BEWARE THE COUNTERFEIT RAPTURE!. Sandra Ghost

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СКАЧАТЬ breakfast, honey, " Lee bounced into the kitchen. She was fastening a silver dolphin earring in one ear. The other dangling earring had already managed to become snarled in her thick mane of long, curly blonde hair the shade of spun taffy.

      "I need to lose more weight," he grumbled, never looking up from the newspaper.

      "But rice cakes for breakfast?" She shook the second silver dolphin free.

      "You're right," he smiled at his tiny wife. There was mischief in his blue eyes. "They're kinda' like eating a styrofoam cooler."

      "You should be eating crow!" She giggled. "I told you they were too bland when you threw them in the grocery cart, but no...no...you just had to have them. I love you just like you are."

      She threw tanned arms around his neck while lifting full lips to be kissed. The tailored pale green silk blouse matched her eyes.

      "Keep that up and we won't make it to church," he told her, kissing her lips and the tip of her nose.

      "Your Mom will save us a seat. Did I tell you we're invited over to their house at 4:00 for Sunday dinner?"

      "Dad mentioned it on the 'phone."

      He looked again at the newspaper. "Word's getting out about the possibility of the grid going down, Lee. It's up to us to get the family prepared. There's going to be a panic when it finally gets through to the public. We need to get prepared now...not wait until there's no food left on the shelves at the grocery."

      "You're really worried about this, aren't you?" With one finger, she traced the furrows which had suddenly appeared on Jesse's forehead.

      "Darn right...three years ago the Pentagon spent $700 million to relocate critical computer systems--including NORAD to Cheyenne Mountain deep underground. That's about the extent of preparation but there is so much to do to reinforce the grid. Four Secretaries of Homeland Security have stated publicly that we could be on the brink of a catastrophic cyber-attack but not one single one has had a plan to counteract it." He looked at his watch. "Better go."

      As they went down the stairs of their split level home, she asked, "You think when people wake up to the possibility of a disaster, there'll be a run on food in the stores?"

      He locked the front door behind them. "'Fraid so." He suddenly grinned, "But we'll just let them have all the rice cakes there are. Okay?

      Up on Elsia Drive, at Ayview Estates--a posh collection of unique townhouses--Scarlett, the Wilson's daughter, lay on the queen-size bed trying to decide what to do on her day off. She propped several pillows behind her head and stared around the bedroom. In one dormer window a fussy dressing table, skirted in pink satin, sat primly like a coed waiting to go to a prom. On its glass top atomizers of perfume were scrambled with tubes of lipstick, pots of blush and lip-gloss, bottles of foundation in various shades, and graduated sizes of makeup brushes. A large, ornate, gold pedestal mirror presided in the middle of the mess.

      A tall, walnut Victorian armoire with full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. Scarlett struck various poses on the bed, while assessing her image in the mirror. The red lips pouted, then smiled. She stretched out her voluptuous figure this way and that, flipping her long, dark hair into different styles. She sighed and stretched, then slipped into a matching pair of shorts and halter top the color of cayenne pepper.

      The fragrance of an expensive brand of Kona coffee beckoned from downstairs. Thank goodness she had not been too drunk to remember to set the timer the night before. There was no hangover--good scotch seldom betrayed its drinker. Scarlett had "partied hardy" with several of the other real estate agents in her firm. They had all gone skinny dipping in Laura's pool after the bars closed. She scarcely remembered driving home.

      Scarlett, the baby of the Wilson family, had been the apple of her Daddy's eye since she could toddle around. Horace spoiled her with expensive toys, indulged his daughter's temper tantrums. As she grew older, he lavished his paternal love in the form of an unlimited allowance, an ice-blue Mercedes 380 SL convertible upon graduation from high school. "It matches your eyes," he had told her. While her grades were shameful, Scarlett enjoyed the distinction of being the best dressed coed on campus at Shenandoah University, and barely scraped by academically in order to graduate.

      Scarlett took her fictional namesake to heart. Whether by design or subconsciously imposed, she had developed a pronounced southern drawl at about the age of twelve--shortly after seeing the movie, "Gone With The Wind". Horace and Marianne thought it was adorable when she stamped her foot in a fit of temper. Now, at the age of twenty-five an occasional "fiddle dee dee" still slipped into her conversation. The affectations were not nearly so adorable in adulthood, but she tossed her head in defiance at what other people thought, living on the edge in everything she did. Her beauty had always seemed to lend a passport of indulging acceptance to her aberrant behavior.

      Her mother, Marianne, had been acutely aware of the normal mother/daughter rifts which seemed to paint themselves on the landscape of relationships during teenage years. Her relationship with Scarlett, however, had turned into an uncivil war. Making trips to fortunetellers had been a fad among her daughter's crowd in high school. When this practice was exposed, Marianne begged her daughter to stop, "You're opening up yourself to demons, sweetheart," she admonished. At one pajama party Scarlett had held, Marianne opened the bedroom door to find candles lit, and a seance going on. She had sent the girls packing--Scarlett was furious--Horace even angrier.

      When she tried to explain to her husband and daughter that God had said in His Word that these practices were an abomination to Him, Scarlett had shot back, "You carry your old fashioned Christianity too far, Mother. Get a life!" she fumed. To Marianne's chagrin, Horace had sided with Scarlett.

      Now, Scarlett sipped the Kona coffee and stretched out on the chaise lounge in the morning sun which bathed her patio. Brilliant fuchsia flowers crawled between the stones of the rock garden which seemed to spill down the hill onto the patio in a splash of color.

      Life is so good, ,she thought as she wiggled perfectly pedicured toes in a casual salute to the sun. She'd just lie in the sun, cook out some of the Cuttysark from last night. Get a tan until it was time to go to her parents for dinner. She stretched like a languishing cat, then an unpleasant thought presented itself: what if her mother got on her again about the New Age church she was attending, she vowed a walk-out. Her nostrils distended slightly at the intrusion of unpleasantness. She tossed her head and the long, dark hair re-arranged itself on her shoulders.

      The portable telephone lay on the tiled table beside her. Her psychic was #2 on the speed dial. She'd find out what real estate business deals to pursue on Monday. She never made a move without consulting "Princess Crystal" and felt sorry for all those who didn't have such "wonderful guidance" in their lives. They'd never met, but Scarlett considered Crystal was her best friend. Her psychic's charges, billed directly to her telephone, were higher each month than all the utilities added together. What did she care? Her real estate broker was pleased with her sales, and if she ran out of money, there were always Daddy's deep pockets to dip into.

      She propped herself higher on the burgundy cushions, anticipation heightened as the number rang. There was a connection."Oh, Crystal, dahling" she drawled, "I have so many questions to ask you. Have you got the time now?" (At $5.00 per minute, of course she had the time.) Crystal looked at her watch--their conversation had begun at 11:03 AM.

      At that moment a scramble was taking place at the FAA in СКАЧАТЬ