Sunday, August 7, 2011

Chapter Fourteen: On the Run (Erin Bartels)

The chopper blades rise to a fever pitch as Faustus helps Carol Anne climb aboard the medical helicopter. The girls settles herself on a narrow bench seat next to the gurney that holds the form of her father. Rev. Ironsides is unconscious. The door closes. A sudden sinking feeling in the pit of Faustus's stomach and the chopper is airborne. The pilot turns toward the southwest and heads for St. Luke's Medical Center in Denver.

***

Alex can't believe his luck. There, in front of him, is The Timothy Strongbow. Tall, ruggedly good-looking, filling out his uniform perfectly. What he wouldn’t give to look like that, to be like that. One glance at Kate and the feeling intensifies. She is obviously attracted to the football star in a way she is not attracted to Alex. She’s never looked at him like that or been so flustered in his presence. Of course, that could have something to do with the head-on collision and subsequent shower of notes.

Timothy hastily scrapes together the papers, shoving them into Kate’s waiting arms. He spies one last sheet that drifted halfway under a garbage can and leans over to retrieve it. In that moment his eyes rest upon an underlined note that reads, “TS scared/someone’s controlling him.”

And in the same moment Alex spies the gun tucked into Strongbow’s pants.

Though he wants to confront Kate about the note, to set her straight, Strongbow hasn’t the time. Van Shrimpy will be waiting for him and he must get to that duffel. He pushes the paper at Kate’s full arms, crumpling it in his meaty fingers, and glares at her.

He never once looks at Alex.

Then he is gone, running swiftly down the concourse, his un-shod feet making slapping noises that fade into the distance. When he is no longer in sight, Alex turns to Kate. “Here, let me help you with those.” He reaches under her arms for the pile of papers, hoping to brush his hand against her body. Instead Kate thrusts the papers forward, away from her chest, practically dropping them in Alex’s waiting hands, and then fishes around in her purse for her cell phone.

“I have to make a call.”

But deep beneath the stadium she can’t get a signal.

“Shoot! I wonder if I can get a text through.”

Kate types furiously, checks a number written on the back of one of her business cards, then hits send. Alex kneels at her feet, trying to read the papers he is carefully stacking. But her feet are so distracting.

“That’s good enough,” Kate says, pulling him to his feet. “We have to get to one of the back entrances now. We’re meeting someone.”

“Who?”

“A girl. Some college chick Tim Strongbow was making out with.”

“I’m sure he’s made out with lots of girls,” says Alex, hoping to get some sort of reaction out of Kate that will indicate whether or not she was one of those girls.

“Yeah, but this Misty chick is the only one he gave his tracking chip to.”

“Wait—did you say Misty?”

***

Emma drags a large black garbage bag down the steps in the west stairwell of Walden Hall. Throwing her weight against the crash bar on the heavy steel door she shies at the intense rays of the setting sun that assault her eyes. She hauls the bag across the gritty sidewalk and flips open the large black plastic cover of the dumpster. With some effort she manages to push the load up over the side and it lands with a thwump amid the detritus of the week—beer bottles and pizza boxes and pregnancy tests. It all disgusts her. She can smell old beer wafting up from the dumpster. She wants nothing more than to incinerate it all. But not being a smoker, she of course carries no lighter or matches. Luckily, a full 80% of students on campus do smoke something and a group of sort of slow-looking skateboarders is shuffling down the sidewalk carrying their boards.

“Any of you guys have a match?”

A shaggy kid in ripped jeans reaches in his pocket and produces a box of matches. He tosses it to her.

She stands there with it, wondering how to use a match and return the box but not be identified in case someone called campus security.

“You outta smokes?” the shaggy kid asks.

“Um, yeah,” Emma replies lamely.

“Here.” The shaggy kid pulls a cigarette out of the package in his pocket and hands it to her. After a moment she puts it in her mouth and tries to light it, holding the end of a lit match to the end of the cigarette. Her hand shakes so badly the match goes out.

“Here, I got it,” says the shaggy kid as he draws closer to her. He lights another match and cups his hand around it, holding it to the cigarette. Emma doesn’t know that she needs to breathe in to get the cigarette to light, but she is beginning to hyperventilate with the knowledge that she is willfully sinning at that very moment. The cigarette catches, Emma coughs, the shaggy boy laughs.

“Take it easy,” he says, and rejoins his friends.

Once they are out of sight behind the building Emma yanks the cigarette from her lips and eyes the contents of the dumpster. She opens the top of the garbage bag containing all of Misty’s offensive posters and clothing and magazines. She gingerly reaches for a half empty bottle of tequila stuck among some fiesta-themed plates and a smashed sombrero. Trying hard not to get the stink on herself, she pours the contents of the bottle into the bag. Then she drops in the still burning cigarette. Instantly flames lick at the sides of the bag and she smells a putrid mixture of alcohol, melting plastic, and what can only be day-old vomit. After a furtive glance around at the dorm windows surrounding her, she hastens back inside.

Time to call her Bible Study group and confess about the smoking before any rumors start to fly. She is sure they will understand.

***

James Wiles walks swiftly down the hall, briefcase in hand. He must find Duke Morrison, the only former member of the Rapture Club whose whereabouts he knows. His plan is simple. Get in the stadium and down to the sidelines where Morrison will be yelling into his headset and find out if he knows anything, if anything has happened. The gun in his briefcase is a small comfort, but Wiles knows that if this stuff is real he will need more protection than just a firearm. He considers the wisdom of asking God for help after decades of ignoring him. He decides against it. For now.

He is almost to the stairs when Ronald Markstrom calls to him from his office.

“James! James! Wait a minute. I have to talk to you.”

Wiles halts and turns. Ronald, his considerable mass jiggling with each labored step, is closing in on him.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Ron. What can I do for you?”

The big man breathes heavily.

“It’s just…I got…this note…in my box…and I thought…youshouldknowaboutit.”

He hands James an envelope with a broken wax seal.

“I’m sure it’s just a prank,” Ron says, rallying, “but I wanted you to be aware of it. I checked all the other boxes and it looks like every professor in the English department got one.”

James unfolds the single sheet of paper and, to his horror, reads the following lines:

To Whom It May Concern:

Let it be known that Dr. James Wiles, professor of English, is not who you think he is. He is an Undercover Operative in the Tribulation Fellowship, an elite group of Conservative Fundamentalist Christians who are charged with tracking the coming Judgment of God on this Sinful World.

The note went on to explain, in detail, the various stages of the rapture and tribulation in all their literal glory (with convenient slips into symbolism when advantageous). James feels his stomach drop as he reads the name at the bottom. He can feel Ron watching him intently.

“This is just a joke, right James?”

James stumbles a bit. “Yeah, yeah, yeah…um…I’m sure some student with a grievance whipped this up…You said everyone got one?”

“Yes, every box had one.”

“Listen Ronald, can you do me a favor and gather them all up and shred them? Even though it’s a joke, you know how rumors get started. I’d do it, but I have to meet someone and I’m running late.”

“Oh sure, I can do that.”

“Thanks, man. And would you mind please keeping it to yourself?”

“No problem. I’ll take care of it.”

James rushes off, remembering that night back in 1974 when he’d confided in Dr. Van Shrimpy about his worst nightmare—that people would someday find out he’d been part of that silly Rapture Club. He’d said it half in jest at the time, just to get under Van Shrimpy’s skin. He never realized it would come back to haunt him. He hopes Ronald Markstrom can manage to keep his trap shut about it.

James skids to a stop at his car and gapes. Someone has spray painted “The End Is Near!” in bright red across the entire hood of his BMW and “R-Day” across the trunk. But with no alternative, he jumps in and squeals off to the stadium, hunched low in the car to avoid being recognized by anyone.

The university newspaper would have a field day with this.

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