Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,78

man sitting in the chair across from him had given any hint of this behavior back when he had enlisted, he never would have passed the psych screening required for his highly sensitive job.

Another shrug. “Not at first, I guess. But I know now that it’s always been inside me. A deep love of the Lord, untapped, waiting to be shown the light. That’s what He said.”

“What who said?”

“God.”

“God speaks to you?”

A beaming smile. “All the time.”

The shrink scribbled some notes and smiled back. “Let’s meet again.”

Sitting before him was a young man assigned to the missile silos in Omaha, someone who was highly trained and regularly worked up close with nuclear warheads. Someone who thought America’s nuclear arsenal existed to bring about biblical destruction, and who thought God spoke to him directly. He would be run through the standard battery of tests, as the regulations required, but the results of this single interview would be more than enough. Airman P. Dunleavy had touched his last nuke.

Brother Peter knew now that he had been wrong to be angry. Being forced out of the military was part of God’s plan for him, the first step towards his ministry. When that was also taken away, he had been angry again, but, as before, he had come to realize it was part of His plan as well. The Lord had something special in mind for him, but it remained a mystery. Thy will be done.

It was also clear that God had decided to forego the fiery destruction and skip straight to the Rapture, for this was surely what was happening. Those left behind would walk the earth as lifeless shells, and the faithful would be lifted up to heavenly glory. How much longer this would take remained to be seen, but certainly long enough for His purpose to be revealed. Peter had his suspicions, his guesses, and he believed it would involve culling the goats from the lambs. Thy will be done.

But like Job, he would first be required to suffer.

And he was. He was starving.

Brother Peter looked out a small, grimy square of glass set in a metal door. Behind him was a corridor leading to another door which opened into a barn-like room of baggage conveyor belts, the metal twisted into odd shapes by the fire, a stink of roasted rubber thick in the air. There was also a stairway which led back down to their subterranean world. Four people were here with him; Anderson, a female staffer, and both of the G6 pilots, whom he had quietly begun thinking of as Thing One and Thing Two. They were all, including himself, skinny, dirty and developing sores from poor hygiene.

“Get ready,” he said, his hand on the door handle. The female staffer and Thing Two moved up close to him, each holding an empty gray bin used at security checkpoints to hold laptops, shoes and pocket items. Thing Two had a hammer stuck in his belt.

Peter yanked open the door. “Now!” The two ran out with their bins, and the minister shut the door quickly behind them. He pressed his face against the glass, whispering, “Go, go.” A United food services truck sat a hundred feet away on the tarmac, its glass shattered, tires melted, sides scorched black from the fire. The rear, roll-down door was closed, though, which meant some of its contents might have survived the blaze. Peanuts, pretzels and cookies would be a feast at this point. Thing Two and the staffer ran for it.

The dead noticed.

A dozen were in view, and they looked far different from the ones which had first forced them underground. These were burned, without clothing, charred black from head to toe like beef ribs left too long on a grill. When they bumped against objects or each other, little puffs of soot rose off them, and pieces of charcoal fell to the ground. They were hairless and without eyes, wandering blindly, but they heard or sensed the two runners at once, and turned towards them.

“They’ll never make it,” Anderson moaned, standing just over Peter’s shoulder. He smelled like a chicken coop.

“They’ll make it,” the minister said.

And they did, at least as far as the truck. Both arrived at the back end, and the woman kept a nervous watch as Thing Two struggled to pull up the door. It wouldn’t move.

Dead chunks of walking charcoal let out a chorus of dry croaks and closed in.

“C’mon, c’mon, put your back into it!” Peter shouted, slapping