Margaret's Ark (34 page)

Suresh was tempted to agree,
just in case
, but it would have done the message of the
deva
a grave injustice. Everything would be gone in ten days, and he did not need a contingency plan.

George finally stopped in the middle of the parking lot, shouting that Suresh might still have a job if he came back after this hysteria was over. Suresh did stop then, turned and almost told him that
no one
would have a job after it was over. But he'd sworn to Neha he would not do this, and he could not betray her as he had done momentarily in Arlington weeks before. He simply smiled, and waved goodbye.

The Boston Police department issued a statement last night on the news that they would allow the preacher to continue until the end of the day on June eighth, at which time they hoped he would agree that his “services would be no longer needed.” Suresh heard a few laughs from the unseen audience of reporters.

The truth was that if they sent him away, the preacher would return the next day. Rather than arrest him, for the officer on the radio admitted he was breaking no real laws besides a possible
Creating a Disturbance
; they decided to wait him out. Then the officer said something surprising, to Suresh and possibly the reporters at the press conference as well, for no one pressed him on the subject. The man had said, “Besides, he feels that he's doing the right thing, as do a number of other people around the world. If they’re right, we'll know soon enough. If they're wrong, then they'll stop and join the ranks of the Y2K prophets from the turn of the century.”

Suresh now sat on a small grassy slope amid a field of bricks and cobblestones, facing the preacher and the inlet beyond. The waters of Boston Harbor swayed up and down with the tide, casting plumes of seaweed and grime against the wall and the pillars of the adjacent boat moors. In the growing noontime heat, the ocean smell was strong. He would have to leave before low tide, when the stench would likely worsen.

What if Neha tried to call his work phone instead of his cell? He mentally shrugged. When was the last time she had done that? He would get some lunch soon, maybe drive up to Woburn to catch a movie. He didn't want his neighbors to see him come home at an odd time. As far as Neha was concerned, he'd simply gotten approval for the days off. He did not need to explain to his wife that their income had dropped considerably. He didn't like to see her upset.

7

Margaret's theory on food supplies had proven true. The escalating media hype, and the population's response to it, culminated with the tagline
One Week To Go,
in conjunction with the world turning their calendars to June. Sudden realization struck home, and the stores were inundated with panicked shoppers. Canned goods were tossed into overloaded carts, shelves of bottled water emptied, batteries taken regardless of their voltage. Milk, beer, dried foods. Everything bought, nothing left.

Just in case
, they thought.
Just in case
.

Television and radio hucksters capitalized on this fear, opening virtual shops to sell the dehydrated foods they weren't able to push in 1999. They preached their shallow sermons, homilies turning into sales pitches for survival goods and pledge requests.

In San Francisco, the hair atop the widely popular Mick Starr had completed its slow but obvious transition from jet black to gray, a transformation he stated was “expedited by each visit from the angel of God.” Like Charlton Heston's Moses, his eyes falling upon the angelic servant of the Lord had “set my hair to shine like God's own glory!” His massive ark, with its hundreds of leather seats, was sold out. “My people are working overtime,” he said, “on God's good graces and your generous support to complete the second and
larger
ship before June eighth.” By all accounts, he would make his divine deadline.

Margaret watched one of these reports from the firehouse’s living room. She knew, with a tearing of her heart, that everyone aboard those vessels would die. The ships would sink, no matter how well they'd been constructed. Aside from the fact that Starr was blatantly foregoing God's design (other people, more legitimate and adept at ship-building, were doing as much on smaller scales), accommodating so many passengers and using seats rather than harnesses proved to Margaret that the man could not have been visited by any angel. There was also one other, completely unrelated, reason. Legitimate or not, Mick Starr was a preacher, a leader of people, and from everything she'd come to understand these past two months, no one in that position would have been visited by God's messenger.

Margaret's ark was completed, save two details. The first – checking and re-checking every harness, testing each with an adult and child. Katie and Robin were the willing guineas pigs for the latter. Round and round, adults - usually Carl or his classmate Andy whom Carl never seemed to take any further liking to - and the girls took turns being lifted in. More than once, a harness broke from its mountings and someone's butt landed with a thud on the floor. More often than not it was Andy, who never seemed ready for such an eventuality.

Baby dolls were dropped in and the straps tightened around them. One of the newer couples in the crew had a one-year old daughter. Though the mother insisted she hold the baby when the time came, Margaret would have none of it. In it went, and the twin straps were pulled and adjusted around its chubby, flailing limbs.

When every harness was ready and tested twice without coming loose, the arguments began over where each person would “sit.” Margaret left that responsibility to Estelle, who muttered, “Thanks a lot” under her breath, but not without a smile. Personal preferences weighed against ballast issues, the need to evenly distribute weight across the hull. Estelle would find the balance, Margaret knew. She always did..

“But why such bizarre seating? Why harnesses?” Questions asked by more than one person, and more than once, Margaret had to admit she didn't know the answer.

Nearly everyone in the crew now contributed to the added expense of hired security, on top of what it cost for the food and supplies. Margaret suspected more than a few withheld money, keeping something in the bank. A precaution. Margaret didn't like to think too hard on finances, but it was hard not to. Day-to-day work was taking on more of a material bent. The need for supplies, fine tuning the ship. Every day brought exercises in bringing the mast up from its mounting below deck, dropping it into the fitting from above, re-securing it below. Rigging the small sail, over and over. Routine upon routine. A routine she knew had to be done if they were to survive what was coming.

The days raced too quickly toward the end. Margaret fought a constant sinking in her belly. She was beginning to guess the answer to the questions of the harnesses, even before the dream, which came in the early morning hours of June 1st. Even before the angel David showed her in his frustratingly dramatic way, Margaret had begun to understand.

David had not intruded upon Margaret's dreams since the town meeting. She assumed that he finally came back to scare her, give her what he assumed was that last important push. When he did, nothing felt the same afterwards. The routine, the small talk at night onboard the ship, sent waves of fear through her.

Didn't they understand what was going to happen? Why couldn't she say, warn them? But the angel was firm in his command. “Say nothing,” he said. “Just know, and be prepared.”

In the dream, David said, “Now that June is here, the people will feel the pull of time more than ever.” He pondered his statement for a moment. Finally the angel smiled. The expression looked odd, that perfect face twisting into an almost bashful, boyish grin. He looked at her and said, “Sorry. I can be a bit melodramatic at times, can't I?”

Margaret laughed and agreed. When David began to walk across the star-lit yard, she followed. If it were possible, the angel looked anxious. No, that wasn't right. In retrospect, later that day, Margaret thought he looked nervous. Did angels in heaven have the same sense of
time
that she did? She hadn't thought so. Still, he seemed on edge more so this night than any other.

“It's been a while,” she said as they walked towards her old picnic table. In the waking world, it had been summarily dismantled and assimilated into the ark.

David nodded. “I come when I'm needed. You've been remarkable in what you've accomplished, Margaret. But there's more to come. I think you'll be ready for it.”

They stopped at the table. On it was a large curved bowl, colored in a light shade Margaret could not make out in the gloom. David gestured to it. “I'm here because I had promised you some answers. You need to understand, at least in a general sense.”

“Understand?” She knew what he meant, but felt the need to add
something
to the conversation. Her heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her ears.

“Take the bowl in both hands.” He stepped away from the table. Margaret reached out and lifted it, holding her palms against the smooth surface. It was filled almost to the brim with water. Some splashed over the edge. The water was cold.

David's face was gone, lost in shadows. “Run,” he said, in a voice different than she'd become accustomed to. It was deeper, resonating through the water and bowl, through her fingers.

She stammered, “What?”

The voice repeated, louder, “Run.” The dark figure, which no longer resembled David, moved towards her. Margaret took a step backwards.

“Turn,” it said, “and run. Now!”

Margaret turned and ran through the yard. The water sloshed a bit, spilling across the back of her hand, then settled as she fell into a rhythm. She was running through the yard, slowing as she neared the street.

David with the dark featureless face was beside her. “Do not slow,” it commanded in an echoing voice, “Run. Do not turn, or stray from your course!”

She resumed running, faster, across the street, towards her neighbors' fence. She wanted to stop, but the figure remained beside her, behind her, beside her again.

She passed through the fence, through the shrubs and trees. She was a spirit in the night, racing through cars parked on the next road, through houses, sounds of late night television and an insect’s buzz, all passing behind her. She reached Route 101, passed through, screaming in terror as cars careened over her, past her, though her, and still she ran. Faster.

The world became a blur.

The dark figure was no longer with her, but she felt him, felt
it
, breathing on her, looming just beyond her vision. “Run,” it hissed, “Faster, faster --”

Faster and faster, the trees, houses, towns and images flashing, too fast, she was going
too fast
.

There were others now, vague shapes coming into focus, running alongside her to the left and right, solidifying. She turned her head but found it made no difference in her speed. Her legs pumped and blurred and were gone. The people beside her likewise were only blurs below the waist, each holding a bowl like hers.

She watched their faces, white, pale, black, ashen, men, women, naked, in suits, teenagers, old men, all with terrified expressions. Some of them screamed. Wispy, ethereal creatures loomed behind each. Tendrils extended like clawed hands the barest breath away from ripping them apart. Everyone turned and saw everyone else, saw what chased them across the world, realizing something darkly similar was behind
them
. They screamed and ran faster.

The water sloshed gently in her bowl. Margaret's blinding travels were so constant, her steps like flying, that the water remained mostly at peace in its container.

“Faster!” thousands of spectral voices screamed, and the world raced by, around and around, a quick flash and Margaret saw her house, or thought she had. It was gone.
She
was gone, across the world.

Her legs were getting tired. But how? This was a dream - had to be a dream - not real.

Something ahead, a billion figures far away but each clear among so many indistinct shapes. She saw every face, every hand raised in terror as Margaret and the others approached them. Then screams and screams and
screams
!

David stood in front of her, right hand outstretched. “Stop!”

Somehow, Margaret stopped, as did the others in front of their
own
angels. David disappeared, leaving only the screaming multitudes ahead of her. Her bowl remained firmly in her hands. But the water poured forth. More than should have been possible.

As one, the stream surged forward and enlarged, engorging itself on the very air, merged with thousands more pouring out of thousands of other bowls. The sounds of the multitude's screams were lost under the deafening roar of the water rushing madly over them. Margaret screamed, watched the water pour into a billion gaping mouths, wash over them. Then they were gone. All of them lost below the tide.

The sound cut out. Everything became black.

Silence.

Margaret fell forward, screaming without any sound. She lay in the blackness, not the world any longer. No people, no sound.

Grass under her face, glowing in the starlight.

She touched it, stared at a single blade, for how long she did not know. She dared not look up, afraid of what might be watching.

A breeze, slight and cool, played on her face. Margaret eventually looked around. The common. Not her yard. The ark loomed like a beached whale beside her. The ramp was down and David the angel stood at the bottom, face solemn.

“Say nothing,” he whispered. “Just know, and be prepared.”

At that moment, Carl ran through him. David dissipated into tendrils of mist.

“Mrs. Carboneau? What are you doing out here?”

Margaret looked up, saw the sky graying with the dawn. She sighed and whispered, “Are you ever going to call me Margaret, Carl?”

The boy's shoulders sagged in relief. “No,” he breathed. “I don’t think so.” He chuckled. Margaret got up slowly and walked past him, up the ramp and down below deck. She fell back into dreamless sleep in the sleeping bag beside her daughters.