Countdown to Vanishing Day: Triology of Hope, #3

By R. Hilary Adcock

"The Garnering", "The Final Garnering" and "Countdown to Vanishing Day" by R. Hilary Adcock are post-apocalyptic novels that explores the aftermath of Vanishing Day, a catastrophic event that caused the disappearance of men, women, and children worldwide. The sudden loss of so many souls has plunged humanity into chaos and given rise to global totalitarianism.
The books take readers on a journey of hope as they follow the story of those who have realized that Vanishing Day was an act of God. The protagonist finds solace in The Garnering, a concept that gives hope to those who seek redemption and salvation.
The books highlight how the world is dominated by Capita, an entity that strives to achieve One World Order and absolute power over humanity. Cities have become prisons, and the Earth is a hunting field. Yet, there are those who stand on the words recorded thousands of years ago and seek to find that which can be saved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Hilary Adcock
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962155175

R. Hilary Adcock

Author R. Hilary Adcock is a retired individual who has enjoyed a diverse range of experiences in his life. With a background in architecture and forensic construction expertise, he has also pursued a passion for aviation, sailing, and exploring different parts of the world. Having traveled in Europe, North America, South America, North Africa, Canada, and Alaska, he has sailed across the west coast of the USA and Mexico, the Sea of Cortez, and the Caribbean. Now residing in the White Mountains of Arizona, he has turned his focus to writing.

Book preview

COUNTDOWN

TO

VANISHING DAY

Trilogy of Hope

Book Three

R. Hilary Adcock

Preface

Nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom. There will be great earthquakes, famines, and pestilences in various places, and fearful events and great signs from heaven.

Luke 21:10–11

********

Inspiration comes from many sources in one’s life. Some are sought and others are revealed over time.

In the Trilogy of Hope, the inspiration came from my time in architecture, construction, the study of prophecy, and traveling the world.

The characters and story are fictional, although deeply set in ever-changing current events. The greatest of which is the growing threat of totalitarianism.

Countdown to Vanishing Day is an update and rewrite of the author's previously published novel Flight to the Promise.

PART ONE

DAVID, CHE, TOM

And

MATT

CHAPTER 1

Dark spirits play the long game.

The writings of apocalyptic prophecy, written thousands of years ago, are read by some with curiosity, and others do so with malice. Such is the case with China, as it sees the unfolding of prophecies as opportunities to achieve world domination. Over time, and in stealth moves, China will invite Russia and Iran to merge their worldly influence and resources. They will create an alliance called Capitia, a derivative of the Latin word Caput, the Head.

Americans living in the cities, busy themselves with the challenges and pressures of city life. In rural communities, people feel safe and protected by the semi-remote nature of their homes, farms, and businesses. Events and catastrophes, occurring in other parts of the world, are far removed from the perceived security of living in the United States of America.

CHAPTER 2

Tulsa, Oklahoma

We need to talk. Four simple words hit David Adams like a bucket of ice water dumped on him from behind by Vivian. The frustration of their relational stalemate caused his normally logical and balanced communication skills to teeter dangerously toward a verbal explosion.

He looked up from the book he had been enjoying, closed it, and rested it face down on the inlaid teak side table without making eye contact. Over their seven-year marriage, he had learned to respond slowly and deliberately to ‘the talk.’

The living room of their contemporary home, stands as one of the strongest design elements of the twenty-eight-hundred square foot, one-story structure. The room speaks in a unique three-dimensional language of shapes, colors, and textures that even the architecturally untrained can appreciate.

Less is more.

Form follows function.

All things are by design

Do not compromise.

Those phrases, offer hints of David’s credo, regarding life as it should be. A life designed for a purpose. Life is empowered by a personal relationship with the creator of all things. Life with a higher purpose than the crumbling world he felt trapped within. A life without compromise.

He slowly moved his feet from the black leather ottoman and rotated in his chair just enough to face her. The leather chair cushions moaned in resistance to his movement, like the sound of chaps rubbing against a saddle.

She was semi-reclined on the black leather couch, with her back against the padded arm rest, and her feet tucked under several frilly throw pillows. She and David had argued over those pillows for weeks, until she finally wore him down. Such was her battle with his stubborn ideology.

The moment his eyes met hers, she repeated the statement, as if he had not heard it the first time. We need to talk.

Okay… talk. David’s tone and facial expression demonstrated his frustration and anticipation of hearing yet more misguided get-rich-quick schemes and pathetic excuses for past failures. His architectural practice was slowly dying from the financial drain of her real estate investments and with it, their marriage was approaching death by suffocation.

She said, I have decided we need to talk to a financial advisor, and David, if we don’t do something, we may as well get a divorce.

The distance he felt between himself in the comfortable chair and her on the couch with those frilly pillows strewn about was far greater than the mere eight feet separating them. His response intentionally excluded her divorce comment. We don’t need a financial counselor. What I need is for you to get your rental properties under control or sold.

The colors of the setting sun shone through the west-facing living room window which, by design, framed the tree-lined driveway. As Vivian whined on about her life, David gazed through the tall window and watched the blazing fall colors grow dim as the orange glow of the sun slipped below the tree tops.

CHAPTER 3

Courthouse, Tulsa, OK

David Scott Adams, the court has reviewed your rebuttal to the divorce action filed on behalf of Vivian Leslie Adams and finds in favor of the plaintiff.

The judge looked directly at David and his attorney, and ceremoniously dropped the gavel. The abrupt sound of the wood gavel, as it struck the bench, echoed throughout the old courtroom. Divorce granted. The judge signaled for the bailiff to approach the bench and passed the documents that David’s attorney would need to finalize the divorce.

The attorney asked, David, do you still want to file for Chapter 7 bankruptcy or would you like to negotiate a Chapter 11? The trim, middle-aged attorney looked straight into David’s eyes and awaited his instructions.

For a few seconds, David did not speak as he watched his newly estranged wife and her attorney walk out of the courtroom together. No, I’m done. Screw it, I’m done.  Chapter Seven clears the table, right? They lose, I win.

The attorney answers, Well, yes, sort of. The IRS still has to be paid, but other than that, you’d be free of all debt.

That was all David needed to know. As he balanced the pros and cons, he realized that he was making the decision alone. There was no one else to ask, no one else to convince. Nor would Vivian be there to point an accusing finger at him when she disagreed with the decision. The strength and conviction of his newly found autonomy spoke through the tone of his voice. Chapter 7. Do it, I’m done.

The attorney reached out and offered a sympathetic handshake. I’ll get you the bankruptcy paperwork to sign within the week. Good luck David.

David did not hear the words or see the gesture.

The attorney simply nodded, picked up his briefcase, and left David alone in the emptying courtroom. The only sound David heard was the hissing of the ancient hydraulic door closer, as the heavy oak door to the judge’s chambers slowly pulled shut. The faint sound floated through the air, and then faded away like the last breath of a dying man.

David is forty-two years old, trim, and of average height, but his appearance and demeanor were much more youthful. In part, because of jet black, straight hair, and an almost beardless face. Somewhere in his ancestral past, a Comanche Indian blood line brought; dark hair, light beards, and an almost tan skin color, into his European, Caucasian family line.

Denial and anger ripped through David’s mind in an emotional competition for control and from it, thoughts and questions arose.

This shouldn’t be happening. My father was a respected lawyer. My mom and dad stuck it out. They died happy and old. What in the hell did I do to deserve this?

In preparation for the chilly walk to his car, he pulled on his tan London Fog trench coat and brown leather gloves. He took his time with each glove and verbalized the mental and spiritual combat within, spitting the words. Does it matter? Do I care? I thought God had a plan for my life. Where is He in all this?

He walked through the courthouse lobby and as he pushed on the wooden double doors, a gust of cold wind pulled them open as if to say Now get out! 

The concrete steps and sidewalks had been sprinkled with salt to melt the snow and ice. As he slowly walked to his car, he kept his gaze downward. The footprints he left in the salty slush, slowly fill with dirty water. Halfway to his car, he felt the winter-laden, afternoon wind invades his trench coat, sending a mild chill through his body. He mumbled to the ground as he neared the protection of his car. Well God, I’m done. I prayed. I gave money. I went to church and this is it. I’m done with you.

Looking down as he was, he did not see the white sedan pull into the courthouse parking lot and park a few spaces away. The white and puffy shape of the vehicle gave it a lumpy marshmallow look. When the driver squeezed out of the car, the image was complete. He could easily have doubled for the Pillsbury Doughboy, in a tight-fitting gray business suit and vest that strained to contain his ample belly.

The voice of the pudgy preacher pierced David’s emotional tirade. David! I’m sorry. Am I late? Some people just don’t know how-to drive-in snow.

David muttered, Yeah, it’s over.

Oh, I’m so sorry. The preacher turned and pointed to a nearby cafe. Can we get some coffee and talk about it?

For a moment, David studied the short, rotund man. His blow-dried hair was combed back and held in place with ample coats of hairspray. The pasty white complexion was blotched with reddish patches, where the cold wind blew across his chubby cheeks and chin.

Although he felt the preacher was as much at fault as God, he managed a somewhat respectful response. No time. I’ve got a lot to do.

Okay, I understand. See you at church tonight?

David turned and walked the short distance to his car, leaving the preacher unsure of how to respond to the intentionally rude body language. He opened the door, climbed in, and just before pulling it closed, he tossed a bitter response over his shoulder. Not likely.

His life, marriage, and career had taken paths that can be symbolically described as riding a roller coaster. Ups, downs, twists, turns, and one final climb to the summit that invariably ends in a careening downward plunge.

As David drove away, he watched the familiar Tulsa streets and the dumbfounded preacher grow smaller in the rearview mirror of his soon-to-be-repossessed luxury sedan. The shrinking images in the mirror, symbolized the demise of a failed life he was determined to leave behind. His determination continued to grow. He clung to it like an anchor in an angry sea until finally, it matured into rock-solid resolve.

Get on with my life. Life without financial hassles. Life without Vivian. After a pause that lasted two deep breaths, he said, Without God. As he spoke, a ray of sunshine broke through the overcast sky off to the west. Maybe I’ll go to California.

When he glanced at the dashboard to check his speed, the odometer caught his eye: 88,888.8. Had he understood Biblical Numerology he would have realized the meaning of the numbers.

‘New beginnings.’

CHAPTER 4

Odessa, Texas

Chester! The sound of Momma’s voice invaded the make-believe world of his bedroom floor. I see your Daddy’s truck comin’ up the road! Momma always called him Chester.

In less than a second, young Chester Rawlins is on his feet running toward the door. Hot Wheels, racecars, and toy airplanes scattered in all directions. As he bolted through the bedroom door, he heard the double blast of the air horns on the roof of Daddy’s red Freightliner. He ran through the living room and out the front door where Goldie joined the race. The screen door banged shut in their wake and, as usual, she beat him to the gate.

He peered over the four-foot-high white picket fence, and watched the west Texas wind clear away the dust stirred up by the big truck and trailer. As the truck rolled to a stop, Goldie assumed her yellow Labrador ‘heel’ position, and her long tail swept the dusty ground near Chester’s feet. He hopped up and down with his fists clutched around the fence boards and watched Daddy step down from the cab. Daddy’s boots made solid crunching sounds on the gravel roadway as he ambled toward the gate.

Momma walked up behind Chester, wiped her hands on the hem of her kitchen apron, and looked down at her healthy seven-year-old boy. His copper-red hair reflected the afternoon sun as she combed her fingers through the unruly twirling mass on the back of his head. Chester got Momma’s red hair and freckles, and it seemed as though he got Daddy’s lanky build. Time would tell. 

Avon's makeup usually hid Momma’s freckles, but she had been busy in the kitchen making apple pies for the church potluck. Her hair was twisted up into a bun on top of her head, and without the makeup, her freckles competed with Chester’s.

Daddy stepped through the gate, closed it behind him, and cast one last glance at the truck. Then he turned back toward his family. The six-foot-tall trucker pulled a red shop rag out of his back pocket, wiped his hands, and looked down at Chester. Look at you boy.  I swear Chet you must have grown two inches, and it’s only been two weeks. Daddy always called him Chet.

He scooped Chet up and, unable to hold back any longer, Momma stepped into the hug that she craved, enveloped in the strong arms of her hard-working man. Held there, she breathed in the musk-like scent, mingled with the smell of fresh-cut hay that permeated from his faded blue work shirt. The only other hint of what he hauled that trip, were the shards of straw and bits of baling wire stuck between the planks of the long flatbed trailer.

Goldie ran in circles around the couple as they embraced, with Chet sandwiched between Momma’s cotton blouse and Daddy’s sweat-stained shirt. Entwined as they were, the young family slowly walked into the house together. Goldie followed them to the front porch, where she curled up next to the door on her favorite blanket.

Daddy sat on the couch, took off his boots, stretched his legs and put his stocking feet up on the coffee table. Chet climbed up on the couch next to Daddy. He would like to do the same thing except his legs were not long enough yet. Instead, he took off his shoes and curled his feet under himself sitting Indian style facing Daddy. He suddenly exclaimed, Daddy, I want to be a pilot when I grow up!

Seldom caught off guard by the boy’s spontaneity, Daddy looked toward the ceiling, appearing to study the globe-shaped light fixture and slowly revolving ceiling fan. He put his hands behind his head in a stretching motion and called out, Baby! Daddy always called her ‘baby’ when they were at home. Chet wants to fly airplanes. What do you think?

Momma stepped into view at the kitchen door, holding an apple pie in each hand. After blowing a wisp of hair away from her face, she answered. Flyin’ an airplane or drivin’ a truck, either way, he won’t be home much.

It was an answer not intended to merely respond to Chet’s question. When she noticed his feet up on the table, her eyes squinted like a rifleman aiming a coiled rattlesnake. And get your feet off the coffee table.

She disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the boys scrambling to obey. In quick response to her mood swing, Daddy moved his feet off the table and nodded toward Chet’s feet, still curled under him on the couch.

He married the fiery redhead thirteen years ago and respected her mood swings. Those traits were part of her red-headed nature, and Daddy loved the whole package.