The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3)
The Rising
The End Time Saga
Book Three
Daniel Greene
Copyright © 2018 by Daniel Greene
Cover Design by Christian Bentulan
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters are fictional and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is completely coincidental. All names, organizations, places and entities therein are fictional or have been fictionalized, and in no way reflect reality. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9976096-3-9
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I dedicate this novel to my Grandfather Victor. Thank you for introducing me to Prince Valiant as a young man and piquing my imagination for lifetimes to come.
Table of Contents
THE PASTOR
STEELE
KINNICK
GWEN
JOSEPH
KINNICK
STEELE
TESS
JOSEPH
TESS
STEELE
KINNICK
STEELE
JOSEPH
STEELE
KINNICK
JOSEPH
STEELE
THE PASTOR
TESS
GWEN
JOSEPH
TESS
STEELE
KINNICK
STEELE
TESS
JOSEPH
GWEN
STEELE
KINNICK
STEELE
JOSEPH
STEELE
THE PASTOR
KINNICK
GWEN
STEELE
JOSEPH
KINNICK
TESS
STEELE
KINNICK
STEELE
JOSEPH
GWEN
STEELE
GWEN
STEELE
JOSEPH
STEELE
KINNICK
STEELE
JOSEPH
STEELE
KINNICK
A Message from the Author
A Note
Special Thanks
About the Author
Books by Daniel Greene
THE PASTOR
Northern Michigan
Thick leather cowboy boots clopped over the finely polished wood floor. His weary body felt every step he had taken in his soul’s sixty-four years of mortal existence. His weathered hand fell on the head of the hammer that hung from his hip. Its metal head was tarnished with rust. The face was dinged and the claw on the back stripped from a long life of use. The shaft was worn and dirt had been ground into the old fading wood; it swung as he walked. The hammer of a simple carpenter.
He whispered a prayer under his breath. The words hid inside his mouth, sticking to his tongue. I am your servant. Your word gives me strength in the darkness.
The muted sounds of a sobbing woman were muffled through a closed door. The crying lured him forward through the clean wooden hallway adorned with framed family pictures. Light shone beneath the door, and as he drew near, the crying grew in volume.
The echoing of his footsteps stopped. A small metal crucifix hung slightly off-kilter. He took a wrinkled, knuckled finger and gently straightened the bottom of the cross upright. His finger wavered below, waiting in case it swung back. He surveyed his handiwork another moment before moving on.
Continuing down the hall, he eyed family photos that had been taken all over the world: Stonehenge, the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China. All were photos of the same family. Mother, father, son, posing, smiling and living. A young blonde-haired woman appeared in some next to the son and eventually the father disappeared.
Reaching the door, he grasped the gold door handle and tenderly opened the door inward as if he respected their privacy. The room was dark but for a series of flashlight beams shining on a distraught couple. The large bedroom was extravagant and filled with the possessions of the affluent. Large expensive furniture. An equally large king-sized bed in a thick wooden bedframe.
He acknowledged a large man resting on the wall, arms folded against his wide chest. The man’s sandy blond curls bounced when he looked his way. The two men were almost of equal height but the pastor still looked down on the broad man.
“Peter, how are they doing?” His voice hardly rose above a whisper. He knew he would be heard when he spoke.
The gold-haired man straightened upright, and he flashed a beam of light tentatively on the crying woman. Her face frowned at them and she squinted her eyes, turning her head away. Her face twisted and her lip curled through her gag. Peter removed the light from her face.
“They seem pretty shaken up by everything, but I have faith that God will show himself here tonight.”
“God always shows himself. It’s only the matter of us seeing him.”
Peter bowed his head in deference. His curls shifting. “This is true.”
Three more of his followers stood expectantly in the room. They held flashlights on the two people. One trained a shotgun on them and the other two held long knives.
The captives sat on the edge of the bed, hands bound behind their backs. Blankets and sheets lay tangled behind them. They huddled close together and the woman’s shoulders shook as she cried. The man nursed a swelling eye with blinks, his other eye darting frantically at the men surrounding him. Humans were pitifully weak and sorry creatures.
They may not be ready. They may yet be castaways, vestiges of the old world unwilling to embrace the new. We do not choose when he calls, but we must answer. “Gabriel, release their gags,” he said, waving one of the men with a knife forward with a curt gesture.
The pastor turned toward his broad-chested lieutenant. “Peter, a chair if you will. My back.” A chair was set behind him, and the wood of his hammer gave a dead thump on its side as he sat eye level with the man and woman.
The man before him exercised his gray stubble-clad jaw. He wasn’t as old as the pastor and he wasn’t young. He was probably in his late fifties and unaccustomed to wearing a beard. The woman, her face wet with salt-laden tears, had gray streaks running through her once blonde hair. She stared at him, defiantly afraid.
The pastor leaned backward, stretching his back and allowing the chair to support him with its frame.
“You need not be afraid. We are not here to hurt you.” His voice was soft and gentle.
His two captives did not appear soothed by his forthcomingness.
“Why are you doing this?” the woman stammered. She sniffled back tears. “We haven’t done anything to you.” The man next to her only stared.
The pastor cocked his head. “The chains that bind you are only of earth, but what chains bind your soul?”
The older woman wiped the side of her face on her shoulder. She blinked confusion. “I have no chains on my soul.”
The pastor grimaced. “You do. You sit here in all your opulence, refusing God’s call to service, for service is where we find him. You are a doctor, are you not?”
“Yes. How did you know that?” She looked over at her partner, confusion on her face.
The pastor smiled, brushing his thick white hair back from the front of his head. He rubbed his hand over his hair in a second effort to keep it out of his eyes.
“A man does not lead a parish for thirty-five years without getting to know a person with just a glance.”
“It appears that you are a woman God has blessed with many gifts.” He nodded as the left side of his mouth curved upward.
“And you, good sir?” His eyes took in the other man. Another doctor, no doubt.
“I am an oncologist at St. Anastasia’s,” the man said flatly.
The pastor grinned inwardly. These were very special people. People that would be such a great asset to his parish.
“Two very gifted people indeed,” he said, folding his hands between his knees and leaning forward.
“Gabriel, get them some water.”
Gabriel bobbed his flat brown-haired head in confirmation and pulled a bottled water from a green backpack on his back and cracked the top. He was a young man from his parish, not more than eighteen. He did as the pastor bid and stepped forward, pouring water in their open mouths.
“That’s a good lad,” the pastor said. At one time he feared death. Now he embraces his place here on earth with the willingness of an old man. The young man finished and tightened the cap back on the bottle. He stepped back and the pastor gave him a nod of appreciation before addressing the doctors.
“I want you to join my church community. I won’t ask you for much, and you will be safe from those who would do you harm, but I think we would both benefit from getting to know each other better.”
The man looked indignant. “You come here and hold us hostage at gunpoint. That’s some way to welcome someone.”
“Some introductions must be harsher than others,” the pastor said, spreading his hands and folding them back together.
The woman looked away as if she didn’t want to say it, but she turned back to him, resolution settling on her face. Her eyes filled with angry tears. “We’ve seen what you’ve done to the Millers.” She looked out the window. “The bodies. The fire,” she spit out softer, her lips trembling. “You and your people are monsters,” she hissed.
“The only choice we have is to see God’s will be done. I will release you when you repent and join. No harm will befall you. You will join the hundreds of good people of my parish. People that you called neighbors once. You will be safe and a valued member of our community. You will be a part of something so much greater than yourself. You need not work only for your own gratification. You can truly be God’s servant, helping him to build his new paradise on earth.”
The captive male doctor snorted. “Paradise? Have you looked outside? The world has gone to hell.” The pastor leaned back stretching and stood up. Even with support, standing always seemed better. He put his hands on his lower back and pressed in the center of his spine.
“One may call this world hell, yes. This world has only ever been hell, each and every misery put here by God to cull his flock. To drive his flock forward. Throughout mankind’s history, he has wrought us with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Pestilence, Death, Famine, and War, if only to test us. Pestilence was only the beginning. Before this is over War, Famine, and Death will fall upon us with their wicked arrows and swords. Most will perish. This is known. It is also known that God’s people will rise up stronger,” the pastor said, letting his voice rise as if he stood at the pulpit.
“Amen,” his men said in unison. The pastor nodded to them in praise.
“His victory will be ultimate for we who are destined to bring an end to hell here on earth. We are his champions, his instruments, and Revelations reads that his victory will be complete over Lucifer and his minions, and God will bring paradise here on earth.”
The woman shook her head. “This has nothing to do with God. This is a disease,” she shouted. The pastor held up a hand as one of his men, with an unkempt thin beard and long hair, stepped forward to strike her.
“No, Luke. She is confused.”
“I’m not confused.” She sneered at him. “It’s a virus. People are sick.” She shook her head. “This is madness.”
The pastor lifted his chin a bit as if he were lecturing a child. “This is a crusade. We will wipe the spawn of the devil from the earth, bringing peace to our world. Will you not join in something greater than yourselves?”
The woman frowned and the man grimaced. They glanced at one another, condemned lovers on their way to the gallows hand in hand.
“I can’t be a part of this madness,” she said, shaking her head. She nudged her partner with an elbow.
“No,” he whispered. They looked at one another, gaining strength in their defiance.
The pastor paced a moment. These are excellent minds that could greatly further our cause. But God’s will is his word. Yes, he challenges us all. They are tempting to appease for their expertise, but I will not fall into that viper’s pit.
“Repent and join. You can see God’s will before you, why do you not grasp it?”
“False prophets will show themselves. They dress like sheep, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves. You’ve corrupted yourself, Pastor,” the woman spat. The pastor grimaced, his skin drawing tight over his skull.
“A misinterpretation of Matthew’s gospel. I had faith that you would see the light, but God knew you would not join him when he made you. The Lord despises those with hearts of pride and they will not go unpunished.” The pastor nodded to Peter.
Peter bent down, pulling the plug from a red can of gasoline. The aroma of fuel engulfed the room. Peter swung the can, splashing the liquid onto the man’s face and body.
“What are you doing?” the man screamed. He scooted back on the bed, falling onto his shoulders.
The pastor took a deep breath, sighing out loud. “Your choice has been made.”
“No, you mustn’t!” the woman yelled at him. Peter continued to slosh the liquid around the room.
“Purification by fire,” the pastor said, almost disinterested by them.
Peter finished the can off by dousing their clothes and bodies.
“Please, Pastor. You can’t do this,” the woman cried.
The man spit gasoline onto the floor. “We will join you. We promise,” he sobbed.
The pastor looked down upon the groveling doctors, people that held high societal status in the old world. A world created by man, rotted through by mankind’s greed, lack of piousness, and self-gratification. Now that world had crumbled away, leaving only the righteous and those marked by the beast.
“Our Crusade is one of the righteous. Mankind will survive on the backs of God’s chosen people. You are the children of sin and will be washed away in the flames of time.”
The pastor and his followers marched outside, the clopping of their boots echoing off the wood floor and hallway walls. Pickup truck headlights illuminated over a hundred armed men that waited outside. They stood talking and waiting, holding their weapons ready. Shotguns, hunting rifles, clubs, bats, and hammers were held loosely in their hands. They were a mere fraction of his crusaders. His army of believers. They bowed their heads to him as he drew near. A few men knelt on the ground.
The pastor’s hands rose to the sky.
“Praise be to God.”
“Amen,” his followers said in return.
“Look at this house. This mansion. The people who live here have lived in affluence for years, hoarding their wealth, sitting on their pedestal, peering down their noses at the poor and uneducated in disgust. Feeling bad when they heard about their struggles on the radio. Horror when they watched the poor marching in the streets on television. The only action they took was turning the channel when they’d had enough.” His men watched him intently, nodding their heads in acknowledgment here and there as his words rang true with what they knew as worldly fact. “They milked a rigged system that exploits the lower and middle classes to line the pockets of the rich.”
His followers howled in the night, enraged by the injustice. The pastor raised his hands, and his followers quieted down in reverence. He pointed at the house.
&nbs
p; “These people were doctors. Healers. Talented and intelligent individuals. God bestowed great gifts upon them in the hopes they would use them to serve.” He dropped his hands to his sides in disappointment. “Yet here they hide while good people such as yourselves that need their help suffer.” He turned and pointed at his young follower. “Gabriel’s new wife languishes, ravaged by illness. Yet, they would not help.” Gabriel, more of a boy than a man, gritted his lips, pained by the mention of his wife.
“They refuse to see the light. They refuse to do God’s will. They refuse the opportunity, no, God’s command, to remake the world in his image. Their mansion gives them no shelter when Heaven rains from above. Their science gives them no answer when God ordains those below.”
His men jeered the house and the rich inside. Brother Mathias walked forward and spit at the structure. The pastor took it in, feeding on the holy fervor of his followers. His soldiers of the apocalypse.
“They have turned their backs on God and now will pay the eternal price.” He nodded to Peter. The man hustled to the front of the house and flicked a lighter. Little orange and yellow flames leapt. The fire burst along a path leading inside the house. Soon the flames grew into a roaring inferno, the blaze of light conquering the darkness of night.
“God’s light triumphs over the darkness,” Peter said as he returned.
“You have done well, Brother Peter. Every day we grow the Kingdom of God,” the pastor said.
His men cheered the fiery collapse of the old order.
The pastor raised his eyes upward, looking at the smoke-filled night sky and a smile settled on his lips.
I was placed on earth for this.
STEELE
Shores of Lake Michigan
A gold cliff rose up over a hundred feet on Steele’s right-hand side. It was covered with small shrubs and stunted trees. Thin green palms of dune grass bent backwards in the wind, holding on to the hill with long shallow roots. The wind whipped off the far-stretching lake, forcing itself up the beach and into the hill. It buffeted the dune grass as it went, blowing sand, attempting to erode the hill away one cool breeze at a time.