The crowd screams. Many attempt to board, climbing atop one another, only the coracle’s steep sides and rounded bottom render the feat impossible. The raging current from the flooding Tigris River sweeps the ark from its pilings, the scalding waters searing the flesh of every man, woman, and child.
Shep bellows an old man’s wail—
— returning his consciousness to the edge of the construction pit.
Hyperventilating, his chaotic mind struggled to surf this last wave of anxiety, even as a new vision took form before his eyes.
From out of the gray mist appeared the Twin Towers. Scorched, yet still standing. The two World Trade Centers had shed their concrete facade, revealing floor after floor of steel beams. Standing in unified silence within the framework of every bared perch of exposed office space were the victims of September 11, their identities silhouetted in the shadows.
Shep turned, registering the heavy presence of these lost souls through the supernal being standing on his left. The Angel of Death gazed at him through three thousand fluttering irises rotating within his hollow sockets like percolating molecules. Dark blood poured from the upturned curve of his olive-tinged scythe — a steady stream that rolled down the wooden shaft, pooling and dripping from the creature’s bony right fist.
Without warning, the Grim Reaper dropped feet first into the pit, the entity’s gravitational vortex dragging Patrick Shepherd with it… into the Ninth Circle of Hell.
Pankaj Patel drove the school bus over the curb and across an expanse of snow-covered lawn. Reaching the waterfront, he jammed on the brakes, the front end of the skidding vehicle smashing through the construction fence surrounding Pier A.
The younger children screamed. Francesca Minos swaddled her newborn to her chest, shielding him from the jolt. “Paolo, find Heath. Help him launch the boat.”
Still overwhelmed with emotion over the birth of his son, Paolo exited the bus, Pankaj and David Kantor in tow. Pushing through the battered gate, the three men made their way to the southwest entrance of the pier, entering the dilapidated building.
The scent of plague was overwhelming.
Heath Shelby lay beneath the suspended hull of his ten-foot Cuddy Cruiser, the deceased still partially dressed in his Santa Claus outfit. His complexion was bluish-pale, his lips stained in blood. A plum-colored bubo was visible along his neck.
Paolo turned away in horror.
David repositioned his environmental hood and mask, then knelt beneath the boat by the dead man. “Your brother-in-law… he was repairing the hull?”
“Yes. He said… he promised he’d finish before we arrived.”
“I don’t know if these patches are going to hold.”
“You’d better pray they do.” Pankaj inspected the winch. “Paolo, how do we launch?”
“Start the winch, and the hatch will open beneath the boat.”
Pankaj activated the generator, then started the winch. Two steel doors beneath the boat slowly swung open, revealing the water eight feet below the pier. They watched as the Cuddy Cruiser was lowered into the harbor. It bobbed gently along the surface. Exhausted, the three men looked at one another, smiling at death’s reprieve.
And then the ten-foot passenger boat lurched to starboard, its bow heaving as its aft end filled with water—
— salvation sinking to the bottom of New York Harbor.
He was falling into darkness, the sensation accompanied by a rush of voices — distant memories — echoing in his ears. Sewer ball! Go fetch, German Shepherd… Not our battle, Sergeant… Well, you gonna stay down there all day… You pitched a helluva game today, son… Damn IED. Arm’s gone, skull’s fractured pretty badly… You said your good-byes three weeks ago… It’s a lot of gear, but you’ll be glad you have it… I love you, Shep… Blood pressure’s dropping! I need another pint of blood… I thought I was your soul mate?… Now pitching for the Red Sox—
God, why am I here?
“Life is a test, Patrick…”
The speck of light raced up at him from below, growing larger… wider—
— and suddenly he plunged through, submerged in clear, blue water. He panicked, disoriented… unable to breathe. He struggled, then kicked and stroked to the crystal azure surface, his bare arms tan, muscular, and intact. Swimming to the ladder, he hoisted his bathing-suit-clad body out of the swimming pool. Disoriented, he knelt on the slate patio deck.
An oceanfront beach house. The sun, warm on his face. Water rolled off his physique. The Atlantic Ocean pounded softly a hundred yards to the east beneath a cloudless blue August sky.
This isn’t real, it’s the vaccine…
“Hey, baby. How was your swim?”
He turned as she stepped out onto the patio, her body curvy and tan and irresistible in the skimpy red bikini, the wavy-haired blonde as gorgeous as the last day he had set eyes upon her.
“Trish? Oh God… is it really you?”
“It’s okay, baby. Everything’s gonna be all right.” She held out the hooded bathrobe for him.
He slipped it on, feeling light-headed. “You’re not real. None of this… it’s all in my mind, I’m hallucinating again.”
“Not this time, baby. This was the life the Creator stole from us… all to teach you a lesson.”
“A lesson? What lesson?”
“Humility. The pain of losing a loved one.”
“But the war… all that came after you and our daughter died. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Apparently, these were transgressions from a prior life.”
“This is insane. Why am I being punished for something I can’t even remember? Why am I responsible for some other guy’s mistakes? And why am I here… now? Is God rubbing it in my face?”
“This isn’t God’s doing, Shep. We’re in the eleventh dimension, a far-more-livable realm that plays by a different set of rules. All of the filtered Light here is controlled by the Adversary.”
“The Adversary? You mean Satan.”
“Relax, baby. There is no devil, no demonic force. In the eleventh dimension, we’re not required to jump through hoops or endure endless suffering. All we have to do is want. Don’t look so worried. Every one of us is born with the desire to receive, that’s the entire reason we were created in the first place. Lucifer isn’t the devil, Shep, he’s an angel who left Heaven to help man be happy. Our desire to indulge brings the Creator’s Light into the eleventh dimension — an endless existence of fulfillment without all the needless pain and suffering.”
A flash of light—
— and he was standing on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park, facing the Philadelphia Phillies in Game 7 of the World Series. The sellout crowd is going wild, chanting his name. The score is 1–0 Red Sox, top of the ninth inning, two outs, two strikes on the batter.
The scoreboard revealed that he was throwing a perfect game.
He wound up, launching a 106-mile-an-hour fastball that the batter missed by three feet.
His teammates rushed to him from all sides, their boundless joy intoxicating his soul. Fans poured out from the bleachers, delivering scantily clad women who pawed at his uniform—
“Enough!”
They were back at the pool, Shep lying outstretched on a cushioned lounge chair. Trish hovered over him, her oiled cleavage tantalizingly close.
“Baby, what’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted?”