You?”
“Tired.”
“How far do you suppose we walked today?”
“Miles.” Marcus answered. “Probably ten, give or take, considering the time we started and when it got dark.”
“More than ten,” Reggie said. “At least eight hours, right? At maybe five miles per hour. I think we walked forty.”
“Forty?” Marcus laughed. “No chance. First of all, no way that dirt blasted out forty miles. No way. Look at the sky. Clear as a bell. No dust clouds. That much dust would have clouded up the sky. And you forget, we stopped for twenty minutes every single hour. No, ten. Twelve or thirteen at the most.”
“Fine, get pissy about it. Toss your scientific knowledge in my face.”
Marcus shifted his head toward Reggie. “How is using common deduction scientific knowledge?”
“It’s algebra. I sucked at algebra. You know that. So you used it.”
“I give up.”
Reggie nudged him. “I’m kidding you.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Look how cute our little fire is.”
“It’s little.”
Reggie gave no reply.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Reggie replied quietly.
“You got quiet.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?” Marcus asked.
“Well, what if this is it?’
“Reg,” Marcus chuckled. “The dirt will end. The destruction didn’t....”
“No. That’s not what I mean,” Reggie continued, “I mean, what if this is what will remain of man’s existence? Bleak. Nothing. Our legacy.”
“That’s pretty deep. Usually you don’t go there... you know, to serious places.”
“I know.” Reggie shrugged. “I usually don’t take things seriously.”
“So don’t start now.”
“What?”
“Don’t start taking things seriously now.”
Reggie looked around. “I have no choice. Devante isn’t God, or Jesus, I’ll grant that,” she said. “But if he is powerful enough to cause this, then isn’t he powerful enough to replicate God’s end?”
“No,” Marcus said resolutely. “And never say that to me again. Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise, but...”
“No buts. Only our Creator and demented madmen with a nuclear arsenal are powerful enough to destroy us,” Marcus stated unequivocally. “As for Devante, he is forgetting one thing. I am his creator. So somehow, some way...” Marcus lowered his voice to a whisper. “I feel it. I really feel it, Reg. Somehow, I have the power to destroy him.”
Los Angeles, CA
The President, sweating profusely and on the edge of screaming, insisted on relating his nightmare to John, his White House advisor, who had awakened him in the middle of the night. His dream, he said, was monstrous. The advisor tried to butt in with the latest news, but the President wouldn’t hear it; he had to tell him, he said; had to get it off his chest. His wife burned, he said, staring straight ahead, screaming as she was engulfed by flames, eating up her skin in blackened patches. His sixteen-year-old daughter stood by, held in place by unseen hands, her clothes in tatters from sexual assaults. All the while, a mob of onlookers chanted, “Deceivers and non-believers must pay.”
“You can’t imagine how horrific it was, John.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, I believe I can,” John replied. “You see, it’s happening now.”
The North Sea had risen up. Earthquakes were rocking Europe, tumbling cities in the United Kingdom and on the Continent. A tidal wave had risen in the North Atlantic and, just hours before, had buried and washed away London, Amsterdam, and Brussels. The Shetland Islands. All of them gone.
Of course, minds turned to the supposed reckless prophesy of an eccentric man who looked like Christ, a man who had told of such events; who had predicted this tidal wave as he did the destruction of Chicago. He was not wrong, men said.
The President, tears welling in his eyes, turned to his advisor. “He told me what to do to stop it. I have to decide and decide quickly.” He spoke in a hoarse
“Tired.”
“How far do you suppose we walked today?”
“Miles.” Marcus answered. “Probably ten, give or take, considering the time we started and when it got dark.”
“More than ten,” Reggie said. “At least eight hours, right? At maybe five miles per hour. I think we walked forty.”
“Forty?” Marcus laughed. “No chance. First of all, no way that dirt blasted out forty miles. No way. Look at the sky. Clear as a bell. No dust clouds. That much dust would have clouded up the sky. And you forget, we stopped for twenty minutes every single hour. No, ten. Twelve or thirteen at the most.”
“Fine, get pissy about it. Toss your scientific knowledge in my face.”
Marcus shifted his head toward Reggie. “How is using common deduction scientific knowledge?”
“It’s algebra. I sucked at algebra. You know that. So you used it.”
“I give up.”
Reggie nudged him. “I’m kidding you.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Look how cute our little fire is.”
“It’s little.”
Reggie gave no reply.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Reggie replied quietly.
“You got quiet.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?” Marcus asked.
“Well, what if this is it?’
“Reg,” Marcus chuckled. “The dirt will end. The destruction didn’t....”
“No. That’s not what I mean,” Reggie continued, “I mean, what if this is what will remain of man’s existence? Bleak. Nothing. Our legacy.”
“That’s pretty deep. Usually you don’t go there... you know, to serious places.”
“I know.” Reggie shrugged. “I usually don’t take things seriously.”
“So don’t start now.”
“What?”
“Don’t start taking things seriously now.”
Reggie looked around. “I have no choice. Devante isn’t God, or Jesus, I’ll grant that,” she said. “But if he is powerful enough to cause this, then isn’t he powerful enough to replicate God’s end?”
“No,” Marcus said resolutely. “And never say that to me again. Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise, but...”
“No buts. Only our Creator and demented madmen with a nuclear arsenal are powerful enough to destroy us,” Marcus stated unequivocally. “As for Devante, he is forgetting one thing. I am his creator. So somehow, some way...” Marcus lowered his voice to a whisper. “I feel it. I really feel it, Reg. Somehow, I have the power to destroy him.”
Los Angeles, CA
The President, sweating profusely and on the edge of screaming, insisted on relating his nightmare to John, his White House advisor, who had awakened him in the middle of the night. His dream, he said, was monstrous. The advisor tried to butt in with the latest news, but the President wouldn’t hear it; he had to tell him, he said; had to get it off his chest. His wife burned, he said, staring straight ahead, screaming as she was engulfed by flames, eating up her skin in blackened patches. His sixteen-year-old daughter stood by, held in place by unseen hands, her clothes in tatters from sexual assaults. All the while, a mob of onlookers chanted, “Deceivers and non-believers must pay.”
“You can’t imagine how horrific it was, John.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, I believe I can,” John replied. “You see, it’s happening now.”
The North Sea had risen up. Earthquakes were rocking Europe, tumbling cities in the United Kingdom and on the Continent. A tidal wave had risen in the North Atlantic and, just hours before, had buried and washed away London, Amsterdam, and Brussels. The Shetland Islands. All of them gone.
Of course, minds turned to the supposed reckless prophesy of an eccentric man who looked like Christ, a man who had told of such events; who had predicted this tidal wave as he did the destruction of Chicago. He was not wrong, men said.
The President, tears welling in his eyes, turned to his advisor. “He told me what to do to stop it. I have to decide and decide quickly.” He spoke in a hoarse
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