The Remnant: On the Brink of Armageddon

  Steve Plank had communicated to Vasily that he wanted to leave the GC compound at 11 a.m. He spent much of the rest of the morning behind closed doors, agonizing in prayer. Finally he called Buck. What a strange turn, he thought. Seeking solace and counsel from a young man who had once been his best—and most challenging—employee. The glory days of Global Weekly were long gone.

  Steve’s news was met with silence. Then a subdued Buck: “Steve, don’t do it. Please.”

  “You think I want to? C’mon, man! Don’t get personal with me now, Buck. I just wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Well, I don’t want to, all right? I’ve said enough good-byes for one lifetime. Anyway, we need you. This is no time to be giving up.”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  “I’ll do what I have to, to keep you from this, Steve.”

  “I had hoped for more from you.”

  “I could say the same,” Buck said.

  “You think I’m taking the easy way out? Don’t do this to me.”

  “What’re you saying, Steve? That I’m supposed to just support you, wish you the best, say I’ll see you on the flip side?”

  “That would help. Tell me you trust my judgment.”

  “When I think you’ve lost your mind?”

  Steve sighed. “Buck, I’ve got no one else to call. If I tell you that you can’t talk me out of it and that’s why I’m calling, will you just tell me you’re with me?”

  “Of course I’m with you, but—”

  “I’m not a coward, Buck. You’ve seen me. You know I should have died. I was buried underground for almost a week. I live in pain every hour of every day, but I’ve misled, I’ve conspired, I’ve finagled, I’ve double-crossed the enemy every way I know how. Well, there’s something I won’t do. I won’t run like a child and I won’t deny Christ.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “Well, that’s something. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Don’t tell me I have to like this, Steve.”

  “Will you pray for me?”

  “Of course, but I’d pray you come to your senses.”

  “I’m going through with this, Buck. And I won’t pretend I’m not scared. The GC considers this an oversight, a timing thing, something to do with my limitations. But when they make it official, make me make my decision and take my stand, I don’t want to fail God.”

  “You won’t. He promises grace beyond measure and a peace that passes understanding.”

  “I gotta tell ya, Buck, I’m not feeling any of that yet.”

  “God,” Buck began, but Steve could tell he had to compose himself before he could continue, “please be with your child. Give him your grace, your peace. I confess I don’t want him to do this. I hate it. I’m tired of losing people I love. But if this is what you’re calling him to do, give him courage, give him words, give him power over the enemy. I pray that people who see this will be so moved that they will make the same choice.”

  Buck was so shaken that his comrades seemed to gather round him spontaneously. When they learned what was going on, they knelt and prayed for Steve. Buck called Chang.

  “He’ll be going to the center at Resurrection south of the Springs,” Buck said. “Any chance they monitor that visually?”

  “They do.”

  “Could that be transmitted here?”

  “I can do it.”

  “I don’t know why I want to see it, but I’ll feel like I’m there with him.”

  Steve was aware of Vasily’s double take when Steve rolled up in the parking lot in casual clothes. In fact, less than casual. He wore slip-on shoes, khaki pants, and a white undershirt.

  “You’re wondering about protocol,” Steve said as Vasily lifted him into the car.

  Vasily nodded. “I’ve learned not to question you, Chief.”

  “Are you armed, my friend?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I can see that.”

  Steve reached out a hand to Vasily, who looked at it. “Shake,” he said. “Sorry the hand isn’t what it used to be.” Vasily touched it gingerly. “The name’s Steve Plank.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Steve Plank?”

  “So, you were listening, as usual. You know Global Weekly?”

  Vasily appeared to have trouble concentrating. “What? The magazine? Sure. We get it from New Babylon.”

  “You remember when it was independent, before the disappearances?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was on the masthead.”

  “The—?”

  “Masthead. That list of the staff. I was the boss—the editorial boss, anyway.” And Steve told Vasily his story. They were fifteen minutes from their destination when he finished.

  Medvedev shook his head. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Well, you don’t need to arrest me. You already have me in custody, and you’re following orders. You’re taking me to the center.”

  “And you will take the mark, continue to live as a secret enemy of the Global Community, and I am to look the other way because we have become friends?”

  “Have we, Vasily?”

  “I thought we had, but of course you have not trusted me with the truth until now.”

  “If we are friends, you could do me a favor.”

  “Let you go? Let you make a run for it? Where would you go?”

  “No. I was thinking you might rather shoot me.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. It would look good on your record. Say what you want. You found me out, worried I would escape, whatever.”

  “I could not.”

  “Well, I couldn’t either. Do myself in, I mean. Not that I didn’t give it some thought.”

  “What are you asking me to do, short of shooting you? I am supposed to watch you die?”

  “You are to ‘see to it,’ aren’t you? Isn’t that your assignment?”

  Vasily sighed shakily and nodded. “You are not really going to go through with this, are you?”

  Steve nodded. “I am. Running would only put off the inevitable. And you have to admit, I’m fairly recognizable.”

  “That is not humorous to me.”

  “Nor to me. Vasily, I regret only that when you came to me it was already too late for you. You had taken the mark, and proudly.”

  “I’m not so proud of it anymore.”

  “That is the tragedy of where we find ourselves.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “You think I do not sneak a look occasionally at the Ben-Judah Web site? I know my decision is irreversible.”

  “You wish it wasn’t?”

  “I don’t know. I am not blind, not deaf. I can see what’s happening. If I had to say right now, I would say I envy you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was time to wake Chloe, at least. And once she was up, the others soon followed.

  Chang had called. The Trib Force needed to be packed and prepared to relocate at a moment’s notice.

  Chloe worked quickly, though bleary-eyed, with Kenny wrapped around her neck most of the time. George and Mac collected large quantities of canned and boxed foods, then started loading cars. Hannah, who helped Leah get the Co-op stuff in order, looked like she could use several more hours of sleep.

  George told Buck he had arranged for someone to come and get him in Chicago but agreed he should reroute them, possibly through Long Grove, and meet them there. “We’ve got room for you and Chloe and the baby in San Diego, and I’d love to be your pilot.”

  Buck had to think about that one. He could think of worse scenarios. Leah had tentatively arranged for him and his family to move in with Lionel Whalum and his wife. Buck didn’t know the man—but he wouldn’t likely have personally known anyone they might stay with. Whalum had agreed to the setup, telling Leah he had a large suburban home but that he was planning to be gone frequently
with runs to and from Petra.

  “Leah,” Buck said, “maybe you and Hannah ought to move in with the Whalums and let us take this opportunity George is offering. That way, you’d have a pilot, and so would we.”

  “Why don’t you just take over and do this job, Buck, if you’re going to make all my work a waste of time anyway.”

  “Chloe’s up now anyway, Leah. Why don’t you just get yourself ready to go.”

  She looked stricken and hurried away. Buck intercepted her. “Listen, let’s forgive each other under the circumstances. Think about this: Whalum is transporting stuff to Petra all the time.”

  “I know, Buck. Chloe and I have been helping coordinate that.”

  “Are you thinking?”

  “Are you insulting?” she said.

  “You’re not thinking.”

  “What?!”

  “Catch a ride over there with him sometime, Leah. Anybody in Petra you want to see?”

  That stopped her, briefly. “Oh, Buck, you can’t be serious. I don’t deny I’m enamored of Tsion. Who isn’t? But he’s not going to have the time for a friend with all he has going over there.”

  “So, what, are you afraid Long Grove is going to be too close to Chicago when the bomb hits? It may be.”

  “No. I—”

  “You want to go with George to San Diego? They might need medical help out there. And there are private quarters. Nobody’s sharing a house. They’re in underground shelters, like Quonset huts.”

  “No, that sounds perfect for you and your family. I’ll talk to Hannah about Long Grove.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Hannah said. “I prefer the Southwest.”

  “Got a contact?” Leah said. “Need one?”

  Within a few minutes Hannah had agreed to stick with Leah. Zeke and Mac were the only two left without arrangements. “I got to be somewhere where people can get to me to take advantage of my services,” Zeke said. “Someplace safe but central.”

  “Workin’ on it,” Chloe called out.

  “I want to be where I can make runs to Petra,” Mac said on one of his trips in for more boxes. “Maybe get Rayford out.”

  “Rayford ought to stay there,” Buck said. “Might drive him crazy after a while, but he’s got everything he needs to safely keep track of everybody.”

  By the time they were set to pull out if and when the word came, Albie had invited Mac to Al Basrah, and Zeke was set up with an underground unit in western Wisconsin, a city called Avery, not far from the Minnesota border. Buck called Chang. “We’re gonna be noisy parading out of here,” he said, “but I don’t guess we have any choice.”

  “Go in the wee hours,” Chang said, “only a few at a time over the next few days. I’ll be able to tell if anyone’s on to you. It’s a risk, but you know the odds if you wait.”

  The entire group—all forty of them, including the thirty-one from The Place—met in a huge circle. They wrapped their arms around each other and prayed for each other and wept. All of them. Even George and Mac. And seeing all those tears made Kenny cry, which made the others laugh.

  “It seems as if we just got here,” Buck said. “And now we don’t know when we might see each other again. I have a list here of what order we’ll go in, and my family and I will be the last ones out.”

  The Strong Building had been safe for only so long. And now it would disgorge a few of them at a time into a hostile world that belonged to Antichrist and the False Prophet, the Global Community, and millions of searching eyes that demanded a sign of loyalty none of these had.

  “I could lose you,” Vasily said. “Misplace you. What can I say? You escaped.”

  Steve sat with him in the parking lot at Resurrection Airport. “What, I raced away in my chair, and you couldn’t keep up? Too late. Let’s go.”

  It wasn’t easy, and Steve wasn’t going to pretend it was. He had often wondered, when reading or seeing a movie about a condemned man, what it must have felt like to make that last long walk. It wasn’t long enough, he felt, especially in a chair.

  As they approached the loyalty mark application site in the north wing of the airport, Steve noticed the line was longer than he had seen it in ages. The crackdown, the intensifying—whatever New Babylon wanted to call it—was working. Hundreds milled around the statue of Carpathia, bowing, praying, singing, worshiping. For the moment, the guillotine was silent. In fact, Steve didn’t know if it had ever been used in this part of the state. Some had been martyred near Denver. Others in Boulder. Maybe he would be the first here. Perhaps no one was trained to use the facilitator. But there it stood, gleaming and menacing, and those in line for the mark laughed nervously and kept glancing at it.

  Steve was still in the part of the line that snaked its way to the decision-making point. No one was expected to make the “wrong” choice, of course. The stocky, sixtyish, red-haired woman with the documents and the files and the keyboard barely looked up as people identified themselves and chose what they wanted tattooed and where they wanted it. As they were administered the mark, they raised their fists or whooped and hollered. Then they made straight for the image, where they paid homage.

  Steve had lived for his daily encouragement and education from Tsion Ben-Judah. It had been his only form of church. There was interaction between him and Rayford and him and Chang, and occasionally him and Buck or one of the others. But he was starved for live contact with other believers. That would be quickly remedied.

  Steve debated whether to use his real name, to finally come clean and tell the GC he had been undercover for a long time. But his name would easily be linked with Buck Williams from their days at the Weekly, and how long would it take to progress from there to the link with Rayford, then Chloe, then the Co-op, and—who knew?—maybe even Chang?

  He couldn’t risk that kind of exposure, especially for people who didn’t know it was coming. When it was finally Steve’s turn, the woman noticed Vasily in his dress uniform and said brightly, “We’ve been expecting you two. This must be Pinkerton Stephens.”

  “In the flesh, Ginger,” Steve said, studying her badge.

  “How about a nice –6 and a tasteful image of the supreme potentate?” she said, looking him up and down, clearly puzzled by his garb.

  “And where would you put it?” Steve said.

  “Your choice.”

  “Well, this won’t work,” he said, showing his stump. Ginger’s smile froze, and she searched his eyes. She had not found that amusing and looked as if she wanted to say so. He had put her in an uncomfortable position, and she clearly didn’t like it. “And I understand it doesn’t work on plastic.”

  “That is true,” Ginger said, appearing relieved to move on.

  “Then we can’t put it here, can we?” he said, knocking on his fake forehead.

  Snap, snap, snap. He popped off his combination nose and forehead appliance, exposing his eyeballs and brain sac. “Guess this would be the only option, Ginger,” he said in the nasal voice resulting from no covering on the nose.

  “Oh! Oh, my—! Mr. Stephens, I—”

  “Who wants to put it there?” Steve said. “Who’ll volunteer for that chore? And when I wanted to display it, would I just pop my face off?”

  She turned away. “I’m sure that will work. It’s totally hygienic and should cause no problem.”

  “I could take my mouthpiece off too, Ginger, if you want the full effect.”

  “Please, no.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m in the wrong line.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’m not accepting the mark of loyalty.”

  “You’re not? Well, that’s not really an option.”

  “Oh, sure it is, Ginger. I mean, the other is a much shorter line—in fact, I’ll be the only one in it. But it’s most definitely an option, isn’t it?”

  “You’re choosing the, uh, the loyalty enforce—”

  “I’m choosing the guillotine, Ginger. I’m choosing death over pretending that Nicolae Carpathia
is divine or ruler over anything.”

  She looked to Vasily. “Is he putting me on?”

  “Sadly, he’s not, ma’am.”

  Ginger studied Steve, then reached for her walkie-talkie. “Ferdinand, we need someone to run the facilitator.”

  “The what?”

  “You know!” she whispered. “The facilitator.”

  “The blade? You serious?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be right there.” A tall, balding man with red cheeks hurried over. “You’re not taking the mark?” he said.

  “Yes,” Steve said, “but I thought I would try the blade first. Please, can we just get on with this? Do I have to go through the whole ordeal again?”

  “This is no joking matter.”

  “It’s no redundant matter either, so could you just do what you have to do and get me processed?”

  “There is no processing. You just sign, stipulating that you made this choice of your own free will, and we, ah, you—”

  “Die.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I get some last words?”

  “Anything you want.”

  Cheeks found the proper form, Steve signed “Pinkerton Stephens,” and the man said, “You realize this is your last chance to change your mind.”

  “About Carpathia being Antichrist, evil personified? About Leon Fortunato being the False Prophet? Yes, I know. No changing my mind.”

  “Dyed-in-the-wool, aren’t we?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve thought it through.”

  “Clearly.”

  Steve glanced at Vasily, who had paled and held a hand over his mouth. Others in the line murmured and pointed, and now all eyes were on the strange-looking wounded man in the undershirt.

  Ferdinand slipped between a couple of chairs and went to study the guillotine. “They say it can be run by one person,” he said. He looked up. “Over here, Mr. Stephens.”

  Steve rolled to a line four feet in front of the contraption. His belly began to tighten and his breath came in short puffs. “God, be with me,” he said silently. “Give me the grace. Give me the courage.”

  The grace came. The courage he wasn’t so sure about. He wished he were at a facility with more experience. Ferdinand had raised the blade to its full height, but as he worked with the elements at the business end of the shaft, he looked tentative and kept peeking up and pulling his fingers back.