The End
By
Nick Harlow
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 © Nick Harlow
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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THE END
by Nick Harlow
DAY ONE
Rachel Singer had always wondered what it would feel like to have the biggest story in the history of television fall into her lap.
Now she knew.
A messenger from heaven had come, and, incredibly, she was the only reporter available.
She put her cell phone on speaker and dropped it on the tired pink tile vanity as she talked to her assignment editor. "So why are you giving this story to me, Eddie?" She yanked a plastic brush through her mashed mahogany tangles as the hot water she hoped for banged its way through the ancient pipes. "Aren't any of the fembots available?"
"Rachel, you're my favorite reporter..." he said, sounding like he was inside a barrel.
She threw the brush in her oversized canvas purse and ran to the closet as she cut him off. "I'll take 'newsroom managers who think I’m an idiot' for a thousand, Alex."
"Okay, okay, I couldn't get through to anyone else. Are you on your way yet?"
Rachel jerked her most expensive dress from the closet and got a whiff of cleaning fluid as she ripped the dry cleaner bag that covered it. "Eddie, you can't call a girl at three in the morning, tell her she's gotta interview somebody who might be the Messiah and expect her to talk to him in her pajamas. Especially when I haven't been to temple in ten years. I need two minutes, no more."
"You need to be at the park for your network uplink in ten, so don't waste time talking to me," he said, then hung up.
Two minutes.
She threw the dress over her head and zipped it up, adrenaline racing through her body at an incredible rate. She noted the face in the spotted mirror was framed by hair that had been combed by an eggbeater, the static making it look like underwater seaweed waving in the current. She stuck her hand under the faucet, felt ice water run across it.
No more time to wait.
She slapped on some makeup as she brushed her face like Van Gogh on a deadline, searching for cheekbones that didn't exist. She jumped to her coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes, putting a little concealer on the beginnings of dark circles when she suddenly remembered something Eddie had said. The live truck was already there and feeding the station. She rushed to the tiny living room of her hovel and turned on the television set. The picture cleared and her eyes clicked over to high beams.
And suddenly the recurring dream she'd had every night for the past month brought new meaning.
That was real?
Did I just make a deal with…
The thought went to the back burner, rudely shoved out of the way by the prospect of a huge break. Ambition was now pumping her blood through her veins. How long had it been since she'd felt this way? Five years? Six? Ten? Her network debut would give the nation a look at a slightly overweight thirtysomething woman who looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. She felt the slick synthetic fabric of her Kelly green dress strain against her waist, a look that telegraphed her denial about moving up to the next size. Whatever. This story demanded her instant attention.
And her two minutes were up.
She ran back to the bathroom, squirted some toothpaste on her toothbrush, shoved it in her mouth like a lollipop, grabbed her purse, ripped out her car keys and snagged a pair of comfortable flats as she ran out of the apartment, not bothering to turn off the television or lock the door. She bounded down the cold concrete stairs in her bedroom slippers, flung open her car door and jumped inside. She jammed the key into the ignition of her blue '98 hatchback, closed her eyes, said a silent prayer and turned the key. The car surprisingly roared into action, purring like it had just gone through a tune-up.
"I guess someone wants me to cover this," she said through a mouthful of toothpaste as she rammed the transmission into drive.
She roared through the streets of Bristol, Tennessee, weaving through traffic like a NASCAR driver on the final lap while she brushed her teeth and let the spearmint kill the trench mouth. Hundreds of people, some in their pajamas and bathrobes, were running on the sidewalks toward the park, thankfully just a few blocks away. She flew past a stop sign and turned into the park entrance. She saw an eerie light in the distance near the baseball field, giving off a warm glow and turning the already changing leaves the color of pink coral. She screeched to a halt as she spotted her station's live truck next to the field, its mast fully extended and yellow goldenrod pointed toward the broadcast tower. She threw on her shoes, jumped out, spit out the toothpaste, threw the toothbrush in her purse, then ran toward the light. She flashed her press credentials at the police who were trying to contain the situation, and arrived, out of breath, at the truck. The generator was already sputtering away, kicking diesel fumes into the fifty-degree air. She walked through the cloud of exhaust, coughing as the oily residue filled her mouth. She found a photographer gazing through the eyepiece of his camera—
At a ten foot spinning ball of light to the right of the field. Her own mouth dropped open.
"Oh my God," she said.
"Yeah, pretty impressive in person, huh?" said the photographer, his eye still glued to the camera's viewfinder. "And the minute you get close to it you know it is from heaven. Don't ask me how, but everyone here has the same feeling. Like we all got a message in our heads."
Suddenly the same feeling washed over her. "I just got it too. Wow," she said.
Photographer Tony Falcone straightened up and turned to face her, his dark eyes burning with excitement. He looked her up and down as he ran his hands through his thick black hair. "I sure didn't expect them to send you here."
"Beggars can't be choosers, Tony."
"I didn't mean it that way," said the tall, burly photographer who'd been at the station even longer than Rachel.
"Eddie couldn't get in touch with the other reporters. They probably can't get a cell phone signal since they're all so far up the News Director's ass," she said. Her two pack a day whiskey voice sounded like it worked nights in a smoky bar.
Tony laughed. "Well, I'm glad to see you. I get a little tired of all the twinkies in the newsroom getting the good stories. And I don't mind telling you I'm sick of working with women who dress like they need a bail bondsman and a public defender."
Rachel smiled. "Well, I'll certainly never be mistaken for a hooker looking like this."
"You look fine, Rachel. We need credibility on this, not a fashion model. No offense."
"Absolutely none taken, Tony. I never aspired to be on the cover of Vogue. So who tipped us off?" she asked, pulling a notebook out of her purse.
"The park caretaker called when it just appeared about two-fifteen." Tony turned and stared at the light. "I got here about a half hour later, called the network directly and set up a feed. I didn't want to leave that decision up to a sorry sack of shit like Eddie. He wouldn't know a good story if it hit him in the face. It's incredible, isn't it? Like something out of a science fiction movie. I just can't believe it's here in Bristol of all places. But you haven't heard the best part."
"There's more?"
"Get this. No one's equipment is working but ours."
"Huh?"
"The competition is dead in the water. Live trucks, cameras, microphones, you name it. Nothing works. Except for our gear."
A huge grin grew across her face. "This really is an exclusive."
"And it is all yours, Rachel. You're certainly overdue for a lead story."
Overdue. That word didn't even begin to describe what Rachel had endured for ten years. She'd loved her job, bathed her soul in it. Television news paid young people in intangibles; the biggest being the dangling carrot of a network job that surely awaited those who worked hard and maintained high ethical standards.
Ha.
Rachel quickly found out the business was a crap shoot. She'd gotten her foot in the door with her writing ability since she didn't possess fashion model looks, her somewhat broad nose and round face not complementing her laser beam eyes. Her overall look seemed like it was put together by committee. Her first News Director had been so supportive of her, but his replacement was an easy mark for a pretty face and a short skirt.
She looked at the parade of satellite trucks that were lining up. Yeah. This could make up for everything.
"Anything change since you got here, Tony?"
"Yeah, in the past few minutes the light has gotten softer. It was really bright, but for some reason it didn't hurt to look at it. Really strange. Now you can see inside if you use the zoom." He gestured toward the camera which was already set up on a tripod. "Go ahead, take a look. We got time and I need a cancer stick."
Rachel Singer moved to the camera and looked through the viewfinder. The zoom lens provided an entirely different perspective. She saw a close-up view of the spinning circle of light and what looked like some sort of body standing still inside it. Arms and legs were visible but the rest was a blur. Then, she felt something, like a presence in her mind. Her body began to tingle, but not from fear. "Four o'clock," she said, suddenly, moving away from the camera and turning toward Tony. "The messenger will—"
"Speak at four o'clock," interrupted the photographer. "So it's not just in my head."
"Apparently not," said Rachel, wondering whose thoughts were rattling around inside her brain and apparently everyone else's. It wasn't necessarily a voice, but more of a feeling. She turned and looked at the gathering crowd as the park began to fill up. Many were looking at their watches. "They know it, too."
"The whole world knows it," said the photographer. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket, popped one in his mouth, lit it and blew smoke into the air. "We started uplinking the video from the station to the network about ten minutes ago."
***
A few hundred miles away the Washington D.C. headquarters of the Unified News Network was undergoing what was commonly described in broadcasting as a meltdown situation. Anchors and reporters were elbowing one another for space in the makeup room like girls at a high school prom, hoping to be chosen king or queen of the big story. Producers and network executives were meeting on the fly, trying to decide how to handle the biggest gift in the history of television news that had just fallen in their laps. It was a unique situation for the struggling network; their Bristol affiliate was the only station that seemed to be getting a live shot out of the Northeastern Tennessee town. The major networks all had inexplicable technical difficulties, while UNN's equipment was working perfectly.
A fact that was not lost on network news president Nick Eller as he sat in the control room that was lit only by the bank of monitors in front of him.
He sensed a body slide into the chair next to him and smelled the familiar earthy perfume. "We're all set in Bristol. Live shot's clean. Reporter's in place, ready to go," said Jan Huffman, the network's senior producer and Eller's trusted assistant. She placed a large ceramic mug next to him. "Here, brought you coffee. Don't get used to it."
"Thanks," said Nick. He picked up the warm cup and took a shot of the caffeine. Jan had loaded it with cream and sugar, and Nick thought it tasted like a hot coffee milkshake, but he didn't care. "Did you see that Drew came in to anchor without us having to call him? He said he'd be available as long as we need him and would do whatever it takes."
Jan rolled her eyes. "Christ, Nick, if you ever came to an abrupt halt I swear that guy would break his nose."
"I know, but it's fun to let him think he's impressed me." He turned back to look at the monitor with the spinning light. "So who is our reporter this morning?"
Jan looked at her notepad. "Woman named Rachel Singer. Thirty-three years old. Ten years experience but I understand she was the last choice of the News Director there."
"What kind of idiot sends his last choice for a story like this?"
"The kind of idiot who obviously will never get out of a market like Bristol. He claims he couldn't get in touch with anyone else. Hey, at least we have somebody. The airport's socked in or I would have sent an anchor. The company jet is standing by in case things clear, but our meteorologist says there's no chance for several hours."
"So, what does our somebody look like?"
Jan pulled off her glasses, tossed them on the console and turned to look at him. "Well, I haven't seen her, but her News Director says she has a good face for radio."
"Oh great," said Eller. "Just what I need." He finally looked at Jan; tall, lean, and still incredibly beautiful in her early forties. Her shoulder length auburn hair draped casually around a face free of lines and complemented the pale hazel eyes that still burned with fire during a big story. Producers were generally as plain as anchors were pretty. But Jan liked pushing the buttons and pulling the strings as much as he did. Being the puppeteer with million dollar marionettes was an intoxicating power trip.
Nick looked up at his network's satellite monitor hoping to get a glimpse of the reporter, but she still wasn't in the shot. "Biggest story of our lifetime and we're covering it with a troll."
"Hey, don't complain," she said. "You might want to thank God for whatever's knocking the majors out of the sky, while you're at it. It's almost like—"
"Someone wants us to cover this story." The News Division boss smelled huge ratings, and a chance to get his virtually unknown news team on the map. The biggest story since the beginning of television, and, for the time being, he had the exclusive. He prayed the satellite gods would continue to wreak havoc on the signals of the other networks. The monitors featuring the other networks could only offer talking heads and graphics, speculating on the phenomenon their viewers couldn't see.
Eller could almost hear the dials switching on television sets all around the country.
Viewers were fiercely loyal and slow to change when it came to network news, but for an event like this one they'd tune in the only game in town.
At forty-five Nick was the boy wonder no more. Craggy lines ran the length of a face that was all planes and sharp angles. The receding hairline completed the look that made him appear ten years older. The dark brown hair which had been free of any gray had picked up a dusting of snow around the temples. His weight dropped to one hundred forty pounds as anxiety took a daily bite out of his once athletic build. At five-feet-ten he looked like an advance man for a famine, not the former stud college running back who'd been the big man on campus at Northwestern. If this job didn't work out, no one would be lining up to hire him again. It was a business that worshiped youth, and he was past his expiration date by television standards.
But that spinning light on the monitor could save his career.
He looked up at the monitors of the competition. "They still can't get a signal. We're going to beat them like a piñata, and we don't even have to wear blindfolds. This is the damndest thing I've ever seen."
"You haven't been to church lately, have you Nick?"
"You mean besides funerals and weddings? Not for years."
"I didn't think so."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked the network chief.
"You do know what the staff calls you, don't you?"
Eller couldn't help but smile. "They don't pay me to make friends, Jan, but I do appreciate the irony of the nickname 'AntiChrist' at this particular moment in time."
The producer glanced at the UNN monitor, still the only network featuring the incredible sight. "What the hell," said Jan Huffman. "If this really is the end of the world, at least we'll go out with a fifty share."
***
"You're two minutes out," said Tony, framing the shot which featured the spinning light over Rachel's shoulder while she finished putting on her face. "Any particular way you want me to shoot this?"
"Just keep it above the waist, please," she said. "You could park the live truck in the shadow of my ass."
Tony laughed. "I'm not even going to touch that one. Above the waist it is."
Rachel Singer looked into her compact and carefully added a little more color to her cheeks. She straightened a scarf she'd found in her purse as she rehearsed the opening of her live shot in her head. She tried to remember when she had last bothered to wear as much makeup and hoped it wasn't over the top. It was to be her network debut and she didn't want to look like a ghost, but she didn't want to resemble a prostitute either. She tried to hold back a smile as she watched other crews out of the corner of her eye struggle with their live trucks, which mysteriously continued to have technical problems. She was twenty-two again, young and ambitious and network bound, ready to tell the world a nightly story and make a difference in the process.
With one phone call she'd gotten something back she'd lost.
Her future.
"Looks like they're still out of commission," said Tony, cocking his head toward the competition. "About time we caught a break, huh Rachel?"
Speak for yourself. About time I caught a break. Though I’m a bit concerned about how it happened. "No kidding."
"Ninety seconds, kiddo. You look great."
"Don't lie to me at four in the morning, Tony. I'm too old for bullshit."
"You're forgetting who is shooting this. Have I ever made you look bad?"
She knew he took more time hiding her flaws than any other photographer, almost as if he'd been a frumpy woman in a previous life. "No."
"Don't forget I've got five sisters. I grew up with the phrase 'do these jeans make my ass look fat?' Anytime I don't shoot a woman's good side I never hear the end of it."
Rachel laughed. "I defer to your good judgment."
"Just take me with you when you get the network gig."
"You're on my list." She looked over her shoulder at the spinning light. Suddenly her whole body started to tingle, and she sensed a voice in her head. She couldn't tell if it was male or female; it was just...soothing and somehow familiar. She felt it more than she heard it, and it demanded her attention.
“Do not be afraid,” was the message.
But it didn't help. Her heart was hung up on her tonsils.
***
"She's up," said Jan Huffman, who had moved to the studio. She pointed toward the monitor that now showed the face of Rachel Singer.
Anchor Drew Preston turned to look and rolled his eyes. "Great. Another amateur on our network," he said under his breath. He flicked a switch under the desk. "Hello, Rachel, this is Drew in Washington. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, Drew, I can hear you fine," said Rachel. Her voice was heard over the studio speakers.
The anchor watched the reporter nod her head as he looked in the monitor. "We're gonna do a brief intro, then I'll toss it to you, and you fill about a minute. I just want you to tell me what you see there. Keep it very conversational. Then we'll chat until it's four o'clock straight up." He watched as she nodded again. "Okay, I'll talk to you in about a minute." He glared at Jan and shook his head as he straightened his scripts on the desk.
"Don't look at me in that tone of voice," said Jan.
"What?" asked Preston, leaning toward her and backing her up with his scent. He'd obviously taken a bath in Seabreeze in lieu of enough time for a real shower.
"You gave me the eyes like you always do when you're pissed off. Everyone in the building knows that look."
"I just…" He paused and put his hand over his microphone and lowered his voice. "Well, this is the biggest story of our time and we're covering it with some hick town reporter who looks like she shops at Goodwill."
"Be nice, Drew," said Jan, leaning off-camera on the edge of the set and dropping her voice. "You were in a small town once."
"Yeah, when I worked for a real network."
"We're about to become one."
"Only through a wild stroke of luck."
"Doesn't matter how we get our breaks," said Jan. "We need to do the most with this opportunity. If you're not happy I can get someone else to anchor. I'm sure Holly would love the opportunity and I have no problem going with her in this spot. She's already in makeup—"
Preston suddenly put up his hand and sat up straight as he changed the subject. "The majors still out?"
"Nothing but snow on their birds," said Jan, knowing she'd pushed the right button and taken her anchor down a notch to where he belonged. She made a mental note to somehow make his life miserable when the story played itself out. "The satellite gods are angry tonight."
"Beautiful. Though I wish they'd be more sympathetic with the weather. You sure there's no way we can get an anchor down there?"
She strengthened her tone, tired of the prima donna's constant second-guessing of her decisions. "Sorry, Drew. No frequent flier miles for you or anyone else. She's it. And you're stuck here. Deal with it."
"Uh-huh." He started to absent-mindedly nod like a husband tuning out his wife.
"And don't give me the frigging bobble-head. This is a great opportunity and you need to suck it up. Clear?"
"Okay," he said, but didn't have the balls to look at her. He pointed toward the monitor that was filled with Rachel's face and the spinning light. "Is she any good?"
"Oh, you mean the Goodwill reporter?" she said, her voice intentionally filled with sarcasm. "I have no idea. But we'll know in a few seconds."
"Oh, what the hell. It's an exclusive. Something we don't get very often around here. Not that anyone will notice with our ratings."
Jan shot him a menacing look and he got the message.
"Okay, I'll stop," said the anchor. He got a signal from the studio camera operator. "Here we go." Jan backed off the set and headed to the control room.
***
"Got anything to drink? I got a bale of cotton here," said Rachel, pointing to her mouth.
Tony tossed her a half empty plastic bottle of diet soda. "That's all I've got. Don't worry, I don't have cooties."
"Right now I wouldn't care if you did." Rachel aimed the bottle away from her, twisted the cap off and took a swallow of the remaining soda. It was warm but it was wet. She felt the bubbles bounce around her mouth like tiny pinballs and wash away the dryness instantly. She tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can. "Thanks, Tony."
Rachel looked at the ancient black and white monitor Tony had set up next to his camera and had to laugh at the priorities implemented by her station's bean counters. The picture began to fade to snow, and she shook her head. "Monitor's out again," she said, pointing at the old television set that was probably manufactured in the 1980s. She would have fixed it herself but her live shot was just a few seconds away and she had too many wires attached to her. Tony jumped out from behind the camera and adjusted the one remaining rabbit ear till the picture cleared just in time. Then he quickly got back into position behind the camera.
Rachel saw the cheesy, obviously thrown-together-at-the-last-minute graphic that featured the spinning light superimposed over a map of Tennessee. It flew into the screen, accompanied by booming deep vocals she heard through her earpiece, which, she thought, was trying to sound like the voice of God. "UNN's exclusive coverage of the events in Bristol, Tennessee continues. Live, from our nation's capital, Drew Preston."
Rachel watched as she saw the graphic dissolve into the Ken-doll face of Drew Preston. She'd often wondered what had bounced this forty-year-old Robert Redford lookalike out of his previous job at the top rated station in San Diego. Local stations usually hung onto men that handsome, even if they had the IQ of a crash dummy. And most did. He must have pissed someone off in a previous life. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed anchor with the chiseled jaw and rugged complexion seemed to be thrusting his chin forward as he welcomed the viewers.
"And good morning to those of you who are just joining us," said Preston in his familiar affected anchorman tone. He then began introducing the incredible story over some video of the spinning light. "Let's get you up to speed on this amazing story. Around two-fifteen this morning, eastern time, the phenomenon you see appeared in a park in Bristol, Tennessee. This is the only live picture that is being broadcast anywhere in the world. Many of you have been watching the past few minutes and have no doubt noted the bright light is, for lack of a better term, thinning out. You can see the outline of a person inside, though we cannot yet see any facial features."
She heard a nasal female voice in her ear. "Stand by, Rachel." Some producer in Washington or New York, no doubt. She perked up, and saw her face share a split screen with Preston as he read her intro. Damn, he’s prettier than me.
"Let's now take you live to Tennessee. Rachel Singer is a reporter with our Bristol affiliate and she has been at this amazing scene that has captured the attention of the entire world. Good morning, Rachel."
"Good morning, Drew."
"Rachel, I understand you've been there for awhile. What can you tell us?"
Preston's face disappeared as Rachel's now filled the entire screen. She took a deep breath and realized her career was about to hit a crossroads at the age of thirty-three. It was every reporter's dream. The brass ring was there for the taking.
And the whole world was watching her reach for it.
Incredibly, she wasn't nervous and had no idea why.
***
"Damn it, I want an uplink, and I want it now!" screamed Ryan Harker as he looked at the spinning light on the UNN monitor.
CCB's senior producers cowered in fear as the network President stormed through the antiseptic newsroom of the Los Angeles affiliate. Those who weren't on the phone picked one up and pretended to make a call so as not to be in the line of fire. Harker wasn't known as "Hacksaw" for nothing.
He shouted across the room. "Is there anyone here who can tell me what the hell is going on and why we don't have a damn signal?"
No one ventured a guess to the question posed by the leader of the nation's number one network. Even the usual finger-pointing, the lifeblood of any newsroom after a screw-up, wasn't a viable option.
Harker power-walked across the room and through the corner office door of network news Chief Jay Manning, who already had a phone in each hand. Harker opened his eyes wide, put his palms up and shrugged, begging for an answer to his question.
"Fix it or find another job," said Manning into both handsets just before he slammed them down. "Not that threats are going to do any good at this point," he said to Harker. Manning sat down on his swivel rocker and leaned forward.
"Jesus, what have we got to do to get a signal around here? You better not tell me it's technical difficulties," said Harker. "Not with the budget you've got for satellite toys."
"Can't explain it," said Manning, his voice now lowered to a human level. "No one can. And we've got our top engineers working on it. They're totally stumped. Every single piece of satellite equipment and camera this network owns simply will not work. Nothing is functioning at the Bristol affiliate either. And we're not alone. It's the same problem with all the majors. Everyone's off the air except for a network with lower ratings than Playstation. Most bizarre thing I've ever seen."
Harker's anger seeped out of his body. "You mean to tell me—"
"I really hate to say this, and it sounds like a cop-out, but it's out of our control," said Manning.
***
Nick looked at the monitor as the screen was filled with the face of Rachel Singer. "Whoa," he said, leaning back. "She's really not very easy on the eyes."
Jan Huffman shook her head as she flipped up her headset microphone and covered it with her hand. "I don't believe you sometimes. We've got an exclusive with Jesus or whoever and you're still thinking with the wrong head. I'm sorry I can't provide you with a reporter who looks like she can suck a golf ball through a garden hose."
Eller was still staring at the reporter with the wild hair as she told the world what was happening and seemed very credible in doing so. "But...you know, she's good. She seems very comfortable. Considering what's going on behind her, and the fact that she rolled out of bed in the middle of the night, that's impressive."
"What a wild new concept," said Jan. "Someone who is credible without being a babe."
***
Rachel was surprised at her lack of anxiety in her network debut. Her comfort level was that of a veteran. She didn't know where the confidence was coming from, but she wasn't complaining. She gestured toward the spinning phenomenon as she continued to fill time until the big moment. "As you can see now, the light seems to be dissipating even more as we are just five minutes away from four o'clock eastern, the time when—"
"The being inside will speak," said Drew Preston, finishing her sentence.
She nodded. "And that's been happening a lot, Drew. People sharing that one thought, finishing each other's sentences. Everyone seems to be somehow telepathically linked, for lack of a better term, on the fact that the being inside the light will address the world at four o'clock. And obviously it is not just here in Bristol, as you're sharing the same thoughts that we are."
"What are you sensing from the crowd, Rachel?"
"Well, no one's afraid, if that's what you're asking. Those who have come to the park were somehow drawn here. They want to be here and are very excited. I don't think anyone is even considering the possibility that whatever is inside the light could be hostile. There is just a great sense of peace here that you can literally feel."
Rachel continued to be amazed at her relaxation level. It was as though she and Drew Preston were having a conversation and no one was watching. Then she realized what was happening. She was talking, not reading. She'd been told by veteran reporters that once you learn to throw away the script on live shots you become a real reporter. And she was doing it right now for the first time, on national television in front of millions, telling a story like she was talking to her best friend on the phone.
"What do the people in the park think is inside the light?" Drew asked.
"We're all having the same thoughts, Drew. It is a heavenly presence. Not necessarily the Messiah, but perhaps some sort of messenger from above. It's the kind of excitement you feel as a child; pure wonder. I don't know any other way to say it. We all cannot wait to see what happens and who steps out of that light. And everyone seems to know that an important message is coming."
"I guess we should mention something else that is very interesting. We are the only network able to broadcast the event live, for some reason. Any idea why that is happening, Rachel?"
"That's been the most asked question among the media here. One live truck with technical difficulties is normal. But every electronic piece of equipment that doesn't belong to us just isn't working. We seem to be immune to whatever electronic virus is going around. I guess we'll know the answer to that riddle in a few minutes as well." Rachel looked over her shoulder and noted the spinning light had almost dissolved. "And now you are getting a much clearer picture of the being inside." It had a human form, but the face was still partially obscured by the light.
"Just one minute to go now," said the anchor.
Rachel was about to say something when she felt a message in her head again.
“You’re the one.”
The anchor continued. "I think it is safe to say this is the most important televised event in history. This is probably the biggest audience since the very first lunar landing back in July of 1969 when Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. The exclusive picture you are watching from Bristol, Tennessee is being broadcast to every country on the planet..."
Preston's words faded as the voice in her head grew clear.
“You’re the one, Rachel. You are my messenger. I am with you always. Do not be afraid.”
Only this time it wasn't a feeling, but definitely a male voice. And it was the voice of the man from her dream. She was sure of it now. But who was he? She felt her heart begin to race as she tried to replay the recurring dream in her head, now more than a little concerned that it really wasn't a dream. And what exactly had she agreed to do?
She formed the words in her mind but did not speak them. “I’m the one...what? And who are you?” She waited for an answer that did not come. The anchor's words faded back in as she was forced to turn her attention back to her job.
"So Rachel," said Drew, "any final thoughts as we have just a few seconds left till four o'clock?"
“You’re the one, Rachel. Do not be afraid,” said the voice in her head.
"Do not be afraid," repeated Rachel, feeling confident the voice was leading her in the right direction. For some reason she trusted the voice. It belonged to the person in her vivid dream and she somehow knew he would never hurt her. She pictured him again, the dark, kind eyes that made her feel safe. She turned back to the light again just as the clock struck four. The light flashed once, disappeared and the being stepped toward her. It looked directly into her soul.
It wasn't the man in her dream. It wasn't even close.
What she saw scared her to death.
***
The being moved forward into the television lights and for the first time Rachel could clearly see its face. She heard screams behind her as the crowd got a good look as well.
It wasn't human.
It continued looking directly at her through eyes that seemed to move about its head. How many were there? One hundred? Two hundred? They were incredibly bright, like sunlight, but, just like the spinning light, it didn't hurt to look at them. Its face was crimson, with a few bumps and ridges framing a grimace that was anything but comforting. The very tall, thin body seemed to be surrounded by fire, but flames that did not consume its white robe. Small sparks were emanating from its body. She couldn't even tell if it was male or female. The only things that looked human were the hands and feet. It walked closer to her, until it was about ten feet in front of Tony's camera, then stopped.