The Mayan Apocalypse by Mark Hitchcock

people—people Hunter’s age—filled up half the seating on the right side of the large chapel. The girls wept; the boys tried not to. Behind them were teachers who had Hunter in their classes. Morgan had seen the principal of the private school enter. They exchanged nods—nothing more.
    When Morgan arrived, soft music, mostly hymns Morgan remembered hearing as a child in church, wafted from concealed speakers overhead like mist before a rain. They were smooth, soft, gentle, and meant to comfort the grieving. They irritated Morgan. The moment Doolittle stepped behind the pulpit, the music ceased.The operator failed to trail the music off; it sounded as if he just hit the off button. Jarring.
    â€œGood afternoon.” Doolittle talked through his nose. “My name is Reverend Quincy Doolittle of Berkley Street Baptist Church, where I serve as minister of pastoral care. It is my honor to officiate at this difficult time. On behalf of Mr. Morgan and extended family, I thank you all for being here. As we begin, I would like to introduce Senior Pastor Bryan Johansson, who will lead us in prayer and offer our first Scripture reading.”
    Johansson was unlike his fellow pastor: six-foot and stout. Morgan took him to be one of those guys who ran five miles a day—ten if he wanted to work up a sweat. He spoke with the kind of voice that made radio personalities envious. Although he needed no microphone, one had been provided, most likely for Pastor Wimpy.
    â€œAt times like these, there is no better place to turn for comfort and strength than to our Lord and Savior, Jesus, and to God’s Word. Stand with me as I read the twenty-third Psalm.” The sound of two hundred people standing—most of whom Morgan couldn’t name—echoed through the chapel.
    â€œThe L ORD is my shepherd…”
    Morgan stopped listening. His ears no longer wished to function, and he was grateful. His eyes, however, were a different story: They drifted to the pair of shiny black coffins at the front of the chapel. Unlike the memorial services for his parents, these caskets were closed and locked. No amount of wax and makeup could make what remained of his wife and son presentable. What lay in those boxes were the charred remains of what had once been the heartbeat of his life.
    He had not seen their bodies. The mortuary people had warned against it. “This is not what you want to remember.” He agreed. He didn’t need to see their broken and burned bodies. He saw that every time he closed his eyes. Instead of open caskets, large photos in gold-painted frames stared back at him: Hunter in his school’s basketball uniform; Marybeth in her Sunday best.
    Movement around him brought Morgan back to the moment. Lost in his thoughts, he was the last to sit. Doolittle was up front again, his mouth moving but Morgan heard only snippets, none sharp enough to bore through his grief.
    Johansson’s reading of David’s psalm swirled in his head.
    â€œThe L ORD is my shepherd.” Not my shepherd. Apparently not my wife’s or son’s shepherd either. “I shall not want.” I will forever want. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” Or plunge my family to their deaths in a desolate desert after a thirty-thousand-foot fall. “He leadeth me beside the still waters.” He drowns me in sorrow. “He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.” He driveth my soul away.
    It was at that moment that Morgan began his war with God.

    Morgan’s corporate jet set down at the San Antonio International Airport and taxied to an area reserved for private jets. The copilot exited the cockpit and opened the air-stairs, descended, and waited for Morgan and Lisa to exit. As she reached the last step, the young airman held out a hand, and she took it.
    â€œIt was a pleasure having you onboard, ma’am.”
    She detected