She doesn't make a noise.

"Mouse it is."

I guide her passed the cooking spot and out the gate and position her near Joshua. With great effort, I get him onto my shoulder, carry him over, and shove him on the horse at the front of the saddle. His legs and arms drape down the sides.

I mount and settle in, driving my knees under Joshua's body, and start off toward the city—something I swore I would never do.

How strange. Joshua and I argued about that this morning.

My mind flashes back.

"I mean no disrespect, Mark, but why live out here? You don't break the law. Why not reap the benefits of living under the blessing?"

"I don't fit," I say, pouring another cup of coffee. "I don't like the rules; they're too difficult."
"Which rules?"

"Like, how do you live with one woman your entire life? It's absurd."

"It's quite nice, actually. Marriage ages like fine wine."

Air bursts through my lips. "Fine wine. More like cheese aging in the sun."

He laughs and takes a sip of coffee.

"I think people should be allowed to love who they want to love, and when things get stale, move on. They don't have to hurt each other, just agree that it was fun while it lasted and part in a civil manner."

"So, men should be able to leave their wives because someone new catches their eye?"

"No," I grumble, "I'm just saying they should be able to agree to separate for the benefit of both sides. Obviously, it would be messy if one left the other for someone else."

"Very messy," he says with a wry smile.

"If they part on good terms, it doesn't have to be messy. They're both getting something out of it. They're free to have a new, fresh relationship."

"Is that your case for staying in Twilight? You're here for the romance?" He laughs. "You've lived alone in this old gas station for as long as I've known you."

I poke at the coals around the percolator. "It's too much work trying to figure them out."

He laughs again. "Then why not come live with me?" he says.

I almost spit out my coffee. "What?"

"Look. I live in the countryside. You can live a simple and quiet life there. There are few rules when you keep to yourself. How many years do you have left for romance? You're already living a simple, solitary life. Why not enjoy a solitary life and take advantage of the blessing? The ground here is cursed."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I just can't!"

"Okay. Well—the offers out there. I'm not taking it back. I hope you'll think about it."

"There's nothing to think about. There is no place for someone like me there."

"What happened to you?"

I grumble and poke the fire again with my stick.

"It must have been bad if you think you can never return—particularly since no one is making you stay in exile. This is personal for you, isn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"If you share it, maybe you can get past it."

"Stop. I mean it." I point my finger sternly.

He takes another sip from his coffee and doesn't say another word.

My eyes stare down the long barren road, my heart feeling as hollow and empty as the ancient structures on each side.

Why did he do that? Why did he let the subject rest? He didn't say anything after that—not until the bandits showed up. Why?

I would have told him if he had pressed. I've never told anyone, but I would have told him. Maybe I could have put it behind me.

What I shared was true. I don't fit—and I don't like their rules. But that's not why I left or why I won't go back. My marriage was stale and I tried to convince my wife that it would be better for both of us to separate, but she wouldn't have it. So, when my heart grew cold and I was drawn to another woman, my world exploded. I still remember the eyes of those who caught me, and those who found out shortly after. They looked at me with such intense disappointment. And when I was faced with the decision to go home, to see that same disappointment in my wife's eyes, or the eyes of my little girl, I chose exile.

I didn't even say goodbye. I just left.

My friend could have drawn all of this out of me. He might have even convinced me to take him up on his offer. But now the offer is dead, as dead as his lifeless corpse.

I spend the rest of the day inside my head, going over the conversations of this morning, the refusal of his invitation, the interruption from the bandits, and the fallout. I don't even scan my surroundings as I normally would—and I find myself thinking that it might be a kindness to have some wild animal attack me, or to have some other trigger-happy fool shoot me dead. But no such blessing comes. Nor do the gods. They're going to make me bring him the whole way.

When the sun is low in the sky, the border of the wilderness appears as I pass the carcass of a building that bled its rubble onto the street hundreds of years ago. The horse dances between the concrete chunks and metal rods that protrude from them, clomping down the street until there is no street to clomp on, only a dirt road. 

At the border, I stop.

Memories flood in. I grew up here. I have seen the good—and I have seen things that terrify me. Peace comes with a price. The gods and the teachers rule with an iron rod.

I swallow.

They protect their children with technology beyond comprehension, the kind of technology that builds pyramids, and I am no longer one of their children. I don't belong here. But I have in my care one who does. They'll give me time to explain. I draw in a troubled breath and I press forward.

They could have destroyed me at any time. They wouldn't even have had to do it themselves; they could have gotten their invisible bugs to do their dirty work.

They're letting me come.

Low wooden fences run along both sides of the road. On my right is a farmhouse; it looks like most of the family members are working in the field. Men, women, and older children are picking vegetables from the garden. Young children play in front of the porch that goes around the home, and on it, a woman sits, watching me. She's probably wondering if I present a threat to her family, or maybe she is curious about the lifeless man I carry in my lap. I force my eyes to look forward so she doesn't get the wrong idea about me—well, any worse than the idea she already has. Even if I didn't have a dead man on my horse, I still have the dirty appearance of a Twilight dweller—like most, I wear the ancient clothes I find, and it is hard to keep them clean without running water. She knows what I am.

I soon pass another home. It looks less like a farmhouse, but it has gardens, fruit trees, and ample vegetation. All of the homes do. It is a requirement of the gods that the people grow some portion of food to share. In the yard, children play with a cougar. 

Blood-covered teeth lunge at me from my mind's eye. I grip the reigns tight and look forward again.

They wouldn't do that in Twilight.

As the horse clomps ever forward, the winding road leads to more homes and more people in their garden-covered yards. I keep my eyes forward, not wanting to look at their expressions of disdain or their disapproving eyes. But, at some point, I may have no choice. I don't imagine I'll get much farther before someone asks me about the man on my horse.

Let them.

Maybe they'll take him and I can quickly go my way. It would be better than facing the gods.

Much better.

Mouse slows as though she senses something. My heart quakes. I expect the gods to come down from the sky in pillars of fire. Instead, the sides of the road shimmer like a dream, and two men in radiant white armor with gold trim appear.

"That is far enough, Mark," says one.

"You may go no farther," says the other.

I have trouble finding my voice. "I'm—I'm only here to bring my friend home. Nothing more." 

The god who spoke first walks alongside the horse and I deliver Joshua into his arms. He holds him with no effort.

"You know," he says, looking at me with sparkling green eyes and a face more perfect than human, "we wouldn't have to turn you away if you would only abandon your foolish thoughts."

"What thoughts?"

"We are not gods, as you suppose. We've told you this many times. We are servants of God Almighty, the same as you."

"Well, I've read—"

"Yes, we know what you've uncovered in the rubble of the world that was judged. You have also been taught the scriptures here in the place of blessing. You know what is true, and we hope you will someday abandon your foolish thinking and come home. But, for now, go in peace, Mark." He turns and walks away with Joshua in his arms.

Goodbye, Joshua. I don't imagine you'll return to Twilight after this.

I turn my horse as commanded, and head back, keeping my eyes forward as I ride. I've managed to avoid their judgemental stares, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I feel bad enough about myself today, thank you very much.

"Good sir!" says a boy to my left. His voice is loud and it causes my heart to jump. He was standing so still next to the postal box at the end of his driveway that I didn't notice him.

I slow the horse. "You should not be talking to me, young sir. You know who I am."

"Yes. I know who you are. It's okay."

"Your parents let you talk to twilights?"

"We're a mid-home. Do you know what that is?"

"It's been a while but, yes, I think so. It's a home for people struggling with sin, right?"

"Right! We have lots of twilights stay with us. Do you need a place to rest your head for the night?"

I look down the road. Darkness is descending; I may have to sleep in a rubble pile before I get to sleep in my bed. His offer is appealing. There is just one problem.

"I'm afraid I have no coins to pay for a room."

"You don't need coins. All of our needs are met by the tithe."

Again, I look down the road, then up the long driveway. "Did you check with your parents?"

His face shines with a grin and the gold curl hanging on his forehead jiggles as he nods.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Alright. Who am I to turn away from hospitality?"

He jogs up the driveway and I turn my horse to follow. 

"The hitching post is over there." He points. 

"Evening, friend," says a lean man by the open door of the barn. An amber light glows on the stalls and hay bales within.

"Evening," I say, hitching the horse.

"It's good to have you with us. I'll take care of your horse. You can head inside. I'm sure supper is almost ready."

Supper sounds appealing. I haven't eaten since breakfast with Joshua. In all of my introspection, I didn't think once about the gnawing pit in my gut. 

Children come around the house and run up onto the porch. Standing at the white wooden railing is the woman who watched me ride in. I hope this doesn't change their decision to let me stay.

"Evening," she says with a bright, beautiful smile. She is a little overweight and it seems a perfect fit for her. "Supper is on the table. Ferran will show you where to wash your hands. Thank you for joining us."

The boy who brought me in steps out from behind a pillar of the porch. He must be Ferran. I walk up the path and stairs. Ferran greets me. The woman calls out toward the men at the barn, "Supper's on!"

Ferran grabs my hand and guides me through the front door into the home. It is dimly lit for a city home, but not dreary. I like it. There is just enough light to warm each room.

"Kitchens here," says Ferran. "Table's there." He points through the doorway into the dining room. There are men, women, and children—about fourteen total.

Ferran enters the kitchen, passes by a dark-haired teen girl, and starts washing his hands at the sink. 

"Hi. I'm Charis," says the girl, as she heaps rolls onto a silver platter.

"Mark," I say. "Pleased to meet you, young ma'am."

"I bet you have some stories," she says, lifting the platter and taking it out to the dining room.

Stories? Interesting word. Sounds whimsical.

Twilight is anything but whimsical.

But I understand what she's attempting to do. At least, I think I do. She's trying to make me feel accepted—as though my stories are fit for table discussion.

Well. It worked. Somewhat.

Ferran finishes at the sink and smiles as he passes by. "See you in there," he says. 

I wash my hands, dry them, and stare at them for a moment. Just this morning they were covered in the blood of my friend, now I'm wiping them on a clean towel in the loveliest home I've ever seen, and I will soon spend time with people who seem equally as lovely. What a strange day this has been.

I hear the voice of the woman from the porch. She is now in the dining room. "Quiet down, everyone." Her tone has a kindness that is hard to find in Twilight. "For those of you who don't know, we have a guest. He's had a very hard day, so let's all make him feel welcome."

How does she—

I don't have to finish the thought. I know. She saw Joshua on my horse—and probably saw the weight of the world on my shoulders. 

My posture is stiff as I come around the corner to enter the dining room. Every eye is on me. Emotions flood my chest, but I hide them. It is all so overwhelming. These are not the eyes I remember. There is no disappointment here. What I sense from them is acceptance, and it knocks the air out of me.

Charis blurts out. "Are you okay, Mark?"

"Yes. This is just—I haven't seen this many people in one place in a very long time."

There is a rule in Twilight. We are not to stay together in groups of more than five for long. While it is mostly a lawless place, that is the one law that brings the gods—I mean, the angels.

Charis slides a seat away from the table. "Come. Sit next to me." I sheepishly walk behind the row of kind people and take a seat on the other side of Charis. The woman from the porch takes her place next to me, at the head of the table.

"Let us all share grace," she says, taking my hand and the hand of the woman across the table from me. The hand is warm and soft in my grip. As she prays, all I can think about is the contact between us, so I only catch a few phrases of her prayer. "Thank you for the rain that steals the toil from the land … Thank you for family … Thank you for our guest…" She releases my hand and my eyes open. All eyes are on her now, so I look at her as well. "You may dig in," she says with joy.

The table is alive with activity as people grab food, pass plates politely, and chatter with each other about the day. I take part in what is passed to me and eat quietly, once again feeling overwhelmed by the emotion of being surrounded by so many kind people. My eyes only leave my food when someone passes a dish my way.

How does a day start so tragically and end like this? What a curious tapestry the gods—I mean, God, weaves. His hand is in this, I'm sure. I've never doubted His power. I've just doubted His rules. But even on that point, I can't deny that the connection these people share with one another far surpasses any relationship I ever found in Twilight. They are not oppressed.

As I hide in my introspection, I notice a few times that the woman who runs this home is looking at me. Is she finally coming to her senses? Is she realizing that I don't belong here? Is she considering the threat I might pose? I hear the voice of the angel: If you would only abandon your foolish thoughts.

In Twilight, we are all suspicious of each other, even when we're being kind. It is the way of things.

I finish my plate and have no food left to stare at, so I look around at the others. They're still enjoying conversations with each other, and none are studying me. I am accepted as a part of their group, free to listen and engage in conversation as I am comfortable to do so—but I remain silent—until I am finally addressed.

"You know," says the woman at the head of the table.

I look at her.

"It's funny," she says.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"Has it been so long that you don't recognize me?"

I study her face. "I'm sorry? I don't understand. What do you mean?"

The room grows quiet.

"I have lived on the edge of the wilderness my whole life, following its ever-advancing border, waiting for my father to come back into the light—and here you are."

At first, I don't understand her words, but she gives me the time I need.

A breath leaves my body violently, threatening never to return.

Not a word is spoken as I look at her face. In my mind, I imagine a young girl, playing in our wheat field, running to me, reaching up, looking at me with the adoring and accepting eyes of a child—the accepting eyes that are looking at me now.

My world shatters and one word slips past my lips. "Ella?"

"Yes, Papa, it's me." Her eyes shine with tears as she moves closer. "I'm all grown up."

"But why would you…" I choke on the words.

"You're my father. Is that not enough?"

"But I did such detestable things."

"Mother said you did those things because you didn't understand the goodness of God, only his severity. I hope that has changed."

Has it changed?

I look at the faces around the table. Many are likely the faces of her family—my family. The others aren't family; they're outcasts, like me, but they are treated like family. By the goodness of God, they are cared for. They don't have to go into Twilight. My daughter has made a place for them while waiting for me. Has my opinion about God changed?

Yes.

In one evening, these people have done what the teachers and the angels could not do in over twenty years. Today, I understand the goodness of God. In His mercy, and in a miraculous way I don't fully understand, He brought me home.

My eyes return to my daughter and my hands lift as if they have a will of their own. "May I?" I ask.

"Yes!" She laughs, sliding her chair. "Yes, of course you can!"

I slide too and put my arms around her. She hugs me tight. All of these years I have lived in darkness, afraid to look into my daughter's eyes and see her disappointment, when all that was waiting for me was love.

I hug her for a long time.

Then, I feel her chuckle.

"What?" I ask.

She pulls back and smiles at me, "You know … I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry. I was just afraid you'd disappear," I look around, "That you all would. I'm afraid I'm going to wake, surrounded by darkness, concrete, and dust, and realize that all I have are my delusions. I'm sorry. It's just—" A breath catches in my chest and I let it out slowly. I've never felt such intense emotion. 

They wait patiently.

"It's just—" I shake my head and laugh at myself. "Wow. This is a bit much." I take another breath. "I'm just so—thankful."

My daughter grips my hand. "I am too. My father was dead, and now he lives."

"I don't know if I'm alive yet, honey, but things have certainly changed," I say, returning the squeeze of her hand.

Ferran's voice fills the room. "Bring forth the fatted calf!"

Everyone laughs.

The conversation at the table slowly picks up again, and I am thankful that I am no longer the center of attention. Story after story is shared, and I share a few of my own. When my daughter shares her stories, I hang on every word. Oh, how I've missed her!

A knock at the door pulls Ferran from the table. He must be the official greeter for the home. I look forward to getting to know him. While it hasn't come up, I'm sure he's my grandson, which makes me wonder: where is my daughter's husband? There is no indication that he is here at the table. I pray she has not done as I've done.

In the doorway to the dining room, a man appears with Ferran at his side. I stare at him in stunned silence. It's Joshua, back from the dead. I knew it would happen. I know well of the resurrection power of God, but to have him appear here, of all places… And his face is happy. He should be angry at me for not doing a better job of keeping him safe. I was convinced that he would never speak to me again!

I stand and the room becomes quiet. All eyes are on me. "Joshua?" is all I can get out.

"I didn't get a chance to thank you for bringing me home," he says with a smile. His eyes scan the room. "I see you've met my family."

"Your family?"

I look down at my daughter's joyful face. 

"Yes, father. Joshua is my husband."

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Underground - a short story from the Millennium Project

Underground

Southwest of Washington D.C. after the destruction of the Earth.

1 ADI

Teachers. That's what they call themselves. They visit our small group of survivors in a camp that will one day grow into a city called Grace Falls. That is what they told us. Like Noah and his family, we are rebuilding. The angels add one or two to our number each month—survivors who have passed through the wrath of God, like me. We are not encouraged to think about those who were lost or about the many sins that led to our destruction. We are told to dwell on the wonderful flow of life-giving power that comes from God who sits on his throne in Jerusalem—so the teacher's question seems strange to me.

"I don't understand," I say, spooning more vegetables into the cast iron pot over the campfire. "Why do you want to hear my story?"

"Because you need to tell it," she says.

"All of it? Even the dark parts?"

"I'm not asking you to share all the details. I'd just like to hear about your journey to reclamation."

That's what they call it now. Reclamation. It is the internal process of breaking down what hurts us and turning the broken pieces into something new. Something better. I leave the wooden spoon in the cooking pot and return to the log I carved into a chair with tools I made with my own hands. That is the way of it now. The teachers tell us that hard work isn't work if it isn’t meaningful. They're right. They're right about everything, and it is easy to do as they say. If she wants me to tell my story, then that’s what I'll do. I sit and place my hands on my knees. "Okay," I say, "but it is a hard story to tell because it doesn't happen all at once."

She sits down across from me on a seat carved by a friend. "Tell it however you'd like," she says, expression placid.

"I guess I can start from the beginning."

"That's a good place to start," she says.

"It began on the day we were told that China was poised to launch three missiles at the United States. We were afraid D.C. was one of their targets. And since we lived about forty-five minutes outside of the city, as you know, that was too close for our comfort." My mind returns to that horrible day—the day we went underground.

"Honey, you need to come right now." My mother's voice over the phone is clear and desperate, demanding my attention, but I am unable to give it. I stare at the television with dread.

"It's been dark as night all day," says the reporter on location in Israel. "The smoke from the fires intensified in the early hours." Flashes of video clips show troops, explosions, fires, and dark daytime skies with no sun visible. These are followed by shots of the night sky and the moon blood red through the smoke. The reporter appears again. "As the war here intensifies, some officials believe China will back down, others say a nuclear strike is imminent."

A graphic appears, displaying the potential trajectories of three nuclear-armed missiles with D.C. as one of the targets.

"Honey, are you listening?" My mother's voice has an edge.

"Yes, mom. I get it, I'm coming, I'll be there in a sec."

"Are you watching the news?"

"Yeah."

"Turn it off and come. Right now."

"I will," I snap at her, but I quickly alter my tone. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm just trying to get more information before I come. Will you leave the door to the shelter open?"

The silence is deafening.

"Mom? Mom, are you there?"

"If you don't come right now, it won't matter. I have to go, I have to call your sister." The phone goes dead.

My friend, Jack, looks up from the television. "Uh oh. That’s not a good face. Is it go time?"

"Yeah," I say, letting out an exhausted breath. "My mom wants me to come right now."

Jack stands. "I was ready an hour ago."

"Alright, then," I say, heading toward the kitchen. "You get the backpacks, I'll grab the last of the food."

"You got it!" he says, leaving the living room and bolting up the stairs.

I listen to his pounding footsteps on the upstairs floor as I turn the dial to the safe that sits on the counter next to the stove. The safe is mostly for show. I've had it raided three times now. I'm always quick to give up the combination to those willing to take my life for what's inside. But, it has thwarted a few who lacked the resolve to kill me for the chance of finding a meal. The safe door squeaks open, and I pull out four plastic grocery bags, three filled with beans and one with rice.

Jack's feet pound on the stairs as he comes back down. "Here," he says, throwing my backpack. I stick the bagged food inside, zip it, and head for the door. He follows. My parents live close, but not close by road. The way these neighborhoods are set up, we’d have to drive twelve minutes to get to them, even though they're only five minutes by foot. But, even if it wasn't faster by foot, we would do it anyway. My car sits in the driveway with an empty tank. Gas is just too expensive.

We use the footpath that separates their neighborhood from ours and emerge on the other side of the woods, climb the bank, and follow the road to my parents' house. It sits at the end of a long driveway off the point where the road bends. I've always loved this location. It is in the middle of the city, yet its unique placement offers forested seclusion. We pass by my sister's moped in the driveway and head up the stairs onto the porch where I pound on the front door, using the special knock we agreed on.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK… KNOCK, KNOCK… KNOCK. 

Locks click on the other side, the door swings open, and my sister, Rosie, appears in the doorway. Tall, slender, black hair, friendly face. She greets me with her signature smile, lifted on one side by the tightening of her cheek. It is a playful smile, but it doesn't last long. She looks past me. "You brought Jack?"

"Yeah. I couldn't just leave him."

She glares.

"Is there something I should know about you two?"

Her eyes flick to me. "It's nothing," she says. Her head slants. "It was always nothing." She turns and walks away, through the living room towards the sliding glass doors.

"Ouch,” I say to Jack, “that's cold."

He smiles, confidence unshaken. "That about sums it up. But, like your big sister said, it was nothing." He chuckles. "I'd say she was quite clear on that point."

When Rosie reaches the glass doors, she slides the door open and looks back. "Dad's not going to like this," she says. "You know that, right?" Behind her, the yard looks dark. It shouldn't be dark.

Rosie sees me staring and looks out. "What on earth?" she says, stepping onto the back deck. "That cloud bank came in fast." 

Jack and I join her outside. The clouds are thick and dark like smoke. There are fires to the northeast, above D.C., but not enough to cause dark, billowing smoke like this. And how did it move so quickly? I turn and look back over the roofline of the house. The clouds form a dark line across the sky. It is bright as day the way we came.

Jack's face is hard as stone. "Do you think the missile hit?"

"I don't think so, man. Wouldn't there be ash falling?"

Rosie doesn't spend any time dwelling on it. She heads down the long wooden stairs off the porch and across the lawn towards the tree line at the back of the property.

Jack continues to scan the clouds. "Okay. So, what do you make of this?"

"They're probably just storm clouds," I say.

"I've never seen clouds that thick, bro. And where's the thunder?"

"It doesn't matter. We need to get to the shelter. Whatever it is, it's bad."

We chase after Rosie who is already at the utility shed which is just inside the woods. My mom is there, standing in the doorway. When we get near, Rosie says, "Ben brought a friend," just loud enough for us to hear, then she goes inside. We come to a stop in front of my mom and her folded arms.

"Can I talk with Dad?" I ask.

"You promised you wouldn't tell anyone. This is no small matter, Ben." She looks past me. "Sorry, Jack. No offense."

"He's my roommate, Mom. I tried to hide it from him, but he kept asking me where the food was coming from."

Her eyes scan us and then look up to consider the sky. After an awkward silence, she says, "Wait here. I'll get your father." As we wait, thunder rumbles in the distance and the ground vibrates in response.

Jack looks up.

"See. Storm clouds," I say.

"Yup," he says. "And clouds like that bring tornados. I'm glad we're going below ground." After the rumble subsides, he leans in. "How sure are you that your dad won't kill me and hide the body?"

He is only half joking. 

"He's not like the other preppers. He doesn't even own a gun. At worst, he'll send you away with some food and ask you to keep our secret. But I don't even…" 

The noise of my Dad climbing up the ladder forces me to stop. My eyes are drawn to the open hatch and the lid that, when set down, will look like trash in an old wooden box on the floor. His shiny bald head pops up first, then the rest of him emerges. He comes to the door, scans the sky, scans the yard, then he considers us, standing in front of his shed. He looks like he wants to tell us both to go away, but I sense a hint of futility in his expression. Or maybe I'm projecting it onto him. Either way, he doesn't really have a choice. He can't tell us to leave and risk someone finding out about the shelter. Plus, I'm his son.

"Come in here," he says sternly, moving to the side.

We quickly shuffle in, and he slides the door closed behind us and backs us up against wire shelving filled with useless junk. The aesthetic of the shed is meant to convey the message: There is nothing of interest here, move along. It does a good job of that. The shelves look picked clean. All that is left is obvious trash.

His narrowly slitted eyes, thick glasses, and male-pattern baldness in the stark shadow cast by the one dangling incandescent light make my father look like a zombie. "I don't think I have to tell you boys what this means for all of us," he says. "We've been living off that food down there, and we have barely enough for four. An extra mouth to feed means we may not make it through this."

"Dad, you know we're gonna have to come out when the food runs out—and it's gonna run out. It's good to have someone like Jack with us. He was a Marine. He's seen combat."

"Marine, huh?" my dad says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a thick finger.

"Yeah," says Jack.

"Thank you for your service, young man."

"Um, thank you, sir."

Dad steps back, revealing the dimly glowing entrance to the shelter. "I guess we're in this together."

…Is that it? Is that all he needed to change his mind about Jack? I don't care. I'll take it. Prompted by my Dad, Jack goes down the ladder first. Then, I go down, followed by Dad. He closes the hatch.

KA-CHUNK!

When Dad reaches the bottom of the ladder, he says, "I'm gonna go check on your mom," and heads into the bathroom, which also acts as a laundry room.

I look around at this first section of the shelter. Every wall is covered with shelves, and all of the shelves are filled with sealed plastic buckets of food and other necessary supplies. It is a comfort to know that we're not going to have to worry about staying fed—at least, not for a while. I walk around the ladder and head into the living quarters. Rosie has claimed the bottom bunk on the left side of the cramped and poorly lit space.

Jack is checking out the kitchen on the other side of the room, beyond the small table that sits in the center between the bunks that line both walls. "You have running water?" he says. "That's impressive. Where does it come from?" He turns the faucet on and off and lets the water squirt out a few times.

"Well water, I think." I turn back and holler toward the bathroom. "Hey, Dad, that's well water, right? Is it filtered?"

No response.

"Dad?" There is only a thin metal wall between us; he should be able to hear me. I walk toward the bathroom. "Dad? Mom?" As I step into the small bathroom, I expect to run into them, but they're not there. All I find is a stack of toilet paper rolls waiting to be put away, towels piled on the floor of the shower, and laundry on the floor near the washing machine.

Okay. This is weird.

I back up until I reach the ladder, then turn and look up at the hatch. There is no way they could have snuck behind me, climbed the ladder, and left without making a noise. I would have noticed. It doesn't make any sense. I go back into the living quarters. Rosie immediately notices the distress on my face. "You okay, Ben?"

"Ah- Yeah. I'm just wondering where Mom and Dad went."

"Did you check the bathroom?"

"It's not a big place, Rosie."

Her lips make that bow again with one end lifted. She clearly recognizes the irony of her question.

"They're not there," I say, "and there's no way they could have left without me hearing them."

She rolls out of her bunk. "Are you being serious right now?"

"Yeah. Dead serious. This is really strange."

"Maybe Dad made a secret hiding place," she says, her eyes lighting up.

"You think?"

"I wouldn't put it past him. Maybe they're hiding in it now, testing it out."

"It's possible. That sounds like something Dad would do." 

We go out into the food storage room together and start pounding on the walls. "Dad? Dad?!"

Rosie goes into the bathroom and pounds on the walls in there. "Dad? Mom?"

Jack comes up next to me, "You have a strange family, bro. Not gonna lie."

I laugh. "You're not the first to notice."

We search every crack and crevice for a secret panel, pounding and thumping as we go, then Rosie comes out of the bathroom and we all stand around the ladder that goes to the surface. "Okay!" I call out one last time. "We get it, Dad. There is no way anyone is going to find us in your secret hiding place. Can you guys come out now?"

Still no response.

Rosie's face looks as creepy as Dad's was in the utility shed. "They're not here, Ben. They must have gone back up."

"That's not possible."

Jack starts up the ladder. "Well," he says, grunting as he climbs, "we should at least check." He grabs the locking mechanism and opens the hatch.

KA-CHUNK

I look at Rosie, "Do you think we would have missed that sound? And how did they lock the hatch if they were on the outside?"

Fear and confusion are in her eyes, and she looks like she's seen a ghost.

"What?" I ask, studying her face and fighting a feeling that is as haunted as her expression. She pushes past me and rushes into the living quarters. "What is it, Rosie?" Her hands plunge into her backpack and search it with intensity. I crouch by the bunk bed as she pulls a book out. It is brown with gold letters on the cover.

"Is that a Bible?"

"Yeah. Mom gave it to me this morning when I stopped in for breakfast. She said something cryptic, like, 'If you look for us and can't find us, you'll find the answers in here.' Maybe there's a note or something.” She rifles through the pages and shakes it, but nothing comes out—there's no note. She closes the book and sets it in her lap.

I sit next to her. "What about the covers? Mom likes to write on the inside covers."

She checks. There is nothing in front, but every inch of the inside back cover is filled with pen scribblings in my mother's handwriting.

"What's it say?"

Rosie clears her throat. "'On the day the authorities brought the Williamson family out into their front yard, pulled their children out of their desperate hands, and carried them all away right in front of us, we knew we had to hide that we were like them, that we were believers. We had to stop openly sharing with you what we were learning from this book. We were afraid for you—that you would tell someone that we were Christians and that they would take you from us before we could bring you into the saving knowledge of the truth. If you're reading this, our plans to teach you in the shelter have failed, God has called us up to be with Him, and despite our prayers and our attempts to cryptically share truth with you over the last two years, you were left. But, don't fear. Be strong. Trust in the Savior. Read the verses I have highlighted. God may yet seal you and protect you as you seek to work out your salvation with fear and trembling.’"

The book falls into her lap and her jaw slackens.

I remember the day the Williamson family was taken. I knew their kids. I was about sixteen at the time, the same as their oldest. Rosie was seventeen. Mom and Dad hid our Bible and told us to avoid talking about what they had shared. “Believe it, but don't speak it,” was their message.

KA-CHUNK!

"Jack's back."

The bow of my sister's lips drops on both sides. "He's not going to like this," she says. "That's one of the reasons things didn't work out with us. I wanted to learn about this book. Mom and Dad made me curious." She stuffs the book into her bag. "We need to keep this quiet."

I stand as Jack comes in.

"What's up with you two?"

"What do you mean?" I say, fidgeting slightly.

"Why didn't you come up and look with me?"

"We—looked in here."

His eyes scan the walls. "Find anything?"

"No. Nothing."

"That's some strange stuff, Ben. Where’d they go?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, man."

"Okay. So what now? Do we just—settle in?"

"What else can we do?"

He looks around and finds his backpack on the floor. With a strong hand, he lifts it and tosses it up onto the top bunk on the right wall. "I guess I'm on top."

"Yeah," I say, shrinking down into one of the kitchen chairs. "That's cool with me."

"You know," he says, "just until your parents come back."

Darkness fills my heart. We're all alone. They're not coming back. It's just me and Rosie, both wanting to dig into that book and see what my mother highlighted, both concerned about how Jack will react. Rosie didn't have to tell me his feelings about Christians. Up to a few minutes ago, we were on the same page—but now I don’t know what to believe. What if the things our parents told us were true?

A loud, THUMP, makes everything rattle; we look at each other with rounded eyes. Rosie says, "Was that a…" Rosie grabs her phone from her pocket.

Jack does the same.

THUMP! THUMP!

He looks at the screen with wild eyes.

THUMP!

Jack's face contorts.

"You alright, man?"

He crouches and starts breathing short breaths.

"What is it? Jack?"

The lights in the shelter go out, leaving only the light of Jack’s phone illuminating the room. Jack squints and shakes his head, then looks at the screen again with wild eyes. 

"What is it, man? Bombs?" I crouch by him, and he flinches away. The phone displays his home screen, he hasn't even brought up the news app. Then it dawns on me. He's not responding to what he's seeing, it's the noise of the impacts outside that are disturbing him. Horror fills my chest. I've seen this before. Loud noises. They trigger him. I didn't think it was a big thing. I thought he had it under control. I was wrong. I never should have brought him. What was I thinking? 

Clearly, I wasn't. 

THUMP! THUMP!

A quake shakes the room and Jack drops his phone. It strikes the floor, bounces once, and scrapes across the concrete on its face. Through the dim, dust-filled air, lit only by Rosie’s phone, I watch as Jack attempts to hold himself together. 

Is he going to lose it?

Low tremors rumble in the ground around us but there are no more impacts. Jack is still on edge, so we watch him pensively, hoping he doesn't explode. The tremors are a consistent sound. I think it was the hollow thumps from the impacts that were stirring him up. Rosie and I cower in the darkness and watch him for a long time—until the tremors cease and everything becomes quiet. We sit in the near darkness, fear hangs in the air like a suffocating cloud.

"We're safe in here, Jack.” Rosie's voice breaks the silence. “Dad said this shelter is shielded, and we didn't get a direct impact. We'll be okay. This is why we came down here. We have everything we need to wait this out."

I pull myself out of the memory with a residual image of Jack, shrouded in darkness, sitting on the floor, forearms on his knees, head hung. I feel as emotionally exhausted now as he looked then. Every part of me feels numb. 

The teacher's voice is gentle. "Are you okay?"

"I just need a moment."

"Would you like a drink of water or tea?"

"No. I'm fine."

She sits quietly, studying me—not in a bad way. There is kindness in her eyes and eyebrows. That's how the teachers are. They watch. They listen. But, most of all, they seek to guide us with kindness. Without a word, she encourages me to continue. She makes me want to tell my story. But I don't know what to share next. I should probably explain the tension surrounding the Bible. The teacher had asked about my journey to reclamation. That happened because of what we read in that book. Rosie was the first to receive its message of grace and reconciliation.

I clear my throat. "After the impacts, Jack struggled. He'd wake up in cold sweats, but he wouldn't tell us about his nightmares. During our waking time, we walked on eggshells, careful to not come up behind him and startle him. We'd start games and he'd lose interest. But, mostly, he was irritable."

I slip into my memories again and find the pieces to continue my story.

Jack’s trying to make the radio work again.

"It's not the radio," I say from my bunk. "It's the antenna above ground. It's damaged."

He glares at me.

"I wish my dad had installed a Geiger counter. There’s no way to tell if it’s radioactive up there, or I'd go up and check on the stupid thing."

"This thing has an antenna," he says, lifting it slightly and slamming it back down on the table, rattling the dishes."

"Yeah, but it can't get a signal down here."

"It's stupid," he says, sliding his chair back and standing. "Whatever." He leaves the radio and turns toward the kitchen on the back wall. "I'm going to make some lunch. You want some?"

"Sure. Sounds good. I'm going to hit the head first. Alright?" I roll out of my bunk and head for the bathroom. As I step into the storage room, my sister makes a quick movement to hide something.

I speak in a low voice. "If he catches you reading that thing, it's going to make him even more irritable."

Her face is sheepish. "You know I don't want that, but you have to read what's in here. It's some scary stuff, Ben."

"Then why read it? Not enough scary stuff going on here?"

Her mouth does that thing again, curling up on one side. "There are good things too, Ben. Bible prophecies aren't all about doom and gloom. It says there's something beautiful on the other side of all this."

"So…” Jack's voice interrupts our low conversation. “That's why you've been hanging out in here." He steps into the room.

My heart jumps in my chest.

"I'm not looking for a fight, Jack,” Rosie says, putting the Bible behind her. “I know how you feel about this book. But there is no reason why I can't read it down here. No one's going to come and drag us off."

He shrugs. "Read what you want. I just don't like you sneaking around." With that, he heads back into the living quarters.

Really? All this time that she's been sneaking around, he's been fine with it?

I look at Rosie. "He's not fine with it."

"Not even a little bit," she says.

We're right. Over the next few days, Rosie tests his resolve. She brings the book out and reads it on her bunk. Each time, he offers a few choice words. As he starts to escalate, she stops reading it for a while. But she can't help herself. Not only does she devour every page, but she shares passages with me. I'm quick to shut her down to keep the peace, but it isn't enough. It is clear that Rosie's interest in the book is systematically dismantling the tenuous peace in our cramped little home.

"You need to put it away, Rosie."

She closes it and gives me an expression of apology.

"I don't mean for a few days. I mean for good. Find something else to read."

"You know I can't do that."

Jack comes in from the storage room. There is an awkward silence as he considers each of us. I can't even imagine what is going on in his head, and it doesn't help that he won't open up to me.

Rosie sticks the book in her backpack. "I'll put it away, Jack. I'm sorry." She barely gets the words out before the room is filled with noise. The ground shakes violently, wall hangings fall, dishes crash in the sink, and the lights go off.

"Another attack?!"

The only sound besides the rumble of the earth is Jack's fevered panting.

I stop my story again and look at the teacher. "Can I take a break?"

She is clearly disappointed, but patience warms the expression of disappointment. "Yes, of course you can."

I get up from my wooden chair and check on the soup. "Thank you. It's all a bit overwhelming."

"You don't have to apologize. And you don't have to continue if you don't want to."

"No. I do. I do want to. I just need a moment." I use the ladle to put some soup into my bowl. I blow on it and take a sip. Not quite ready yet. Shame. I was hoping for an excuse to take a longer pause. I look around at the camp. A few people have stopped to listen to my story. It wouldn't be right to leave them hanging. It would also be nice to get it over with. "I suppose we should continue," I say, walking back and taking my seat.

"You don't need more time?" she says.

"No. I'm good, I guess." I run my hand down my long beard and squeeze, searching through the fog of my memories once more. "After the long earthquake, and after our struggle to get the power back on, Jack was different. He was no longer combative, but that wasn’t a good thing. He spent most of his time on his bunk, deathly quiet. When he did get up, he'd sit near my sister and ask her what she was learning. He had stopped spitting venom about the Bible, that fire had gone out. But it wasn't the only fire that had gone out. He seemed to have lost his ability to feel anything, and he started to fixate on my sister. I think maybe she was a lifeline. She was his only way to feel something, but she didn't understand that. Neither of us did."

I find the next scene from my memories.

The bunk creaks as Jack rolls out. He heads toward the bathroom. When he returns, he sits next to Rosie, as is his routine now. I’m sitting on a kitchen chair at the end of my bunk on the other side of the small living quarters, reading a magazine. When I look up, I notice Jack brush his hand against hers. She jerks it away but says nothing. His eyes are vacant. The impacts and the earthquakes have really messed him up. He seems dead inside. I read a little more and look up again to see him brush his hand against hers again.

"Jack," she says. "Stop it, please. I've asked you not to do that."

He continues to stare at the table. It doesn't take long before his hand slides toward hers again. Her chair squeaks and she climbs out of it and into her bunk. He looks like he doesn’t even realize she's gone. I'd say the lights are on and nobody's home, but I don't even think the lights are on.

Jack slides his chair back and stands. He pulls Rosie's chair out of the way and hovers over the bottom bunk where Rosie is lying.

"Jack," I growl.

He looks at me, but his eyes aren't locked on.

I stand, "Jack. Why don't you come with me? Let's talk, man."

He sits on the bunk, a hollow husk, eyes dim.

Rosie's voice has an edge to it. "Jack, go with Ben. He probably has something important he wants to talk to you about. Don't you, Ben?"

I lighten my tone. "Yeah. Come on, man. Let's chat in the other room. It's nothing big. I just want to tell you something."

Rosie's voice softens as well. "Why don't you go find out what Ben wants. I'll be here when you get back."

Jack sits, quietly breathing, eyes staring. For a long time, he doesn't move, and we wait for his response. When he does move, it is to turn and put his hands on her.

Rosie screams, "Jack! No!"

I move quickly and reach out to grab his shirt and pull him off her. His right arm moves like lightning, knocking my hands downward. As I lurch forward, he catches my chest and launches me backward. I lose my footing and smack my head on the metal frame of the bunk behind me before I fall to the concrete floor. Pain travels through my bones.

Rosie’s bunk squeaks as she screams and kicks. "Jack! Stop it! Stop it!"

I stand on unstable legs, the pain in my head blurring my vision. Adrenaline drives me forward and I grab Jack. He turns and grips my shirt as I grip his. As he stands, he pushes me backward again. I stay on my feet this time but I am unable to stop him. He's too strong. My feet slide as he drives me into the metal frame holding the top bunk behind me; my head hits it and an intense pain spikes down through my spine. The last thing I hear is a loud crack before everything goes black.

My eyes flick open; I expect to have Jack on top of me, or to see the plywood support for the top bunk. Instead, I see the ladder that leads up to the hatch. I also expect to feel pain, but there isn’t any. What I feel is the cold, hard concrete of the floor pressed into my back. I also feel someone lying next to me. I roll—and look into the lifeless eyes of my sister. My heart jumps as I slide back and stare at her. She is on her side, expression neutral, eyes fixed, body motionless.  

Why is she so still?

I find my voice and one word squeaks out. "No."

As I slide over and put my fingers on her wrist, I hear dishes fall in the other room and see a shadow moving on the wall. Before I fully understand what is happening, Jack is standing in the doorway. 

"Ben?" The tone of his voice is flat and emotionless, but there is a hint of confusion, like he’s surprised to see me awake. Why? Did he drug me or something?

I look at my sister's dead body and then back at Jack. "What have you done?"

The emotion on his face fades. "It was an accident," he says, his voice as dead as my sister's eyes. "I tried to explain…" His voice trails off.

"Explain?"

He stares at her, ignoring my question.

"Explain what, Jack?"

His face grows stern in response to my continued inquiry as though I am an irritating gnat. I look at Rosie again. Her body is in an odd position, her arm tucked under her. He must have dragged her here and just tossed her.

"I needed to feel something, Ben. I tried to explain it to her but she wouldn't listen. She was so angry after I killed you."

Killed me?

"She wouldn't let me touch her." He rubs his arm. "I needed to feel something. Anything. Her nails in my skin and her anger for killing you were—I can't explain it. I needed it."

He needed it? What does that even mean? I grip my stomach as what's in it threatens to come out. I don't understand any of this.

He steps into the room, his face turning placid, and crouches beside us. He looks at Rosie with affection in his eyes—eyes I want to gouge out with my thumbs. "Maybe she's not dead either," he says, his voice hollow.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Maybe she'll wake up," he says, "like you did."

"I wasn't dead."

He glares at me. "I know dead when I see it."

"Well, clearly you don't, ‘cause I'm not dead."

He scowls. "Your skin was cold, you had no pulse, and your body started stinking like beef left out in the sun. Is that dead enough for ya?" He points at Rosie, his face a subtle grimace. "You smelled like that." 

I hadn't noticed, but I do now. The smell is horrible.

Could what he's saying be true? Was I dead? Could my sister wake up? The emotion starts to well but is quickly dampened by Jack's persistent monotone voice. "Maybe she’ll wake up, like you did. Maybe death isn't permanent anymore."

The memory fades into the darkness of my mind, and I look at the teacher. “It was. Death was permanent, for her anyway. She didn't get up. I let her sit for a day before the smell was so unbearable that I had no choice but to bring her above ground, even at the risk of being exposed to radiation. I left her in the shed. I was afraid to go outside and get exposed to fallout, but I couldn't leave her there. After a few days, I brought her out and buried her in the yard." The last few words catch in my throat. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." I suck in a breath and attempt to regain my composure. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," she says.

I take another deep breath and let it out. "After she was in the ground, I waited two days before I decided to go back down into the shelter, and when I decided to go back, I decided to kill him." 

The teacher's eyes are filled with sadness. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

I am hardly able to register her sympathy. In my mind, I'm sitting in a kitchen chair, Jack's blood on my hands, and his body on the floor in front of the kitchen sink. That was the first time I killed him. There were two others. The last was the most gruesome. But I couldn't kill him for good.

The teacher speaks cautiously. "Do you want to tell me the rest?"

After a long pause, I nod. "Jack and I both had blood on our hands. I killed him three times. He killed me twice. And the whole time, I wondered why we were alive and my sister was dead."

"Did you get your answer?"

Her question is rhetorical. She knows. The power of resurrection is discriminate. By it, God chose who would live and who would die—and he wasn't done with me yet.

"Yes. I did," I say. "I got my answer."

"Would you tell me about that?"

I suck in a breath and let it out. "We lived in the shelter for three years and heard many things, as you know. Over time, my heart toward God softened, and I began reading my sister's Bible. Jack never did. I hated him for it. The least he could do was honor her memory by valuing that book as she did. But he remained resistant to the last. I guess that is where the story ends."

I return to the memory of the day we left the shelter—what was left of it.

Jack pushes his bowl away. "That's the last of it. The beans are gone."

I roll out of bed, slip my feet into my shoes, and tighten my blanket around me with a shiver. My body aches, and water sloshes across the concrete floor as I make my way to the food storage room. He's right. It’s picked clean. There's nothing left but the food we stored in our backpacks to sustain us for a short time above ground as we search for more.

I return to the living quarters. "I guess this is it. We're going to find out if God's wrath waits for us up there."

An incredulous expression flashes on his face and is quickly gone.

"Cut it out. You believe it, too."

His voice is cold. "You're a fool, Ben."

"Don't give me that. You could have left at any time, Jack. Once we figured out that there was no radiation, you could have gone up there, taken the mark, and joined the rest of the world, but you didn't. You believed the voice of the angel who warned the world about the mark. You chose to stay down here with me and take a chance that I might kill you again. Don't tell me you don't believe." I throw the blanket on my bed and pull my jacket out of the locker on the wall. "Well, you don't have to worry about me making any more attempts on your life because this is where we part ways, Jack. I told you I'd leave when the last of the food was eaten, and there it is. Eaten." He stares at the bunk as though he can't hear me. "So that's it, then," I say, shouldering my backpack. I turn and slosh my way to the doorway.

Jack's voice stops me. "Wait." The word hangs in the air, and I stand, motionless. "We should do this together," he says. I hear the sound of his locker opening and closing. Is he really coming with me? I don't wait to find out. I walk to the ladder and make my way up.

KA-CHUNK!

The hatch opens and the sunlight stings my eyes. There is no more utility shed to block it. I grunt as I climb out and stand. Below, I hear Jack climbing up the ladder. My spirit growls within me as I start walking toward the house, which is now a pile of broken wood.

"Ben!"

I turn and look at him, my sister's murderer. Broken, thin, desperate. His expression is apologetic, though he's never apologized. But I never apologized to him either. We just started to pretend like it never happened.

Jack looks up at the sky behind me with sheer terror on his face.

As I turn, I see a blazing light that causes me to fall back. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, they bring into focus a handsome man in shimmering white armor with golden trim. He vibrates as though he is attempting to stay here in our dimension, present with us through the use of great power.

He walks toward us, and I back away.

His voice, though not loud, vibrates in my ears and chest. "Who do you serve?"

Jack comes up next to me. "God," he says. "We serve God. Look!" He pulls his sleeves up one at a time, violently. "We didn't get marked." He also presents his face for inspection.

The angel moves closer—his face is placid and beautiful, not matching the tone of his voice. "Jack Coldwell. Who do you serve?"

As Jack trembles in the presence of the angel, a highlighted scripture from my sister's bible comes alive in my mind. At the end of the age, the Son of Man will send out His angels, and they will gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and those who practice lawlessness. Is this it? Are we doomed? What answer can we give the angel? If the answer isn't God, what is it? Another highlighted scripture enters my mind. It's from Joel. Those who call upon the name of the LORD shall be saved. Who do we serve? That's it! The Lord! The angel's voice vibrates in my chest and ears again. "Jack Coldwell. Who do you serve?"

The angel's eyes are like embers stoked in a fire, terror wells in my chest. It is clear that Jack doesn't know the answer. If I do nothing, what will the angel do? Will he take Jack's life? By my inaction, will my sister's killer be gone, for good? The angel takes a step forward, and I move in front of Jack. "Wait," I say, lifting a trembling hand. "Jesus. We serve Jesus, the lamb who was slain."

His eyes examine me and return to Jack. "Who do you serve?"

Jack blurts out, "Jesus! I serve Jesus."

The angel stands silent, his body vibrating with power, his face gentle and kind—but his presence is terrifying. I am unable to take in a breath, the fear is suffocating. Then, though not another word is spoken, the angel steps back, his power dims, and his voice becomes as gentle as his face. "Serve him all the days of your life. To serve him is to love and love is the fulfillment of the law."

"Yes," I say, "we will. We will serve him."

"Peace be with you, Jack Coldwell and Ben Stone."

With that, he rises into the air and shimmers away in radiant light.

        

 

I return from the memory, which was as clear as though it happened only minutes ago.

"So, you saved him, you saved the man who murdered your sister."

"Yes. He’s still alive."

"Do you regret doing that?"

I don't answer, and she seems to accept my silence as an answer.

She gets up and walks over to the fire and looks into the pot. "It looks like your soup is done." She draws some out, pours it into a wooden bowl, and brings it to me. After I receive it, she crouches down so that we are at eye level. "Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know it was hard." I give a quick nod without looking at her. The emotion of that day is still with me. "But the story isn't over, Ben."

"I know," I say. "I have a long life to look forward to, and I'm surrounded by blessings." My tone doesn't match my words.

"I don't mean that," she says.

I squint at her. "What do you mean?"

"In the time before, you would have had to bear your loss. But not now. Not here."

My eyes lift, and I examine her warm expression. What does she mean by that? Her smile lifts on one side by the tightening of her cheek.

I know that smile—that playful smile.

She places her hand on mine. "Death is not the end, little brother."

I grip the hand in mine as tears break free from my eyes. I want to speak, but the words won't come. How did I not recognize her? I remember a scene from scripture, Jesus revealing his scars to the men who did not recognize him. My sister is like Jesus, raised with this new body—this strange new body.

"Father and mother are alive as well," she says. "They're in Heaven at the moment, but they plan to visit."

The tightness in my gut forces more tears from my eyes, and I start to sob. She puts her arm around me. Her embrace is a comfort I can't express. It is like we are children again and she has come into my room to console me after a bad dream. I suck in a stuttering breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Rosie. I'm so sorry."

"You have grieved enough, little brother. It is time to let it go. You have a beautiful new future filled with such wonders as you've never seen." She hugs me and speaks softly. "And I will visit you often. I promise. I plan to share the adventures of this new world with you. But first—I have one more hurting soul to visit."

Note: Consider checking out my new project Millennium. I'm working with two other authors to create a future world where God rules on the Earth with an iron rod and there is peace. But some children born into this world resist and choose to hide in the wilderness outside of God's blessing. Through our stories, we hope to show the boundless grace of God and unpack the mysterious prophecies found in the Bible.