Going Home

By Jon Truman

In 1949, Eric Arthur Blair, better known by his pen name George Orwell, wrote his classic novel, "1984." He described a degrading, dehumanizing dystopia where the government had become "Big Brother" and freedoms were no more. Environmentally, politically, and culturally, the world he envisioned was in a state of utter collapse. Drawn from Scripture, "Going Home" depicts an even worse time period predicted to occur prior to the return of Christ.
It is the story of four close friends; syndicated Christian talk show host Graham Bradford, his gifted wife, Breanna, who sees what no one else can see, and their best friends, Dr. David Morgan and his attorney wife, Alexis. Together, they live through the worst period of history, the End Times. Were it not for the global popularity of Bradford's conservative Christian show, it would have long ago joined the graveyard of traditional, evangelical thought. Journey with the Bradfords and the Morgans as they travel from the worst to the greatest of times--the return of Christ and the resurrection of all believers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483523767

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It began with a ripping, growling roar as the earth beneath the railroad tracks pushed upward. Some would later say it sounded like the ear-splitting howl of a hurricane. But this wasn’t a hurricane. This was an earthquake. And not just any earthquake. This one was nearly as big as the largest known to man, the 9.5 quake that devastated Chile on May 22, 1960.

One after another, each of the four, 188 metric ton engines rose, stalled, then— fell. The lead engine slammed into the ground beside the tracks and began a gouging slide down the embankment toward the highway below. Like a giant metal anaconda, the one-mile long train with its four engines and ninety coal cars snaked downward.

The adrenalin-charged conductor held on with one hand. With the other, he yanked the train’s horn unleashing its ear-piercing wail. Simultaneously, a towering coal car slid behind the back of their SUV, smacked the bumper and then, like the crack of a bullwhip, catapulted it forward. It skidded sideways for about twenty feet, and then rose, spun, pounded into the ground and rose again, only to do another somersault.

Three times.

Four.

Five.

That’s when she heard her mother’s scream. Three more times the SUV flipped until finally, mercifully, it thudded to the ground, upside down. All four occupants, her parents in the front seat and she and her brother in the back hung upside down from their seatbelts.

She couldn’t see outside for the dust that billowed around the SUV. She held her breath and listened with the ears of a child afraid some spectral figure was lurking behind the closet door. She could hear the squealing sound of spinning bent wheels and smell leaking gasoline.

Her head snapped to the left, toward her brother. His arms dangled like a lifeless rag doll.

MOMMY…DADDY…!" she screamed.

But…no one answered.

From her car seat in the back, she stared wide-eyed at her mom and dad. What frightened her most was her father. His head was twisted almost fully backwards. His dead, sightless eyes, opened wide in fear were staring at her.

* * *

It all began on a Fourth of July.

11:00 a.m.

Mason and Rebecca Clark, their eight-year-old son Ethan and six-year-old daughter Breanna were on their way to the Ocoee River. Located in scenic East Tennessee, the world class Ocoee offers white water rafting at its best. For that very reason, it had been selected to host the 1996 Kayaking Olympics.

Today would be a repeat. Kayakers from all over the world would again compete before thousands of onlookers. Blankets, lawn chairs, picnic baskets, and not a few umbrellas to block the sun’s rays would soon dot the banks of the Ocoee.

Since moving to East Tennessee the Clarks had visited the Ocoee on numerous occasions. It was only fifty-three minutes from their East Tennessee home of Etowah. They had moved here following graduation from the University of Illinois. When asked why, they would say—topography. Sandwiched between the Appalachian Valley and the Cumberland Plateau, Etowah was the gateway to the Cherokee National Forest. Besides, Etowah was a great place to raise a family.

So upon graduation and a June wedding, Mason and Rebecca Clark packed up and put down roots in Etowah. Mason opened his optometry clinic. Blond haired, blue-eyed Rebecca, who was a degreed RN, began her nursing career at Etowah’s Starr Regional Medical Center. Sixteen months passed and Ethan was born. His sister, Breanna, entered the world two years later.

As was their custom, when the Clarks took a road trip in the family SUV, they would sing. One song that topped their list was a Tennessee favorite, Rocky Top. Mostly though, they sang songs Ethan and Breanna had learned in Sunday School: If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands, I’ve Got that Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart, and Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory! Rebecca would turn around in her seat and lead Ethan and Breanna in the motions.

It was such a fun time for the Clark family, they barely noticed the heat. And, as is often the case in a Tennessee July, it was hot. So hot, Mason and Rebecca could see shimmering translucent waves of heat rising from the sun baked road.

Any thoughts of that, however, were quickly dispelled as they neared the Ocoee. Soon, they would join thousands who would line its banks, watching world class Kayakers as they sluiced, slipped, slid and splashed through the Class IV Ocoee rapids.

* * *

3:00 pm.

It had been a great day, but on the way home, things changed. As always, Bree’s five-eleven, lank, bespectacled father encouraged his family to sing. But for some reason, Breanna—or Bree as he preferred to call her—refused. Precocious, towheaded, light blue-eyed Bree sat rigid, staring into space. Her eyebrows were pinched inward and her mouth had a slight downward turn. Something was wrong. Something had happened, or maybe—was about to happen. Something—bad.

As Bree’s father glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his mind leaped back in time. It was three years ago. Mason, Rebecca, and Ethan, who was then five, and Bree who was three, were at a funeral. Mason’s younger sister Sophia had died in a tragic automobile accident. She was only twenty.

A long line of mourners and well-wishers lined the walk leading to the Carter Funeral Home. Being family members, they excused their way through the crowd to join Mason’s parents, his older brother, Jim and sister Joan. As they walked, Mason noticed that three-year-old Bree kept looking in places where no one stood. She would stare upward, first here, then there, as if seeing invisible personages who, judging from her gaze, had to be seven or eight feet tall.

Later, toward the end of the visitation, Bree was nowhere to be found.

Mason looked at his wife. Where’s Bree?

I…don’t know. She was here a moment ago.

Mason began walking throughout the funeral home until finally he found Bree. She was standing in another room. It was empty, save for the green-cushioned metal seats and a casket centered on the wall. Apparently, there would be another visitation following his sister’s.

Bree was standing to the right of the casket, her back to her father. She was gazing upward. As he had noticed when they first made their way through the crowd, whoever or whatever Bree was looking at, real or imagined, had to be seven or eight feet tall. And Bree was talking, but—no one was there.

Mason stood, frozen and listened to a one-sided conversation between his daughter and who knows who—or what.

My name is Bree, what’s yours?

Silence.

That’s a funny name.

Silence.

"My auntie died. Why are you here?

Silence.

Really?

Had Mason heard the other side of Bree’s conversation, he would have been reminded of a verse he had seen many times as he read through his Bible. Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?

That was the first time Mason knew that his daughter was different, for Bree could see what no ordinary human could see. She could see angels! What he didn’t know was—that was not all she could see.

* * *

It happened on their way home. An earthquake. They had become increasingly common in the past ten years, but neither he nor his family had been affected by one—until now.

It began with an ear-splitting, roaring sound as the road behind them began to rip apart as if an invisible giant cleaver had sliced through the pavement. An ever-widening gap, seemingly aimed at the Clarks’ SUV, caused it to shimmy and shake from side to side.

Mason’s knuckles blanched as he gripped the steering wheel. His rapt attention was instantly drawn to the rearview mirror. His eyes widened. There, no more than 100 feet away was a semi.

The ever-expanding fracture in the road beneath the fully loaded, 80,000 pound tractor-trailer continued to split as it snaked toward them, lifting the semi. It rose five, ten, fifteen feet, then tilted and toppled on its side, skidding and scraping toward the back of the Clarks’ SUV. Sparks like those caused by locked wheels of a boxcar, flared around all sides of the fifty-five-foot tractor-trailer, causing leaking gas to ignite and burst into flames.

Mason stomped on the accelerator. Their SUV lurched forward, just seconds before the runaway metal inferno slid past the left rear bumper. It rolled and tumbled end-over-end until it came to rest upside down, its wheels spinning. Flames from the leaking gas instantly ignited the newly harvested hay field.

As Mason slowed the SUV, his eyes snapped to the left toward the firestorm that was engulfing the remains of the semi. Just as quickly, they flew to the rearview mirror. The fissure that had sent the semi toppling seemed to stop. It gradually began to fade from view as he put as much distance from it as possible.

You guys okay? asked Mason.

Rebecca, Ethan, and Bree sat frozen. Silent. Everything had happened so quickly. It was over in less than a minute, which was not enough time to assimilate their near-death experience.

Rebecca twisted in the passenger seat and looked at Ethan and Bree. That was close! she said. Turning back toward Mason she said, We’re okay.

Just then, when it seemed the worst was over, they all heard a piercing blast. It came from the horn of a southbound, blue and gold CVX train. It was a quarter of a mile away on their right. Four engines, each seventy-three feet long and ninety coal hoppers spread out for nearly a mile, bound for Cartersville, Georgia, were barreling in their direction at 60 miles per hour.

Just then, a second tremor began to shake the Clarks’ SUV.

Lord help us, Mason said. Look. THE TRAIN!

CHAPTER 2

What the…

Fifty-three-year old James Denton had been an engineer for CVX for twenty-three years. He thought he had seen it all. The worst was an accident that occurred one fog-enshrouded rainy night just outside Marietta, Georgia. That was fifteen years ago. Even so, it was as fresh in his mind as what he’d had for lunch.

He was a conductor at the time. He and his engineer, their three 4,400 horsepower diesel engines and fifty coal cars were headed for Atlanta. Up ahead not more than 100 yards away, stalled on the tracks, was a faded-red, rust-covered minivan.

Like an inscription carved in stone, it was etched in his mind. It would reappear in a nightmare once a year, usually on the anniversary of the accident. Each time he was forced to relive that awful, hideous event. He would hear the piercing blast of the train’s horn and smell the acrid odor of red-hot metal as the iron wheels of the train locked on the tracks in a vain attempt to avoid the collision.

And then—and then he would once again see the body of a young woman flying through the air as if it had been shot out of a canon. He would hear the thud as her body smacked the windshield leaving behind a Rorschach of blood. That’s when his sweat drenched body would jerk upright as if by some invisible hand.

What was happening now was different than anything he had ever experienced in his over two decades of railroading. The lead engine began rocking back and forth and shaking like a rattle in a child’s hand. It was followed by a crack-the-whip chain reaction that spread from to the second to the third and the fourth engine.

YOU FEEL THAT? Denton yelled, as simultaneously he thrust his hand toward the red-handled emergency brake, gripped it tightly and gave it a yank.

His thirty-two-year old partner, engineer Bob Karikas didn’t answer. Struck by a sudden adrenaline rush, his hand flew to the vertical arm of the air horn. He jerked and held it, unleashing a piercing, continuous blast of the air horn.

From that moment forth neither James nor Bob said a word. They just held on to anything they could to keep upright as the four engines, each weighing 415,000 pounds shook even more violently and in slow motion, began to rise. It was like the gradual upward journey of a rollercoaster before the heart-pounding fall. Only this fall, if it occurred, meant that their train would tilt and tumble off the tracks, dragging 4,000 tons of metal down and across the highway.

* * *

In one sudden, synchronized motion, the eyes of each member of the Clark family flew up and to the right and locked on the train. It was only about a hundred-fifty feet away.

Wide-eyed and breath bated, they gazed in horror as the nose of the first engine began to rise in slow motion, then twist, tilt and topple to its side. Like dominos set on their edge in a long sequential line, one striking another in a continuous chain reaction, the second engine, then the third, the fourth, and one after another, each of the closest coal cars tilted, twisted and fell, thudding on their sides strewing coal in all directions.

Smoke plumed around the locked iron wheels of the remaining coal cars prior to their leaving the track. Soon, the entire train began to scrape, gouge, and plow a deep, ever-widening furrow as it snaked over the rocked embankment and downward toward the road and the Clarks’ SUV.

In an attempt to muffle the ear-piercing, 130 dB din created by the roaring of the earthquake and the blare of the air horn, Bree clapped her hands over her ears and closed her eyes.

As he had done to avoid a collision with the semi, Mason once again jammed the accelerator to the floor. Leaning forward and peering upward through the windshield, he could see the bold, black CVX letters on the yellow nose of the first engine loom before him, just a few feet away. He was sure it was going to smack into the passenger side of the SUV. But, by the grace of God, it slid toward the back of the car, narrowly missing the rear bumper.

Unconsciously, Mason held his breath. His eyes leaped to the rear view mirror as the fourth engine, then the coal cars, slid and scraped behind the SUV, unleashing a billowing cloud of dirt and dust nearly blocking his view.

Believing they had for a second time escaped the scythe of the Grim Reaper, Mason mouthed a premature Thank You Jes…. But before he could get out the name of Jesus, one of the coal cars caught the bumper of the SUV.

Instantly, it spun around, skidded down the embankment into a hay field, and rolled over and over, again and again. How many times, he didn’t know for he was quickly and mercifully rendered unconscious. Locked in his seatbelt, his inert body shook wildly like an appendage caught in the mouth of a thrashing Great White.

The bodies of Rebecca and Ethan fared no better. Each was violently thrashed until finally, the Clark’s SUV came to a rest, upside down. Only Bree, firmly bound in her car seat, remained conscious.

Smoke from antifreeze sizzled on the hot engine and dust hovered over the wreckage as the wheels continued to spin as if they had a life of their own. And the smell of leaking gas filled the SUV.

"DADDY? MOMMY! Bree screamed, but—no one answered.

From her upside-down position, Bree’s head snapped toward Ethan. Like her, he was hanging upside down. His head was touching the roof of the SUV. Crushed at the neck, it was grotesquely twisted in an awkward position. His dead, sightless eyes were opened wide in fear.

* * *

Hit me, Mandy, said Gary Shasteen as he tapped a finger on his coffee cup, signaling Walleys’ waitress that he’d like a second cup of coffee. Mandy flashed him a dimpled smile and with a pudgy hand, refilled his cup!

You too? she asked Bobby.

Had he not been with his best friend, Bobby would have had a beer. But Gary had completed his twelfth step and had been alcohol free for five months, a fact Bobby was well aware of. And faithful to his Southern Baptist background, Bobby knew the Scripture’s admonition that a believer should do nothing to cause another to stumble. So Bobby also opted for coffee.

I’ll just take a warm-up, Miss Mandy!

Both Bobby and Gary worked the second shift at Heil, and as was their custom, when finished, they’d drop by Walleys. They weren’t alone. At this time in the afternoon, and even more so at lunch and supper time, Walleys was packed, and for good reason. Located midway between Athens and Cleveland, over a fifteen-year period, Walleys had developed a faithful clientele. The reason was what made all successful restaurants successful: excellent food, reasonable prices, and in their case, a great atmosphere. That, and the presence of the owner/manager who saw to it that excellent service remained just that—excellent, was the reason Walleys was the place to go when you wanted, as the cliché goes, the best for less.

If asked to describe Walleys most would say, like—Cracker Barrel. Although not even a quarter of the size, Walleys looked about the same, minus the gift shop. The walls and ceiling were peppered with all kinds of memorabilia and antiques: a butter churn, metal business signs, farm implements, old fashioned toys, a horse collar, an old wooden sled and antique framed black and white and sepia photographs and much, much more.

Gary and Bobby were sitting on two of six stools that lined the counter. Before them reflecting off a mirrored wall were all sorts of beer bottles and glasses. Four feet to their left and about six feet off the floor, hung a forty-inch flat screen TV. It was tuned to a baseball game; Cardinals verses the Dodgers.

Just then, Gary and Bobby, and all who were not thoroughly engrossed in the game or conversation heard a rumbling. It sounded like a far-off train or tornado.

You hear that? Bobby asked Gary.

Gary didn’t answer. His brow pinched inward in confusion as he quickly glanced at Bobby and then to his left to see if those in a nearby booth had heard the noise. From the looks on their faces, they had. Any in Walleys who had missed it, would not miss what came next.

Walleys began to shudder and shake as if some invisible, demonic giant had gripped the building with his enormous hands and begun to thrash it from side to side.

It was so violent it stifled all conversation. Glasses began to tumble from the display behind the counter. Picture frames danced on the walls; a few shook loose and plunged to the floor. The whole building began to vibrate. An old antique tricycle hanging from the ceiling wobbled loose and fell on a table, causing two patrons to jerk back, throw their hands to their faces while a third jumped out of the booth into the supposed safety of the aisle.

The rumbling and shaking continued for about sixty seconds followed by a blackout as the power flipped off. When it came back on a few seconds later, it was accompanied by a TV Bulletin logo and intense bumper music signaling that something critically important had just occurred. It came from a local Knoxville TV station, WETN.

We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin. A massive earthquake has just hit East Tennessee. For details, we switch you to our USA Public News headquarters in Washington, D.C.

USA Public News was one of three government operated TV networks.

Turn it up, Mandy! said Bobby.

Mandy took a step in the direction of the TV, only to be thrown off balance by an aftershock. She struggled to stay upright. With one hand on the counter where Gary, Bobby and four others were seated and the other on the edge of the counter nearest the mirrored wall, she carefully slipped over to the TV and turned the volume loud enough for all in Walleys to hear. No sooner had she done so, the tremor ceased and patrons left their seats and gathered near the TV.

* * *

"This is Bill Preston at USA Public News. An earthquake has been reported in East Tennessee. The epicenter is said to be two miles south of the town of Etowah just off state highway 411. We have no report of injuries as of now, it’s…way too early…but given the magnitude of this earthquake, it could be bad.

For a more detailed report we switch you to the National Weather Service in Silver Spring, Maryland and National Oceanic and Administrations Administrator, Dr. Raymond Gaultney.

A fifty-something, pencil thin man appeared on the screen. He had a van dyke and sported a yellow bowtie.

Dr. Gualtney, thanks for joining us.

My pleasure.

What can you tell us about this earthquake?

Well, for one thing…it’s big. Really big. It’s 8.9 on the Moment Magnitude Scale, commonly referred to as the Richter Scale. The truth is, we don’t use the Richter Scale anymore. That said, whichever scale you use, Moment Magnitude or Richter, this fact remains, 8.9 is an unusually big, devastating earthquake. Any earthquake over 8 can totally destroy communities near the epicenter.

How would you say this earthquake compares with other large earthquakes?

Well, it’s not the largest. That would be the earthquake that occurred in Chile on May 22, 1960. That was a 9.5 quake. Actually, the ten worst earthquakes, at least up till now, have ranged from 8.7 to 9.5. Which is to say, what just happened in East Tennessee has become the seventh most powerful earthquake in history.

What else can you tell us, Doctor…?

Just then, a man barged through the door of Walleys and yelled, SOMEBODY CALL 911!

Every head quickly snapped away from the TV and toward the man who stood in the doorway. I need some of you guys to come with me. A train has derailed. It’s just about…maybe a two hundred yards down the road. I also saw a semi and an overturned car. It looks real bad.

Gary, Bob and eight other men hurried toward the door and raced behind the man who was now about twenty feet in front of them.

* * *

Jacob McMillan, his father and his father before him, had farmed the same 200 acres of rock-hard East Tennessee soil for longer than he cared to remember. It had never been Jacob’s chief source of income. That had come from cattle. Black Angus. But this morning, he was harvesting hay to feed his 150-plus herd. That’s when he felt it.

Actually, he heard it before he felt it. It was like a sonic boom only—it hadn’t come from above. It came from below. From the ground.

It was followed by violent shaking. Fearing the worst, he leaped off his faded John Deere, fearing he might be thrown off and crushed like a bug.

What he saw next left him breathless. Two football fields away. A semi was sliding down the embankment onto his hayfield. It was followed by another sound, almost as loud as the boom that accompanied the earthquake. It was the blaring sound of a train’s air horn. It was continuous at first, and then stopped abruptly.

It was followed by a loud metallic sound. Like—metal on metal.

It reminded him of the screeching sound of fingernails on a black board, only a thousand times louder.

And then he saw it.

A train. Four engines, one after another were dragging a seemingly endless chain of coal cars onto his field. They slid, snaked, scraped, and gouged into the ground spewing a cloud of dust.

It was dragging something.

What is that? A car?

From where he was standing, it was hard to tell. But, yes—it was a car. It looked like some kind of SUV. It was being dragged by one of the coal cars, like maybe it had become stuck to it. Suddenly, it broke free, shot forward, and began to tumble end over end until finally, it came to rest upside down.

Instinctively, big fisted, thick armed Jacob, began running toward the car as fast as his fifty-year old legs would take him. As he neared it, he could see the wheels were still spinning. And he could smell gas from a ruptured tank.

YOU…GUYS…OKAY? Out of breath, about fifty feet from the SUV, he uttered those three chopping words.

It sounded stupid. Of course, whoever was in that upside-down car was not okay.

Upon reaching the SUV, Jacob fell to his knees and looked inside the passenger side window and quickly wished he hadn’t. There, hanging upside down was a woman. Her long hair and arms dangled lifelessly on the ceiling of the car.

His eyes flashed to the driver’s side. It was the same. A man hung upside down. Glittering slivers of glass covered his blood-splattered face and protruded from his open eyes.

Jacob reached in and tried to feel a pulse on the woman.

Nothing.

He rose, hurried to the other side of the car and did the same with the man. Clearly, both were