Taylor University’s chapel was intentionally plain—indiscernible from your average hotel conference room. So the Rapture Club kids had tried to set the mood by lighting some candles and hanging an old tapestry behind the altar. Unfortunately, the tapestry was of a Cherokee Indian in the process of taking down a buffalo, so it really didn’t do the trick.
The group—which had formed three months earlier—usually munched on corn chips and cheese puffs, while informally swapping prooftexts and matching them with newspaper headlines about Soviet Russia. But not tonight. Tonight was special, and not just because they were breaking curfew. Anticipation hung thick in the air, as the handful of college freshmen sat solemnly in two rows of chairs, facing forward, drinking Welch’s from plastic goblets and waiting for their special guest.
They were silent, save for the midget, who was quite intoxicated. He pointed a stubby finger at James Wiles. “Who let the N-E-R-G-O in here?” he slurred.
Duke reeled and smacked him in the head. “If you could spell, I’d have punched you in the nose!” He addressed the group: “Who brought this zero?”
“He’s sort of with me,” Silvia apologized, smoothing her ankle-length dress. “I thought it might be good for him to come tonight and meet—”
“Will you please be quiet?!” Ironsides demanded. “I’m praying silently for this meeting, since no one thought to say grace before breaking into the grape juice. Seriously, this is the least pious rapture club I've ever belonged to!”
They all eyed each other annoyedly for a moment, as they always did before a fullscale verbal brawl broke out. But before they had a chance to lay into one another, something grabbed their attention and hushed them all. It was the sound of heals clicking on tile floor, and the sound was getting louder and louder.
Dr. Van Shrimpy had arrived.
The Bible scholar stepped up to the podium and looked from one far corner of the dim room to the other, as if speaking to the kind of packed-house to which he was accustomed.
“Thank you for inviting me here.”
The group wanted to applaud, but they couldn’t. They were enraptured, sucking air, hearts working double-time.
The famous Bible teacher gestured at Josh Vandersma, who was feeling a bit sheepish about what Van Shrimpy may have overheard from the undisciplined group. “When this young man told me he’d started a secret rapture society and that he wanted me to come and speak to you, I have to be honest; I laughed in his face. But when he began to reveal his plans, his vision for what you might accomplish and become, I knew I had to brave the cornfields and see you with my own eyes. And standing before you now, I am not disappointed.”
Josh felt the knot in his gut start to loosen. “We’re honored to have you here, sir,” he said, voice cracking.
“Perhaps introductions are in order,” the religious celebrity said pleasantly. “I am Rev. Dr. Zack Van Shrimpy, but you can call me Dr. Van Shrimpy.” Please, tell me your names, if you would be so kind.”
“Josh.”
“Lewis.”
“Duke.”
“James.”
“Max.”
“Renigald.”
“He means Reginald. I’m Silvia.”
“I am pleased that there are seven of you. That just confirms for me that I’ve chosen the right group.”
“Actually, Dr. Van Shrimpy,” Josh interrupted, “the little guy isn’t actually with us. He just comes sniffing around Silvia from time to time and eats all our pretzels. We were kind of hoping that you’d be number seven.”
“No, the midget was meant to be here.”
“Like, predestined, you mean?” Josh asked.
“Oh, Gawd, no. Nothing like that.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. You have to understand, my friends. This meeting tonight is a fulfillment of prohecy.”
Max Darby half-raised his hand. “Which prophecy specifically, sir? I'm compiling lists of confirmed prophetic fulfillments.”
“Um, some stuff from Ezekiel and a few verses in Habakkuk. I haven’t fully memorized those yet; let me get back to you later on that. But listen, the main reason I wanted to get you all together tonight is to help you understand that the stakes have been raised. You’re no longer a simple rapture club. Starting tonight, you are a Tribulation Fellowship.”
James Wiles snickered. “What exactly is the difference?”
The doctor ran a hand through his jet-black hair. “James, right? Have you learned anything in Rapture Club, James?”
“Sure,” he answered with a smirk. “Last week, Josh told us that, when the rapture happens, our clothes will be left behind in a pile, so it's important that we always wear clean underwear.”
“Josh is right. Dirty underwear would be a very bad witness. But that kind of stuff is just the milk of end-times teaching. I want to bring you the solid food. And I know you're the right group for my teaching. You will study, you will learn, and you will wait silently, biding your time, and then spring into action when the moment is right. ”
He gestured at Silvia. “Your group includes both men and women;” at Faustus, “the very short;” at Darby, “and incredibly tall;” at Wiles, “black;” at Ironsides, “and very, very white;” at Duke, “athletic;” at Lewis, “and bookish.
“You will leave this school and head out to very different lives in different places. But when the time is right, you will be activated, and you will come back together.”
They were all sold. Even Faustus found himself nodding earnestly.
“When, Dr. Van Shrimpy?” Josh asked. “When will we strike against the Dragon?”
“Precisely seven weeks before the Rapture occurs, a day we shall call: R-day.”
2011
Zack Van Shrimpy is halfway through the tape restraining his wrists, methodically sawing back and forth with the tennuously awkward upside-down hold he has on the razor blade. From the other side of the office, he can hear Duke Morrison giving a thunderous interview, incredibly bright and optimistic, despite (or perhaps because of) the beating he just handed out. Van Shrimpy redoubles his efforts.
1974
Silvia was the first student to come back down from the moment. “But, sir, how will we know when R-Day is here? What will be the sign unto us?”
Van Shrimpy smiled. “Good question, child. But before I answer it, let me warn you: not all of you will remain true. Even though you will all sign your names to our pact tonight, some of you will stray from the Dispensational Faith. For those who do, my wrath will be poured out on you—figuratively, like the completely literal vials will be completely literally poured out on the earth during the seven-year Tribulation.” His gaze shifted from student to student, studying their eyes, as if to discover any traitorous intentions in advance.
2011
Duke is talking in an outdoor voice, echoing in from the hall. He had insisted on taking the TV crew out to the public trophy case where his many Donor of the Year awards are displayed. Van Shrimpy knows he has to work fast.
He pulls the remnants of athletic tape from his face, sleeve, and $349 shoes. Balling it up, he tosses it contemptuously into the trash. From the inside pocket of his suit coat, he retrieves an envelope, which he perfectly squares on Duke’s leather desk blotter. It is sealed with a disk of red wax, bearing the image of a shield, inset with the letters “VS.”
From his other coat pocket, he pulls out a schematic of the stadium—the same schematic he gave to the rabbi-formerly-known-as-Josh this morning. He indulges in a dark laugh, thinking of what has undoubtedly become of the whelp. He quickly studies the diagram, refreshing himself on the path from here to Point B, before roughly refolding the paper and stuffing it back into his jacket.
One more thing before he goes mobile. He pulls out his cell phone and pages young Timothy with another code, the one that means, Phase Two initiated. I'm in.
With an incredible leap from his spring-loaded titannium knees, the doctor sails up to the wall vent and, grabbing it by the edges with his powerful fingers, yanks it to the floor. Another catlike leap and he is within the network of tunnels, en route to the rendezvous point.
Tim Strongbow looks sidelong at his buzzing pager. He is helping gather the files he just accidentally launched into the air.
His pulse quickens. Phase two! His rifling becomes frantic. He needs to get clear of the pretty young reporter giving him the sly bedroom eyes and the college kid giving him an unsettling version of same. He needs to get to his Rapture Preparedness Duffel, like, yesterday.
1974
It was almost three AM when Dr. Van Shrimpy finished explaining all the signs and formulas involved in pinpointing R-Day. It would probably be twenty to thirty years down the road, he explained, but probably not in the year 2000, as that would be too obvious.
“Now is the time for you to swear allegiance to our Holy Quest,” he intoned, his pomade glistening in the candlelight. “You will rise and come forward, one at a time, lay your right hand on the sacred Scofield notes, and whisper into my ear your greatest fear. The one thing that terrifies you, the subject of your most horrific nightmares. Then you will sign the parchment.” He gestured to a quill pen and inkwell laying on the stand where the mandatory chapel attendance forms were usually kept.
Duke grimmaced. “Is that . . . blood?”
“No. But that would have been cool. Who’s first?”
Josh rose. “I am, of course. I would follow you anywhere, Dr. Van Shrimpy.”
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