Final Absolution: A Novel

By John Carpenter

The first prediction of the Moabite parchment is coming to pass. The world is in the death grip of a devastating plague. Civilization is on the brink of chaos. Some are saying its the wrath of God, while others are proclaiming the end times.

In the small Midwestern town of Thorntree, Father Jacob Winston watches helplessly as his friends are transformed into hideous creatures and die screaming on their seventh day. When presented with half of the parchment, he is offered a way to alleviate their suffering. If he accepts the first half of the parchment he will become instrumental in making the second prediction come true. The consequences of the second prediction reach far beyond the natural order and into the realm of angels and demons.

The cardinals are gathering in Rome to elect a new pope. In the intrigue of the conclave, the journal of the last pope and the second half of the parchment are discovered. If these documents are allowed to be presented to the other cardinals, their surprising contents could determine the outcome of the election, and shape the future of the church and the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449708924

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 1

Albert Collozo lay dying, and he didn’t expect a miracle. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to ask for one. His life of seventy-six years was longer than most and, in his mind, full beyond measure. Now that his time was ending, he would not ask God for a miracle that would return him to health. He asked only for enough time to tell Francis that he had seen his enemy and that the events predicted in the Moabite parchment had begun. Francis had been sent for, but Perugia was at least an hour away.

What if Francis came too late? He must know. The enemy is more powerful than we imagined and far more deadly. I have to tell him about those eyes. Hundreds, no thousands of them piercing and probing. Despair and terror raging in each one. He has to know. Francis has to know not to look into those eyes. They could steal his soul.

Albert slowly turned on his side and stretched for his journal. Why was the nightstand so far away? Who moved it? Was it always this far? His movements lifted the smell of the freshly laundered sheets, "We are poor, but we can be clean. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Listen to your mother. I know these things." What a silly thing to think of. Focus, I have to focus. Francis must know what I have seen.

He stretched toward the nightstand. His temples throbbed. Just a little more. His heart was beating faster. The bed seemed to move beneath him. I must reach it. There. With a final heave, he pulled the book from the nightstand, dropped it on his stomach, and then collapsed backward into his mound of pillows and waited for the room to stop spinning. How could such a little book be so heavy?

He lay there trying to remember if he had felt the pen clipped inside the book. It was only lately that he’d convinced his friend and servant, Joseph, to allow him this bit of disorderly convenience. If the pen weren’t there, it would mean leaning over to the nightstand again. Just the thought of stretching back to the nightstand renewed the pounding in his temples and forced him to close his eyes. He would wait a little longer, and then he must write.

With his eyes still closed, he imagined his mother and Joseph standing over the bed looking like they were about to scold a wayward schoolboy. He could almost hear them say in unison. "Everything has its place. The pen goes in the drawer, not in the book where it might break the binding." So much alike, they’re so much alike. Stop wandering old man. You must write down what you have seen.

He closed his hand around the book, felt the bulge of the pen, and relaxed a little. The strong pulsing in his temples was weakening. He opened his eyes only part way at first, then fully as he realized the dizziness had passed.

He struggled to make his fingers obey as he opened the journal. Clumsy fool. Don’t drop the pen. You can do this. Concentrate. Only after five anxious minutes of awkwardness, was he able to grasp the pen tight enough to hold it upright.

He thought his new penmanship was ugly. He had always received compliments about the flowing style of his letters. He had admitted to this little form of pride and was sure God would forgive him. Now as the pen scratched against the page his worry was not about form, but rather, if he would be able to finish telling Francis about those damnable eyes.

4/17 – I have received reports from Africa. The predictions in the parchment are coming true. I fear for you dear Francis. I have had another dream. I have seen the face of your enemy. Francis, don’t look into…

PAIN. Strong fingers seemed to be squeezing his heart. His body stiffened against the bed; the pen slipped from his hand. Dear God, Francis has to be told. Help him Lord. The book slid from the bed and slapped the marble floor like the tiniest thunderclap. Dear God forgive me. Another sharp pain stabbed from within, forcing him to close his eyes and clinch his teeth. In the darkness, the fiendish figure from his earlier dream glared back at him. Albert opened his eyes. The figure was gone, but the room was total blackness. He wanted to call out, but his voice had no strength. Suddenly he was cold. He tried to reach for his blankets, but his hands wouldn’t move. He shivered from another blast of cold. In the distant dark, they began to appear. By ones and twos, they materialized and began to move closer. Soon the eyes from his nightmare were inches from his face. Thousands of bulging, piercing eyes became mirrors of his soul’s past. Every sin, every failure, and every person he had hurt came rushing toward him. Were there that many sins? Was he that kind of sinner? Had he failed God so badly? Was there no hope? My God, help me. My God, help Fran… Another sharp spike of pain. The eyes were gone.

Carelli’s knock was more of an announcement than a request for entrance. If Albert was as close to the end as he thought, friendship and duty demanded his presence. He entered the room and tried to move quietly as not to awaken the sleeping patient. Then he saw the pained contorted look on Albert’s face, the hands clutching his chest, and the book on the floor. He called out. Doctor, come quickly.

The doctor entered followed by two other men who had been keeping a vigil just outside the apartment. While watching the doctor complete his examination, Carelli was thinking of what he’d have to do next. He had prepared for this moment days before by slipping the red leather bag into the back of the nightstand drawer while Albert slept.

The doctor crossed himself then looked up and shook his head. I’m sorry. He’s gone.

Carelli reached into the drawer and retrieved the red leather bag. He removed the silver mallet and tapped Albert’s forehead three times, each time calling out, Albert Collozo, are you dead? Receiving no answer, he announced to the two other cardinals who had come in with the doctor, Pope John XXIV is truly dead.

Chapter 2

When Burt woke up the sun was already high in its arc. No breeze, no clouds, just the blazing orange-yellow disc against a dazzling azure sky. By the position of the sun, he could tell it was already past ten o’clock. He reasoned that he had been unconscious for a couple of hours. Sweat was pouring off his forehead stinging his eyes. Burt wiped his right eye on his shirtsleeve, but when he tried to wipe his left eye, he realized he couldn’t move his left shoulder. Through one bleary eye and one clear one, he looked back at the green and yellow monster that lay heavily on his thighs. On its side, with a black knobby tire thrust defiantly up toward the sky; it looked like a wounded animal. Until now, he had loved that John Deere.

Nothing runs like a Deere. He grunted out the words as he thought of the company’s slogan. A crippled deer if you ask me, he mumbled to himself. He knew it wasn’t the machine’s fault but that’s not how he would tell it later when he got out from under it.

He tried to squirm free, but pain shot up his legs through his hips and into his back. He groaned and cursed until the pain subsided. It was no use struggling he thought, both legs must be broken. The threat of more pain was too great to try moving again. He would wait. Someone would come by. They would get another tractor to pull this one off him. It would work out; things like this always did.

Burt wasn’t worried about the sun burning his skin. The years of working in the fields had browned and toughened it. It was his precious body moisture flowing freely from every pore that scared him. He couldn’t last until Mildred came back. That would be Tuesday. Today was only Saturday. Surely, he thought, somebody would come by today.

He began to wonder why it happened this time. He’d mowed the embankment that surrounded the pond a thousand times. It wasn’t much of a hill, just about three feet high. Maybe he wasn’t paying attention, too much thinking about Sunday. Dottie Campbell would be over on Sunday. She came over whenever Mildred was gone. He smiled at the thought.

Again and again he asked himself who might be coming today then remembered that the neighbors would be finishing their planting. The wet spring had kept them out of the fields until now. He managed to finish yesterday; he always finished ahead of the others. It was a matter of pride. First to plant meant first to market. Today he was just mowing. He wanted to have as much done as possible before Sunday.

Maybe somebody would see the overturned tractor from the road. Maybe Mildred would come home early? No chance of that. What about Ben? Didn’t he say he was coming today? No, he said Monday. What day was this? Saturday. Maybe Dottie would come today. No, she always came over when Mildred was gone, but she always came on Sunday, after church. Why’d she still go? She said she had to keep up appearances. Hell, what appearances? Everybody knew - everybody but Mildred. Maybe she did know and that’s why she was gone so much.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his right shirtsleeve. In an hour, it would be ninety-five degrees. The wet spring had been accompanied by early summer like heat. Again, he went over the litany of those who might come to rescue him. It was then that the unthinkable became real - no one was coming. The realization induced a frightening panic. He was going to die. Die. He’d never thought about it before, not really. It was always some future event, taking place when he was much older. It would come while he slept after a hard day in the fields. He had it figured. It couldn’t be happening now, not while he was awake. It just couldn’t be. He wasn’t ready. He tried again to pull himself free. Pain spiked in his legs reinforcing his new reality. He was going to die. There would be no savior.

Tears slid down the edge of his nose and into his mouth. The salty taste reminded him of the last time he cried forty years ago, the night his father died. For those forty years, he had fought the weather, the insects, the poor markets, but he didn’t know how to fight this. He buried is face in the crook of his arm, closed his eyes and prayed. The last time he prayed was when his dad was sick. It didn’t seem to help then. It probably wouldn’t help now, but he didn’t know what else to do.

It wasn’t long before he felt something was different. It was cooler. A cloud covering the sun, he thought. He lifted his head just high enough to see what had caused the change. He opened his eyes to a half squint. What’s blocking the sun? Looks like a thick tree. How could a tree move? There isn’t a tree within two hundred feet of the pond. Suddenly the tree like object moved again letting the sun blind him. The tractor is moving. I must be going crazy? No, the pressure is off my legs. Pain was shooting past his hips. Who’s lifting me? Oh, God…that hurts. I must be dreaming. Yes, that’s it. I’m getting delirious from the heat and pain. The tractor must be still on top of me and I’m imagining my rescue. No, I’m moving. How could that be? The last blast of pain came as a white searing heat. From his toes to his hips, every nerve was on fire with pain. He couldn’t stand it anymore; he surrendered to the darkness.

The light was different the next time he opened his eyes, much softer, more washed out. Everything at first seemed white, then through the blur of first opened eyes he began to make out different shapes. There was a round oversized clock, and a white erasable message board with the name Susan printed as his nurse for the day and Jennifer as her aide. On the wall to his left was a picture of a sailboat docked in a calm bay. A window on the same wall had sunlight seeping through the blinds.

He closed his eyes and searched his memory. The tractor was slipping. He jumped. The recollection of the tractor landing on his legs made him groan. There was still pain in his legs but not nearly as sharp. He reached for his thighs, dragging the tubes in his arms along the bed sheets. He touched his legs. They were hard. Casts? How was that possible? He must be in a hospital - not dead. Who saved him? Who moved the tractor?

Burt, are you with us? asked Susan, who was standing at the side of bed holding a chart.

Where am I? he asked. The words scraped his dry throat when he spoke. He looked at the clock, but the numbers still had fuzzy edges.

Why, you’re at Thorntree Memorial. Where did you think you were?

I don’t know. The last thing I remember was the tractor landing on my legs and passing out in the heat.

Well, you were lucky. A stranger found you and brought you here, but that’s another story.

What’s that supposed to mean? What stranger?

It’s well…I don’t know. It’s just that he’s so big. Everybody’s talking about him.

How big can he be?

I think he’s about eight feet tall, said the nurse.

Yeah, right. Eight feet tall, he said sleepily.

See for yourself. You can come in now. She tossed the phrase over her shoulder while adjusting a blood pressure cuff on Burt’s arm.

Burt watched as the nurse pumped the cuff tight. When he felt the room grow a little cooler, he looked up and saw a man nearly as tall as the ceiling standing behind the nurse. The giant leaned over the bed and offered his hand. Burt was so stunned by the size of the man it took him an awkward twenty seconds before offering his own hand in return.

I am Zechariah Matthews, said the giant.

Chapter 3

Vincent Delano was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he stepped out of his trailer and into the ten o’clock sunlight. Half-blinded by the sudden brightness and startled by what he saw, the spring-loaded aluminum door slipped from his hand and slammed behind him. His attention was fixed on the powerful looking English Mastiff lying near the row of tin mailboxes thirty feet away. He raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The dog lifted its head up from its paws, perked up its ears, and snapped to a soldier-like attention as if it recognized him. Stray dogs in the trailer park were not unusual, but this Mastiff, with its black face mask, white body, and a diamond shaped patch of black fur on his forehead, looked exactly like the one in his dream last night.

The dog was much larger and heavier than any dog he’d ever seen. Vincent thought it might weigh as much as two hundred pounds. He grabbed the broom leaning against the trailer. It seemed so puny a weapon if the powerful dog should decide to attack. He looked around for something more substantial. The assortment of junk car parts and old tires strewn about his trailer’s lot were either too large to wield as a weapon or too small to be effective. He thought of going back inside, but he had to know. Was it the dog in his dream, the protector the voice had promised? If it was the same dog then the other promises might also be true? That would be something - maybe he would be something.

He took three timid steps forward. For some reason the dog didn’t seem as threatening as he first imagined. Maybe it was the sagging jowls and wrinkled brow that softened the dog’s look. Still he needed to be careful; he didn’t know this dog. With its mouth half-open and its tongue slightly showing, it appeared happy to see him. The Mastiff’s dark brown eyes seemed to invite him closer. Vincent looked around the trailer park checking for any means of escape if he were wrong about the animal.

Peaceful Valley Mobile Home Village was in the middle of its laid back Saturday morning routine. Mrs. Jackson was hanging her wash on two makeshift wire clotheslines strung between the awning support of her trailer and that of her neighbor Mrs. Busche. Two kids were playing kick the can at the west end of the park and Joe Roberts was tinkering with the engine of his Camaro that had sat up on cinder blocks for the last year. Following a payday Friday and a few drinks with friends at Marcy’s Tavern none of the other inhabitants of Peaceful Valley usually got up before eleven on Saturday.

Vincent looked back at the dog and weighed his options. He decided his best escape would be back to his own trailer while fighting back the dog with his broom. The dog still had its happy look. He proceeded cautiously all the while gripping the broomstick a little tighter with each step. When he was almost half way to the mailboxes he stopped as the dog started forward. Instinctive recognition of the dog’s body language made Vincent relax his white-knuckle grip on the broom. The dog’s head was down and his progress was a slow ambling walk. Vincent lowered the broom when the dog stopped and lay down at his feet. When the dog looked up at him with its sad expressive brown eyes, he put the broom down and crouched to pet the animal.

Got yourself quite a pet there, yelled Mrs. Jackson from behind a sheet.

He’s not mine. I haven’t seen him before.

He’s got tags with your name on it. I saw them when I got my mail this morning, said Mrs. Jackson as she pinned the last edge of her sheet.

The silver tags hanging from heavy link chain around the dog’s neck glinted in the sunlight. He moved a little closer to try to read the tags. The dog inched forward on its belly without getting up. Vincent carefully reached for the tags, which read, Ulysses In case of emergency notify Vincent Delano, 377- 4613. The voice in his dream had said, "I will send a protector to watch over you. You will know him by the name Ulysses." It was hard to believe the dream had come true, but the name Ulysses was so odd. The dog started licking his hand.

His name is Ulysses like the president, he called out to Mrs. Jackson.

I thought you named him after the other one, she replied.

What other one?

The hero in the Trojan War. The one they wrote all the poems about, said the woman in a tone that implied Vincent didn’t know anything.

Oh.....Yeah, that one. I’d forgotten about him.

She chuckled, stuffed three clothespins in her mouth, grabbed another sheet from the wicker basket, and then returned her attention to the repetitive world of wash hanging.

In that moment, Vincent hated her and everyone like her. They were always doing that to him, making him feel small – something less than they were. It wasn’t his fault he’d only gone to fifth grade. They didn’t know what it was like after his mother died and his father ran off. Staying with one aunt, then another and finally in a foster home. He had promised himself that one day he would find his father and find out the truth about his mom’s death. He’d heard the men whispering down by the barbershop and the women in front of the dry goods store, Poor Vincent, you just have to feel sorry for the boy. After all, his mother was dead and his dad killed her. This morning was different. The voice from his dream would change things. It would lead him to the truth. He was sure of it.

Vincent gently patted the dog’s head and got another grateful lick of his hand in return. He scratched under Ulysses’ chin causing the dog to rollover on its back and paw the air with its front legs as if begging to have his stomach rubbed. Some protector thought Vincent as he patted the dog’s belly. At least you could look mean, he said aloud.

After a few minutes of playing with the dog, he got up and walked briskly to the mailboxes with Ulysses keeping pace at his side. He opened his box to find only one large bulky brown envelope. It was too big to contain any of the normal bills and it didn’t look like an advertisement. It was addressed by hand in a smooth cursive style that appeared positively elegant to Vincent. He ripped open the flap and looked inside. There was a white piece of paper wrapped around something and fastened with a red rubber band. He pulled out the contents, slid off the rubber band, and almost dropped the banded stack of crisp hundred dollar bills. He quickly stuffed the bills back into the envelope and focused on the white wrapper. In the same style handwriting of the address was the message: As I promised last night I will take care of you from this day forward. Show this to no one. It will help you achieve your dreams. Ulysses will obey your every command.

Vincent flipped the paper over. It was blank on the other side. He looked at the envelope. There was no return address and no stamps.

Hey Vincent, you got the twenty you owe me or do I have to kick your butt? It doesn’t matter to me.

The voice of Tom Barret behind him made him break out into a quick sweat. The last time he didn’t have twenty dollars to buy him off, Barret broke his nose. He could give him one of the bills in the envelope, but that would cause too many questions. Fighting was no good. Tom was a muscular six-foot three, two hundred twenty pounds while he was five-foot eight and one hundred fifty. All he wanted was to get the envelope back to his trailer until he had time to think.

What’ll it be boy, the twenty or a butt kicking?

As Vincent turned to face Barret he heard Ulysses growl. He looked down at the dog. With his eyes in a fierce squint and his teeth bared, Ulysses demeanor had changed from playmate to protector.

So you got yourself a pet. Maybe I’ll take him instead of the twenty.

To Vincent the answer became instantly clear. Attack. The one word command came out forcefully without panic or fear as if it had been practiced.

Ulysses sprang forward catching Barret with a hammer like blow that knocked him backward onto the dirt road. When Barret landed on his back Ulysses stood to the man’s right with one paw on his chest and his mouth secure around the man’s throat. It was obvious to Vincent that the dog was waiting for another order - whether to clamp down or let go.

Barret’s pleas for mercy came out as a series of half squelched gurgles. Vincent took time to savor the moment. It would have been easy to issue the order to kill, and erase at least one of his tormentors, but he realized that it might result in the dog being taken from him and put to sleep. He couldn’t let that happen. Already he loved this dog. Revenge would wait for a better more secluded time. Mrs. Jackson had stopped hanging her husband’s shorts to watch. Joe Roberts lifted his head from under the hood and was wiping grease from his hands with a red rag while staring in their direction.

At ease. Ulysses released his grip and returned to Vincent’s side. He reached down and patted the dog’s head. Ulysses didn’t look up but instead stayed focused on Barret who was struggling to his feet.

I guess I chose butt kicking – yours, said Vincent triumphantly. He turned and walked away enjoying the sweetness of his victory. It didn’t matter that it was Ulysses’ victory. They were a team now. People wouldn’t be so quick to put him down with Ulysses at his side.

When they reached the trailer the dog stopped to hoist his leg over a scruffy potted geranium marking the edge of Vincent’s lot line. Maybe the dog was right. This world was about territory and it was just about time for him to mark off his. He opened the door for the dog and followed him inside.

You hungry, he asked Ulysses?

Vincent took the two responding barks as a yes, put the envelope on the table, and started going through the cabinets. His sparsely stocked shelves didn’t provide much of a choice. He pulled out two white glass bowls. In one, he dumped his remaining bit of cornflakes, which he topped with a can of chunky beef soup. He set this bowl on the floor near the sink and filled the other bowl with water. By the time he set the water bowl on the floor, Ulysses was already devouring his homemade dog food.

Pleased with the success of his concoction he returned to the table and the envelope. He slid the money out and popped off the paper banding. His fingers fumbled with the slick new bills as he tried to count his treasure. He counted it twice each time coming up with five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money, more money than he ever had at one time. It was great if it were real, he thought. He had seen the oversized face of Ben Franklin on hundred dollar bills before, but never this many at one time and certainly not all new.

He knew he couldn’t spend any of it in Thorntree without having people asking lots of questions. It would mean a trip of Kansas City over an hour away. There he could get some food for him and the dog, new tires for his truck, and some new clothes - if the bills were real.

A banging on the side of his trailer shook him from his thoughts. He stuffed the money back into the envelope then looked around for a place to hide it. The banging was getting louder. Hold on a minute. I’m coming, he yelled. The cabinets, somewhere in the bedroom, under the cushion of the couch, no. His thoughts were whirling, as the knocking became more persistent. What if it was counterfeit? Don’t think about that now. How about the oven? No. The freezer, yes that’s it. He threw the envelope in the freezer compartment and then went toward the door. He reached for the doorknob and stopped when he heard who was knocking.

Vincent, open up. It’s Sheriff Farley.

Chapter 4

Jacob knocked softly, pushed the door part way open, then peeked inside the room. Burt was aiming the remote control like a pistol, clicking through channels as if shooting villains in a western. Burt glanced toward the door then zapped the TV with the mute button and beckoned Jacob with the wave of his hand.

Jacob smothered a smile at the sight. Burt was sitting up in bed with the covers thrown back revealing two thigh high casts with wrinkled purplish toes sticking out of the bottoms. Stripped of his denim overalls, the old farmer was dressed in a dignity stealing, split down the back, blue hospital gown. Only the trademark black baseball cap provided the patient with a small straw of normalcy. The black cap emblazoned with CAT Powered Diesel in yellow, grease-smeared letters was pulled down firmly to the forehead as if daring some ‘bossy’ nurse or doctor to try to remove it.

Come in, Father, come in. I’m glad you came.

Jacob walked over to the bed and pointed to the thick casts anchoring Burt to the bed.

Does it hurt much?

It’s not too bad now. Hurt like hell when it first happened. Oh, sorry, Father. Anyway, I was out there in the sun for hours. I thought I was going to die. Say, did you see the guy that brought me in?

No, I just heard a stranger found you.

He’s a giant I’m telling you. He pulled that tractor off my legs like it was nothing. Must be seven, no eight feet tall and strong as a bull.

Really, eight feet, said Jacob while arching one eyebrow.

I wouldn’t kid you, Father. Wait till you see him. This guy’s something else. I’ve never seen anyone that big and strong. Heck, I weigh over 250 and he carried me like I was a little kid.

I’m sure I’ll meet him soon. How long do you have to keep the casts?

Doc says a few weeks. Did you know that Zeke offered to take care of my place until I’m back on my feet again?

Who’s Zeke?

Who’ve we been talking about? He’s the one who saved me. He’s going to stay around until the harvests are done. Can you believe that? Boy, am I lucky.

It does seem that God is looking out for you.

Well I don’t know about that. I’ll tell you this; if Zeke wouldn’t have come by, I would have cooked. I’ll bet it was close to 100 degrees out there that day. The man saved me; no doubt about it.

Speaking of cooked, can I get you anything?

Mildred promised to sneak me in some home cooking later tonight. One of the neighbors called her and she came back right away.

Jacob glanced up at the round schoolhouse clock.

You going already? You just got here.

Jacob was surprised at the disappointment in Burt’s voice. Jacob supposed that even to a Baptist the company of a Catholic priest was better than being left alone with only Saturday morning TV and no cable or satellite connection.

I’m sorry, but I have to go. I have a wedding at noon.

Yeah, that’s right. Betty Simmons and that Garity boy are saying their I do’s today. I’m invited you know. I was going to go before this happened. Give them my best.

I will. Are you sure I can’t get you anything before I go?

Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be OK. Zeke said he’d come see me this afternoon. Say Father, have they heard anything about the Jensen boy. It’s been four days now and the Kansas City TV stations haven’t even mentioned him.

Jacob suspected the boy had run away to escape his drunken father and the abuse that could never be proven. He kept his speculation to himself lest he start the I heard it from the priest rumor that was sure to spread like a hayloft fire if he expressed his feelings to anyone.

Nothing yet. If I do hear something, I’ll let you know. I’ll come back in the morning to check on you.

As soon as he closed the door, Jacob heard the television roar back to life. He could tell by the rapidly changing sounds that Burt was back to clicking his controller. As he walked toward the elevator, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be helpless with a mountain of plaster on each leg. He had rarely been sick. The last time was a two-week bout with the flu fifteen years ago. During that time, when he felt his worst, he knew it was only temporary. He wondered how they did it. How did the chronically ill cope everyday with the pain, the frustration, the knowing they were dependent on someone else? He knew the church’s teaching on suffering, yet it was always hard to reconcile those beliefs while he watched people in pain.

He rocked back and forth on his heels in front of the garish orange 3 painted on the elevator doors. Like most elevators in small buildings, the wait for this one would be longer than the ride. He looked at his watch. It was only ten-thirty. There was still plenty of time to get to the church and prepare for the wedding.

A muffled ding announced the elevator’s arrival. The doors parted revealing a gurney with a patient covered to the neck with a thin white hospital blanket. A surgical mask covering most of the patient’s face made her unrecognizable. The orderly on the left and the nurse to the right of the gurney were not only masked, but they were also wearing a face shield and surgical gloves. Jacob stepped back allowing the rolling bed to pass into the hall.

He could only catch a glimpse of the patient’s closed eyes and forehead as she passed. Judging by the wrinkled skin of her forehead and a few patches of long thin white hair Jacob assumed she was elderly. He searched his memory for the name of someone in town that might fit the description, but couldn’t think of anyone.

Who is it, he asked?

Margie Holmes. You’ll have to excuse us, Father. We have to get her into her room.

Before he could ask what was wrong with her, the nurse and orderly were already half way down the hall. He got into the empty elevator car and leaned against the back rail. That couldn’t be Margie. She was in her forties. When was the last time I saw her? The picnic a week ago. She didn’t even look sick then. Her hair was brown. Why were the nurse and orderly wearing masks and a shield? Were they that frightened of what Margie had? No, there had to be another reason.

When the doors opened on the first floor, two doctors and a nurse ran past him toward the emergency room. In all of his other visits to the hospital, he’d never seen any of the staff running. Without thinking, he ran after them. Ignoring the staff only sign, he pushed open the double doors to the emergency room. One of the doctors lay face down beside the bed, the nurse was doubled over the sink vomiting, and the other doctor stood beside the bed- trembling.

The sight of the others stopped Jacob’s forward rush. What could it be? These doctors have seen accident victims before. Three more cautious steps brought Jacob directly behind the doctor. He put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder and at the same time asked, What is it?

The doctor turned to him, opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, then fainted and fell forward into Jacob’s arms. Surprised by the weight of the limp man, he staggered backward for a second, then steadied himself enough to lower the man gently to the floor. He recognized the doctor as Jim Wesson, the hospital’s chief surgeon. Wesson was a man in his early sixties that had spent his life in the medical profession. What could have him react this way? Jacob felt the hairs on his neck bristle against his collar. He realized he needed to look at who or what was in the bed.

Get a grip. You’ve probably seen worse. It can’t be that bad. Something affected these people. These are professionals and they couldn’t bear to look at whatever it is. Who do you think you are? Do you have a choice? Aren’t you here to help?

In one motion, he stood up and turned to face the bed. He instantly grabbed for the bed’s guardrail. No it couldn’t be. What was it? Who was it? How? Why?

Jacob felt the room begin to spin. He closed his eyes. Huge bubble eyes, bulging two inches outside their sockets, still stared back at him. He shook his head to try to clear the vision. It didn’t help. Those monstrous eyes of the patient stared back at him. He opened his eyes, but looked away from the bed. The nurse had stopped vomiting and stood up from the sink. She glanced at the creature in the bed, and then fled through the double doors and into the relative safety of the hall.

Jacob took a few deep breaths before he dared to look again at the figure in the bed. He was convinced it was human or at least it used to be. Besides the bulging eyes, the skin had a dried leathery appearance as if all the moisture had been sucked from the tissues. The muscle systems had degenerated to a point that left only a thin hide covering the bone structure.

What could have caused this? Was it chemicals? Was it a disease? Was it contagious? He fought the panic of his last thought. If it is contagious, I shouldn’t go closer to the bed or even stay in the room. You have to do something to help this creature, whoever or whatever it is. He released his death grip on the bed rail and crossed himself. Our Father who art in heaven....

As the prayer ended, the creature shrieked then bolted upright to a sitting position. Jacob jumped back. He wanted to run, but felt somehow compelled to watch as the creature began jerking itself side-to-side, banging itself against the bed guardrails. It screamed again and again, each time letting out a higher pitched more fiendish howl. It threw off the blanket and reached upward to its ballooned eyes. The sight of bony almost claw like hands with long curling nails made Jacob step back even further. His blood seemed hot. He felt it moving like a steaming stream as each heart beat spread an ever-increasing fear throughout his body. Paralyzed into helplessness he could only witness the beast scratch at its eyes until it scratched through the cornea sending a sickly pink liquid spurting onto the blanket. While this was happening, the creature shrieked again. This louder piercing screech forced Jacob to cover his ears with his hands while his stare remained fixed on the horror in the bed.

This last outburst seemed to exhaust the creature’s energy. The emaciated body slumped to its left, fell against the bed rail, then slid backwards onto the pillow. In the following silence, Jacob could hear himself breathing as he sucked in and expelled air through his half-open mouth. He knew it was over, yet he still couldn’t move. It was a one-minute eternity before he could force his legs to step forward. His only thought was to cover that hideous face with the blanket. He whispered a prayer and inched his way toward the bed. He kept his eyes focused on the edge of the blanket. When he reached the bed, he snatched the blanket, then yanked it up over the creature’s head, and let it drop quickly. He backed away slowly still trying to comprehend what he’d just witnessed. When his foot touched Wesson’s body, Jacob turned and knelt beside the still unconscious doctor and began patting his cheeks.

The smell of sweet cologne reached Jacob just before the startling sound of a deep husky voice from behind him.

Can I be of some help?

Jacob swung around to see a giant of a man ducking through the doorway. This must be the guy that brought Burt to the hospital. Burt wasn’t exaggerating. The giant was taller than seven feet. He’s probably over eight feet tall. Jacob fought through his own questions and managed to answer.

Help me get the doctor into the chair.

With sure handed quickness, the giant had the chief surgeon sitting in the chair before Jacob could rise to help. Jacob again began patting Wesson’s cheeks and without turning his head, issued another order. Get the other doctor into the next bed.

The huge man slid the partitioning curtain aside then lifted the second doctor onto the next bed with the ease of boy handling his favorite toy. With two large strides, the giant came and stood over Jacob and Wesson. Jacob stood to face the giant although his eye level was still below the man’s shoulders.

You must be Zeke?

Zechariah Matthews.

The giant stood erect without the least bit of apologetic stoop of one so tall. Massive shoulders, narrow waistline and biceps straining against red plaid rolled up sleeves, presented a picture of pure power. His tanned face had a smooth chiseled hardness as if sculpted from fine marble then polished to remove the slightest imperfections that weather or aging would have caused. Deep-set onyx eyes framed with thick neat eyebrows were inviting - almost beckoning to be stared into. It wasn’t hard to believe that this good-looking Goliath lifted the tractor from Burt’s legs.

Even his name was a mouthful. It was an old sounding name for such a young man. There was probably a story about it being his grandfather’s thought Jacob. He offered his hand to the giant, expecting a crushing squeeze. Instead, it was the coolness of his touch, not the firmness of his grip that surprised Jacob.

The people here have already changed my name to Zeke. They said Zechariah was too long. My mother used to get angry when the other boys called me Zeke. She said I should be called by my full name, just like my grandfather. He smiled at Jacob as he released his hand.

Jacob congratulated himself on the correct guess of the origin of Zeke’s name. The smell of cologne made him think Zeke fancied himself a ladies man. He thought that until he smelled the second odor. A strong pungent smell the cologne couldn’t quite cover completely.

What happened? The shaky voice of Jim Wesson stopped Jacob from introducing himself.

You must have fainted, said Jacob.

Oh - yes - of course. What about Bill?

Who’s Bill?

The doctor pointed to the creature covered with the blanket. Bill Rollins.

That, whatever it was in the bed, couldn’t be Bill Rollins! I’ve known Bill for four years. That thing wasn’t the same as the man that delivered his mail everyday. He was unrecognizable. It couldn’t be true. Could it? Jacob felt himself getting weak and grabbed the bed rail to steady himself.

Father, are you all right, asked Wesson?

I think I need some air. That whatever in the bed couldn’t be Bill Rollins. The thought, along with its many implications was overwhelming. This was somebody he knew, not a picture on a newscast of some far away town. He felt the sudden urge to get out of the building. He wanted to run but forced himself to walk through the swinging doors and into the hallway. At the end of the hall were the glass exit doors. Beyond these doors, the sunshine beckoned him like a powerful magnet. He began to trot. Then, giving into the feeling,