Читать книгу BEWARE THE COUNTERFEIT RAPTURE! - Sandra Ghost - Страница 5

The small town of Front Royal, Virginia, seemed to have just lazily sat down, propped its back against the Blue Ridge mountains and dipped its toes in the Shenandoah River. The sprawling, brick colonial buildings of Randolph Macon Academy looked down on the center of town from a hill, spreading out its wings and regal white columned porches like a protective mother hen. As the town was only 69 miles from Washington, DC, it had become a bedroom community for commuters. At five o'clock in the morning long trails of red taillights could be seen wending their way down Interstate 66 to the east, like some massive fluorescent centipede trying to climb out of the mountains.

Horace Wilson had practiced medicine in Front Royal until he retired at age 67. He was a general practitioner who had delivered many of the babies that later had gone to school with his three children. He was an excellent diagnostician as he had seen just about every fungus, germ, disease and broken bone in the book during his long career.

He invested wisely in Mutual Funds, plus blue chip stocks, and bragged that he could live lavishly in retirement, not having to rely on just social security alone, "though God knows I pumped enough into it through the years," he always added.

Sunshine kissed the mountains on this humid Sunday morning in July. A blanket of fog still lingered on top of Signal Knob Mountain, until the sun pounced on it playfully telling it to wake up. Horace padded down the cement driveway in his brown leather slippers and blue plaid bathrobe to retrieve the local Sunday newspaper from the cylindrical metal box by the road.

He was tall, slender and fit--prided himself on working out at the health club, and played golf at least twice a week. The shock of silver hair had never thinned; however, his glasses seemed to get thicker each year until now they resembled the bottom of Coke bottles.

Opening the kitchen door, he was greeted with the rich aroma of Gourmet Supreme coffee. His wife, Marianne, was already dressed for church in a soft pink flowered dress. She spread cream cheese on two bagels, set them on Wedge-wood blue stone-wear plates, and poured two cups of the fragrant coffee. Horace flopped the thick Sunday paper on the cherry trestle table in the bay window. Pulling out one ladder-back chair and settling into it, he unfolded the front page and cleaned his glasses with the paper napkin from his place setting.

"Looks like this EMP scare thing is spread all over the front page again. Just a bunch of hype."

He replaced his glasses and grunted in satisfaction. "Bunch of bull...probably just some scheme to sell more newspapers."

"EMP? EMP?" Marianne spooned sugar into her coffee. "What's that?"

"Stands for Electro Magnetic Pulse," he fairly snorted the words. "If you'd read a newspaper once in awhile, instead of burying your nose between the pages of your Bible all the time, you'd know," he snapped.

A quick embarrassed flush painted Marianne's high cheek bones. A wrinkle-free complexion with the purity of fine Dresden china, large blue eyes and trim figure belied the fact that Marianne was now sixty-five years old. She had been a nurse when she and Horace had first met and then married. When the first baby arrived, a son they had named Jesse, Marianne quit nursing--became a full time homemaker and subsequently they had another son, Lance, and daughter Scarlett. She was accustomed to having her Christianity belittled by her husband, but it still embarrassed her, especially when he did it front of others.

She sipped her coffee, then sighed. "Well, why don't they just say its name instead of giving it some...some code name?"

Horace ignored her words.

"Everything seems so difficult now." She took another sip of coffee and looked out the diamond panes of the bay window. Cobalt blue pots of lavender and pink African violets splashed nosegays of color as they marched across the tiled window sill. "'AIDS' is now a disease--it used to be 'aids' were helpers in the principal's office at school. 'CD's' used to be 'certificates of deposit'. Now they're small round discs with music crammed on them, or things you pop into some mysterious drawer in a computer. Who can keep up with it?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Horace raised his head from the paper. "And Madonna used to be a virgin." He chuckled at his own joke.

"So what is this...this EMP...whatever?"

He pushed aside the newspaper disgusted with it anyway. "They're saying that nut job Dictator of North Korea claims he's gonna' shoot a nuclear missile over the US and knock out all our electric power. Kill the computers."

"Well, good. We got along without computers before, didn't we?"

"Marianne, that statement just shows your stupidity. "The words visibly stung her expression.

"The whole stinkin' world is run by computers now. The grocery stores check you out by computer--they recognize the price by the bar code. The bank keeps our records of deposit and withdrawals by computer. Planes fly by computer...our power... telephone lines...everything!" He waved a hand impatiently.

"I see," her tone was meek. "So, why's it such a big deal. I still don't understand." She knew she risked another tongue lashing, but she really wanted to know.

Horace pronounced each word slowly, condescendingly, as though he were talking with a five year old. I truly don't think this can happen, but think about living without power, water, sewers, banking, planes, telephones...etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." He drew out the last words, sounding like a character in the movie "The King and I". Suddenly his mood seemed to shift when he saw Marianne's eyes widen in obvious fear. "Now don't you worry, honey, as I said, it's all just horse pucky. They're going to beef up the grid, take care of this. They'll fix it."

That same morning, the sun rose slowly over the mountains of the Skyline Drive which started its journey south from Front Royal. Drops of dew sparkled in the trees with the first touch of the sun which transformed them into shimmering diamonds. It playfully tickled them with heat until they sparkled, winked and then evaporated into thin steaming vapors.

Below the Drive on Route 340 south, as sunlight now poked probing fingers through the vertical blinds of Lance Wilson's bedroom, he sat bolt upright in bed. This was the day he intended to bury the two 1,000 gallon propane tanks which presently sat in his yard looking like silver mini-submarines.

He opened a drawer looking for clean underwear and finding it empty, rummaged through an overflowing wicker laundry basket in the corner. He held each pair he found to his nose. "Aha! A gently worn pair," he said aloud, in much the same manner as a connoisseur inhaling the fragrance of a fine wine. Lance hastily shrugged into a sleeveless tee shirt which proclaimed, "Shenandoah Riverfest", and stepped into a faded pair of jeans. Abs and pecs rippled throughout his movements, testimony to the regimented use of the weight bench, weights and exercise equipment which took up most of the space in his bedroom.

The Swiss chalet Lance had built for himself on ten acres was a matter of great pride. He was one of the most respected building contractors in the area: a licensed plumber and electrician; meticulous finish carpenter. It was not just these qualifications which set him apart from other contractors--it was his punctuality and tenacity to finish a job once started. He was a perfectionist in all things...except doing laundry.

It had quickly gotten around that Lance "will stick with you 'til the job's done, not like those other bozos who promise it done in two weeks, then drop off two men, let 'em work three hours and pull 'em off to another site. Four month's later the lousy job's done...but in dribbles and drabs--they're all juggling jobs in the air...lie through their teeth. But not Lance, the kid'll stick with ya'--do it right." The endorsement repeated by some old timer, was usually completed to the accompaniment of a large spit from a chew of tobacco. Praise had circled through Front Royal right after Lance had completed college, his apprenticeship, and come back home three years ago to set up a construction business. Of course, it was always added that he was "good ole' Doc Wilson's boy" which put another stamp of approval on any recommendations.

Lance quickly made his way through the sparsely furnished, two-story great room. A virtual zoo of mounted hunting trophies circled the room at the level of the loft, which hovered above on its balcony. A twelve point buck attempted to stare down a snarling black bear; an elk bagged in Colorado, with slightly turned head appeared to chat with an antelope. There were several mounted turkeys, small and large mouth bass, and a huge muskellunge. Hunting and fishing were Lance's passion.

His tall, blond ruggedness attracted many woman who had chased him, but he preferred the unfettered bachelor life shared only with Demian, his black and tan German shepherd, who now followed him into the kitchen begging to go out. "I know...I know...I can see you've got your legs crossed, fella." Lance pressed the button on the coffeepot and opened the back door. Demian shot into the yard, made straight for the propane tanks and lavishly power-washed one.

He took a large swallow of hot coffee and watched Demian chase a small saffron yellow butterfly, which flitted across the yard. One hundred and fifty pounds of muscle covered with fur cavorted across the yard, jaws snapping as he leaped in the air. The butterfly gained altitude, soaring over the row of cedar trees which formed a wind-break on the north side of the property. The huge Shepherd abruptly sat down, cocked his head in a perplexed manner and began to whine softly in frustration.

His master chuckled and opened the back door. "Butterflies aren't in season anyway. Come, boy." Demian responded, tongue lolling comically out of the side of his mouth. Lance began running through his mental organizer. He'd excavate for the tanks today, back-fill tomorrow. He was still on the strict schedule he had set for himself to not get caught short. He was convinced from research he'd done that the country was on the doorstep of war with North Korea. An EMP devastating power would bring no services, rioting, anarchy. And he was targeted on he and his family surviving it. He took a notepad and pencil out of the drawer. He did his best thinking on paper so began to scribble:

"House 2,500 square feet. 800 gallons in each 1,000 gallon tank. Furnace using propane. Also for cooking, hot water, propane refrigerator. Buy propane refrigerator and range at Amerigas 30 kW generator/ power lights, fan on furnace, well pump. Check prices on metal shelving."

"Sixteen hundred gallons of propane should last a year...maybe year and a half," he told Demian. "They'd better have the glitches fixed by then." He nibbled a piece of toast, broke off a corner and threw it to the huge dog, who caught it in one solid snap of the powerful jaws.

"We'll just stock up on food and ammunition, and wait this thing out."

Demian cocked his head as though trying hard to comprehend the words

"Yes, many 30 pound bags of 4 Health dog food too. Don't you worry." Lance stroked the massive head. The golden brown eyes, framed with heavy tan eyebrows, blinked appreciation. "Let's go, boy. Gotta' fire up the backhoe...get those holes dug, tanks set by early afternoon," he grabbed the key-ring to his heavy equipment which was kept in a large metal shed. "Make it to Mom and Dad's for Sunday dinner at 4:00...bring you a doggie bag."

Demian sprang eagerly to the back door, and gnawed on the knob. Perhaps he didn't understand all the words, which would affect even his future, but he sure knew, "Let's go, boy."

Over on east Sixth Street, Jesse and his wife, Lee, hurried to get ready for church. Lee played flute and sang with the praise and worship team therefore necessitating them to be there early for prayer before the service. Jesse played guitar. He could easily have become a professional musician because of his rare talent, but after graduating from James Madison University, had chosen to become a computer programmer with IBM in Arlington, Virginia. His Subaru Crossover was part of the 5:00 AM commuter "train" on Interstate 66 every morning. His exceptional facility with computers quickly was recognized, and he now held the position of software engineer.

His younger brother, Lance, had inherited his father's tall, slender frame--Jesse was a stocky 5'11', who diligently had to watch every gram of fat and grain of sugar in his diet. Now, he stood at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, eating a caramel rice cake which he washed down with belts of black coffee. The Sunday newspaper lay on the counter top. The stark words of the headhine seemed to leap up off the page at him.

That's not a healthy breakfast, honey, " Lee bounced into the kitchen. She was fastening a silver dolphin earring in one ear. The other dangling earring had already managed to become snarled in her thick mane of long, curly blonde hair the shade of spun taffy.

"I need to lose more weight," he grumbled, never looking up from the newspaper.

"But rice cakes for breakfast?" She shook the second silver dolphin free.

"You're right," he smiled at his tiny wife. There was mischief in his blue eyes. "They're kinda' like eating a styrofoam cooler."

"You should be eating crow!" She giggled. "I told you they were too bland when you threw them in the grocery cart, but no...no...you just had to have them. I love you just like you are."

She threw tanned arms around his neck while lifting full lips to be kissed. The tailored pale green silk blouse matched her eyes.

"Keep that up and we won't make it to church," he told her, kissing her lips and the tip of her nose.

"Your Mom will save us a seat. Did I tell you we're invited over to their house at 4:00 for Sunday dinner?"

"Dad mentioned it on the 'phone."

He looked again at the newspaper. "Word's getting out about the possibility of the grid going down, Lee. It's up to us to get the family prepared. There's going to be a panic when it finally gets through to the public. We need to get prepared now...not wait until there's no food left on the shelves at the grocery."

"You're really worried about this, aren't you?" With one finger, she traced the furrows which had suddenly appeared on Jesse's forehead.

"Darn right...three years ago the Pentagon spent $700 million to relocate critical computer systems--including NORAD to Cheyenne Mountain deep underground. That's about the extent of preparation but there is so much to do to reinforce the grid. Four Secretaries of Homeland Security have stated publicly that we could be on the brink of a catastrophic cyber-attack but not one single one has had a plan to counteract it." He looked at his watch. "Better go."

As they went down the stairs of their split level home, she asked, "You think when people wake up to the possibility of a disaster, there'll be a run on food in the stores?"

He locked the front door behind them. "'Fraid so." He suddenly grinned, "But we'll just let them have all the rice cakes there are. Okay?

Up on Elsia Drive, at Ayview Estates--a posh collection of unique townhouses--Scarlett, the Wilson's daughter, lay on the queen-size bed trying to decide what to do on her day off. She propped several pillows behind her head and stared around the bedroom. In one dormer window a fussy dressing table, skirted in pink satin, sat primly like a coed waiting to go to a prom. On its glass top atomizers of perfume were scrambled with tubes of lipstick, pots of blush and lip-gloss, bottles of foundation in various shades, and graduated sizes of makeup brushes. A large, ornate, gold pedestal mirror presided in the middle of the mess.

A tall, walnut Victorian armoire with full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. Scarlett struck various poses on the bed, while assessing her image in the mirror. The red lips pouted, then smiled. She stretched out her voluptuous figure this way and that, flipping her long, dark hair into different styles. She sighed and stretched, then slipped into a matching pair of shorts and halter top the color of cayenne pepper.

The fragrance of an expensive brand of Kona coffee beckoned from downstairs. Thank goodness she had not been too drunk to remember to set the timer the night before. There was no hangover--good scotch seldom betrayed its drinker. Scarlett had "partied hardy" with several of the other real estate agents in her firm. They had all gone skinny dipping in Laura's pool after the bars closed. She scarcely remembered driving home.

Scarlett, the baby of the Wilson family, had been the apple of her Daddy's eye since she could toddle around. Horace spoiled her with expensive toys, indulged his daughter's temper tantrums. As she grew older, he lavished his paternal love in the form of an unlimited allowance, an ice-blue Mercedes 380 SL convertible upon graduation from high school. "It matches your eyes," he had told her. While her grades were shameful, Scarlett enjoyed the distinction of being the best dressed coed on campus at Shenandoah University, and barely scraped by academically in order to graduate.

Scarlett took her fictional namesake to heart. Whether by design or subconsciously imposed, she had developed a pronounced southern drawl at about the age of twelve--shortly after seeing the movie, "Gone With The Wind". Horace and Marianne thought it was adorable when she stamped her foot in a fit of temper. Now, at the age of twenty-five an occasional "fiddle dee dee" still slipped into her conversation. The affectations were not nearly so adorable in adulthood, but she tossed her head in defiance at what other people thought, living on the edge in everything she did. Her beauty had always seemed to lend a passport of indulging acceptance to her aberrant behavior.

Her mother, Marianne, had been acutely aware of the normal mother/daughter rifts which seemed to paint themselves on the landscape of relationships during teenage years. Her relationship with Scarlett, however, had turned into an uncivil war. Making trips to fortunetellers had been a fad among her daughter's crowd in high school. When this practice was exposed, Marianne begged her daughter to stop, "You're opening up yourself to demons, sweetheart," she admonished. At one pajama party Scarlett had held, Marianne opened the bedroom door to find candles lit, and a seance going on. She had sent the girls packing--Scarlett was furious--Horace even angrier.

When she tried to explain to her husband and daughter that God had said in His Word that these practices were an abomination to Him, Scarlett had shot back, "You carry your old fashioned Christianity too far, Mother. Get a life!" she fumed. To Marianne's chagrin, Horace had sided with Scarlett.

Now, Scarlett sipped the Kona coffee and stretched out on the chaise lounge in the morning sun which bathed her patio. Brilliant fuchsia flowers crawled between the stones of the rock garden which seemed to spill down the hill onto the patio in a splash of color.

Life is so good, ,she thought as she wiggled perfectly pedicured toes in a casual salute to the sun. She'd just lie in the sun, cook out some of the Cuttysark from last night. Get a tan until it was time to go to her parents for dinner. She stretched like a languishing cat, then an unpleasant thought presented itself: what if her mother got on her again about the New Age church she was attending, she vowed a walk-out. Her nostrils distended slightly at the intrusion of unpleasantness. She tossed her head and the long, dark hair re-arranged itself on her shoulders.

The portable telephone lay on the tiled table beside her. Her psychic was #2 on the speed dial. She'd find out what real estate business deals to pursue on Monday. She never made a move without consulting "Princess Crystal" and felt sorry for all those who didn't have such "wonderful guidance" in their lives. They'd never met, but Scarlett considered Crystal was her best friend. Her psychic's charges, billed directly to her telephone, were higher each month than all the utilities added together. What did she care? Her real estate broker was pleased with her sales, and if she ran out of money, there were always Daddy's deep pockets to dip into.

She propped herself higher on the burgundy cushions, anticipation heightened as the number rang. There was a connection."Oh, Crystal, dahling" she drawled, "I have so many questions to ask you. Have you got the time now?" (At $5.00 per minute, of course she had the time.) Crystal looked at her watch--their conversation had begun at 11:03 AM.

At that moment a scramble was taking place at the FAA in Leesburg, Virginia. Long rows of air traffic controllers sat in a huge room watching the large radarscopes which displayed air traffic for their sectors. The long sweeping hand of the beacons on the screens could become mesmerizing. Several people were clustered behind one particular controller, all examining the scope. "This is really weird," he scratched his head. "There were three blips that suddenly appeared on the screen--no transponder signature--close to the checkpoint in Linden...over Front Royal. They maneuvered together too fast for aircraft. Then they evaporated off the screen in one sweep. Gone!"

"Could have been an anomaly," one of those gathered offered.

The shift duty officer patted his shoulder. "Sure, sure, Charlie. Maybe you oughta' cut down on the Budweiser on those days off."

The time was 11:05 AM.