Терри Биссон: The Left Left Behind

“…without the heads of state. The new Secretary General of the United Nations, Vlad, has declared a new World Government. And now for ten hours of uninterrupted harmonica music played by chimpanzees…”

“World Government,” said Gotha. “That’s got to be a good thing!”

“Sounds commie to me,” said Cap. “And what kind of name is Vlad?”

“I can find out,” said Vince. “I have a secret contact in the UN. If somebody can give me a ride.”

“My Hummer is on empty,” said Cap, “and all the gas stations are closed. It was on the radio.”

“I can help,” said Gotha, putting on black goggles. They looked cool.

ONE HOUR LATER

“This is the place,” said Vince.

They were on Gotha’s big black BMW motorcycle, pulling up to the UN parking garage.

“Wait here,” Vince said. “I must do this alone.”

Gotha nodded and shut off the motorcycle.

Notebook in hand, Vince made his way up to Level Four, Area B, where he had arranged to meet with Leak Throat, his secret UN informant.

He heard footsteps.

“New shoes?” he asked, without turning around. “Nikes.”

“You’re good,” said Leak. “Perhaps too good for your own good.”

“Never mind that,” said Vince, cutting right to the chase. “What’s the scoop on this new World Government? What kind of name is Vlad?”

“Romanian,” said Leak.

“Yikes.”

“There’s worse,” said Leak, in a hoarse whisper. “It’s all tied in with the attacks on Israel and the recent disappearance of millions. It’s the End Times, the Last Days. This Vlad character is actually the Anti“ Suddenly Leak’s head exploded in a shower of blood, brain and bone. The sound of the shot came a split second later.

“Christ!” said Vince, as he made his way back down to the waiting motorcycle. “I wonder what he was trying to tell me.”

ONE HOUR LATER

“There’s definitely something strange going on,” Vince said. He was back in the kitchen with Cap and Gotha. “I think it’s tied in with the angels I saw defending the Israeli settlements. And the mysterious disap- pearances. And maybe even the Old Testament prophet who uttered stuff in the desert.”

“This harmonica music is driving me nuts,” said Cap. “Whoever told these chimps they could play?”

“I think it’s time we talked with The Preacher-man,” said Gotha.

“The Preacherman?”

“Mom’s African-American minister,” said Gotha.

“Colored boyfriend,” said Cap.

She slugged him.

TWENTY-TWO MINUTES LATER

Three on a motorcycle? Don’t ask. They managed. “I think you should stop slugging your father,” said Vince, as they pulled up in front of the Kristal Ka-thedral and jumped off, one by one.

“I think so too,” said Cap.

“I’ll think about it,” said Gotha. “But understand, I’m still way behind.”

The Kristal Kathedral was a huge mega-church, as big as the Superdome. The seats inside were empty.

There was a pile of neatly folded clothing on each one.

At the altar, a handsome, vigorous middle-aged Black man was kneeling. Vince thought he was praying at first. But as they approached, they saw that he was weeping.

“I got left behind,” he blubbered.

“No shit,” said Gotha, looking around at all the empty seats. “And where’s Mom?”

“Raptured,” said The Preacherman. “Along with everybody else in my congregation but me.”

He wiped his eyes and looked around. “What’s your Dad doing?”

Cap was up in

Cap was up in the seats, going through the pants pockets. “Just looking for change,” he called down.

“You’re wasting your time,” said The Preacher-man. “I already cleaned them out.”

“Before or after?” asked Gotha.

“It’s an ongoing process,” said The Preacherman. “Let’s go downstairs to my office, where we can talk.”

SHORTLY THEREAFTER

“Maybe it was the bunker that saved you,” suggested Gotha.

They were seated in The Preacherman’s modest half-acre office, in a bunker under the stadium.

“Negative,” he said. “The Vice-President was in his bunker, cleaning his bird gun, and he’s gone. I read it on the blogs.”

”What about the President?” asked Vince.

“Gone too,” said The Preacherman. “He was out in the open, cutting brush. All they found was a chainsaw and jeans. And a nice leather jacket. A replica of a WWII A1 flight jacket.”

“He was a flyer,” said Cap.

“He’s sure as Hell flying now,” said The Preach-erman. “Now, what can I do for you folks? Are you interested in joining my congregation? We have plenty of seats.”

A tear appeared in his eye, but was quickly wiped away.

“Negative,” said Gotha. “This is Vince Kirkorian, the TV newsman. He wants to know what’s going on.”

“Former TV Newsman,” Vince corrected. “But I still have the newsman’s hunger to get at the facts be- hind all these strange occurrences.”

“Occurrence,” said The Preacherman. “Singular.

It’s all one event.”

“Which is?” Vince prodded.

“The Rapture,” said The Preacherman. “We all knew it was coming. Jesus Himself grabbed all these folks by the scruffs of their necks, like kittens, and hoisted them straight up to Heaven. In spite of the fact that they were mostly overweight.”

“But why?” Vince asked.

The Preacherman shrugged. “Cause He could?

Beats me. He’s supposed to be coming back for us all anyway, and soon. Why those folks got to jump the line, I don’t know.”

“Could this have anything to do with the attacks on Israel and the new World Government?”

“Of course,” said The Preacherman. “It’s the End Times, the Last Days. That Romanian dude running the UN is the Anti-Christ. World government. Israel attacked. Armageddon.” He thumped the Bible on his desk. “It’s all here in the Good Book.”

“Told you!” said Cap.

“The clock is running,” said The Preacherman.

“Now there will be seven years of Tribulation, starting yesterday at 2:20 Eastern Daylight Time.”

“During Jerry Springer,” said Gotha.

“The Tribulation’s gonna make Jerry look like Oprah,” said The Preacherman.

“What’s Tribulation?” asked Cap.

“Trouble,” said The Preacherman. “Hard times.

Flood and famine, plague and panic, hurricanes, forest fires, wars and rumors of war.”

“Yikes,” said Cap. “What can we do?”

“Ride it out,” said The Preacherman. “It’s all good, actually. After seven years Jesus returns and it’s hallelujah time. The Anti-Christ fouls out. Jesus hits all His free throws. All us foursquare born-agains get a championship ring.”

“What about the rest of us?” Gotha asked.

The Preacherman rolled his eyes, turned up his palms and shrugged.

“I have to say, I find all this somewhat hard to swallow,” said Vince. “I don’t mean to question anybody’s sincerely-held religious faith, but surely you don’t actually believe all this crazy shit?”

“Here,” said The Preacherman. He handed Vince the Bible. “Open it anywhere.”

“And then what?”

“Just do it. Open it and read.”

Vince opened it and read.

Bingo.

“Jesus Christ!” he said. “It’s all true. I’ve been such a fool!”

“Told you!” said The Preacherman, taking his Bible back. “Anybody else want to check it out?”

“Not me,” said Gotha.

“I’ll take Vince’s word for it,” said Cap. “He’s a TV newsman. Or was.”

“Still am,” said Vince, shaken. “Only now I know the Truth.”

ONE WEEK LATER