Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
When you picture the world endin it usually don’t have the soundtrack of Johnny Logan playin. I got nothin against the man myself. If a body’s got talent, plough on I says. So long as it’s still giving some enjoyment to other folk.
But, if ye ask me, a fella should know when to call it quits. If he’s lucky, he has that option. Then there’s times when quittin is forced on us.
I was sittin in my chair, sippin on a cold one, watchin the Late Late. The pad of my swollen thumb was circlin the hollow under the beer bottle. Some foreign import with a name that used the junk letters of our own alphabet. Polish, prob’ly. Maggie bought em. Reward for fixing up the fence in the back. Got a splinter for my efforts. Made sure to let her know, once the job was done.
I held my thumb to my face, wipin off the cold bottle sweat. I had sucked the splinter out I was sure, but there was still a dot of blood. Like a stubborn blackhead. I was just about to shout for herself to get a toothpick but thought better of it. Pushin my luck. I could hear her in the kitchen next door. As usual, the radio was tuned to some station playin soppy love songs. The sort we’d have slow danced to back in the day. I smiled at the memory. Young ones nowadays would never know fear like it.
She was hummin along to the Temptations. They were singin about My Girl, above the clink of the dinner dishes and splashing of water.
And that’s when it happened. Clear as a bell.
“Children,” a voice announced. “This…is God.”
A plate smashed on the kitchen floor. I looked over to see Maggie, back turned to me, through the open door. Broken plate pieces scattered around her feet. She turns and stares at me with a crazed look. She wasn’t the only one.
“Did you hear—” she said.
The Temptations have stopped singing. The TV has paused. I nod and rise off my seat. The beer spills as I park it on the floor.
“Quigley,” I said through gritted teeth, eyes scannin the walls for God knows what.
“How?”
I wasn’t ready to explore that option yet. A rage was beginning to grow in me thinkin that the bastard installed some sorta bug or device in our house. Surveillance. I could see our next-door neighbour from the comfort of his own gaff, seeing me pace around like a madman, overturning tables and chairs to find his latest invention.
“His idea of a joke,” I said, pulling cushions out from the settee.
“But they’re in Malaga for the week.”
Now the picture I have is of the creep on a beach watching from his laptop. Giggling with his buck-toothed wife as they sip on sugary cocktails. The plates of my jaw grind at the image.
“John?”
“What?!” I snapped.
Maggie gave a constipated shrug of the shoulders. “What if it’s not him?”
The idea pierces through the veil of anger and gets me half thinking it’s one of those candid camera shows. Boy am I gonna look the eejit when it’s played back in the studio and I’m surrounded by friends and family. No. Can’t be, I thought. That voice was seriously close though. Almost like it whispered right in my ear.
I head to the front door, look out onto the street. One of the Morrison litter has stopped riding her bike. She catches me staring and points to her ear.
Other people have stepped out of their houses. Each exchanging confused looks with neighbours and looking to the skies for an answer.
“I am speaking,” the low monotone voice continued, “to every single one of you. To share something of monumental importance.”
That’s when Damian and Ryan ran down the stairs runnin to their mother’s outstretched arms. Both pale as sheets. The look on their faces telling that whatever the madness was, it was catchin quick. The kids started bombin us with questions but I held up a hand when it – whatever it is – starts speakin again.
“The gates of Heaven are closing. After countless millennia, I regretfully wish to share that we have reached capacity, except,” the voice pauses for effect, “for a chosen few.”
The images on the TV are frozen mid-frame. Tubridy’s starin back at me. A God awful cheesy smile scrawled on his face.
“Tomorrow evening I will be setting a trial to test your worthiness and judge whether you shall covet a place in the Kingdom of God.”
“Enough of this,” I said and reached into my pocket to pull out my mobile phone.
“Da!”
“John!”
I scrolled through the contact list, when the voice suddenly piped up again.
“Automatic disqualification will be administered to those who engage others in dialogue outside of your street. No correspondence of any kind will be permissible.” The speaker’s voice took on more emotion, rising in urgency. “Guilty parties and their families will be relegated to the fiery bowels of the Earth where they will suffer for all eternity.”
My phone couldn’t get quick enough into my jean pocket. I looked up nervously, seein the apple of my eye and my seeds as they looked at me helplessly. The voice, when it spoke again, was gentler.
“I already know what is in your heart. Trust in yourself to do the right thing. Prove your worth and you shall be rewarded with eternal paradise. Bless you.”
Suddenly, like cabin pressure in a flight, there was a sound like my ear popping. The TV and radio start up again. People on the screen didn’t seem too affected. Business as usual. Look, sure there’s Johnny Logan back with another hit.
We didn’t leave the house that night, sleepin in the same room and listenin to the talk of others who had gathered outside. The Whelan’s were sayin it was the end of days, preachin about the final Judgement. That didn’t go down well with The Richmond’s. The young couple clearly didn’t fancy their chances in whatever the trial would be and were determined that if it was the End of Days, they’d bloody well enjoy it.
Someone had found a guitar. Oasis tunes were screeched out from Number 37. A few of our neighbours, those that should have known better, joined the growing entourage on the Richmond front lawn. The chordless wonder never let up, satisfying the beery shouted requests of the group throughout the night.
A lot of the group were still out when we woke up next morning. The street was littered with cans. Some of the other families, much like our own, crept outdoors during the day at intervals as the time of the trial approached. The TV and radio channels were scrambled. WiFi and the phone signal dropped. Lookin at the situation a bit more soberly, we agreed that we’d bunker down that day. After the trial – whatever form that took -, we’d look for answers. Head into town. See who else had heard the voices. Safety in numbers.
When 9pm came around, we were gathered in the living room. Maggie and the two boys on the settee. Holdin hands. Her with rosary beads laced through her fingers. Bible on her lap. Hand pressed to it.
“My child,” the voice began.
I look up and see in my wife’s eyes that she hears it too. It’s a lot quieter outside now. The singing has stopped.
“I am the one true Saviour, although you know me by many names.”
I reach out and take Damian, our youngest, by the hand. He’s in tears. I hear my voice crack as I try to reassure him.
“Now is the time. Heaven awaits. Your trial begins. First come, first served.”
I look to the kids and then at Maggie. We share the same confused look. I’m about to speak before the voice cuts across.
“Kill. Or be killed. Don’t tarry. The gates of everlasting life are closing. I’ll see you soon, my child.”
A pop in my ear. Gone. There is a scream from down the street. Followed by another.
“No. No!” I say and get to my feet, drawin back the curtains and lookin outside the window.
“What’s happening?” Maggie shouts after me.
“It can’t be this way.”
People are runnin from the direction of the Richmond’s. Some with blood spatter on their clothes. I see a guitar swing and clatter someone across the face. Others have left their homes, clutchin kitchen knives, slashin through the air. The sound of a gunshot.
Maggie has her arms around the boys. They’re crying. “Don’t let them take my boys!”
I turn and watch the faces of my family frozen in fear.
“This…can’t be happening!”
*
A knock on the door.
“Enter.”
A young man in military uniform strides into the room and addresses the back of a high-backed chair which is swivelled away from the desk.
“What have you got for me Colonel?”
“Well, sir,” the man says and takes a sharp intake of breath, “every indication is that the chemical compounds in the vector successfully replicated trial conditions.”
“Have they been activated?”
“Yes, sir. On arrival and in contact with the human host.”
“At ease Piercy. English. Please.”
The standing man clears his throat. “Certainly, Sir. The chemtrail deposit from our planes appears to have worked on our target.”
“Worked?”
“Yes sir.”
The man in the chair swivels around. He is dressed in a sharp business suit, angular cheek bones jutting out from his face. There’s a hint of a smile tugging the tight cheeks. He slowly splays his arms out, sleeves riding up his tanned forearms and plants the palms on the desk.
“So, the pilot programme is live,” the seated man says, nodding slowly.
“Yes sir. The town is covered in it. Our signal is online.”
“And the program download?”
“Operation Shamrock,” the Colonel says. “They think God is talking to them right now. It’s…a blood bath.”
“You’ve cut all routes and communication to the town I assume?” The standing man nods. “Good. I’ll need to speak with our convoy there to keep him informed.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Very good. That’ll be all. Oh and Piercy?” The standing man had half turned but straightened up again at the instruction of his superior.
“Yes?”
“Let’s try another town. Somewhere a little more challenging than the asshole of Ireland. I’m thinking, Libya.”
“Libya, sir?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, sir. Not at all,” the man says although his expression betrays his confidence. “It’s just that logistically, it could be difficult.”
The seated man smiles. “Not without a little faith. Don’t you know? God can move mountains.”
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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