The Rapture Series
Why Do you Believe? What Do you Believe? How Do You Believe? Who Do You Believe?
“Reason to Believe
Natszal: "Left" (5:3)
“LEFT”
THE EARTH'S LAST DAYS
TIM LAHAYE & JERRY B. JENKINS
Buck Williams had gotten back in line and gained access to a pay phone. This time he wasn't trying to hook up his computer to it. He simply wanted to see how many personal calls he could make. He reached Ken Ritz's answering machine first.
“This is Ritz's Charter Service. Here's the deal: I've got Learjet's at both Palwaukee and Waukegan, but I've lost my other flyer. I can get to either airport, but right now they're not lettin' anyone into any of the major strips. Can't get into Milwaukee, O'Hare, Kennedy, Logan, National, Dulles, Dallas, Atlanta. I can get into some of the smaller, outlying airports, but it's a seller's market. Sorry to be so opportunistic, but I'm asking two dollars a mile, cash up front. If I can find someone who wants to come back from where you're goin', I might be able to give you a little discount. I'm checkin' this tape tonight and will take off first thing in the morning. Longest trip with guaranteed cash gets me. If your stop is on the way, I'll try to squeeze you message and I'll get back to you.”
That was a laugh. How would Ken Ritz get hold of Buck? With his cellular phone unreliable, the only thing he could think of was to leave his New York voice-mail number. “Mr. Ritz, my name is Buck Williams, and I need to get as close to New York City as you can get me. I'll pay the full fare you're asking in traveler's checks, redeemable in whatever currency you want.” Sometimes that was attractive to private contractors because they kept up with the differences in currency and could make a little margin on the exchange. “I'm at O'Hare and will try to find a place to stay in the suburbs. Just to save you time, let me just pick somewhere between here
and Waukegan. If I get a new number in the meantime, I'll call it in. Meanwhile,
you may leave a message for me at the following New York number.” Buck was still unable to get through to his office directly, but his voice-mail number worked. He retrieved his new messages, mostly from coworkers checking on him and lamenting the loss of mutual friends. Then there was the welcome message from Marge Potter, who was a genius to think of leaving it there for him. “Buck, if you get this, call your father in Tucson. He and your brother are together, and I hate to tell you here, but they're having trouble reaching Jeff's wife and the kids. They should have news by the time you call. Your father was most grateful to hear that you were all right.”
Buck's voice mail also noted that he still had a saved message. That was the one from Dirk Burton that had spurred his trip in the first place. He would need to listen to it again when he had time. Meanwhile, he left a message for Marge that if she had time and an open line, she needed to let Dirk know Buck's flight never made it to Heathrow. Of course, Dirk would know that by now, but he needed to know Buck wasn't among the missing and that he would get there in due time.
Buck hung up and dialed his father. The line was busy, but it was not the same kind of a tone that tells you the lines are down or that the whole system is kaput. Neither was it that irritating recording he'd grown so used to. He knew it would be only a matter of time before he could get through. Jeff must be beside himself not knowing about his wife, Sharon, and the kids. They'd had their differences and had even been separated before the children came along, but for several years the marriage had been better. Jeff's wife had proven forgiving and conciliatory. Jeff himself admitted he was puzzled that she would take him back. “Call me undeserving, but grateful,” he once told Buck. Their son and daughter, who both looked like Jeff, were precious.
Buck pulled out the number the beautiful blonde flight attendant had given him and chastised himself for not trying again to reach her earlier. It took a while for her to answer.
“Hattie Durham, this is Buck Williams.” “Who?” “Cameron Williams, from the Global—” “Oh yes! Any news?” “Yes, ma'am, good news.” “Oh, thank God! Tell me.” “Someone from my office tells me they reached your mother and that she and your
sisters are fine.” “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I wonder why they haven't called here? Maybe they've tried. My phone has been haywire.”
“There are other problems in California, ma'am. Lines down, that kind of a thing. It
may be a while before you can talk to them.”
“I know. I heard. Well, I sure appreciate this. How about you? Have you been able
to reach your family?”
“I got word that my dad and brother are OK. We still don't know about my sister-in
law and the kids.”
“Oh. How old are the kids?”
“Can't remember. Both under ten, but I don't know exactly.”
“Oh.” Hattie sounded sad, guarded.
“Why?” Buck asked.
“Oh, nothing. It's just that—”
“What?”
“You can't go by what I say.”
“Tell me, Miss Durham.”
“Well, you remember what I told you on the plane. And on the news it looks like all
children are gone, even unborn ones.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm not saying that means your brother's children are—”
“I know.”
“I'm sorry I brought that up.”
“No, it's OK. This is too strange, isn't it?”
“Yeah. I just got off the phone with the captain who piloted the flight you were on.
He lost his wife and son, but his daughter is OK. She's in California, too.” “How old is she?” “About twenty, I guess. She's at Stanford.” “Oh.” “Mr. Williams, what did you call yourself?” “Buck. It's a nickname.” “Well, Buck, I know better than to say what I said about your niece and nephew. I
hope there are exceptions and that yours are OK.” She began to cry. “Miss Durham, it's OK. You have to admit, no one is thinking straight right now.” “You can call me Hattie.” That struck him as humorous under the circumstances. She had been apologizing for
being inappropriate, yet she didn't want to be too formal. If he was Buck, she was
Hattie.
“I suppose I shouldn't tie up this line,” he said. “I just wanted to get the news to you.
I thought maybe by now you already knew.” “No, and thanks again. Would you mind calling me again sometime, if you think of it? You seem like a nice person, and I appreciate what you did for me. It would be nice to hear from you again. This is kind of a scary, lonely time.”
He couldn't argue with that understatement. Funny, her request had sounded like anything but a come-on. She seemed wholly sincere, and he, was sure she was. A nice, scared, lonely woman whose world had been skewed, just like his and everyone's he knew.
When Buck got off the phone, he saw the young woman at the counter flagging him down. “Listen,” she whispered, “they don't want me making an announcement that would start a stampede, but we just heard something interesting. The livery companies have gotten together and moved their communications center out to a median strip near the Mannheim Road interchange.”
“Where's that?” “Just outside the airport. There's no traffic coming into the terminals anyway. Total
gridlock. But if you can walk as far as that interchange, supposedly you'll find all those guys with walkie-talkies trying to get limos in and out from there.” “I can imagine the prices.” “No, you probably can't.” “I can imagine the wait.” “Like standing in line for a rental car in Orlando,” she said.
Buck had never done that, but he could imagine that, too. And she was right. After he had hiked, with a crowd, to the Mannheim interchange, he found a mob surrounding the dispatchers. Intermittent announcements got everyone's attention.
“We're filling every car. A hundred bucks a head to any suburb. Cash only.
Nothing's going to Chicago.” “No cards?” someone shouted. “I'll say it again,” the dispatcher said. “Cash only. If you know you've got cash or a checkbook at home, you can plead with the driver to trust you till you get there.”
He called out a listing of which companies were heading which directions. Passengers ran to fill the cars as they lined up on the shoulder of the expressway. Buck handed a hundred-dollar traveler's check to the dispatcher for the northern suburbs. An hour and a half later, he joined several others in a limo. After checking his cellular phone again to no avail, he offered the driver fifty dollars to use his phone. “No guarantees,” the driver said. “Sometimes I get through, sometimes I don't.”
Buck checked the phone log in his laptop for Lucinda Washington's home number and dialed. A teenage boy answered, “Washington's.”
“Cameron Williams of Global Weekly calling for Lucinda.” “My mom's not here,” the young man said. “Is she still at the office? I need a recommendation where to stay near Waukegan.” “She's nowhere,” the boy said. “I'm the only one left. Mama, Daddy, everybody else
is gone. Disappeared.” “Are you sure?” “Their clothes are here, right where they were sitting. My daddy's contact lenses are
still on top of his bathrobe.” “Oh, man! I'm sorry, son.” “That's all right. I know where they are, and I can't even say I'm surprised.” “You know where they are?” “If you know my mama, you know where she is, too. She's in heaven.” “Yeah, well, are you all right? Is there someone to look after you?” “My uncle's here. And a guy from our church. Probably the only one who's still
around.” “You're all right then?” “I'm all right.” Cameron folded the phone and handed it back to the driver. “Any idea where I
should stay if I'm trying to fly out of Waukegan in the morning?” “The chain hotels are probably full, but there's a couple of flea bags on Washington
you might sneak into. You'd be close enough to the airport. You'd be my last drop-off.” “Fair enough. They got phones in those dives?” “More likely a phone and a TV than running water.”
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