Jack and his impromptu entourage emerged from the alley. Three people climbed out of a news van parked at the curb.
“Excuse me, Mr., um, excuse me! Roberta Gunn, Channel Five News.” The woman trotted beside him. A tall Asian man with a camera on his shoulder walked backwards for a time. After stumbling over a fire hydrant, he decided to follow alongside instead. The reporter continued, “Are you heading for the wharf?”
“Today,” Jack said, staring ahead, “is the day the Lord has given. Today is the day it shall be taken away.”
“Lee, you got that? Good. Save that one. Cut this next one for the intro. Ready?” Lee gave a shaky thumbs up. “This is Roberta Gunn, reporting en route to Christopher Columbus park at Boston's Long Wharf where the world-famous Preacher Jack will deliver his final message. In a little over two hours, according to this man and thousands of others across the globe, the world will be deluged in a Great Flood. We'll report back throughout the morning for updates As promised, live coverage of The Great Flood - Fact or Fantasy begins at eleven o'clock. Jimmy, what's that weather going to be like? Doesn't look like rain!” She laughed lightly, and Lee ran a finger across his throat. The red light of the camera blinked off.
“Get to the van and get that in. Jimmy's report’s due in eight minutes.” Lee nodded and trotted back in the direction from which they'd come.
Michael wedged himself between Jack and the reporter. He looked behind them. So many people pressing in. Too many dark eyes focused on the preacher.
They turned onto Atlantic Avenue. A parade was in the making. Fools, he thought. How can they celebrate when they should be on their knees?
The Boston police department set up barricades along the road. Reporters pushed their way past, microphones stuck in Jack's face, questions asked but not heard. He bellowed into the air, into the ears and hearts of the crowd, the words which God sent to him. He stumbled over a chord dangling from a microphone. A policewoman pushed the reporter away.
They crossed the sawhorse-designated path to the opposite end of the road. People stood behind the barricades, shouting obscenities, waving homemade flags reading “We Love You, Preacher Jack!” A bulging MacDonald's food bag spun from the crowd and crashed at his feet. He continued on, feeling the paper crunch under his shoes and the squish of a sandwich never eaten, seeing none of these details. He shouted, felt God's power ripping through him fiercer than ever. He feared he would tear apart before the final moment if God didn’t lower the juice soon.
Finally, they emerged into the park. With three cops in front pushing through the crowd, Jack worked his way to the heavy iron chain which served as a railing, in front of the harbor inlet.
“Good luck, Jack,” Michael whispered, then stepped aside. The multitude passed through the man as if he were shadow. The angel waded through the bodies and found a spot to stand at the top of a small hill beside the playground.
Jack looked around him, startled at first. Cameras on top of trucks parked along the curbside, police pushing and setting up barricades around him, giving the man room to move, but only a little. What struck Jack most were the people. Hundreds of them, staring in wonder or anger, snapping pictures, waving their arms. Cars inched slowly along the congestion on Atlantic Avenue, some tooting their horns, arms out of windows, sometimes with middle finger extended. More people arrived on foot from both sides. One face in the crowd, young with stringy blonde hair, captured his attention. Only for a moment. Though the face was familiar, Jack couldn’t focus with so many distractions. So many people waiting for the Lord’s words. He looked away.
The morning sun warmed his back and neck. He stood straighter, but said nothing.
Slowly, the crowd fell silent. There remained the constant hum of conversations, the occasional derisive comment. Compared to his arrival, the noise was that of a hushed congregation. Jack tried to raise his arms but they were too heavy. He felt weak.
The voice of Michael in his ear, though he spoke from across the sea of bodies. “Go on, my friend. Now or never.”
“Now or never,” Jack repeated. Then louder, “Now or Never!” He smiled. Nervous laughter. “Today, you -” he pointed to a fat man in shorts, black socks and shoes, “and you -” a pregnant woman standing nervously near the angel, “and you -” his arm swept the crowds, “will be standing before God and cringing under his gaze. Soon, so soon, the waters will rise up and fill your shoes.” Some chuckled at that. Jack began to pace his small, designated area. The cameras followed. “It will dampen your designer pant cuffs, soak your underwear,” more laughs from the congregation, “fill your mouths. You will try to swim, but there will be nowhere to swim to. You will fall back, feel the water in your lungs. You will be crushed against the pillars of the tempest!”
A rock, or maybe it was a broken piece of asphalt, was hurled out of the crowd. It passed harmlessly into the stagnant harbor behind him. “And I,” he continued, “I will go down into the sea with you, and together you and I will face the Lord's judgment. Together we will beg for His mercy.”
* * *
“Connor.”
Holly's voice was hoarse. She'd screamed at Clay for over an hour last night, begging him to let her go. She and Connor. He'd simply sat in his chair and stared at her. She had tried to scream for help, for the police. None came. Everyone was busy, preparing for the end.
Connor let out a wet burp, and Clay quickly wiped the baby’s mouth with a cloth. He picked up the plastic bottle again, and was about to resume feeding when Holly said, “Clay, no. Please. Let me feed him myself one last time. Even just a little. That’s all I have now.”
Clay's pale face darkened from its usual pale to an ashen gray. His sunken cheeks gave him the look of a zombie, especially now that the sun was up and washing out whatever illusions of health the artificial lamp light offered. She wondered how much he'd slept these past few weeks.
“You're all dried up,” he muttered. His mouth was full of spit, as if he'd been the one who had just drunk half the bottle of formula. “Connor needs to eat.”
She wriggled on the mattress, needing to move. The sores on her back and butt screamed at her. She had to do something. “Connor needs his mother. I still have some milk, but I won't for much longer if you don't untie me. Please.”
Clay looked at her. Two days ago, after feeding the baby, Holly had moved to put Connor in his crib, but instead lashed out at Clay with her bare foot and connected with his chest. She’d bolted for the door with Connor in her arms. Clay was on her before she’d moved two steps. Holly immediately gave up, fearing for the baby. Head hunched low she had dropped the baby back into his crib. Connor cried loudly then, wanting to play, wanting more than simple feeding and sleep and moving the few feet available in the room with his walker. Clay hadn't beaten her. Holly simply lay back on the bed, and let him tie her up. She had cried, apologized, but Clay said and did nothing but tighten the knots.
He never untied her again, neither for feeding or to use the bathroom. Instead, he'd come in with a bottle when it was time for Connor to be fed. Holly had shouted that it wasn't time for a bottle, but Clay ignored her. His skeletal frame reached in and raised Connor up, and together father and son shared the only true moment that should have remained for her and her son. She'd wept, more so when her breasts had filled without relief. Milk spilled from her, but Clay ignored it.
He did play with the baby more after that. If the universe wasn't so close to ending, Holly would have wondered if the man wasn't going through some final change for the good, deep under the horrific transformation he'd been passing so quickly through lately.