BEWARE THE COUNTERFEIT RAPTURE!. Sandra Ghost

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СКАЧАТЬ that statement just shows your stupidity. "The words visibly stung her expression.

      "The whole stinkin' world is run by computers now. The grocery stores check you out by computer--they recognize the price by the bar code. The bank keeps our records of deposit and withdrawals by computer. Planes fly by computer...our power... telephone lines...everything!" He waved a hand impatiently.

      "I see," her tone was meek. "So, why's it such a big deal. I still don't understand." She knew she risked another tongue lashing, but she really wanted to know.

      Horace pronounced each word slowly, condescendingly, as though he were talking with a five year old. I truly don't think this can happen, but think about living without power, water, sewers, banking, planes, telephones...etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." He drew out the last words, sounding like a character in the movie "The King and I". Suddenly his mood seemed to shift when he saw Marianne's eyes widen in obvious fear. "Now don't you worry, honey, as I said, it's all just horse pucky. They're going to beef up the grid, take care of this. They'll fix it."

      That same morning, the sun rose slowly over the mountains of the Skyline Drive which started its journey south from Front Royal. Drops of dew sparkled in the trees with the first touch of the sun which transformed them into shimmering diamonds. It playfully tickled them with heat until they sparkled, winked and then evaporated into thin steaming vapors.

      Below the Drive on Route 340 south, as sunlight now poked probing fingers through the vertical blinds of Lance Wilson's bedroom, he sat bolt upright in bed. This was the day he intended to bury the two 1,000 gallon propane tanks which presently sat in his yard looking like silver mini-submarines.

      He opened a drawer looking for clean underwear and finding it empty, rummaged through an overflowing wicker laundry basket in the corner. He held each pair he found to his nose. "Aha! A gently worn pair," he said aloud, in much the same manner as a connoisseur inhaling the fragrance of a fine wine. Lance hastily shrugged into a sleeveless tee shirt which proclaimed, "Shenandoah Riverfest", and stepped into a faded pair of jeans. Abs and pecs rippled throughout his movements, testimony to the regimented use of the weight bench, weights and exercise equipment which took up most of the space in his bedroom.

      The Swiss chalet Lance had built for himself on ten acres was a matter of great pride. He was one of the most respected building contractors in the area: a licensed plumber and electrician; meticulous finish carpenter. It was not just these qualifications which set him apart from other contractors--it was his punctuality and tenacity to finish a job once started. He was a perfectionist in all things...except doing laundry.

      It had quickly gotten around that Lance "will stick with you 'til the job's done, not like those other bozos who promise it done in two weeks, then drop off two men, let 'em work three hours and pull 'em off to another site. Four month's later the lousy job's done...but in dribbles and drabs--they're all juggling jobs in the air...lie through their teeth. But not Lance, the kid'll stick with ya'--do it right." The endorsement repeated by some old timer, was usually completed to the accompaniment of a large spit from a chew of tobacco. Praise had circled through Front Royal right after Lance had completed college, his apprenticeship, and come back home three years ago to set up a construction business. Of course, it was always added that he was "good ole' Doc Wilson's boy" which put another stamp of approval on any recommendations.

      Lance quickly made his way through the sparsely furnished, two-story great room. A virtual zoo of mounted hunting trophies circled the room at the level of the loft, which hovered above on its balcony. A twelve point buck attempted to stare down a snarling black bear; an elk bagged in Colorado, with slightly turned head appeared to chat with an antelope. There were several mounted turkeys, small and large mouth bass, and a huge muskellunge. Hunting and fishing were Lance's passion.

      His tall, blond ruggedness attracted many woman who had chased him, but he preferred the unfettered bachelor life shared only with Demian, his black and tan German shepherd, who now followed him into the kitchen begging to go out. "I know...I know...I can see you've got your legs crossed, fella." Lance pressed the button on the coffeepot and opened the back door. Demian shot into the yard, made straight for the propane tanks and lavishly power-washed one.

      He took a large swallow of hot coffee and watched Demian chase a small saffron yellow butterfly, which flitted across the yard. One hundred and fifty pounds of muscle covered with fur cavorted across the yard, jaws snapping as he leaped in the air. The butterfly gained altitude, soaring over the row of cedar trees which formed a wind-break on the north side of the property. The huge Shepherd abruptly sat down, cocked his head in a perplexed manner and began to whine softly in frustration.

      His master chuckled and opened the back door. "Butterflies aren't in season anyway. Come, boy." Demian responded, tongue lolling comically out of the side of his mouth. Lance began running through his mental organizer. He'd excavate for the tanks today, back-fill tomorrow. He was still on the strict schedule he had set for himself to not get caught short. He was convinced from research he'd done that the country was on the doorstep of war with North Korea. An EMP devastating power would bring no services, rioting, anarchy. And he was targeted on he and his family surviving it. He took a notepad and pencil out of the drawer. He did his best thinking on paper so began to scribble:

      "House 2,500 square feet. 800 gallons in each 1,000 gallon tank. Furnace using propane. Also for cooking, hot water, propane refrigerator. Buy propane refrigerator and range at Amerigas 30 kW generator/ power lights, fan on furnace, well pump. Check prices on metal shelving."

      "Sixteen hundred gallons of propane should last a year...maybe year and a half," he told Demian. "They'd better have the glitches fixed by then." He nibbled a piece of toast, broke off a corner and threw it to the huge dog, who caught it in one solid snap of the powerful jaws.

      "We'll just stock up on food and ammunition, and wait this thing out."

      Demian cocked his head as though trying hard to comprehend the words

      "Yes, many 30 pound bags of 4 Health dog food too. Don't you worry." Lance stroked the massive head. The golden brown eyes, framed with heavy tan eyebrows, blinked appreciation. "Let's go, boy. Gotta' fire up the backhoe...get those holes dug, tanks set by early afternoon," he grabbed the key-ring to his heavy equipment which was kept in a large metal shed. "Make it to Mom and Dad's for Sunday dinner at 4:00...bring you a doggie bag."

      Demian sprang eagerly to the back door, and gnawed on the knob. Perhaps he didn't understand all the words, which would affect even his future, but he sure knew, "Let's go, boy."

      Over on east Sixth Street, Jesse and his wife, Lee, hurried to get ready for church. Lee played flute and sang with the praise and worship team therefore necessitating them to be there early for prayer before the service. Jesse played guitar. He could easily have become a professional musician because of his rare talent, but after graduating from James Madison University, had chosen to become a computer programmer with IBM in Arlington, Virginia. His Subaru Crossover was part of the 5:00 AM commuter "train" on Interstate 66 every morning. His exceptional facility with computers quickly was recognized, and he now held the position of software engineer.

      His younger brother, Lance, had inherited his father's tall, slender frame--Jesse was a stocky 5'11', who diligently had to watch every gram of fat and grain of sugar in his diet. Now, he stood at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, eating a caramel rice cake which he washed down with belts of black coffee. The Sunday newspaper lay on the counter top. The stark words of the headhine seemed to leap up off the page at him.

      That's not a healthy СКАЧАТЬ