A Great Tribulation Read online

  “Can I help you?” the principal fellow in the group with a shaggy beard asked.

  “I'm looking for my fur buyer, Joe.”

  “The stocky, bald fellow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, he's out back.” The men laughed.

  Eustace didn't see why or what was amusing—until he was led out back—that is if he was the twisted mind that executed the outrageous sight he had the misfortune of happening on. Poor Joe tied up to a pole and stripped to his underwear.

  An appalled “why?” escaped Eustace's lips as he hurried to the side of a mortified Joe, asking about his welfare, but he could barely make out the man's response. “He has whiplashes for God's sake!” he said to the men.

  “That's what you get for not joining our cause.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “We are building a new Rome.”

  “A new Rome? I don't think this area is zoned for that,” Eustace quipped.

  “Don't be facetious...what's your name, old man?”

  “Eustace.”

  “Jud,” the shaggy bearded fellow introduced himself. “What are you, a White Flightee?”

  “What?" He knew what he meant by the White Flight movement: whites, fleeing from the contamination of immigrant Mexicans and blacks in the cities. However, he refused to dignify the statement outspokenly. "I am a mountain man.”

  “Just a mountain man,” Jud repeated as if disappointed.

  “I'm sorry,” Eustace said out of patience, returning to the original question: “the whiplashes!?”

  “Joe here is what's wrong with America. People like him take your hard-earned fur, making millions off it while you get chump change. If that isn't enough, I gave him a chance to redeem himself by joining us, but he refused.”

  “So!? He's human.”

  “You sound outraged, Mr. Eustace."

  “Very. The man needs medical attention.”

  “I doubt he'll be getting any medical attention. It's chaos out there. Imprisonment is what Joe here deserves, but I don't think putting a man in a boxed space reaches the heart as a good old lashing. This is the one area the Muslims and their Sharia Law got it right. Nothing like a good punch of humiliation and pain to reborn a man. God knows our good Lord and Savior suffered the same and he wasn't even guilty as charged. Are you a Christian, Mr. Eustace?”

  “Yes, but not a fanatic. I do read the bible, yes.”

  “Then you might be familiar with the words: 'Awake, O sword, against my shepherd, and against the man that is my fellow, saith the LORD of hosts: smite the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered: and I will turn my hand upon the little ones,'” Jud quoted the prophet, Zechariah. “We elect these senators to Congress to shepherd this country and all we hear back is a bunch of hootenannies and flip-flopping.” He went to the pole, and bidding Eustace aside, he pulled Joe by the hair. “I asked you for a head and you farted on my face by saying "'no'"...you will suffer their fate. In a few minutes here, am going to filet you and maybe make a trade of it with the animal kingdom. You hear me?”

  Joe was overly drained—emotionally and physically—to make a reply. However so, the horror in his facade was unmistakable.

  “What say you, Mr. Eustace? Joining our course—your sons in the truck and your knowledge of these mountains will suit us well, good sir.”

  Eustace hesitated. “And what do I get from this?”

  “Apart from joining a great course and taking back our country and ushering it into a brave new world, name your cherry on the icing.”

  His lips parted as if to speak as he stalked closer to Jud, but with a sudden deftness unlikely for a man of his age, Eustace was behind Jud like a wraith, taking him hostage by the neck, while his other hand threatened to slit it with a hunting knife. “Drop your weapons the rest of you!”

  “What are you doing, old man,” Jud said with more venom than fear.

  "You quote the bible quite well, but people like you and extremists of all faiths alike is the problem with religion." He turned to the others. “The weapons! Now!” Eustace reinvigorated, drawing blood from Jud's neck. “Don't think I won't go deeper...”

  The weapons began to drop. One after the other.

  “Now step away.” The men obliged reluctantly.

  “Don't do what you can't undo, old man,” Jud continued.

  “You. Untie him,” Eustace bid one of the men concerning Joe.

  “You think he's all right?” Michael asked the others.

  “Look,” Marty said when members of the brotherhood emerged from behind the building with their hands behind their heads. Three members of the brotherhood who were standing guard by the camouflage trucks appeared as befuddled as the boys were.

  Michael sprung out of the truck when Eustace said, “drop your weapons,” to the three armed men of the brotherhood.

  Donald and Marty were out of the truck too— “get their weapons,” Eustace told them. “There are more out back, get them as well and load them in the truck. Michael, slash all the tires.”

  Michael jumped into action, frantically slashing the tires as fast as he could without further questions like 'how in the world did ol'Eustace get the revered Ehud brotherhood into a compromising hostage situation?' By the time he was done slashing the tires of all five trucks, Eustace had the men on their knees. Their leader, Jud, was belly flat on the floor with Eustace's boot on his neck and a rifle to reinforce his dominance. The old man continued to impress

  Unbelievable.

  “Joe, can you walk?”

  “Barely,” Joe croaked.

  “Get him into the truck,” Eustace told Donald when they'd loaded the truck with the guns. “And let's get out of here.”

  “Wait...” Joe objected. “Alfie, my young son is in the basement of the building. The entrance is in the backroom, please help him. He's being there for three days.”

  “Get him,” Eustace told Marty.

  “You should kill me now, old man, because you might not get this golden opportunity again—”

  “Hush!” Eustace said crushing his windpipe with his boot. “What do you think Michael?”

  “What?”

  “Your opinion. You said you know him.”

  “I knew of him,” Michael corrected. “He's the most wanted religious fanatic in the United States. If the world were to see this right now, you would be the most venerated man of the century.”

  “Too bad we have nothing to film this. Just walkie-talkies—”

  “Go for Eagle! Falcon for Eagle! Eagle?” the walkie-talkie on Jud's side crackled.

  “Mind if I use my walkie-talkie?” Jud asked.

  “What are you going to ask for? Awaken the corpse of my grandmother?” Eustace said with a sardonic note.

  “If a reunion is what you wish, I'll be glad to make it happen.”

  “Maybe I ought to kill you." He smacked Jud unconscious with the butt of his rifle.

  Marty emerged with Alfie. Joe ran forward with all the might he could muster to embrace his son, elated despite the bedlam.

  “Up! All of you!” Eustace relieved Jud of the walkie-talkie as it crackled away. He ushered the men into the shop, and locking the doors behind them, he said, “I hope I don't live to regret this.”

  Diane was quickly off the couch when Eustace and the boys burst through the door.

  “What happened!?” she demanded, her pulse spiking with trepidation.

  “Joe was attacked.”

  “By his slave owner? He has whiplashes for God's sake!" The poor fur buyer looked feverish and glistened red like a smoked sausage. “Get the cot, Caroline, before he bleeds all over the floor.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” Alfie asked Diane.

  “I sure hope so."

  "I will son," Joe said faintly, his lips cracking with a frail smile.

  The man's wounds needed to be cleaned up and disinfected for starters. Not to mention a lifetime of psychotherapy.

  “Will somebody tell me wh
at happened?” Diane asked again.

  “Get everything from the truck, boys,” he turned to Alfie. “Would you mind joining them?”

  “I want to be with my dad.”

  “Please...” Eustace insisted.

  With a head nudge of approval from his father, Alfie reluctantly went off. And helping Joe onto the cot Caroline had brought, Eustace began to relate to Diane all that had happened at the fur shop. She was horrified. So were Caroline and Keira.

  “When he said he gave you a chance to redeem yourself what did he mean?” Eustace asked of Joe.

  “My half-brother, Alton, is a senator. He is also my boss. Alton put me here as a henchman for his fur enterprise. Jud and his people were going to use me to get his head...literally, I might add.” He began to sob and, “when I didn't, they—they—”

  “It's all right,” Eustace comforted him.

  “You think they'd be able to track you here?” Diane asked.

  “Not likely.”

  Diane began to sob too. Understandably, he went to her hugging her dearly and kissing her forehead. "You are shaking."

  “You know I hate when you put yourself in harm's way.”

  “And I hate when you get this touchy, woman.”

  She pounded on his chest. “What am I going to do with you?”

  He kissed her. “What will I do without you. until death do us part remember?”

  Later that evening, Eustace retreated from the house to the outhouse. For the first time since he built the structure, he was going to use it for what he planned on using it for—not a working space—when heard something go “bump” from within the room, but when he turned on the light to inspect, there was nothing.

  He continued on, running his fingers through his hard-earned work: pelts, primitive bows, and arrows. He inhaled sharply with pride before collapsing on the recliner before the television that was staring back at him blank and idle. He was tempted to see what was on—now more than ever since he learned about the mayhem in the city—uncorking a bottle of homemade wine, he eyed the remote control to the television reluctantly. A long time ago, he made a covenant with his eyes not to indulge in the entertainment of the one-eyed demon: the television. One moment he was gulping his wine, the next he found the remote in his grasp and soon the television had blinked on.

  The news was on. It was the same old rhetoric of terrible, depressing events except on steroids since the last time he last turned on the demon. It was as if the Middle-East had expanded its borders to the Americas. The reports were of bombings, shootings, and views of cities he once remembered as beautiful now with pockets that were now dystopian in nature. The epitome was that of frustration, chaos, and malfunction—desperately in need for “Peace and Security!” as noted by the news reporter.

  Last on the news was the manhunt of a charismatic, clean-shaven, chiseled-faced fellow. The fellow's eyes were eerily angled with a certain darkness and for some reason familiar. The fellow was the alleged suspect of several city bombings, abductions, beheadings and bank heists in the name of a religious revolution called the “Ehud March.” His name was Jud Manhorn...

  Eustace felt his heart sink.

  It was him...

  Without the beard.

  The boys were right. Jud was an extremely dangerous man. If he had known this, he most likely wouldn't have done what he did earlier...

  He was still in his thoughts when he heard a sneeze that did nothing to ease his agitation. “Who's there?”

  He made long strides for the couch the sneeze had come from with his hand to the hilt of his hunting knife when to his surprise the face of his wife emerged from behind the couch. “Diane...? What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” She retorted, struggling to repress a laugh.

  Then he knew. She'd been watching television prior to his arrival. There was another giggle that wasn't from either him or her, but unanimous to his daughter, “Caroline?” He saw her beaming eyes behind her mother on the other side of the couch. “Is there anyone who hasn't been watching television in this house?”

  CHAPTER III

  After an hour of digging through the woods like a squirrel searching for its buried nuts, Rafel emerged with an unearthed briefcase. Chained to the briefcase was the key to a car, as expected. He pressed the "honk" button and the vehicle sounded back with a faint honk from afar. He pushed down on the button several more times and followed the sound, from where he was lead to the main road that traversed through the woods. It was a blue Sedan parked on the side of the road. He was cautious to survey his surroundings before claiming the car.

  It was perfect: not too flashy and low profile.

  Rafel sat in the car feeling his new ride before making an inventory of his briefcase. Within was a nine-millimeter glock, a stack of money—he skimmed through—and estimated to be about five thousand dollars. Most important of all was his new identification card with the name: Ralph Pfeiffer. Lastly, his new address which he put in the vehicle's GPS.

  It was a twenty-minutes’ drive.

  The GPS led him to the Fiverrn Apartment in East Olympia. He went through the gate that had a guard post, but seemingly no guard in sight. The apartment was like a courtyard. He drove around until he found the unit with the number 507. His new home was in there somewhere.

  Rafel remained in his car taking in the environment that will be his new home for the next few weeks. He had to remind himself: weeks. A few weeks. And so much to accomplish—earth shattering accomplishments.

  He stepped out the car, briefcase in hand and into the apartment unit, then up the first flight of stairs. To the right was his apartment: D. He re-checked the note in his hand just in case—to prevent any rude awakening—before opening the door with the key.

  It was a studio apartment. It looked cramped and not the least bit comfortable, but functionally furnished and efficient. He liked it. The condition would keep him focused on the task at hand. The view from the only window in the room was of the busy main road just outside the apartment. To one corner of the room was a queen-size bed with clean sheets and two pillows. Equidistant on the parallel wall was 47inch TV and sofa adjacent to it. He could see his closet, bathroom and kitchen area.

  Rafel placed the briefcase on the center table and collapsed on the couch. Reaching for his wallet, he picked out one of the few pictures within. He took a long look at the little photograph, motioning his fingers through it affectionately as if he could literally feel the face of beauty the picture was of...

  Addison Heims.

  An executive black jeep with government plate and tinted windows shot through Lincoln Harbor, Washington DC.

  “Do you know why we are young, and yet so powerful and successful in Washington?” Senator Fredrick Heims said to his wife.

  "Do tell."

  “Because of you, my darling, Addi. Those fat, sad congressmen shake and sweat in ecstasy when you rev with that magic, Lambo voice of yours. You are a rare treasure, my love," he showered her with pleasantries like he always did. "Now, where's that famous picturesque smile of yours?”

  She pouted. “I don't feel like smiling.”

  He made a face. "Why?"

  “I'm a thirty-five years old 'American treasure' married to a homosexual senator...am a mother goose with no chics, Fred. For a marriage of many treasures, there are no... pleasures.”

  "Had to bring that up," Fred mumbled.

  She rolled her eyes, her reaction sucking the mirth in the air as quickly as it came. It was all silence until the jeep pulled up at a gated lavish mansion. The gates opened.

  “The gardener is in...” Fred remarked. “For a rascal he does a good job.”

  “But that's not what you are interested in, are you?”

  “Not interested, but you can have at him.”

  “At this point, I might just take you up on that.”

  “I know you, Addi. Too much pride.”

  She smirked at him before letting herself out the car and s
traight into the house.

  “Common, love,” Fred called after her. “Don't be a sourpuss.”

  "Maybe if you stirred the honeypot every once in a while I wouldn't be so sour," she said slamming the door, walking to the door. She wrestled open the door to her home that was even more lush and sophisticated than it looked on the outside.

  Addi dropped her bags in the living room with a hefty sigh and headed straight for the bathroom for a long, uninterrupted bath.

  Stripping from her clothes, she entered the bath, sinking into the bubbles. And closing her eyes with her head above the water, she reminisced about the good old days of her journalism career that came to an abrupt end after her three months’ abduction spate by an Islamic extremist group in Syria. She was fortunate. There were journalists, soldiers, and civilians who were captive before she ever was and still in captivity and yet to return home. The American media tagged her as the “Heroine Journalist Who Returned Home”—anointing her an American treasure. The military and political influence of Fred's family, the Heims—Fred's father, a retired general, and his elder brother, an air force colonel and Fred himself, a rising star senator who was her fiancé at the time—played a big role in her expedient return from captivity. Despite so, she had another hero to thank: an unsung one. The caramel-eyed fellow. She never saw his face because of his traditional headdress and face covering he always wore. She always felt his eyes over her like a phantom angel. She would never forget his last act of assured protective affinity for her when—

  The door opened. “Addi?”

  Her eyes flared open bringing her from the stifling desert to the sumptuousness of her bathtub. “What!?”

  “Didn't hear from you for so long I thought...” then he cut himself short, asking “It's happening again isn't it?” When there was no reply, she confirmed his thoughts. He was quickly at her side by the tub.

  She was entranced by the overwhelming passion in his eyes as he sympathized with her. “You are home now...it's over,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  For a second she thought she'd unraveled the enigma of a man she'd married as his kiss waved through her, down to her toes, and claiming every inch in between. It was both gentle and alluring. They rarely had moments like this.