Карл Бистром - 4:17

So this is what we’ve come to ? No more 2:00am shenanigans, chasing skirts and shooting tequila, for these studs. Now we sit at the bar at 5:00 in the evening and swap stories about the kids over a Hefeweizen. He nodded at his friend and grinned.

“She was waving it around and yelling.” He raised his arm and shook his fist. “Ahhh!”

Ray remembered the girl. She was almost five, a few years older than his own son. He imagined her jumping around the living room in front of her dad. Ray looked forward to his boy growing big enough to wield a stick like that. They’d play pirates. Ray loved pirates.

“Suddenly I saw it—she was jumping around with a unicorn skin draped over her shoulders and a unicorn head on a stake—it was gruesome!” He shook his head, the grin still stretched across his face. “All I could think was: ‘All hail, Deirdre! Unicorn Slayer!’”

Ray laughed. “Did you actually say that?”

“Oh yeah.” His friend nodded. “And then she ran around for an hour repeating it: ‘All hail, Deirdre! Unicorn Slayer! All hail, Deirdre!’ Janet didn’t think it was nearly as funny as….”

His friend fell sideways and collapsed on the floor.

Ray immediately slipped off the barstool and crouched next to the limp body. As he moved, Ray’s mind automatically flipped back and analyzed the previous half minute with a new focus. The room had quieted in the seconds leading up to his friend’s collapse and the sound of his body hitting the floor was the last of a series of thuds, out of sight, behind Ray’s back. He hadn’t noticed any of that—he’d been caught up in his friend’s story, imagining the girl, the triumphant slaughterer of mythical beasts—until the moment his friend fell.

No breathing. The body lay completely lifeless in his arms. Ray looked up.

You’re dead! The voice boomed in Ray’s head. He didn’t plan it or logic through it. He didn’t even think it, but the murderer fell to the ground.

That’s how Ray knew it was God’s will. The man had come into the bar and killed three people in cold blood, simply because he had the power. Ray had no idea about the Curse at that point. He didn’t understand what had happened until a full day later as he wandered through the chaos that had been his city. But in that moment he did the right thing, without a thought. He realized, in retrospect, that the murderer must have been thinking him dead at the same time—anticipating his fourth kill in less than a minute—but Ray had been faster. Divinely inspired, he prevailed. How else could he have won? God must have willed it. Ray didn’t do anything—he had no idea what was happening—yet the killer fell dead.

Ray had always considered himself a God-fearing soul. He was active in his church. He volunteered every Tuesday serving meals to the homeless and he never missed a service. In the first years of their marriage, Nancy would sometimes try to keep him in bed on Sunday mornings, but Ray always insisted. It was his duty to keep her on the path. Saturday mornings on the other hand, those were their days—until Caleb was born. That’s when ‘family’ took on a whole new meaning for Ray—a sense of responsibility and duty that bordered on fear.

He still shook uncontrollably when he thought of the last time he’d seen his wife and son. He quaked, helpless against the tremors of grief and guilt. And Ray did feel guilty, even if his only sin had been to share a beer with a friend.

He’d kissed them both, said he loved them. He remembered that, cherished it— at least they knew he loved them . He squeezed his wife good-bye and asked her not to wait up. He was going out for a drink with his friend. Now, months later, he couldn’t even remember his friend’s name. He remembered the wife, Janet, their daughter, Deirdre ‘the Unicorn Slayer,’ but his friend’s name… he was… his friend. This lapse in memory chilled Ray to the bone—what if one day he woke up and couldn’t remember his son’s name.

Ray’s family disappeared. When he made his way home through the frenzied streets that night, the lights blazed through the windows. He burst through the door and called to his wife. The house was immaculate, as usual. Nothing seemed out of place. Until he got to the kitchen. There he found a dinner half-eaten—a plate set for Nancy at the table, Caleb’s high chair strewn with string cheese and cheerios. The doors were all locked shut and Nancy’s car sat in the carport. No bags packed, no clothes missing, nothing in the house disturbed. His family had simply vanished.

Ray didn’t put it all together until days later, after finding so many of his friends and neighbors dead and others simply gone without a trace. Riots, looting, and more killing flooded through the streets. The Apocalypse had arrived. That was certain. But so had the Rapture. Nancy and Caleb had ascended. They now lived in the Lord’s Kingdom. Ray and the others, everyone left alive, served their purgatory. The Chosen had been raised up, while the dead fell to Hell. God’s will manifested. And Nancy and Caleb remained safe, risen to Heaven unharmed.

Ray confirmed all of it when he opened his Bible and read the first words he saw: a grim line from Ezekiel describing people withering from sin after looking in each other’s eyes. Ray immediately closed the Book and returned it to his nightstand.

Since that moment, Ray felt God’s presence in a different way. The Lord had chosen him for a unique mission in this purgatory. Ray stood alone among the rest of the ‘survivors.’ They all suffered through trials of righteousness and condemnation. Would they kill? Would they seek revenge? Would they sacrifice? God’s final test fell upon them and not many passed. But Ray didn’t struggle like the rest. He didn’t worry, because he never felt the burden of the cursed choice.

Ray never decided to kill. As the sword of God, a divine tool, the Holy Spirit possessed him only when needed. Ray knew this, felt it in his soul—unlike those who killed for material gain or out of fear or panic—Ray never premeditated, never planned, and never slew a soul in defense or rage. He never actually willed anyone’s death. A hundred people, maybe more, had fallen under Ray’s gaze, but only at the Lord’s choosing. It always happened exactly like the first time—a voice, not his own, ringing in his head— You’re dead.

Ray’s faith, his knowledge of the true and righteous nature of the curse, freed him from the morose mindset that plagued so many others. He kept his humor and lived each day in the here and now, knowing that when God needed him, he would respond. Otherwise he focused on food, shelter, and good company.

He’d met Peter in the back of a ransacked neighborhood mini-mart. Ray bent to retrieve a couple of cans that had rolled under the soft serve machine. Others had trashed the place—toppled shelves, smashed windows—but most looters lacked thoroughness and Ray could almost always find some food-stuff or useful artifact buried in the mess.

“Need a hand?”

Ray spun, his arm cocking automatically, a can of Deviled Ham poised to hurtle toward the voice.

“Whoa!” The man stepped back lifting his hands and dropping his eyes. He stumbled over a fallen magazine rack. Tall and lanky—the opposite of Ray—Peter was disarmingly awkward. He straightened and gave Ray a quick nod. “Nice glasses!”

Ray smiled. He’d picked up the novelty crazy eyes earlier that day. “Thanks. I figure just because it’s the Apocalypse, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look my best.”

That was the beginning of Ray’s first friendship since the world ended.

It turned out that Peter had a mission of his own, a vision of bringing order back into the world, restoring civilization, and civility. He’d gathered a few like-minded people and asked Ray if he’d join them. Ray felt a kinship with Peter. Their missions complemented each other. Peter could build a society and Ray could ensure, Lord willing, that the population stayed pure.