Omega Days (Volume 1)

TEN



Oakland International Airport



There were eight of them now; the reverend, five staffers and the two pilots in their starched white shirts and striped shoulder boards. The G6 was well behind them and they were moving as a group, out in the open, crossing a grassy area and heading towards a squat, concrete structure painted in red and white checks. A bristle of antennae was fastened to its roof.

A door stood open in one side of the little building, and this small promise of shelter was what drew them. Staying in the open was a death sentence, as they had quickly learned, and the terminal was no longer an option.

Peter and the others had still been sitting in the private jet, everyone staring at the fire and talking at once, when the second plane went in. It was a fat Lufthansa jumbo, and had probably been in a holding pattern circling high above Oakland. The plane appeared without warning, a white mass streaking out of the sky like a missile, engines screaming as it dove straight into the main terminal of Oakland International. The blast rocked the G6, and the bloom of fire was so intense it made everyone flinch back from the windows. Burning jet fuel turned the terminal into an inferno.

Anderson stood in the aisle. “Everyone needs to stay calm. I think we need to leave the plane and get off the airfield.”

No one moved, except Peter, who shoved the Glock into his front waistband and pulled his shirt down over it. It was clear he would not be expected in court today, or any day for that matter.

Anderson went forward to confer with the pilots, and that was when everyone noticed the big United on the tarmac ahead of them. A door high on its left side popped open, and a second later an inflatable yellow slide ballooned outwards. The Gulfstream went silent as they all stared and waited, but no one came out. Almost a full minute passed before a fat man in a dark business suit appeared at the opening, tie undone and shirt pulled open to reveal a hairy chest. He bumped into the doorframe, and then didn’t exit so much as he fell out backwards, onto the slide and quickly ending in a heap at the bottom. His arms and legs kicked for a moment, like a pudgy turtle on its back trying to right itself, and then he slowly got to his feet. The businessman stood there, arms hanging at his sides, swaying as if dazed.

A young woman in a flight attendant’s uniform leaped through the opening, her mouth open in a scream they couldn’t hear, and slid right into the businessman at the bottom. He fell on her and tore her apart.

No one else came out of the plane.

Even steady, calm under pressure Anderson couldn’t keep the staffers from panicking then, and screaming filled the cabin until from the back Brother Peter yelled, “Oh, shut the f*ck up!” It startled them to silence. The reverend looked past a shocked Anderson and at one of the pilots standing in the cockpit doorway. “Get me off this bitch.”

The pilot did, opening the hatch and lowering the stairs to the asphalt. Brother Peter shoved his bible into an expensive leather carry-on, pushed his way up the aisle past his loyal followers, and climbed down. They followed.

And there had been nine of them. Until one of his staffers (a twat from Kentucky who repeatedly refused his offers to come to his hotel room) ran whimpering towards the emergency slide of the United flight, as if she could somehow save the fallen flight attendant. Peter had never considered the girl terribly bright, and this proved it. The businessman took her down the moment she arrived.

Now down to eight, the little band neared the airfield outbuilding. The businessman, flight attendant and the Kentucky twat lurched across the grass behind them in pursuit. On the inside of the door was a bloody handprint, the building a single room filled with long gray circuit breaker panels. In the center, a set of concrete stairs with yellow-painted metal handrails descended into a dimly-lit tunnel.

The group hesitated. Peter shoved through, checking the door handle to find that it automatically locked once closed. “Get in,” he ordered. When they didn’t immediately respond, he grabbed the arm of a young male staffer and propelled him forward. “Get in.” He pulled the door firmly shut once the last one was inside, then moved through the small crowd and started down the stairs. He stopped when he realized no one was behind him.

“What are you waiting for?”

One of the staffers, a pretty blonde, began crying. Another woman backed away from the stairs, shaking her head. “I can’t go down there. They might be down there.”

“I’m sure of it,” said Peter.

The man whose arm he’d grabbed started whimpering. “What’s happening?”

Anderson looked at his boss with concern. “Pete, are you okay?”

The televangelist looked at his right hand man. “Pete? Oh, no, no, no.” He pulled the Glock from his waistband. “It’s Brother Peter from now on. Even to you, Anderson.” He smiled. “Call me Pete again and see what happens.”

The man stared at the gun.

Peter looked at the others. “It’s the End of Days, children, and only the faithful shall survive the onslaught of Satan’s minions. Only they shall be lifted up in the Rapture.”

No one spoke.

“You must believe in me as you believe in almighty God, and obey my word, for He speaks through me.” They simply stared. He cocked his head and gestured at the door with the pistol. “Or, you could take your chances and go out there, get eaten like little Miss Kentucky.” He had already forgotten her name. It didn’t matter. “Of course if you touch that door, I’ll blow your heart out through your ass.”

With the exception of the two pilots, who quietly stepped away from the door (Peter liked that, liked pragmatic men) the rest of his followers didn’t move. This couldn’t possibly be the man to whom they had pledged themselves, who had baptized them and raised their spirits with his powerful sermons, had lifted their hearts in times of sadness with a gentle touch. Before them now stood a man the media proclaimed was not only a fraud, but an unscrupulous a*shole. They had been right.

Brother Peter gave them all the same angelic smile which romanced the camera and drew in followers worldwide, the smile he used for his book covers, tent revivals and television interviews. It was a genuine smile, for he had found an inner peace he had not felt in many, many years. It was a serenity brought on by a sudden understanding that God had a plan for him, a place in this new world. A warm, unconditional love came with this knowledge, and he knew what he had to do right now. There would be more, he was quite certain of that, mysteries which God had yet to reveal, and assuredly would in due time.

“I am God’s chosen voice,” Peter said, “his beloved shepherd, and you are my flock. We will gather others unto us. I will watch over you and protect you.” The smile grew. “Now get the f*ck down here.”

The reverend trotted down the stairs, not looking back to see if they followed. He knew they would. As for what awaited them underground, he had no fear. It wasn’t just the Glock, that was a mere tool. It was his memories of another time, his vast experience with the tunnels of the Underworld. Creatures of fire and destruction slept there, and Brother Peter Dunleavy knew them well.