There Is A Time

Chapter 1

The sound of gunshots rang out in the sudden darkness. Shouts echoed down the empty rain-slicked street. The light mist that had fallen steadily for several hours increased its intensity to a hard downpour. A blast of chilled air whipped its way between the nearby buildings. Far in the distance the whine of falling airliners and thunderous explosions rocked the earth.

The man who knew himself only as “Major” blinked twice in confusion—in even greater bewilderment than he’d experienced to that point. One moment he’d been making his way in the warmth and lights of the Washington, D.C. cityscape down this deserted street marred only by a minor sprinkling of rain, the next moment all was dark and the surrounding atmosphere seemed to change, charged by an unseen hand.

Major ducked into the shelter of a protected doorway and took a moment to adjust to the absence of light. Although it was already a dark night because of the heavy cloud cover, the streetlights and illumination from various buildings had made the way passable. Now, the stygian darkness and the distant chaos frightened him.

Major hadn’t really felt afraid while he searched for snippets of his former life, but whatever had extinguished every light around him caused a shiver to travel down his spine. He shrugged the collar of his windbreaker higher, peered up and down the street, and continued his solitary walk, warier than he’d been only moments before.

More gunfire. Nearby shouts of rage. Major increased his tempo. At the end of the block, he stumbled to his knees in misstep as the curb ended. Figures emerged from the alley. One bowled him over in the unexpected encounter. Cursing, the man yelled to his companion, “Wait up!”

Blows pummeled Major’s head. Several kicks to his side almost lifted him from the ground. Then the man was gone. Major’s breath came heavily as he painfully sat up. In that moment, an inexplicable silence, as deep as the grave, filled the city around him. He shook the confusion of it away and tried rising to his feet. It was then that he heard a low moan from deep within the alley.

The thought came to Major that he’d always believed in survival of the fittest. Those who could, did, and were the victors; those who couldn’t, should rightly suffer as victims because of their weakness.

Yet that instinct didn’t sit well with him now. Major suspected that previously he would have risen and continued on. Having recently spent considerable time with numerous Christians in the White House prison, something had changed. The painful moan of a fellow human being pricked his conscience. He couldn’t walk away.

It irked him—this newfound morality. He shook his head and gingerly made his way up the alley.

His foot struck something metal; he winced as it clattered away. Aware that overflowing dumpsters and black bags of trash were likely lurking, he tried to stay in the center between the buildings. Another moan rose almost under his feet. He wished he could see.

Perhaps sensing his presence, the victim said in a faint voice, “Help me.”

“I’m here. Where are you hurt?”

“My stomach. I’ve been shot.”

Not good. “Okay.” Major reached toward the man and located his torso. It was so dark! What can I do? This is impossible!

He found the wound. Gut shot all right. He stripped off his jacket and used it to attempt to stanch the bleeding. Within minutes the blood soaked through.

Intuitively, Major knew that an ambulance and a hospital weren’t possible. The blackness that had fallen was more than a simple electrical failure. The man was as good as dead. Still, the least Major could do was give him comfort until the end.

“How did it happen?”

The man groaned. “Robbery. Took me by surprise. Forced me into the alley.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ali.”

A Muslim. Major held back his distaste. Muslims wrecked my life. He knew that much about his past. Well, it can’t hurt to be kind. After all, as far as he knew, Ali hadn’t been one of those who’d mistreated him.

“Sorry I can’t do much for you, Ali. This darkness…” Major floundered for words.

“It’s okay. I know where I’m going.”

Major frowned at the unseen face beneath him. “What do you mean? I can’t get you help. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

Despite Ali’s pain and the all-encompassing blackness, Major became aware that the man was smiling.

Ali’s breath came in labored gasps. “I know Jesus. He’s taking me home.”

“Home? Where’s that?” Suddenly Major grasped his stomach. It was like Ali’s gunshot was transferred to him.

“Heaven. Jesus…” Ali wheezed, stiffened, and fell limp.

“Ali? Ali? How can you be so sure? Why…?” Major’s shoulders slumped. An unwanted tear rolled down his cheek.

He rocked back on his heels and remained there for a time. The rain had continued uninterrupted, but he hadn’t felt it during his encounter with Ali. He realized that he was soaked.

His jacket lay wadded over Ali’s midsection. Major shook it out and ignored the unseen blood that was certainly there. Ali wore a hooded sweatshirt. Major removed it from the silent body and pulled that on as well.

With a heavy heart he stumbled away, located an overhang-protected doorway, and crouched down. He pulled the hood over his head, wrapped his arms around himself, and fell into a cold, wet slumber.

Chapter 2

Without warning the lights snapped off, the computer screens died, and an eerie stillness invaded the room. Neither the several members of the Security Council, nor Ibrihim Sufyan, the president’s aide, protector, and friend, nor Abu Saif himself, president of the Islamic States of America, responded to the odd event for several seconds. The strange suddenness of literally everything shutting down so shocked Sufyan that movement was impossible until he gathered his wits. The other men with them likewise seemed shocked to silence.

“What’s going on?” Saif finally demanded. “Where are our emergency lights?”

The Secretary of Defense, Kazim Fadi, ignored the president’s demand and shouted, “This is impossible!”

A babble of words rose in response among Fadi and the other two men present, Shafiq Tahan, Secretary of State, and Ebi Harb, the National Security Advisor. “One screen showed it.” “Missiles rising from the sea!” “Low atmosphere explosion.” “Could it be?” “I warned about that.” “We’re in serious trouble.” “Had to be an EMP.”

President Abu Saif pounded on the table. “Will you all shut up! Once more: Where are our emergency lights?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Sufyan fumbled for the desktop phone. He couldn’t see a thing in the pitch-black room. “There’s no dial tone. Here, I’ll try my Intelliphone.” He pressed several keys. “Blast it. Nothing there either.”

“I’ll have somebody’s head. Let’s get out of here.”

“Sir, sir.” The distinctive Middle-Eastern accent of Ebi Harb rose above the others. “Listen to me, sir. I believe we have been hit with an EMP—an electro-magnetic pulse attack.”

“If that’s the case, nothing works,” Tahan said.

Fadi began, “If they got our electrical grid—“

“The entire country is without power,” Harb finished for him. “Every electronic device—unless it’s been shielded—is useless. Everything with any iota of electronic gadgetry is fried.”

“Allah be merciful,” Tahan prayed.

“When this is sorted out, someone will pay for their negligence. Ibrihim, get me out of here.”

Sufyan rose cautiously but knocked against the conference table and a wayward chair before he reached the door. “This way, Abu.”

“Keep talking so I can find you. And everybody else, silence!”

They were in the Situation Room where they’d been watching the imminent attack of the many Christians fleeing from Washington, D.C. and from the hundreds of internment camps throughout the ISA. The God of the Bible had temporarily stolen Saif’s will to resist by initiating a series of horrific plagues upon the Islamic nation and on those faithful who followed Allah and his prophet Muhammad. Finally giving in, Saif had agreed to release the incarcerated Christians, even supplying them with vehicles and goods, so they could make their way to refuge with promised protection at native Indian reservations throughout the land. But Saif had come to his senses and ordered their destruction during this vulnerable time of flight. Promises to kafir meant nothing, despite the ruin of his Sunni Muslim faith. Yet now on the cusp of revenge, everything had gone dead: lights, computers, phones; who knew what else?

Hand-in-hand Sufyan and Saif felt their way down the long hallway, leaving the others. Heavy breathing, talking, curses, shouts, and the occasional tearful wail accompanied them as others merged into the hall from various rooms. They bumped into someone moving slower and Sufyan ordered, “Out of the way, you fool. President Saif is behind you.” He grabbed the individual and shoved him aside.

“We’ve got to make our way outside to find some light. This blasted White House is like a tomb underground.” Sufyan hated his feeling of helplessness in not being able to see and assess his surroundings. It was similar to the rude discovery that he and every red-blooded Muslim male had been stripped of their virility by the final plague. Blackened and shriveled, his manhood—like the pride of every faithful follower of Muhammad—was useless. Bitter didn’t begin to describe his loathing of the Christian God, the impostor Jesus, and all His adherents for what they’d done. And underlying the bitterness was an abject helplessness—knowing that he could do nothing to reverse the injustice. He didn’t doubt for a second that this was one more attack upon Islam, seeking to finish it off completely. But what could he do about it other than seethe in righteous anger?

They found the stairwell after the mournful complaint by someone that the elevator didn’t work. At the top, they forced their way through the crowd of bodies making for the exits. When they burst outside, a vicious downpour drenched them. Even on the White House lawn, they couldn’t see much better. The weather and lack of any ambient lighting from the surrounding neighborhood stymied their vision.

“This is crazy,” Saif said. “We’ve got to go somewhere with shelter and privacy.”

Sufyan gripped the president’s upper arm. “Let’s go around the back.”

As they rounded the building, Saif slowed down and became a drag to their progress. “I don’t feel well. Wait.” He stopped and rested, bent over with his hands on his knees. Short little huffs of breath escaped into the cold, wind, and rain.

“A little further, sir. My car is parked over there.”

Saif tried to take a step, but his legs gave out on him. Between ragged gasps for air, he said, “My…heart…. Pain…in…my…chest.” Labored panting. “Call…doctor.”

For a moment Sufyan panicked. “Stay calm. Stay calm. We’ll think of something.”

The president had a history of various afflictions, including severe gout that had almost killed him, but Saif had been miraculously healed through the intervention of their mutual friend, Arnold Rickards. Saif was only in his early fifties. Surely, the healing had restored him completely.

There was no doctor to call in this comprehensive blackout. Sufyan ran his fingers through his wet hair. His training kicked in, and without another thought to his despair, he hoisted Saif over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “To the car.”

Sufyan gently set his burden upright and steadied him while he opened the rear door of the sedan. In another moment, he had Saif inside on the back seat. There were no interior lights to the vehicle, but at least they were out of the rain. He tried to start the car but nothing happened.

From his position in front, Sufyan leaned over and loosened Saif’s tie. His hand brushed against the khamasa—the Islamic charm—that the president wore around his neck. Saif’s tortured breathing didn’t sound good.

Suddenly, Saif gasped, knocked Sufyan’s hand away, and clutched his chest. His body convulsed, and the next moment fell still.

“Abu! No!” In the dark, Sufyan scrabbled to position himself to pump at his friend’s heart. He was in an awkward position, but didn’t care. Press. Wait. Press. Wait. Sweat poured off him. Sufyan worked at the heart resuscitation technique until his arms gave out.

He rocked back. No pulse. No sign of life. Nothing more could be done. Abu Saif, President of the Islamic States of America, was dead.

A great emptiness came over Ibrihim Sufyan. This man had been his employer, his idol, his friend. Now he was gone, one more victim of the Christian God. A stream of curses rose to the heavens. He stopped only when words failed.

Resigned, with a slow, reverent motion, he removed the khamasa from the dead man’s neck and placed it around his own. With this, he would remember Abu Saif and take his revenge.