Authors: Wid Bastian
“We don’t think so,” Enrique Vargas guessed. “At least, all the evidence would suggest otherwise. To protect themselves they keep everything away from the President. To them he is just someone else they need to manipulate. Very few people know what we’ve just told you, Panos, less than twenty men total that we’re aware of, and none of us felt it was prudent to challenge these bastards without having the kind of evidence that would stand up in court.”
“Forgive me, brothers, but this sounds farfetched. I mean, even I know that the worst possible place to try and keep any secret is Washington, D.C. Sooner or later it would … ” Peter stopped talking because the answer to his question at once became obvious.
“Panos?” Tim asked.
“Of course, it must be.”
“What?” Vargas said, confused.
“Legion and his friends. These two advisors are his servants, they’re under his protection.”
Tim Austin and Enrique Vargas looked at each other. At the same time, each wondered, is it really that simple?
“Are you telling us, Panos, that these men are demons?” Tim asked.
“No, probably not. They’re almost surely flesh and blood. I’ll bet they don’t have a clue that Satan is running their lives. Remember that the devil feeds off of our own desires and our willingness to break God’s commandments in order to get what we want. I doubt very seriously that either one of these gentlemen has a Satanic chapel in his basement or draws pentagrams. Unless they can be made to see the Light before they die, they’d undoubtedly be quite shocked to pass on and wake up in hell. They probably don’t believe that anything greater than their own egos exists in the universe.”
“Hmm. I always thought … ”
“Always thought what, Tim?” Peter asked.
“I always thought those two jokers needed to be prosecuted and jailed, but it turns out what they really needed was an exorcism.”
Even in the low moonlight the crew and passengers of Marine Corps One could tell something unusual was going on at the White House. At least five hundred soldiers were busying themselves around the President’s residence. They were putting into place a large concrete barrier topped with razor wire as fast as they were able. This makeshift fence was nearly complete by the time Peter’s helicopter arrived shortly after two a.m.
“Could have sworn we just left a prison,” Gail said. “Looks like we’re flying into another one.”
“What they’re up to isn’t hard to figure out,” Alex said, as he continued to gather and organize his equipment.
“Okay, Alex, then explain it to me because I find it more than a bit odd, and unnerving,” Kenny said, looking out across the White House lawn which was now a small army base.
“They are erecting a static defense,” Alex explained. ‘None of their weapons work and by now they’ve figured out that even punching someone in the nose is impossible. So … ”
“So you put up a fence, as large and nasty as possible, to keep any enemies or uninvited guests away from the President and our seat of power,” General Vargas said, finishing Alex’s sentence for him.
“Exactly,” Alex concurred. “What else can they do? God took away their power to hurt each other, but paranoia remains. They are afraid.”
“Scared crapless,” Vargas said. “I would be positively manic, trying to run every possible scenario through my mind, planning for all possible contingencies.”
“That’s what they’re doing in there right now, General?” Peter asked. “Trying to figure out what to do next?”
“What should they be doing, Panos?”
“Praying, of course. They have been called to account by God. They need to seek His mercy.”
Alex shook his head in disbelief. What a totally preposterous situation, he thought to himself; the President of the United States of America, the most powerful man on earth, humbled by a lowly prisoner. Many times during the past few months, Alex was forced to stop, take a deep breath, and get a grip, but this scene was over any imaginable top. Despite the rational part of his brain telling him that none of this could possibly be happening, Alex was compelled to accept that it was. The power of God cannot be denied, he reminded himself, and it seemed that no longer would He allow it to be ignored.
“Gentlemen and Miss McCorkle,” the President said, as he stood and affably greeted his guests. “Welcome to the White House. It is an honor to meet all of you. Thank you for coming on such short notice and without complaint.”
“Does he have to kiss their a** like that?” the first senior advisor whispered to his chief aide.
“It’s degrading,” the aide agreed, being careful to cover his mouth so that no one could read his lips.
“Sir, all of us are Americans. While my brothers and I serve God above all else, there should be no conflict between God’s will and our country’s best interest. We are humbled and honored to be here, Mr. President.”
What is it about this man?
the President asked himself silently as Peter spoke.
Is it his look? His manner of speech?
In a way that was impossible to articulate, the President found Peter not only to be credible, but also fascinating. Routinely in the presence of great men and women, the President was not easily impressed or awed, but Peter Carson had done both to him within seconds of entering the room.
“I really don’t know where to begin, Mr. Carson. To say that you have us all at something of a loss would be the understatement of all time.” The President was trying his best to be completely open and honest, to avoid all pretense and deception.
“You may, Mr. President, take us in all matters at our word, sir. None of us would ever try and lie to you, or to anyone else. We are messengers of God, appointed by Him for His purpose.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Carson, for putting it so bluntly; is this real? I mean, I don’t see how it couldn’t be, or a coincidence either, as has been suggested. But Mr. Carson … ”
“Please. Mr. Carson was my father. Call me Peter.”
“Very well, Peter. Then I ask you straight out, man to man, is God really working through you as you say?”
“What do you think, sir?”
The President was afraid of this question, but not at all surprised that it was asked.
“I think nothing else could possibly explain what’s happened over the past few hours. The other theories make even less sense.”
“The other theories, sir?” Peter asked.
“That you’re actually some form of alien life using our religious beliefs to manipulate us, or a mutant human being capable of extraordinary feats of psychic power by some unknown means, or that we’ve all gone mad and this is a mass delusion and you simply do not exist.”
“You believe in God, don’t you, Mr. President?”
“Yes, Peter. Yes, I do.”
“Then behold His vision.”
The President’s head snapped back, his skin bleached and he fell in a heap in his chair. The Secret Service agents and the other staff in the room wanted desperately to come to his aid, but found themselves unable to move. After a few seconds it was apparent that the President had not been harmed, but it was also obvious that his attention was now totally focused elsewhere and not on his immediate surroundings. He was staring off into space, his head and body twitching in reaction to some unseen stimuli.
For almost five minutes, this eerie drama played itself out as the President was forced to endure whatever trial he was facing alone, unable to receive help in any form.
Then, as abruptly as it started, it was over. Men who could now move again rushed to the President’s side. Two Secret Service agents had intentions of arresting Peter and his entourage on the spot, or at least forcibly removing them from the room, but of course their plan to use violence to accomplish these goals was, for now, an impossibility. Try as they might, the agents’ minds could simply not order their bodies to follow instructions.
The President quickly regained his composure and after a couple of minutes his color returned. He was once again lucid and focused.
But he was not the same man that he was before the vision, nor would he ever be.
“Peter,” the President said, as he shooed away the physician who was trying to examine him, “do you know what I saw?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I do. I know that the Lord has given you a glimpse of what the future will be for us if we fail to heed His call.”
“I did more than glimpse things, Peter, I experienced them. I felt all types of physical sensations; pain, hunger, sickness, death, and emotions too. I know it sounds crazy, but I believe I could not only listen to the thoughts of the people I saw, I also somehow shared in their existence. It was like I was a part of them. Weird does not … ”
The President stopped talking. He realized through their stares and silence that everyone in the Oval Office not associated with Peter Carson was asking themselves the same question.
“Have I gone mad, Peter?”
“No sir. In fact, I believe you’ll find that the more you pray about and reflect upon your vision, the greater your ability to make sense of the world, to truly grasp reality, will become.”
“Leave now, get the Vice President on the phone,” the first senior advisor whispered to his top aide. “I know he’s returning from Europe and his plane isn’t due in for two hours. Tell him I said we have a leadership crisis going on here.” These instructions were given in the back of the room, as far away as possible from Peter and the President.
“Sir, what do I tell the V.P. when he asks for details?” the aide asked, speaking as softly as he could into his boss’s ear.
“Tell him the President may no longer be mentally fit to hold office, that we may need to take extraordinary measures to protect the nation and the Presidency.”
Confused and frightened the aide quickly left, saying nothing more.
“Peter, if I told you that I was exhausted, more tired than I have ever been in my whole life, would that make any sense to you?” the President asked.
“When I received my first vision I slept for more than twenty-four hours afterwards, sir,” Peter acknowledged.
“Well, I don’t have that kind of luxury, but by God if I don’t get to bed right quick, I’m probably going to pass out in this chair.”
The two attending doctors and the Secret Service men then bounced back to the President’s side, called for a stretcher and an ambulance, and barked orders into their cell phones and radios.
“I swear, if you gentlemen don’t take your hands off of me and back off right now, I’ll fire the lot of you. I feel fine, maybe even tremendous, but I’m tired. Now leave me alone.”
The President motioned for Peter to come to him.
“Peter, walk with me to my bedroom, will you please? I really don’t have the patience for these dolts that I should right now.”
“Yes sir, Mr. President.”
If looks could kill, Peter Carson would have been murdered right then and there. The powerful men that surround the President had been rebuked and perhaps, in their minds at least, replaced by some low-life convict witchdoctor.
Men of such stature do not stand idly by and allow themselves to be reduced to irrelevancies. They take action. Every problem has a solution.
No one really noticed, but sometime during all of this commotion, Saul Cohen dropped to the floor in the back of the Oval Office. While the other disciples and Alex and Gail were busy talking to each other or trying to help Peter, Saul was hiding under the furniture. He was terrified, more so than he had ever been before in his life.
What Saul Cohen saw, no one else could see. It was a beast, a horrible and vicious image standing directly behind the President. Far beyond any image of hell or ghastly apparition he had ever endured before, this was something new, bigger, and more powerful.
Whatever it was, whatever its name, it knew Saul was watching him and the creature clearly did not like being observed.
The beast communicated only with Saul and only non-verbally, consciousness to consciousness.
“Shut up, ape boy,” the beast thought and Saul heard. “Or I’ll rip out your intestines and make you watch as I eat them.”
It wasn’t the threat itself that made Saul panic, other demons he’d battled had been just as vile and far more creative, it was the way the beast expressed himself, like it was a done deal. As if God and Christ had no authority over him. As if the beast feared nothing and had no need to.
Saul reacted to the monster’s threat as any sane man might, he shut down. Saul’s body and brain simply slipped into neutral. He sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide open, mouth agape and drooling, skin clammy and green, and was unable to think, speak, or move.
Nineteen
The twentieth of June was a day unlike all others that had come before it. A new version of reality was dawning along with the sun. No previous human experience could provide any context for what people everywhere would soon be calling “the restriction.”
Homo sapiens are genetically designed to take for granted that their brain controls their body. Without any noticeable delay, because neurons fire and muscles and tendons react virtually simultaneously, we think
move left arm
and it moves.
Step
and our leg extends. For the most part, we don’t consciously command ourselves at all, the directive and the action are one in the same. God indeed designed and built for us a magnificent physical machine in which to house our souls.