“My money.... I think I got that bill before - “
“You'll be all set. We're going to have you transported to an overnight room, so we can keep an eye on you. I'll make sure someone comes by to speak with you before you leave, gets you some clothes and your stuff.” She smiled. It was a tired smile, and Jack didn’t feel any real compassion in her voice.
He remembered.
“Doctor!”
She turned slowly, reluctantly, back. “Yes?”
“I can leave tomorrow, right? I have to preach! I stopped, to get food, and God punished me for my sin! I have to leave.”
The Indian woman (that's what she was, Jack realized, India-Indian) looked down for a moment as if weighing her next question. “You’re a preacher?”
Jack smiled with what teeth he had remaining. “Yes, ma’am. Everything happened so fast, all this excitement, I'd forgotten. But I remember, now. God has commanded I spread His Word before it's too late!” He shouted these last words. The doctor raised a hand.
“Please, sir. Keep your voice down.”
“I must spread the new gospel! I've been chosen by the angel Michael to give testimony to all who will listen, and I have forsaken my cause. No longer! God's judgment is upon us! His vengeance is nigh! Fear all you who will not heed -”
Neha Ramprakash rolled her eyes and motioned for the nurse. She turned her back on the preacher’s words and pointed to her own arm, putting two fingers up. The nurse nodded, and began filling a syringe with two milligrams of Haldol. She then made one last attempt at quieting Jack down, but he would have no part of it.
When the nurse gave the injection, Jack's voice began to soften. His words lost their edge. Neha turned to leave and heard, “...the flood will fall upon every household. Every street will fill with God's wrath. We will drown in our own sin...”
The voice trailed off, unable to maintain its train of thought. Neha waited a moment more, tried to keep the shock from her face.
Just a coincidence , she thought. That's all.
With that, she stepped past the curtain and wandered towards the entrance where a crying woman holding a bloody rag to her nose was hobbling in with the help of two friends. Neha moved in their direction. Work was important now. Work was the only thing she should be thinking about.
* * *
“I asked you not to talk about it to anyone!”
Robin stood beside the kitchen table, tears pouring down her face. Her older sister sat at the other end, glowering at having been yanked from school - again. Margaret didn't know whether Katie was truly angry or trying to mask her fear.
Ignoring the accusatory look of their teachers, Margaret had gathered both girls up and driven straight home. All along the drive she'd said nothing. Katie and Robin, perhaps worried whoever broke the silence was going to get punished, stayed quiet.
In truth, Margaret did not feel comfortable discussing their situation outside the house. No one could hear them now. No one could judge. She knew too well that when the load from the store arrived tomorrow morning, all of that would change.
“I'm sorry,” Robin wailed. “I want Crystal to come onto the boat with us! I don’t want my friends to die!” She collapsed, sobbing, into her mother’s arms.
“Shh,” Margaret whispered. “It's okay. It's okay. Go ahead and cry.”
Katie fought to retain the mask of irritation, but the corner of her eyes were twitching, fighting her own tears. She was afraid, and her little sister's words were hitting home. Their world might be centered here, with her, but there was also school. Homework, teachers, and friends. Friends who would die when the waters came. It just took Margaret longer to see the truth. As she held her daughter, rocking back and forth, she tried not to think of the people in her own life - her parents were gone, already safe in God's hands. But what about everyone else? Faces from college, neighbors, the other teachers, cousins scattered across the continent, mostly still living in Minnesota. Faces that in her mind's eye might soon be staring skyward and screaming.
The phone rang.
“Don't answer it,” she whispered, though Katie hadn't so much as glanced at it. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. Margaret heard the click of the machine, but no voice. The volume was turned down. She'd make it a point to leave it that way from now on.
* * *
“...as soon as you can. Please.”
Nick hung up. The call to check on the girls was genuine, but he had to admit it was more an excuse to touch base with Margaret. Her story sounded ludicrous, but Nick had heard other, more insane stories in the past, which the Church itself confirmed as true miracles.
This mustn’t be their last conversation. Too many things had been unsaid. He'd made enough mistakes in that one meeting to last him a lifetime.
The rosary was in his left hand. Simple white plastic beads strung together with thin loops of metal. Still, the feel of it against his palm reminded Nick of prayer, and thoughts of prayer brought calm. The parish’s oversized Bible was open on the desk, to Daniel. Before that, of course, Exodus and the story of Noah.
There were many references in the Word that discussed how the world did end. But these were not by water, but fire. That difference should be important. Something told him to check the Gospel of Luke. He would, later. Of course, Margaret hadn’t actually said the world itself would be destroyed. Devastated, perhaps. And what of the animals? She’d made no mention of them, but Nick had a hard time thinking the Lord would begin this ark business all over again and leave that part out.
He slammed the book closed and rubbed his eyes. What was he doing? Getting caught up in a parishioner's delusions. He got up and poured a fresh mug of coffee, checked his schedule. Rounds at the hospice on Avery Road in an hour, then at seven a promise to stop in the church basement to bless the weekly AA meeting. Something he did only when invited; otherwise he respected their need for privacy.
An hour to himself, then. Nick turned on the stereo and fumbled through his small CD collection. Something to sooth his mind and lead him to no other decision than to simply listen. Gregorian chants, perhaps.
When it clicked on, the stereo was tuned to National Public Radio. A story about a Senator from Arkansas caught in a paternity suit. Nothing he wanted to hear. Margaret had mentioned the radio, however. He hit the tuning knob, letting the receiver scan for the next clear signal. Rap. Scan. Something harsher, which he hadn't thought was possible. Scan. More music.
He pressed AM. Static. Scan. Sports. Scan. Sports. Scan. Another talk show, but not about sports. The moderator was rattling on about the school system and the latest rounds of test scores. Nick looked back at the CD. Monks chanting, calm, pure, holy, perfect. That's what he wanted.
Nevertheless, he laid the jewel case unopened on the floor, and sat back against a chair. He turned up the volume but ignored the words, walked across into his office and opened the browser on the computer. He Googled “Great Flood.” Added “dreams.” After ten minutes of dead ends, he found a blog. The owner kept apologizing while repeating the same story, almost word for word an echo of Margaret’s dream. Different setting, different angel, same –
“....yes, I know. We're all going to die.”
Nick turned around in his chair, listened to the too-loud voices in the other room.
“You talk like this is some joke... but I can hear the fear in your voice, sir. Fear of death, unatoned sins, of how they could still be washed clean -”