The End is Now Page 19

  “I need a generator,” Glenn said.

  “Wow,” the store manager said. “These sure are a hot item today. I only have one left.”

  “How many did you have?”

  “Three. But they’ve just been sitting on the back shelf all year. Nobody has wanted one until today.”

  “Well today is a different day,” Glenn said. He wondered what his face looked like at that moment. It probably had some sort of diabolical smile on it.

  “I guess it is. I’ll be right back,” the manager said as he walked to the back room to get his last generator. The last generator in town. And Glenn was about to own it. Now he could hardly wait for the power to go out.

  SERGEANT MIKE FRANK

  Mike finally got to Main Street just as a gang of men — grown, well-groomed men who’d look perfectly natural in suits — picked up a large metal trash can and flung it through the window of Bob’s Electronic Superstore. Bob’s was a staple on Main Street, but these men didn’t seem to notice or care as they watched the glass shatter, jumped through the window, and emerged with armfuls of loot. Mike screamed at them to stop and even fired a shot in the air, but the men just ran as fast as they could, dropping any merchandise that became too cumbersome to run away with.

  When the men were gone, Mike surveyed downtown Good-land. It was only a little before noon and already many of the stores on Main Street had been wrecked, looted, vandalized, and picked clean. Tiny fires burned in metal garbage cans; glass, brick, chunks of sheet rock, and trash littered the street that was normally bustling with friendly Kansas folk. Mike had never seen anything like it.

  Not in Goodland anyway.

  Mike got in his car and clicked the handheld police radio. “Hey Earl,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, Sarge,” Earl said.

  “Have you seen downtown?”

  “No, I’ve been out here on I – 70 for at least eight hours now,” Earl said.

  “How’s it going out there?”

  “Not good. We’re trying to keep this roadblock, but people keep trying to get around the thing. Then a couple of miles down the road they end up in a ditch and I’ve got to send a squad car and a tow truck to get them out.”

  “Well, downtown’s a mess too. We need some men down here.”

  “I can’t spare anyone.”

  “Well, I’m gonna need you to,” Mike said.

  “Okay Sergeant, let me get this straight. You want me to keep the roadblock on both ends of town and tell people to stay home because the highway patrol has shut down 70?” Earl asked.

  “Yes, I want that, and I need some men to stop the looting and violence down here.”

  “Well, there ain’t enough men for that,” Earl said. He was shouting now. For all the years on the force, Earl was the level-headed one. Nothing rattled him. And from the sound of his voice, he was coming off the hinges.

  “Well, figure something out,” Mike shouted back and slammed down the radio.

  He sat in his car and continued to stare at the damage downtown. How did this happen so quickly? What was going on in the hearts and minds of people in this town? This was a friendly place. A safe place. This was nothing like the big cities of Kansas: Salina, Manhattan, and Kansas City, which, of course, was only partly in Kansas — half the city was is in Missouri — and that was probably why it had so much lawlessness and evil. Goodland, on the other hand, was the type of place where you borrowed a cup of sugar from your neighbor, where the bagger kid at the checkout line of the grocery store knew you by your first name, where you never had to lock your front door. And now, after a couple of rough storms, it seemed that everyone was willing to throw all of that away.

  Mike wasn’t going to let that happen. Not yet. If he couldn’t get things done by conventional means, then…

  Mike picked up his phone and dialed. When someone answered he said, “This is Sergeant Mike Frank. I need to speak with the mayor.” In all of Mike’s years on the force, he’d only personally called the mayor three times. And those were all emergencies.

  Well, Goodland had never faced an emergency like this one.

  “What is it, Mike?” the mayor asked. Mike could hear his labored breathing over the phone. And he began to explain the problem. Goodland was starting to unravel. They needed more men.

  “How many do you need?” the mayor asked.

  “As many as we can get. More,” Mike said.

  “Go out and find the men you need. Deputize them. I’m having an emergency town meeting tonight; the news is making the announcement in a few minutes. Until then, let’s have a curfew. Once you have your men, no one is on the streets until it’s time for the meeting tonight,” the mayor said.

  “Yes sir,” Mike answered.

  When he got off the phone he called friends from the bowling league and guys he’d played poker with. He called guys who were always jealous that he was a cop; men who were born for law enforcement but somehow missed their calling. “Now here’s your chance,” he told them. He deputized them on the spot and called the men the Emergency Police Force. Morry printed them black T-shirts that read EPF in bright yellow letters — it was all the uniform they needed. Mike made sure they were given nightsticks, mag-lights, and a gun (which was never to be used; it was only for intimidation). Their job was simple: Keep everyone inside.

  Mike felt uneasy about deputizing men on the spot. But these were desperate times. And when times get desperate, well, two can play at that game, Mike thought.

  By two o’clock that day, a mandatory Goodland curfew was initiated. It was only going to be for a few hours and then everyone was allowed to come to the all-Goodland town meeting that was going to be held at the rodeo stadium at the Goodland fair-grounds. Until then, anyone who was roaming the streets for any reason would be warned, and if they failed to comply, they’d be arrested. No one was allowed to leave their house until six o’clock that night, and even then they were only allowed to go straight to the town meeting where they would get further instructions on what to do until this crisis passed. Most complied. A few were arrested. But either way, by three p.m. that day, no one outside of authorized personnel was roaming the streets of Goodland.

  JEFF HENDERSON

  Jeff was trapped inside a tiny motel room. It was stale, not a hint of personality. Even things that were supposed to give the room warmth and personality — like the painting of a cabin in the prairies with fresh snow all around it — looked completely generic. It looked like something that belonged on a bottle of maple syrup. This painting was probably in every other room at the motel, as well as in hundreds of other motel rooms across the country. The paintings were just like the lamps and end tables — they were supposed to give the room warmth and personality, but instead they gave the whole room a bland, slapped-together-assembly-line feel.

  Jeff should have been at home.

  His place had personality. There was that old scuffed-up leather recliner that he loved to read the sports page in; it was the recliner his dad had given him right after he got his own place. There was his kitchen table, his living room, his bed with his pillow that fit perfectly around his head, and best of all, his family was there. And he couldn’t be with them because of philosophical differences.

  That was insane.

  Maybe he should just admit to Amy that she was right. Did it really matter if he believed her or not? Wasn’t a white lie to get his family back together the lesser of two evils? Isn’t knowing when to back down and say “I’m sorry” a vital part of a healthy marriage? Besides, most of the damage had already been done. Will had already gone on the news and made a scene in the grocery store. The town was now in chaos and it had much bigger things to worry about. And everyone knew there was only one prophecy left, so if Will could just tell that prophecy right away, everyone else would move on and start worrying about themselves.

  But what if all three of the prophecies came true, or at least sort of came true? Would the town really just leave him alone? When people feel this para
noid, they look for some sort of leader. And what if they tried to make Will that leader? Even after all the prophecies were over they’d want more, and if Will couldn’t give them more, they’d tear him to shreds.

  Jeff didn’t know what to do. He needed help. He needed answers. He needed God. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his reflection in the TV screen. His eyes were glazing over. And then, after a few minutes of staring at his own reflection, something completely unexpected happened.

  His reflection leaned forward.

  Jeff was unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. So he sat perfectly still and watched as his reflection in the motel television folded its hands and tilted its head up. The reflection looked Jeff in the eyes, only the reflection’s eyes were steely and determined. Jeff had never seen his own eyes look like that. That’s not me, Jeff thought.

  Of course I’m not you, the reflection answered.

  Jeff looked all around the room. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Maybe he was just checking to see if he had fallen into another dimension. He was just looking for something normal and stable. And as he looked around the room, everything was its bland, normal self — the lamps, the end tables, the comforter, the painting — everything was normal except for the image of himself on the television. “Who are you?” Jeff asked the image. And he was pretty sure he said this out loud.

  I’m someone who’s come to give you advice.

  “Advice?”

  You were just wondering what you should do about your family.

  “How do you know that?”

  I’m the reflection in the television that’s talking to you, and you want to know how I can see that you’re having family trouble? I mean, isn’t that a little obvious? Everyone else in town is with their families while you’re stranded and alone in some cheap motel room.

  “Okay, then how are you talking to me?”

  We don’t have time for this, Jeff. I can’t answer every question you have. I’m not your magic 8 ball.

  “What do you have time for?”

  To tell you this: you have to let Will give the signs that I’ve given him. You have to help him get Goodland ready for the end.

  “But why should I believe you? Honestly, how am I supposed to believe Goodland is coming to the end?”

  I gave Will three signs. These aren’t simple little magic tricks. Everyone’s going to pay attention to what’s about to happen. They’ll have to.

  “Okay, but here’s my thing: Why give signs? Why don’t you just appear in the middle of Main Street as a giant ball of fire and tell everyone what’s going to happen?”

  Come on, Jeff. You know the answer to that.

  Jeff didn’t know the answer to that. And he wondered why his reflection would think he had the answer.

  I know this has got to be a lot for you to comprehend, and I can completely understand why you are overwhelmed by this whole situation. But that doesn’t mean I’m still not expecting you to do the right thing. And the right thing is to stand by your son’s side and help him deliver the three signs I gave him. That might not seem like much. And you probably feel like a third wheel. I can understand that. Joseph felt the same way two thousand years ago. But he wasn’t a bystander. Well, he sort of was. But he knew his role was to be a bystander. Maybe it’s time to understand your role.

  Then Jeff’s head bobbed down and his reflection went back to normal.

  Jeff felt groggy. He waved at the reflection in the TV screen and made faces, but the reflection just mimicked every one of his actions. Whatever was there was now gone.

  Did I dream that? Jeff wondered. No, dreams are not like that. Jeff had dreamed before and that was no dream. So, what was the alternative? He had a vision? Was he supposed to believe God himself or some power from on high had come down to give him advice on his family life? There had to be some other alternative.

  So Jeff sat on the edge of the bed for quite a while trying to think of some other explanation about what had just happened to him. After exhausting every other option, he decided there was only one way to make sense of what had just happened.

  God had spoken to him. And now it was time to act.

  MARY CRANE

  While most were trapped inside their houses during the curfew, others were making efforts with their time. Efforts that would impact eternity. Mary Crane was making those types of efforts because the thought of not being able to see the other girls in her pinochle club for all of eternity was unbearable.

  They were like sisters to her.

  They laughed and drank Chai tea and talked about the newest quilting patterns. The girls at Tuesday morning pinochle shared stories about what the kids were doing now that they’d left the house. They talked about their marriages, about what life was like when they were young, and they gossiped about everyone. Even though Mary only saw the girls once a week, they were still her family, kindred souls who understood every part of her life.

  Every part except one. They did not believe in the rapture and they snickered at folks who did. Mary never admitted that she was one of the believers. And now she may have to pay the ultimate price. She would be separated from her friends and her sisters for an eternity. She would be in heaven while they all rotted in the underbelly of hell, and she would have to look down at them as they screamed, begging to know: Why didn’t you ever tell us?

  Mary wasn’t willing to live with that on her conscience. So, while everyone else was nestled safely at home, warming themselves from the ice storm and waiting for the meeting that night, Mary was making a stand. There were members at her church who were actively planning on spreading the word of what was about to happen that night. They would be at every gate passing out pamphlets, and they would have counselors all around the area willing to say a simple prayer with those who were willing to change their eternal destination.

  Mary hoped to pass a pamphlet out to every member of pinochle club. She would track them down if she had to. The pamphlet explained the realities of the rapture so much better than she ever could. Mary hoped that each member of the pinochle club would read it, and as they looked up from reading she could imagine their faces as the reality of eternity dawned on them. And then Mary would grab their hands and she would pray with them.

  Mary knew she was about to leave her life on earth, but she wasn’t willing to leave the girls in her pinochle club. They were her sisters. Her best friends. And they were worth fighting for.

  JEFF HENDERSON

  Jeff was shaving in his motel room using the complimentary razor and shaving cream he’d asked for at the front desk. The razor was cheap and it burned as Jeff dragged it across his face. It was another reminder of how badly he wanted to go home. But at the moment he had to get ready to go to the town meeting. Everyone, supposedly, was going. And in all of Jeff’s years in Goodland, he could never remember a meeting that everyone went to.

  When Jeff finished shaving he put on some Old Spice after-shave. It was also complimentary. He was pretty amazed at all of the complimentary stuff that they had at the front desk of the motel. Of course Jeff was hoping that they had Brut, because Amy loved the way he smelled with Brut on, and so to keep the Brut smell special, he only used it for things like their anniversary and Valentine’s Day. If he ran into her at the meeting tonight and she smelled the Brut on him, she would clearly understand how much he missed her. He could only hope Old Spice would send the same message.

  Once Jeff finished getting ready, he got in his car and drove to the Goodland fairgrounds. As soon as he arrived, he hopped out of his car and started walking across the field with all of the other people in Goodland. His breath billowed out of his mouth like cigar smoke. His face felt burnt and chapped. And far away from the stadium, no one was really talking. Everyone had their faces tucked into their jackets trying to avoid the cold.

  As Jeff neared the stadium, it started to crackle with life like a football game. There were two teams, only they weren’t football teams — they were two g
roups: the Prepared and the Realists. Both sides had banners and T-shirts and all other sorts of paraphernalia that made it crystal clear where their allegiances were drawn. And each side was doing all they could to draw converts to their point of view. Many of the Prepared walked around the stadium’s entry points wearing sandwich boards with messages handpainted across them like: “Repent!” and “Is Your Soul Ready?” and “There’s Room in Heaven for You.” Some from the group had pamphlets printed on glossy paper that explained what the rapture was and what could be done about it. There were also counselors and prayer lines outside of the meeting for anyone who was open to getting his or her soul right with God. And the prayer lines were packed. There was quite the mini-revival going on outside the town meeting.

  The Realists were just as vocal. They talked about the intolerance of the Prepared. They had pamphlets that explained the bigotry of the rapture and demanded a more equal opportunity rapture where Muslims and Buddhists and Scientologists could also be scooped up and taken to eternity. But the Realists’ main message was simple: Stop the madness. They said that if God’s going to come, let Him come, but why tear apart the town with fear and paranoia in the meantime? They begged the Prepared to stop being so vocal, to stop trying to influence every policy and decision that was made. They said the Prepared were leading people towards lawlessness and it was time to start being realistic about the future.

  As Jeff entered the stadium, representatives from both sides tried to recruit him. They offered him pamphlets and gave him petitions to sign. He ignored them easily. He didn’t really have time to care about whose side he was on at the moment. There were more immediate things to worry about as he entered the stadium. Like where his family was.

  As he wandered through the stadium’s corridor, there were so many faces — women, children, and teenagers who all looked and sounded the same, bundled up in bright scarves and mittens and skull caps. There was no way he could find the needle that was his family in this haystack of people. He supposed he could try to shout out for them, but it was so loud in the stadium. There were so many voices talking and shouting that Jeff could barely hear himself think. And when Jeff thought it couldn’t get any louder, rain and drizzle started tapping against the steel roof of the old stadium.