The Road to Emmaus: XIII

Murphy scowled at the television. Only three stations carried signals. TBS had cartoon marathons with no commercials. MTV had replays of old sports games. Channel Seven had the news. The television habbit died a hard death. He kept it on for noise.

"Happy?" Jake asked.

"Shut up," Murphy said. He swallowed beer. He stayed in his robes constantly and they stank. Every idea they tried backfired. Jake seemed pleased. "You know, I'm starting to see why they didn't like you the first time around," he said.

"Do you know the origins of the word 'scapegoat'?" Jake asked. Murphy drank more beer.

"I want to tell you a story," Jake continued. "It used to be a very popular one. It's about these two guys, kinda like you except there's two of them. They're walking down this road and a stranger comes up to them..."

"No," Murphy said. "No stories. Fix this," he gestured at the TV. "All you do is tell stories and little joke miracles and you let people walk all over you. Even the Pope laughed at you. No more. Fix us. Fix this."

Jake stared at him. Murphy gave up.


********************************************************

She could see a little. Sunlight winking off the ocean, blurry faces, small fires. This is what she saw. Dempsey's grey coat fluttered.

"You know," he said, "The last time you spoke was yesterday." She had a thousand responses. She knew where they were and what he'd done to get them here. It didn't matter to her one bit.

"Thank you," she said. He winced. He put the blanket over her knees.

"Look," he said, "I wrote reports for people. I had no idea."

"Dempsey," a man called, climbing the hill. "Someone got word out about Virginia."

"Huh?" Dempsey stood frozen.

"You go down to the tent," the man said, "I'll stay with her."

"Take me down there," she said. The men looked at her, at each other.

They took her to the tent. She saw moving parts of a great blob. She smelled the strange aroma of men in close quarters. Their voices wove in and out of a great conversation.

"Hal," the old man said, "This is Dempsey. And this is Erin." She got a feel for the man instantly.

"He's the one from Maryland?" she asked. Dempsey affirmed. "Mr. Kermin, we all appreciate what you've done," she said. "My eyes are bad, so forgive me if I'm not familiar with the contents of your flier. I trust it had most of the information in it?"

A silence ensued. Many other men gathered around. The wispering started.

"Thank you," she said to him. "Dempsey, have your man take me back to the hill." The old man did as she said.

Hal watched her go. "Does she have any idea," Hal began.

"Yeah," dempsey cut him off. "She, um, was injured in the first wave of bombs and then," he stopped, "She knows."

"Why don't they kill us?" Hal asked.

"We're working on that," Dempsey said. "They might still do it. They have the time."

"What's she really like?" Hal asked.

"Just as you saw her," Dempsey said. "Cold."

The Road to Emmaus XII

Simon woke in a bare gray room. He sat at a table and his diary was on it. The door across from him opened. A man entered. This older gentleman sat across from him and opened the diary.

"Simon," he asked, "Do you know who I am?"

"No," answered Simon.

"Do you have any memory of how you got here?" the man asked.

"No," Simon replied.

"Do you remember anything at all?" the man asked.

"That," he pointed, "It's mine. I want to read it."

"You will," the man lit a cigarette. "Right now you're under observation. We're trying as best we can to help you. Do you remember anyone from your past?"

"No," Simon said.

"You're a brave guy, Simon," the man said, "I've read this over ten times and I can't for the life of me figure out how anyone in your condition could pull this off. We've already had you looked at bya few neurologists, did a few MRIs, basic stuff. We'll be getting all the results back in a few hours. We'll know for sure then."

The man puffed on his cigarette. Simon froze.

"Wait," Simon said. The man lifted an eyebrow.

"I am waiting," the man. His voice sounded dangerous.

"Can I have one of those?" Simon asked. The man stood up. He tossed the pack on the table.

"Coming out," he said, and the door opened. Simon opened the pack. The door shut. He couldn't find a lighter. No lighter, no diary, he realized.

The Road to Emmaus XI

"All I've got is rumors," Hal Kermin said, "Some people escaped Virginia." They sat together in a crowded coffee bar inside the King of Prussia Mall.

"I've got access to a press," Evan Gherrity said, "There's five, maybe six guys willing to start around two. If we trickled in during the day, maybe." He crossed is legs. "I don't know."

"No," Hal said, "I'm watched. You got a deck of cards at home?"

"Somewhere," Evan answered.

"Grab our stuff and throw it away," Hal said, "Pocket what's under my napkin. Stick it in the deck of cards. Tell your guys to be ready. Pick the smartest one of the bunch, one good with numbers. Get the cards to him without meeting. Never say anything on the phone."

Evan looked down at his cup.

"You'll figure something out," Hal said, "Do what I say and sit back down. We'll make some small talk, then go run two quick errands. Go home, load the deck and figure it out."

Evan inhaled. Hal stared. Evan got up, grabbed the trash and walked to the bin. Under Hal's napkin was a business card. Without looking, he wiped his hands on the napkin, reached into his pocket and took out his keys. The business card dropped in his pocket. He fiddled with his keys. He walked back to the table and sat.

"You won't hear from me until this is all over," Hal said. "Still planning that evacuation to Denver?" Evan nodded. He thought of his wife and kids. He knew Hal well enough to take his word on this. "Yeah," Hal said, "Probably best. Smart. Everyone needs to be smart to stay safe. I just don't feel safe here anymore. Neither should you. Denver will be safer, but the whole world's gone nuts. You know what I do when things get nuts?" Hal asked.

"What?" Evan asked.

"I go somewhere nice, like Denver. I take a break from the wife and kids and go camping. I don't even bring a phone." Hal said. "Come to think of it, I know a guy out there who can work on your house while you get away for a while. You're wife can relax. He's a good guy. I'd trust him to work on my house. My kids liked him too."

Evan stood up. "Let him know the house needs work. It's good to have contractors you know."

"Don't shake hands," Hal said, "Go run your errands. I'll have my handy man check out the house even before you get there."

"Thanks," Evan said. Hal watched him walk away. They hadn't fooled anyone, he knew, but there was a chance the truth would get out of Pennsylvania. One good thing about rumors, he thought, is that they spread like a virus.

The Road to Emmaus X

Erin couldn't see the face. The room wavered. The colors changed.

He spoke, "Do you know where you are?" She shook her head. "Better that way. You're as safe as you're ever going to be."

"I'm sick," she said.

"You're drugged," he said. "Not that it matters. You'll be getting worse and worse for eight hours. It will feel like years. I will tell you now, I can tranquilize you, but not until I'm sure you saw nothing."

"Saw?" she slurred.

"You were at home when Hennen's exploded," he said. "You were cooking a meal. You saw the broadcast and were horrified. You saw it on the news. The stress has confused your mind."

"No," she said.

"Yes," he said, "Say yes."

"I don't know," she said.

"Do you know what this is?" he askeed, and showed her a large needle like instrument. "This it an extension of what we're going to do to you. The needle will hurt, and then you will feel your skin burn. You will have a fever, carefully monitored. Then, you will return to the hospital and be committed to a psyche ward for an evaluation. The doctors already know to committ you. You will continue to be drugged, unable to reason. You will be kept insane and hidden. You will disappear."

"You kill me?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said. "You'll suffer with the memories from here and from the imagined bombing. It did not happen. Say it did not happen. Believe it did not happen. You saw it on the news. I will tranquilize you and you will return to an outpatient care to be monitored. Break your promise and we take you here again."

"Where am I?" she asked.

"A bad place that doesn't exist," he said. "It can go away. It can. You were mistaken. Maybe you had a bad reaction to the news and thought you were there. Yes?"

"I saw it," she said. The needle went in her stomach and it hurt. The burning started.

"Rethink that," he said. She cried out. "You're an office worker. You can be a patriot by helping us to keep our country safe by denying all this. You had a post traumatic event. Believe it."

"Why? Why?" she asked.

"The world is under assault," he said. "Many will die if you continue giving information."

"Where's the Agent I saw?" she asked.

"I'm here," a voice said. It sounded like Agent Dempsey. "I'm sorry, but we had to do this. We have to."

"I," she said, "I burn... help."

"Put her to sleep for now," the man said. She drifted asleep.

The Road to Emmaus IX

"I'm here to read a statement from our beloved leader," Mauly Peppers said. "I will read this statement, and then, I will return to my home in Trenton, New Jersey. I will be followed, of course, by agents from every enemy we have, and that's quite a few people." She smiled.

"But we did not choose America as our enemy," she continued, "Nor did we choose the European Union or Israel. They chose to fight us. We wanted nothing from them. We did not choose the nations of Islam as our enemy. They choose to bomb us, kill us, fly planes into our building, behead our journalists and they did this in the name of a God which our faiths share. That Gos is YHVH, the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, the God Irsrael, the God of Mohamed. If they claim there are no innocents, then so be it. All are combatants."

"The Great Leader says," she looked down to a paper, "Dear friends and adherents of all religions. The Lord Our God has declared war on all nations and peoples that..."

Jacob turned off the TV.

"Uh, was watching that," Murphy said.

"Right," Jake said, "You were. No more of it for now." Murphy pressed the button on the remote. Mauly Peppers appeared, still reading.

"...the blood of the innocent will be shed for all so that..." The television shut off again.

"Why let me have the remote if your going to do that?" Murphy barked. The remote, he noticed, disappeared.

"Better?" Jake asked.

"The illusion of control," Murphy mused, "Or the certainty of predestination?"

"There are no illusions," Jacob said, "Only lack of perception."

"Thanks, Obi Wan," Murphy said.

"More Yoda-esque I'd say," Jake replied.

"Then we're screwed," Murphy said.

"Who is 'we'," Jake said.

"My God, My God. Why have you forsaken me?" Murphy cried out. Jacob laughed.

"Okay," Jake said, "You're calling for my help?"

"Don't make me ask," Murphy said.

"Rule 1, I don't play with guns," Jake said. "Rule 2, The Primary Directive," He smiled, "We cannot directly interfere or influence. There's some wiggle room there, of course."

"Picard held pretty straight to it," Murphy stroked his goatee. "Kirk. More like Kirk?"

"A happy medium," Jake replied. "But I'm not doing all the work. You still have your robes?"

"Yeah, but..." Murphy said.

"Well, presto," Jake waved his off-hand at him, "You're a Monk again. You remember your duties. And slow up on the booze."

"So," Murphy sat forward, "What do we do first?"

"We're off to see the Wizard," Jake said and they both smiled.

The Road toEmmaus VIII

"Erin," a voice said, "I'm Special Agent Dempsey. I need to ask you some questions."

"I've told you everything I can," she said.

"I'm with the FBI," he explained. "I know you've probably told everything to a lot of different people. Can you do something for me?"

She hesitated.

"I'm an expert on Domestic Terrorism," he continued. "The other people you spoke with gave me your report. I've read it. It's very informative. Could you try to describe from the minute before the explosion up until the ambulance arrived?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "Like I told Sherrif Marques, I was checking out. Just a few supplies for a nice dinner. A man walked in. I barely saw him. I don't know if he was carrying a bomb."

"He wasn't," Dempsey said.

"He wasn't?" she asked.

"No," he said. "This wasn't the type of bomb you could carry. The explosion was too large. It wasn't a nuclear device. Let's say that we know where the bomb went off, how it was detonated, and from where."

"Oh," she said.

"Did you see anyone sitting in a running vehicle on a cell phone on your way out?" he asked.

"No," she said, "I was looking at my groceries and loading my car."

"How often do you shop at Hennen's?" he asked.

"Once or twice a week," she said.

"What sections did you go to?" he asked.

"I always go to produce," she said, "Sometimes the butcher. Sometimes the Deli counter. I go to quite a few places in there. But I'm usually there for fresh vegetables. They had the best."

"You make your sauce from scratch, I hear," he said.

"I'm a bit compulsive about it," she admitted with a laugh.

"If I told you that you were three feet from the bomb, would that help your memory?" he asked. "We found bits of a crate there. Did you see a crate?"

"There's always crates," she said.

"Who brings them out?" he asked.

"They bring the in the front door," she said. "It's a local farm. Brayton's. I saw a Brayton's truck when I got out of my car. The tomatoes were really fresh that day."

"How long were you in the market?" he asked.

"Half an hour, tops," she said.

"Now," he said, "If you stop for a moment and think about the truck and the workers, did you see any crates being delivered? Make sure your certain either way."

"No," she said, "No. I think they were done."

"Did you know any of the empyees or owners of the store?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Do you know anyone connected to Brayton Farms?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Okay, Erin," he said, "I know this has been rough on you. Let me explain what's going to happen. You are going to receive a summons to Federal Court. I want to make things safe for you. That means you have to trust me. We're going to move you. We have doctors to continue your treatment, but we have to get you somewhere safe. Are there people you want to call to let them know?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll need to..."

"You can't," he said. "We will contact them for you. We know who and how. No one can know where we take you. They can't even be told we have you for a few days. Wait. Stop and think. They'll worry, but if we do it any other way, you're going to be killed."

Erin stopped breathing.

"In about five minutes there will be a group of agents taking you away from here. They won't speak to you," he paused. "I've read your chart. I need an honest answer. Are you fully blind?"

Erin tried not to sob. It burned her eyes. "I need to know," he said. "If you can see anything we have to blindfold you."

"Oh," she sighed. She shook.

"Erin?" he prompted.

"I'm blind," she said. The words came out bent and high pitched.

"I'm going to leave," he said, "but I will be at your new place when you get there. I'm sorry."

She cried. Her eyes burned like hell.

The Road to Emmaus: VII

The center aisle of St. Joseph's Cathedral caught sunlight. It followed the sun, east to west. During winter in the temperate mid-latitudes of the northern hemisphere, the sun traced a holy arch at forty five degrees from the southern horizon. It poked through the windows, and streaks of pure full spectrum light hit the burgundy carpet.

A tiny shuddering shadow of a bird in flight caught Simon's attention. Distracted, he lost his place. He glanced at his notepad. You are in Church at your father's funeral, it read. Emotion failed to register. He knew what a father was and what a church was. He understood the concept of funerals. Father? Further up the page ir read, you have lost your memory. I wrote this to remind you. There was further explanation. Whenever you stop concentrating, you forget most of what just happened.

The woman next to him put a hand on his arm, leaned in a whispered, "I'm your wife. I wrote that. Concentrate for as long as you can."

"How long does this usually last?" He asked.

"Your record is five straight minutes of remembering," she said, pursed her lips, continued, "The memory thing is permanent. But, you've come a long way. Concentrate on the funeral."

"But," he said.

"Not now," she said. He relaxed and fell into concentration. Something about the way she said it was so convincing, it challenged him.

"I'm going to concentrate this whole damn funeral," he said, "You'll see."

"No damn in church, hon," she said. "We'll see. Get to it."

Concentration meant Simon needed to catalogue details. Always start with the weather, he told himself. A strategy formed in his mind. The whether established the setting and lead to descriptive detail and mood. The sun shone, but they cried for a dead man. His father. His unknown father. My father is dead.

He lost his place.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Seven minutes," he said. "I have a life after all."

"It's taken you two years to break your old record," she said, "Congratulations. Now concentrate." His mind relaxed and continued cateloguing details. The sun shone. His father died. Green, the colour of nature in spring, did not exist in winter. People cried a lot at funerals.

"What's your name?" He asked her.

"Emily," she said. He liked Emily. Maybe they would have sex later. He couldn't remmber if they ever had. "Concentrate," she whispered, but he knew with certainty that this train of thought would distract him.

He lost his place. Thirty seconds into his next recall, he lost his place again. Emily replaced the note pad with another notepad. He looked at it, bemused at the daring of this stranger passing him notes in church. You've lost your memory. I am your wife. Relax and accept it for now. He sighed relief.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"I want to write a novel," he said at brunch.

"You were a writer," she humored him, "Do you think you could without remmbering? How?"

"I don't know," he frowned. "At least let me keep a diary. One decent notebook."

She thought about it and waited for him to lose his place and forget the idea. He stared at her a long time. I want to write, he thought over and over. "Fine," she said. "I'll get a notebook and I'll come up with a plan."

"One thing," he said, "Never look in it."

"How would you know?" She smiled.

"Just promise," he pleaded.

"You got it. I promise," she said. It was good enough.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This is not your diary. It's a secret novel. Turn the page to the outline and look for the checkmark where you left off. Find the next blank page and continue from there. She doesn't know, but you can concentrate up to an hour while doing this. Try not to get distracted by aimless thoughts. If you do, come back to this page, if you haven't already.

Satisfied that his plan would work, he tucked the notebook under his mattress. There would be all sorts of tibits in the novel. Anecdotes that explained the current world, and why he needed to accept it. Secrets thoughts and insights. Her habits and sexual deviencies. It would be...


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He read a passage:

"You tore the damn thing up and this is a sort of part 2. Some of it's edits and rewrites, someoriginal pages. Somedays we leave you a note to tidy up and closely bind in. We have yet to come to a decisions for when to prerest it for publicathin, but you'll have a long stretch of days doing the rewrite. Some of us are more on the ball than others. Hopefully, you're the initiative taking type that will begin to call a vote on when we should consider the whole thing done.

One of us wrote recently after sex with the woman. I hesitate to mention the location of that passage. Many of us disappear shorty after with a quick note, like "My turn" or "Hope it wasn't two minutes ago." You, being the endeaverring sort who's still reading, ablbeit at the mere drop of the work fuck I probably have kept only one of the three of you I can talk seriously too."

He'd never encountered this bebore. They all had secret friends within the book and subtle memories of them. This vice was new. Maybe he was one of the reknown Old Leaders from when the book was founded. He could be that louse, the Savoir or one of his followers.

They all relied on unverified reports of when his memory had been injured. Some felt he was 100 years old or more. These were immature assumtions. Best estimates had him between 20 and 50. Emily has 33 or 34, depending on who you asked and what they remebered. Why waste the good years writing a novel?

"Emily?" he called.

The Road to Emmaus: Part VI

"Shhhhhh," Mr. Daniel said. The television gurgled in the background. She saw dirt walls. "You're safe for now."

She didn't believe him. They'd punched her in the head to knock her out. It took six punches from multiple sides to do the trick. She heard a news report about her abduction.

"You see," Mr. Daniel said, "Before you reported the news. Now, you are the news." She screamed into her gag. He slapped her. "You ignorant woman. I'll tell you something newsworthy. Early in history, women were rulers. They were priestesses, governesses, judges. Then, something happened. The men rose up and took the power from the women. Do you know why?"

She squirmed. The foul smell of underground decay flowed in and out of her nostrils. She tasted blood. He put his hand on her head and pushed her cheek into the soil.

"Because," he said, "Women are stupid, evil and filthy. Praise be to God."

***********************************************

Murphy sat in the dark, drinking beer and watching television. He felt a pang of guilt when he wished the whole terror thing would go away so he could watch Grey's Anatomy uninterupted by news flashes. The guilt worsened when he realized his original guilt stemmed from watching Grey's Anatomy.

"I've had enough of this crap," he said. His legs wavered when he stood, so he sat. He shut off the TV. The last image, the one of Mauly Peppers in her bright pink Channel suit with the bright red tagline 'ABDUCTED', made him horny. More guilt, he thought.

The door opened and closed.

"'Bout friggin' time," Murphy said. "You missed another long night of watching the world go to hell." Murphy followed the footsteps down a long corridor to the kitchen. He heard the bottle opener click open a beer. "You're drunk again," Murphy said. He heard a second beer open. He took it when it was offered to him.

"You gonna do anything about all this?" Murphy asked.

"Nope," his roomate said.

"Why not?" Murphy asked.

"I seen worse," his roomate said, "Try 1100 to 1500. Now there's a world crisis for you."

"I asked you a question," Murphy said.

"Murph," he sighed, "If I start running around fixing every little problem the world gets into, no one learns to help themselves."

"They abducted Mauly Peppers," Murphy said, walking away. He stopped at the door.

"I know," Jake said. "That's why I'm drinking."

The Road to Emmaus V

Press Secretary John Valenti addressed the media two days later. He stood behind a podium, and lied his blood out. He told them the President was in a secure location. He told them several cabinet members, including National Security Advisor Sharon Parks, briefed members of the law enforcement and intelligence communities. He asked for American Citizens to report any suspicious activity. He explained that the threat level would remain at Red, until the proper government agencies felt satisfied that the attacks were over.

Secretary Valenti had a crib sheet of answers in front of him. The bolded, red font at the top of the page read, "I don't have any information on that at this time." John knew the job well enough to state that fact in fifteen different ways, each specific to types of out of the blue questions.

"Is the President expected to brief the nation?" a reporter asked.

"At this time, I can't give you a definite answer," John said. "We just don't have enough information."

"What about the idea that these attacks are being coordinated by a well funded, military organization or government? asked another.

"Well, Al Qaeda was a well funded, government back organization," John said, "But with the nature of these attacks, it's hard to envision the type of organization that could be capable of this. We're looking into a few possibilities, but without solid information, it wouldn't be fair to speculate about who did this. We're still looking at the how, so to speak."

"After looking over the intelligence, was their any indication that an attack was imminent?" one asked.

"All I can tell you is that, as far as I am aware, there was no prior knowledge of an attaqck and no real increase in chatter from the groups we continually monitor, but again, it's still to early to rule out anything. Hindsight being much easier than foresight."

"What about the idea that this is a Christian Al Qaeda?" a man asked.

"I'm sorry," John said, "I'm not sure I follow you."

"A radical Christian terrorist group," the man explained. John looked at his sheet of paper.

"I don't have any information on that at this time," he said. One person in the room caught the lie.


***********************************************




"This isn't about your church," Mr. Eli said, his voice altered and fuzzed. Again, Channel 7 had trumped the other news agencies. CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and all the old networks, CBS, Fox, ABC, NBC, plus many of the spiritual cable channels and even ESPN broke in to catch the interview.

"On that we agree," said Reverend Tom Hill. "This isn't about God at all. Your people slaughter in the name of God. No sensible church would support that!"

"Except for the Sand People," Mr. Eli said.

Mauly keyed off her live mic and said, "Joe, we have to cut him off. We're being used."

"String him out," Joe said. "The more we let him talk, the more rope the Feds can hang him with."

"If they catch him," she said.

"You," the Reverend said, "Are hiding your face and voice. You're ashamed of what you preach."

"No," Mr. Eli said, "I'm smart. And my God has given me wisdom beyond what you can understand."

"Gentleman," Mauly said, over the air, "If I may..."

"He's no gentleman," the Reverend said.

"He's right," Mr. Eli responded, "I am no more than an animal. But I am God's animal and I'm true to how he made me. They've killed our innocent Brothers and Sisters. The marry 40 year old men and 12 year old girls. Haven't we outlawed that? It's dispicable. It's not a religion, it's a slavery cult."

"You are killing innocents too," the Reverend said.

"No one on earth is innocent," Mr. Eli said. "Your teachings state that. My goodness, stand up for your people Reverand! You are going to let them die? For what?"

"Gentlemen," Mauly broke in the conversation.

"Careful, Mauly," the producer said. She backed off.

"Jesus Christ died for our sins," the Reverend put on his pulpit voice, "And if the Son of God did not lift a sword to defend himself, but begged his followers to turn away from violence..."

"He's changed his mind since his first trip to earth," Mr. Eli said. "This time he brings fire and the sword. One more thing before I hang up and send more imstructions. Mauly are you there?"

"Yes," she said, "I'm here but I..."

"Shut up and listen," he said. A raw shock of cold ran over her. "Go and interview a girl named Jenna Paulson from the Reverend's old parish in Orange, Connecticut. Ask her why he left them." He hung up.

The Road to Emmaus: Part IV

"Just as surely as if they put a gun to your head," Mr. Isaac said, "They held an entire nation, an entire religion, an entire world hostage." He stared, swiveling his head as he spoke, catching each pair of eyes along the way, pacing. Mr. Isaac, pacing like a rope-chord muscled panther.

"Well," he said, "Suppose one day a group - not some radical group, no no - but some group who would die for the Lord, stood up and said 'Take your heathen, bloodspilling, sand covered religion and go back into hiding, because the Lord isn't going to sit by and watch." Murmurs of agreement came from the crowd, "The Lord is going to send his people into the flames and like gold in a refiner's crucible, they will be cleansed. The Lord sets the table before us in the face of our enemies. The Lord will not forget his one true people."

He paced. People in the front row heard him make a low noise in his throat. "The Nation of Israel, the people of the tribe of Judah, and the followers of the Christ - God be praised - His followers all will unite. They claim to be the Sons of Abraham," he cocked an eye and grimaced, "Decendents of Abraham, yes. Sons and Daighters?"

"Have you ever heard of Ishmael?" Mr. Isaac asked them. People nodded and shouted affirmatives. "Ishmael was born to a servant girl, fathered by Abraham. Ishmael was cast out because he displeased God! Thus are the decendents of Ishmael not true Sons and Daughters of Abraham. Only those decended from Isaac can call themselves Sons and Daughters of God Almighty, and Allah is NOT the name the Father gave us to call him. Ask any Jew. Ask a well read Christian scholar. The name was Y - H - V - H and its pronounced Yadhevah, not Allah, may God strike them dead in their ignorance."

"If we are consecrated in God, by God, and for God, then we can join his Holy Struggle against the serpent sons of Ishmael, the heathen Islamists." He stepped of the stage and walked into the crowd. Like lightning, as quick as he had come, he left.

******************************************


The assasinations started twelve days after the bombings. Every hour another news broadcast interrupted regular programming. Twelve world leaders died, one every hour. Reports landed on secret desks in nonexistent buildings.

Beneath the streets of Baltimore, a small cadre of advisors rehashed Special Agent Dempsey's assesment, ammended to reflect his voicemail message.

"No one," the Guru said. He leaned back, the only one out of the eight assembled there that looked relaxed.

"How the hell does he get briefed, then?" asked the National Security Advisor.

"It gets to him," a young Intelligence Officer said.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's all we can say," said the Guru. "It's for his protection."

"Your job is to protect this country," Langley said, "We'll protect the President."

Every phone in the room rang at once. The Guru felt his heart squeeze to half its size. In the eerie half silence between ringtones, they looked at one another. They heard heavy boots marching down the corridor. Langley answered his phone. General Phillips answered the door.

"We need to move now," General Phillips said.

"Agreed," Langley said as he snapped his phone shut.

They stood and moved for the door. The Guru leaned in close to the NSA. "Stay behind for one second, Sharon," he said. The others left. He pulled a packet from his inside breast pocket and threw it down on the desk. "Go ahead," he said. "Open it. You want answers, there they are."

She felt the needle in her neck. Shock stopped her from responding. She fell and slid off the table.

"Bet they don't teach you that at kickboxing class," he said. She landed face up. She twitched. She tried to talk. Nothing worked. "Maybe we'll take you to see him after all," he said.

The Road to Emmaus: Part III

Special Agent Dempsey locked his office door. He turned on his computer. In one hour, he could type up a summation and present it to JCoS and SIC, but he had fifteen minutes and he was not tapped to present. AD Mosher would brief the Director and the Director would present it in an hour.

He realized a fifteen minute summation needed to cut the fat off and leave only fact and a hard, rational core of theory on why. He knew the facts. All of the attacks had been carried out on soft targets, mostly Muslim owned businesses and religious centers. Some didn't fit, but a pattern formed regardless. The attacks occured in the span of two hours and ended abruptly. He put the detail 'coordinated attacks' under a column of facts.

Given the freedom to preculate, he added a short statement about a single, anti-muslim entity. He held his finger over the backspace button. He moved on, adding that the facts ad stated did not add up to any known radical groups in the United States. He wrote a one sentence final assesment:

"However impossible it may seem, these attacks contain the imprint of a large, well funded military organization."

He felt no need to specify which organizations he had in mind. As with most jobs, the credit for being right would be snatched up by the boss anyways. The blame for being wrong would be his alone. He hit send.

The document printed automatically from his computer, and three other computers in the Washington D.C. area.

He cursed. He realized his blind spot. The document printed. Special Agent Dempsey made very few mistakes. He ommited mention of the blind spot, and used the phone to correct it.



**********************************



"This is a local piece?" he asked.

"Utah," the Producer said, "Salt Lake City. I want to air it as a breaking."

"What is he?" he asked.

"Don't know yet," the Producer said. They watched and listened as the bearded man spoke to the Reporter. "It ran last night. Wally caught it. Haven't heard anything about it except this piece."

"Who's the skirt?" he asked.

"Mauly Peppers," the Producer said. "She knocked one out on a CNN relay from New York. Channel 7."

"She's good," he added.

"Seems likely she is," the Producer said.

"Go ahead," he said. "Run it. Now." He sipped his tea. "Shut this off, put on The Network. And grab me a coffee from the fridge before you go."

"Sure thing," the Producer said.

In five minutes, he watch the uncut interview as it aired. He shuffled through The Network to see who piggy-backed their feed. A smile came and widened.

The Road to Emmaus: Part II

"I'm not understanding what I'm seeing," Mauly Pepper said into her collar mic. The producer cintinued his furious babbling. The monitors showed smoke and fire. Fifteen locations sent live feeds, digital video flowed in with angles and other locations. Mauly sniffed and flipped her hair back. "How long do I have?" she asked.

"Fifteen seconds," her PA said.

"I'm supposed to make sense of this in fifteen seconds?" she asked.

"Just read the prompt, Maul," the producer said. The ground shook.

"What the f-," a camera man said.

"Shut up and do your job," the director said. Footage popped up on monitor twelve. It was an old analogue TV they'd dragged in from a breakroom and wired up to a fixed relay. The feed had switched. Gearge Parks, the senior, had climbed out of bed to run the trucks today. Feed twelve showed a Mosque explode.

"In ten," the director said.

"What just happened?" Mauly asked? "You're dropping me in a pit here. Someone give me a direction for Christ's sake."

"Read the prompt," the director said. "It's another broadcast, Maul. Just another broadcast. In five." The lights came up. Five monitors showed the cut in. Breaking News, it read.

The red light went on.

"Good afternoon, I'm Mauly Pepper and this is a Channel Seven Breaking News Update," she said. Viewers across the Tri-State Area saw her, heard her.

"CNN is picking up the feed, Maul," the producer said, "Go get it." He keyed off his studio mic. "Leave it ti Dick to take a week when this happens. If she f-s this up..."

"Multiple explosions have rocked building in New York, San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, Ann Arbor, Kansas City, Portland Oregon, Portland Maine, Houston, Austin, New Orleans and multiple cities across Europe, Asia and the Middle East, most notably Jeruselem, Mecca, Medina and Beirut."

The switchboard locked up, as did the website. Massive DNS outages shut down the major news sites. Even Wikipedia ground to a halt. Severs and switboards across the world shut down to save the hardware. Satlites and relays switched to emergency government protocols. Phone lines went dead. Satelite phones lost service. Businesses closed. The FAA sent out an 'all down' signal. Jet fighters srcambled across the globe.

"Keep going," the director said.

"While there is no confirmation," Mauly said, "It appears that a well planned, coordinated terrorist attack, a campaign of global destruction, is underway. As information comes in, it is impossible to tell the scope of this worldwide assault on the major cities of the world. We take you live to footage from the scenes of the attacks," she said.

"Who wrote this?" the producer asked.

"Kim," the senior copy said. "Kim Nugyen."

"Get him a f-cking cigar, a pot of coffee and a bottle of whatever," the producer said.

"She," Kim said from her keyboard.

"Yeah," the producer said, "How much rope do you have?"

"About thirty words," Kim answered. "Let her fly solo over the feed for two minutes, I'll get us Murrow."

"Talk to the people, Maul," the director said.

The Road to Emmaus: Part I

She selected a tomato from the top of the bin. The firm state of the thing and its color gave it value. Erin's sauce had a reputation, and choice tomatoes laid the foundation for her modern epicurial bastion. Some, she fancied, even believed it could cure illness. In anticipation of praise, she walked a fine line between demanding perfection from her tomato base and being a totalitarian with genocide on the brain. Some tomatoes deserved a special place, others were pushed aside.

Had she been a complete dictator, she would hurl the vagabond produce from a high cliff into the ocean. This one, she thought while holding another, is not fit to live. Her human weakness made her set it down carefully instead of smashing it there and then, as an example.

She hated to think what would happen if she was thrown out of Hennen's. She saved the tomato selection for last. With fourteen ripe specimens, she hauled the old wobbly cart to checkout. The total looked outrageous if you'd never had the sauce. The left front wheel squeaked as she parked the cart right next to the baggage boy, a dark young fellow, not black but far from fair.

He smiled and she smiled back. The auto ringer heralded another customer. The bag boy waved. She prefered to keep her eyes on the boy. Maybe Middle Eastern, she thought. He had dazzling white teeth, strong black hair and a clean complexion. She wondered his age, and decided on twenty-two for decency's sake. God forbid she think those thoughts about a teenager.

She rolled out, squeaking. She located the 2006 Mazda and popped the back. She packed the ingredients and a wall of air knocked her down. Her skin relayed bad information to her brain. She smelled oven cleaner. Her ears rang. Her eyes watered. She breathed smoke and fumes.

She roled onto her back, seeing the store window broken and spitting flames. I didn't hear a sound, she thought, I didn't hear a sound. She spent the next eternity crying into the concrete.