It’s the end of the world as we know it, and as will happen, the Apocalypse is a tourist attraction aboard a cruise ship. Impending doom brings out the best and worst in people as they deal with the Rapture, and the end of everything.
Revelations 6: When he opened the sixth seal, I looked, and there came a great earthquake; the sun became black as sackcloth, the full moon became like blood, and the stars of the sky fell to the earth as the fig tree drops its winter fruit when shaken by a gale. The sky vanished like a scroll rolling itself up, and every mountain and island was removed from its place.
Revelations 8: The second angel blew his trumpet, and there came hail and fire, and something like a great mountain, burning with fire, was thrown into the sea. A third of the sea became blood, a third of the living creatures in the sea died, and a third of the ships were destroyed.
We left for New Ireland on the third day of the Apocalypse aboard a grand cruise ship now renamed The Rapture, escaping the Western colonies which had been hit particularly hard with the rising sea levels and tectonic activity: Earthquakes shook and volcanoes erupted where they were not expected; some sea bottoms were lifted while others crumbled away. The geologic fissures had released rivers of super-heated magma from the Earth’s core. Magnificent storm systems blamed on the Coriolis Effect swelled with the heat and released that energy in turn by way of tree-snapping winds and torrential rains.
I wrote the last weather report for my news station and grabbed the survival bag that I had packed that morning and headed to the docks. On foot, of course. Taxis had almost all stopped running. I checked my pocket for the invitation.
Of course, the Apocalypse would soon encompass every inch of the globe, anyway. But at this point, no one cared about a journalistic opinion on a scientific matter which turned out not to be science after all. The Faithful – and all passengers aboard the ship were indeed of the Faithful – were ecstatic that Science no longer controlled Nature, no longer mattered in the least.
The ecstasy was tempered by the usual anxieties one might experience during an Apocalypse. This created a tension that was visible on their faces, as the passengers mounted the ramp to the big ship, obscuring the look of relief and gratitude that they must have felt, but could not bring themselves to express. They were, after all, members of The Chosen, the elite who would soon rise to Paradise.
My editor had prepared for this eventuality. On that final day, as he began ushering staff out of the building, I discovered an envelope on my desk. In it was an invitation. And a note from Arthur himself:
Hal – This item came for me, but I’m passing it on to you. If this mess ever clears up, I want you to tell the story. We’ll never get The Daily Review back, but if there’s a chance that anyone survives, if you survive, you can someday report the truth. Cheers A.
Arthur beat us to the street as he chose to leave via the sixteenth floor balcony, landing on a pizza delivery boy. Bystanders were momentarily stunned, but seeing the pizza box unharmed, they felt compelled to share it, still steaming. Most pizza shops had been closed for two days, and the beneficiaries of this small tragedy understood that God had sent it to them to nourish them through a difficult time. A few sported tickets that they waved in the air, and then rushed off so as not to miss the launch.
When The Rapture left the Big City dock behind, everyone on board was counselled to throw their cellphones and other devices into the sea as a first step to making a break with worldly possessions and unholy distractions. Besides, all cyberspace functions were dead. Satellites had mysteriously blanked out, but continued to circle the Earth without purpose. As the ship left the harbor, a mystical gloom seemed to take hold of the atmosphere and suffused into clouds and blue sky alike its pallid heaviness. But the passengers on board the cruise ship were not without joy, being in possession of invitational tickets to the Apocalypse Now Rapture Tour. All-inclusive.
I showed the purser’s attendant my ticket and duly boarded the ship. It was my first cruise. I fingered the notepad in my suit jacket pocket, looking forward to doing some real journalism in these final somber and cataclysmic days; though not horrific for everyone, as many had already assumed the ecstatic demeanor of the paradise bound, those destined to rise in the Rapture.
The overheated sea, growing more and more acidic from underwater volcanic emissions, carried us in our luxury liner away from the soon-to-be devastated city. Many passengers pointed at flaming creatures under the surface of the water, though I was unable to discern anything other than blinking shadows and glimmers, which I attributed to the setting sun throwing off pastel oranges and blues in a stunning display that I unobtrusively photographed with my cellphone, the one I somehow had neglected to throw into the ocean. For professional reasons, naturally.
A crystal sea it was, but very warm, heating the iron ship so the paint began to peel. Ordures thrown overboard sizzled when they hit the water. A boat is a throne to the drowning, and we saw them in their multitudes, bravely palavering their final thoughts in the still waters as they boiled to a bright red. I irreverently thought of sausages as we set course for the shores of the destined land – New Ireland – where the Rapture was scheduled to occur, at least according to the invitations.
While food stores on land were running low, the ship had been well-stocked in advance. This, even though a single sweep of a net could reap enough cooked fish to feed a hundred passengers. But we were admonished not to attempt that. It is not sanctified, came the word from The Captain. No one was prepared to jeopardize his or her place in the imminent ascendance for a few bites of boiled cod or whatever happened to float by.
I espied more than one hungry passenger eyeing a fat corpse, lobster red, perhaps a banker floating out from the Big City, one of the many luckless observers out at the docks watching the turbulent sky when that first great wind blew in, sweeping hundreds into the ocean where within minutes, they were transformed into bubbles of flesh.
In these last days, for we were assured that the prophesies had come to pass, we would soon in our turn be aroused from our normal human torpor to be filled with grace and gladness, attended by glory shining all around – according to early Vatican promulgations – and then arise with newly kindled spirits up, up into the dizzying contortions of sky and further yet through the pure and rarified upper firmament and beyond into the cosmos, in the general direction of Paradise.
We were fully aware that this could occur before we reached New Ireland. The Rapture date had been announced, but who knew how reliable that was? People scoured Revelations and other holy books for clues. Several religious sects had released contradictory dates for the Rapture.
Banks and crypto-currency merchants declared that it was a plot by a foreign military to bring down capitalism and democracy, just fear-mongering. Earthquakes could be triggered by cleverly placed explosive devices, announced military officials. Some congregations, known for their devout followers, proclaimed that God had contrived for all this to happen as a practice, a drill to prepare for the real Apocalypse which their spiritual leaders had divined would occur in exactly forty days and forty nights. Environmentalists scoffed at everyone’s ignorance and pointed to global climate changes caused by unbridled energy use and hyper-consumerism. But most people ignored this, as it was pretty evident that Science was dead.
No lifeboat drills were performed as everyone was firm in their conviction that we had been selected in a bonafide Act of God. Besides, the small lifeboats would not last long in the hot acidic seawater due to their synthetic composition. This did not discompose the passengers in any way, and their faith and fortitude gave me plenty to chronicle in this their final voyage. Our final voyage. Already, my journal had amassed a few light-hearted sketches of these travelers as they acclimatized themselves to life on board. No lifeboat drills meant more time to enjoy themselves. The swimming pool and the casino were already busy.
As well, the mealtime bells continued to ring faithfully and passengers, all in their Sunday best, eagerly scuttled to their tables as the food on the ship was beyond reproach. It was part of the benefits of having been selected they believed, though no one shared their letters of invitation with anyone. Perhaps, I mused in a note, as humble Faithful, they all felt unworthy of this honour.
We ordered off the menu and some elected to take room service to avoid contamination, that is, from contact with the crew or any infiltrators not of the Faith. Just slip the tray through the partially opened door was what they directed; or better yet, just knock and leave it on the deck floor.
That raised another question of the Selection: Were the crew members part of the Chosen Peoples? Most of the passengers, all Faithful, pronounced it impossible that a select group of Rapturists would be fed and coddled and served dutifully by people who were not selected to rise in the Rapture. Besides the contamination issue, there was plenty of debate about the ecclesiastical optics; even if someone on board were a vile unrepentant sinner of the servant stratum, would God deliberately hurt his or her feelings and make that person watch the Faithful individuals rise into the sky while he or she collected the dishes and awaited their much less illustrious fate? Were there threads of cruelty woven into the tapestry of this long-awaited event? Most assumed that God would designate only the Chosen to participate in this Final Voyage of Humanity, whether they were crew or passenger. Anticipation of the event, I recorded, was swirling with conflicting preconceptions.
There were dissenters, most of whom showed a clear understanding of the standards of purity one would expect to be invoked on such an occasion. Some passengers began to look more closely at the crew. Flaws were duly noted and long, detailed missives sent to the Captain outlining the failures, misdemeanors, and physical eccentricities of certain crew members. Haircuts and t-shirts were photographed or sketched for later study to determine any satanic cult affiliations or influences. Musical preferences came under particularly acute scrutiny as someone had heard music emerging from steerage that ‘had more curses than musical notes,’ asserted one elegant hatted and diamonded lady. Mealtime chatter grew somewhat boisterous as the dissenters shared their observations and documents with their fellow diners. There were whispers and shared photographs on the shuffleboard court and at the white-linened tables. It seemed that many, if not all, had ignored the injunction to cast their cellphones overboard. My own sin of non-compliance I again justified to myself as necessary for my mission to objectively record events.
Table servers quickly apprehended what was going on and grew reluctant to serve some tables. One pretty young serveuse was so nervous that she poured hot coffee on a Shih Tzu lapdog that had been slurping milk from a saucer at the table. The doggy’s owner, a dowager of ample proportions, cried: Oh no, my Fluffy! The Shih Tzu whimpered but soon recovered as it burrowed for shelter in Madame’s lap beneath an impressive décolletage.
A hullabaloo ensued, not so much from the puppy’s owner, but mainly from her table mates who were accumulating evidence for presentation to the captain, a hullabaloo which did nothing to quell the slowly growing division between passengers and crew.
A sensitive and somewhat petulant contingent vocalized with some fervor that God would indeed do just that, break the hearts of the sinners as they watched the righteous ascend into the arms of their Lord and God and Savior: The point of Sin, they proclaimed, is to trick people, attract them into misbehaving and make terrible choices, and then punish them for their lack of wisdom and self-restraint. Punishment and reward: A law of nature, it is. Perhaps those unchosen crew would be better off to just leap overboard immediately and get it over with, mused some. But then we’d have to cook our own meals, a woman with white gloves pointed out.
A middle-aged balding man wearing a black bow tie spoke from his seat near the stage. If all this is true, then what would happen if a Faithful should tumble overboard accidentally or even be pushed into the ocean by one of these shifty-looking crew members? Everyone turned their heads, on the lookout for any shifty-looking crew members.
One very confident Rapturist, a youngish fairly handsome gentleman seated across from Madame Fluffy, stood and gesturing theatrically with his arms proclaimed that since he had been chosen to rise to Paradise (though he did not deign to show his invitation), it seemed obvious that should he jump overboard into the sizzling ocean, he would immediately be flung back onto the ship by the hands of God, revivified and once again ready to join in the Rapture. It’s only logical, he affirmed. He looked radiantly around the room, then sat down next to his wife, an exotic redhead with an athletic body. She was either ignoring him or reflecting on his words as she contemplated her long green fingernails.
Others who shared the gentleman’s certitude agreed that, once chosen, it was guaranteed that said individual would rise in the Rapture and enter the gates of Paradise. The murmurs rose in volume as this pronouncement spread, and within minutes, voices around the dining room announced that God did not make mistakes and would not change His mind on a whim, even should someone do something rash like jump overboard. They took a vote, and the majority clearly affirmed that said ocean-victim would indeed be reinstated on board by the Infallible Planner. In unison, they raised their hands also showing they had all been stamped on their left wrist when they boarded the ship. This ostensibly confirmed their legitimacy.
It was the Rapture Tour, and they had been specifically and individually invited to join: A free, all-inclusive cruise to not only see the Apocalypse up close, but to rise in the glory to share in the rewards of the True and Faithful. There had been no lack of conviction in these Faithful as they boarded the ship at the Big City (though most were terrified and just grateful to be away from the earthquakes and crumbling buildings) and set sail for what most were beginning to call New Ireland, a verdant earthly paradise promoted in the brochure: It’ll be just like Eden, many sang together as they boarded the cruise ship, harmonizing an old tune. From there, they would ascend with all the Chosen around the world.
The possibility of there being other Rapture departure points was brought up in some discussions, but did not get anywhere. Everyone had enough stress to burden them without shouldering the troubles of the rest of the world.
I had chosen a rather quiet table for dinner, albeit surrounded by the disputing parties. My journal was filling up with the rhapsodies and lamentations of my fellow passengers. What I would do with my chronicle, I had no idea. I was no doubt one of the interlopers that half the passengers were sniffing out. I had never aspired to join the rest of humanity in their flying off to Paradise, in fact had not thought much about it.
A childhood sitting in the pews had given me a rather enticing perspective of Heaven: It was indeed described as a glorious spot, somewhere out there radiant and magnificent, with not only the Holy Trinity, but other kings with shiny gold crowns sitting on resplendent thrones surrounded by torches burning to represent God’s seven spirits. I had wondered as a youngster how The Holy Spirit felt about these seven other spirits of God: Were they less sacred than the Holy Spirit? These childhood ruminations were coming back to preoccupy me. Were they doubts? This was no time to be plagued by doubts, but it seemed to have been the framework of my life.
I hesitated to write about them now – but did anyway. After all, it was my job to record thoughts and actions, I reflected. For posterity? I did not know, but I determined to stash my notebook and cellphone in my jacket pocket in case I should be suddenly swept up, assuming that clothes would be retained if only to allow the Faithful a modicum of modesty. Nonetheless, there was a chance we would all be naked when we were gathered up. I glanced at the pretty redhead momentarily, then looked away at myself in the wall of mirrors. I experienced a twinge of regret at not having taken advantage of the exercise room in our twenty-story building.
A few souls seated at the two tables in the corner of the dining hall did not join in the agitated discussion of the main body of Rapturists. The dissenters had a spokesman: I need a bit of evidence, stated one man wearing a blue ball cap and wide red suspenders. Maybe God planned for such and such a victim to tumble into the sea. Are you questioning God’s plan? The others at his table regarded him with respect. His wife, a sceptic for certain, judging by her impassioned face, nodded with some energy, her feathery hat bobbing.
Well, it’s Faith that drives the Faithful, answered the very confident good-looking man, the ostensible spokesman for the larger group of Rapturists. He had no doubts about God’s firmness of mind; he stood with self-assurance and charisma, and by doing so, solidified his position as Leader of the Majority. I’m not trying to be your leader or anything, he maintained, but if these people lack conviction in God’s judgement, perhaps they ought to be thrown overboard to ascertain whether they do indeed belong on this boat. A test of faith. If God puts them back on the ship unharmed, then they belong with us. A mumbling spread in the crowd. It did seem like a logical solution.
Hold on. The burly man with the red suspenders at the corner table spoke up, somewhat indignantly. You’ve twisted it all up – so now you’re testing our faith. In fact, you are the ones questioning God’s plan. We here, a few of us, would like to know how you can be so sure that jumping in the ocean to die would land you right back on the ship, once again full of life, just because you have been stamped and ticketed for the Rapture. How do you know that for sure? God’s plan is a mystery, we all know that – what if He changes his mind about someone? Maybe God will ask himself: Why is this person jumping to his death – doesn’t he want to go to Paradise? Is this person testing Me – God? Such a lack of faith! His cohort applauded politely for longer than necessary. They admired his grandiloquent tone.
The Majority Leader responded calmly: Faith has guided me my whole life, and I am sure that my Savior would not desert me.
But did not God give you a brain to figure things out? Aren’t you sinning by deliberately ignoring the intelligence that God gave you? Mr. Red Suspenders Minority Leader was relentless. I admired his reasoning, but doubted he would make much progress.
It seemed that every person on board had seen every law of science thrown out the window in the past few days. I noted on my pad that it seemed somehow unseemly for a battle between Faith and Logic to erupt at such a time. This was no time for ideology.
A voice: God will protect me. A long-haired teenage girl in a bikini, fresh out of the swimming pool, stood up dripping water on the floor, and gave her testimony: Because I believe, I will be saved. She was endearing to watch; her youthful innocence inspired hopeful looks on faces around her. Her blue eyes were surprisingly powerful. A silence engulfed the dining room as folks tried to digest the significance of her words. The blue eyes and the bikini were distracting.
The Minority Leader with the red suspenders and blue ball cap got back to his feet and pointed his finger at the Majority Leader. Show us all, your group included, how this is supposed to work. Maybe you yourself would consent to leap overboard and trust to God to fling you back on the boat or zap you up to Paradise in an immediate rescue. Don’t you think it’s kind of blasphemous to believe you are so special? Is this Faith or Hubris talking?
A tall lady with a heavy glittering necklace stood and spoke: Faith has guided me my whole life, and I am more than willing to throw myself into the arms of the Lord at any time. I am washed in the blood of Jesus.
Mr. Minority felt obliged to respond: Yes… He paused, not wishing to offend the esteemed lady. But does Faith protect you from making dumb decisions?
Minority Leader’s wife interceded her support: And if one jumps to prove something, doesn’t that show an inkling, just a bare inkling, mind you, of a doubt in God’s integrity? Not trusting God is an erosion of faith, isn’t it? She undid the ribbon of her hat as her face coloured with emotion.
Well, I have no lack of Faith, asserted Majority Leader. Everyone nodded in apparent commiseration. They had all felt the abrasiveness of his superior Faith. But, he continued, perhaps we could find a subject whose faith would not be brought into question, no matter the situation. He looked across the table. Madame, could you offer Fluffy as our emissary? Our proxy, might be a better word. He pointed delicately at the white Shih Tzu who was napping in the lap of its mistress, completely recovered from its coffee dousing.
Certainly not, was the immediate response. He’s coming with me in the Rapture. She put both arms around the dog.
Precisely my point, continued the Majority Leader. He must be designated already for the Rapture, else why would he be here? He has even been stamped on his left paw. The dog was lifted up so everyone could see his left paw. More murmurs spread. It was true; the dog was clearly destined for the Rapture. The Shih Tzu woke up and began to whine most irritably.
And to finish my point, said Majority Leader, we know that dogs are capable of great loyalty and affection, but do they have faith in God? I think not. So this adorable puppy will attain Paradise without an ounce of faith, except in his own mistress. As such, his jumping overboard would not show any lack of faith in God. When God rescues him and places him back in your hands, Madame, it will show that everyone destined for the Rapture will get there, no matter what happens. And at the right time, in one piece. Madame?
I think not, answered Madame and gripped Fluffy with both hands, setting her wide cluster of white teeth at a determined clench. At that moment, the Captain entered the dining hall and the porter rang a small bell to attract everyone’s attention. As everyone swiveled to better see the Captain, Majority Leader snatched the Shih Tzu from Madame and ran out of the dining hall brushing past the Captain.
He’s got my baby! wailed Madame. The dog too was wailing, and the passengers swiveled back again to watch through the large picture windows, as Fluffy sailed through the air catching a gentle breeze and landed softly with a kerplop in the seawater near the ship. Fluffy did not sink but floated on the hot water as his skin turned luminescent red under the white fur. Some passengers had rushed out on deck and stared as Fluffy let out one long howl and expired. His corpse floated astern and was left behind in the wake.
Madame continued to hold out her hands, waiting to receive Fluffy’s revived body back into her possession. She stood on the deck sobbing and waiting, but Fluffy did not reappear in her arms.
The Majority Leader put his arm around her to console her. Madame, we needed the dog for the test. I believe Fluffy has gone straight to Paradise, he reassured her, despite the failure of his experiment. Yes, I thought he would return to your arms, but clearly the Lord took him straight up. I was obviously wrong in my thinking – but God’s will be done. Why kill him twice – makes sense, don’t you think?
Madame, Fluffy’s mistress, instantly grabbed hold of the dashing Mr. Majority’s arms and drew him toward her. But it was only a deke, a feint, a misdirection, as she swiftly with the full force of both arms and her body weight, which was not insubstantial, pushed him solidly to the deck rail and with all her might bent him back over the railing and cast him into the sea. No wails or howls or any sound, except for a slight sizzle, came from the Majority Leader as he too began to turn crimson but looked to the heavens with the clear certainty that he would momentarily be back on deck at his rightful place. His corpse too was left in the wake of the boat, a red bobbing buoy on a big ocean.
The gathering crowd of passengers and a number of crew members watched the receding corpse, gasping in some alarm when an opportunistic seagull settled on Mr. Majority’s forehead and efficiently plucked out his left eye, swallowed, and then plucked out the right eye before flying away. When Mr. Majority had disappeared entirely, some of his table mates, excluding his wife, ran to his stateroom to confirm his reincarnation on board, debating whether he would be reinstated with or without his eyes. Alas, he was not there. God has no doubt sent him straight to Paradise, spoke one of his closest. No cause for sorrow in that, my friends.
My my, what a shame, said a clearly shaken lady bystander to no one in particular. And such good breeding, too.
Well, I think he got what he deserved, said her companion, wrapping her scarf around her head to reduce the stench from the corpses floating by.
I mean the dog, said the first commenter. Such a darling well-behaved dog. I do hope he’s been taken to Paradise.
The Captain approached the railing looking disconcerted, though making a profound effort to give the impression that everything was under control. He spoke quietly to Madame Fluffy, advising her to retire to her cabin and to refrain from pushing any more passengers into the sea, whether or not they deserved it, and even though they would almost certainly end up in Paradise. (Was that a seed of doubt on the Captain’s part? I conjectured.) The exact rules for social behavior during a Rapture had not been published anywhere. And Madame wouldn’t want to jeopardize her chances any more than she already had, would she? The Captain gently reminded her that under other circumstances, she would undoubtedly have been arrested. Madame Fluffy nodded with a grateful smile, but did not appear to be at all penitent.
That evening at dinner, the lovely wife of the now-vanished Majority Leader carefully chose to seat herself across from Madame Fluffy, who had been allowed to leave her cabin to take sustenance and was still clearly bereaving her loss. A most sympathetic lady and unconvincing murderer, I thought. Yet, she had done the deed. Mr. Majority’s red eyeless corpse projected briefly in my mind’s cinema.
The steaks were professionally grilled to order and soon the cutlery was dutifully clanging away against the porcelain dishes. Wine sloshed copiously and the cork popping almost dimmed the quiet smooth jazz in the background provided by a celebrated four-piece orchestra, plus a passenger who just happened to play the accordion. On the previous evening, the passenger dance gang had spun polkas until late hours.
A dance competition was scheduled for later, and even crew members were invited to participate. The band was making some tuning adjustments and the accordion player was filling the moment with some traditional waltzes. I hate that Latin music, moaned Madame, as she leaned back to allow the attractive young serveuse to place the ice cream treat before her. The waiters and waitresses were hurrying the dessert service so they could change for the dance competition. My dear Madame, explained Mrs. Majority, smiling indulgently, those are just old waltzes. Latin music comes later. Oh I guess you’re right, said Madame Fluffy, sipping her coffee. The music just seems too fast and my nerves are all scampy. I’m not as young as you are, you know.
Stop the coffee, dear lady, and order yourself a scotch, admonished Mrs. Majority. You require a sterner remedy. She waved at the waitress and made a peace sign, indicating two drinks.
The first number was a schottische, which though traditional, was fun and lively. The couples danced in their spontaneous circles, the girls flinging their arms out. Well, it is a moment of lightness to forget that the world is ending, said Mrs. Majority Leader. I quite understand, you know, why you did what you did. The number of times I have wanted to throw Herbert off a bridge, well, I can’t count. I suspected he was even having an affair. He’s in heaven now, I suppose, but by God, I can have one free night to enjoy myself. He was a terrible bully, you know.
The two ladies exchanged sympathetic glances, then Madame Fluffy dropped her spoon in her nearly empty ice cream bowl. Oh. I don’t feel well. Having trouble … catch my breath. One of the waiters made to assist her out of her chair, but then the pretty serveuse rushed off the dance floor, abandoning her rather clumsy frowning partner and came to the rescue, putting her arm around Madame Fluffy’s waist, guiding her toward the exit. What you need is fresh air, Madame. Are you lactose intolerant – it was very rich ice cream. It can cause terrible gas.
Thank you Miss, Madame mumbled. It feels as if I’ve been poisoned. But she choked as she tried to speak further and was hacking madly as they stepped out on deck. At this point, the petite serveuse, who was much stronger than she looked, bent over and began to hoist Madame Fluffy over the deck railing. Let’s just say I may have put something in your ice cream, said Miss Serveuse. But soon your stomach troubles will be over.
Suddenly, Madame Fluffy regained enough breath to emit a horrifying scream, bringing all the closest diners in a single wave out on deck, but only in time to see Madame’s white stockings and expensive red shoes fly over the railing. In the gibbous moonlight, her sparkly gown could be seen floating in the steaming seawater. She made no sound.
Miss Petite Serveuse stood at the railing and watched as Madame Fluffy followed the same watery path as Fluffy. She was surrounded by a crowd of confused and agitated passengers. Voices mingled: Murder! What shall we do? How can this be – right in front of our eyes – and all of us destined for Paradise. Why? Arrest her.
By this time, the Captain had emerged on the scene with his revolver drawn. What on Earth is going on? The music had stopped. Everyone, including some of the crew dancers, waited, mouths at odd angles, for the serveuse to provide some explanation.
Well, it’s pretty simple, isn’t it? she declaimed. Madame Fluffy there killed the love of my life. Yes, Herbert is, was, my lover. She grew wan in the already pale moonlight. Her dark eyes were teary, yet her face unrepentant. He was a most faithful and devoted man, in every way, though he could be a bit bossy at times. A man of action, though. He proved it, didn’t he? Dogs do not go to Paradise. But he will; he’s already there, waiting for me.
I noted on my pad her spoken words. There was an inconsistency there that invited scrutiny. Inconsistencies were the tenderloin of my trade; they reflected human foibles that begged to be written about.
Well, aren’t you just the little tramp. Mrs. Majority Leader took a step forward. You’re the one he’d been writing to – followed us here on to this ship, now, didn’t you? Devoted and faithful, you say. Well, clearly not to his wife, huh? How could a slut like you get a job on this sacred vessel? Well, I guess the question answers itself, doesn’t it?
The Captain spoke: I assure you, Mrs. Majority Leader, that there are no sluts on board this ship. Both crew and passengers are amongst the Chosen, the Faithful who will rise in the Rapture. They have been vetted by the Highest Clerical Authorities. All by invitation only. There may be other contingents around the world, but I can speak with surety for my flock. Now, Miss, let’s get you settled into your cabin. You’ve done something terrible, and I really don’t know what to do. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to relieve you of your duties and keep you confined to your room. Getting to be far too many murders.
The attractive Miss Serveuse gave one doleful look to the moon, and taking hold of the handrail, performed a most gymnastically adept forward flip through the night air and into the cauldron of an ocean. She emitted a single moan of what seemed frustration as she hit the water. In less than an instant, she was gone. Oh my, said the Captain, such a pretty thing, too.
The shock spread through the crowd. For a crew member to assassinate a passenger was quite off the scales. And then, to perform an acrobatic suicide herself: This was high tragedy. The band sadly picked up their instruments and performed a tango in order to soothe and distract the crowd, a mix of the melancholy, the dramatic, and the stirring.
I wonder if she’s gone to Paradise, mused Mrs. Majority Leader, who seemed to be recovering her equilibrium despite the three, well make that four, deaths. She ordered a glass of the vaunted cognac to reinforce that balance. A recent on-board acquaintance, almost a friend, a Mr. Plenty, somewhat dashing, asked her if she’d care to dance. Mrs. Majority Leader, not so very old at all and a skilled heel-kicker, accepted. As they pivoted through an undulating waltz, Mr. Plenty dared speak: Well, to answer your question which I overheard you musing, I suspect it’s the last we will see of the young lady.
Sweet as she was, Mr. Plenty continued, would the Lord admit a murderer through the pearly gates? And a suicidal to boot. Not that I blame the two ladies – I’m sure the good Lord has a soft side for distraught and abused women. An eye for an eye, I firmly maintain. He fixed eye contact with Mrs. Majority just to reinforce the seriousness of his position. That’s all the Bible text that I know, he admitted.
Frankly, I’m not quite sure why I was even invited on this Apocalypse Tour, said Mr. Plenty. I mean, if it’s about being naughty or nice, well then I don’t expect any gifts next Christmas, if you know what I mean. Mrs. Majority nodded as if in agreement but secretly wondered if it was okay to have sex on the eve of the Apocalypse. Mr. Plenty was a very attractive man and well … carpe diem.
Suddenly, she was bent over backwards and Mr. Plenty planted a kiss on her highly rouged lips. Forgive me, he said when they were returning to their table, but there’s not much time left for innocent naughtiness. I don’t like being bored, and I’m starting to get panic attacks about the … well, the future. Were we supposed to bring a list of things we’d like to do in Heaven, or something? Will there be activity clubs, do you think? It would be awfully dull without dancing and well – sex.
Mrs. Majority just smiled, which looked to Mr. Plenty a lot like a grimace. She knew how he felt, but couldn’t respond. I think I’ll have another cognac, she digressed. Mr. Plenty said: Of course, let me get us drinks. By the way, I’m not sorry I kissed you. Mrs. Majority raised her slim hand for him, which he kissed with genteel alacrity.
A voice came from the next table: the Minority Leader, snapping his red suspenders irritably. Mr. Captain! The letters of vetting from Infallible On High – do you still have them? Can you ascertain their authenticity? Or did they come the same way that the stone tablets came into the hands of the First Chosen Peoples? Right from God? His sardonic tone turned everyone’s head – it sounded borderline blasphemous. In light of the murders, well, shall we say deaths, isn’t it only proper that you share the invitation list with us all, so we ourselves can ascertain who truly belongs on this Rapture Tour? You must admit now the possibility that there are violent and possibly immoral imposters on board?
The band had quit playing and a woman’s voice, in a high-pitched lament, interrupted over the band’s sound system: I thought the pain was over. I have no regrets, but the pain won’t let me go. I don’t care now where I end up. It was the cute Miss Serveuse, completely alive and speaking to them, her mouth moving and her arms behind her back, not even wet from the ocean, as if she had never even jumped in. She looked about ready to sing a number for the crowd. There was utter silence for a moment. Then a thirteen-year-old boy shouted out: She’s back. She’s back!
Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch, splurted the Minority Leader, readjusting his ball cap. The Captain had moved aside to let her enter the dining hall without taking note exactly who it was. Now he gasped, as he recognized Miss Serveuse.
He answered: Miss Serveuse, tell us about the pain. Your pain. It was a negotiation strategy he had been taught in a webinar: diversion. God sent you back for a reason: Share your pain with us.
Miss Serveuse looked at the Captain with emotions contorting her face. I want to go where he is going, has gone, she said. So it has to end here, tonight.
Then the lovely Miss Serveuse took her right hand out from behind her back to reveal a revolver. That’s my gun, cried the Captain. Yes, said Miss Serveuse. Then she put the gun to her temple and blew her brains out.
The Captain rushed over to the young lady’s body nearly slipping in the spreading blood. Cleaning staff were called and arrived with buckets and mops. As nothing could be done for her, and after some deliberation, the Captain had one of the band’s members help him carry the body of Miss Serveuse out to the deck where it was solemnly released overboard, returned to the ocean where she had died the first time.
What tragedy – to be returned to life, only to kill herself again, I thought. Surely a suffering soul – was she still destined for Paradise? I had managed to quickly snap a photo of Miss Serveuse just as she raised her arm with the gun. Reincarnation evidence, if there ever was. The band member, the drummer, with a tear in his eye, had clearly been touched by the young woman’s death, and said: I knew she was in trouble and I didn’t say nothing. He had inadvertently spoken near the microphone and everyone heard it.
In love with a married man, you mean? answered the Captain.
Yes. No. She was pregnant. Not mine, of course. The married fella, yeah. She was mad about him. Don’t know why. Seemed like kind of a prick to me.
I tried to imagine the young Miss Serveuse with the middle-age, although handsome, Mr. Majority. I made a brief note.
The Captain said nothing more, but on returning to the dining hall, he addressed the group of passengers and staff who were there: Tomorrow we reach our destination, New Ireland, where the Rapture is scheduled to begin. There was a stir of excitement that rippled through the whole room. We’ve had an eventful voyage, with our share of tragedy and gladness. As we’ve been told in the Scriptures, the pain is indeed going to be over soon. These events give us pause to ponder, to wonder: Think of God’s good works. Think of all the love and joy in the world. Consider all the glories we are about to witness as tomorrow we rise in the splendor promised to the righteous. Why couldn’t she just have waited? Everyone’s eyes turned to the blood puddle which was being reverently mopped up by a teary-eyed kitchen maid.
I wondered if she was a friend of Miss Serveuse.
The Captain continued: Whether we go to Paradise or return to our place on this ship in the event of death, seems to still be up for debate. Miss Serveuse was sent back by God, which leaves the mystery unsolved, since Mr. Majority Leader did not return to the boat. Nonetheless, we are confident he is already rejoicing in Paradise. Why the discrepancy? Perhaps we need the Ancients here to decipher this conundrum.
The Captain sighed wearily. Then following his own thoughts, he said: As far as the dog Fluffy is concerned, we can’t say for sure, can we? A family member to Madame, certainly, so we would hope for her sake that Fluffy is spinning doggie circles in heaven anticipating her advent. Well, I suppose they’re both there now. And Mr. Majority Leader. And perhaps even Miss Serveuse. Suicide and murder are short cuts that I cannot approve; better that we stick together rather than resort to dubious panicky actions. At the least for morale. Would someone care to say a few words? Is there a Scripture that would apply here?
No one rose to speak or suggest a prayer. Perhaps, I thought, there’s not much sense in making a phone call when you’re going to see that individual tomorrow – God that is – where you can ask Him straight out to explain the details. Why the fireworks and the bloated bodies? Why end everything now?
Why not let life continue? Maybe there’s an accommodation issue – only so many rooms at the inn. And why enrapture billions at once when it could be done over time, gradually: Someone dies, they go either to Heaven or Hell, a bit of work every day, but here, this Rapture, you’re going to have an administrative headache. I began to write notes, a few questions for tomorrow: How many souls altogether? How far back does the roster go? I was very curious if Neanderthals were included. Was there going to be a post-Apocalyptic sweep to ensure that all souls were accounted for? Would that be delegated to the Kings sitting around the Big White Throne who according to the story didn’t seem to have much to do? They would likely just kick into action. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. As a journalist, I could sense the momentousness of the occasion unfolding.
The Minority Leader rose from his chair in the corner of the dining room. He held a cigar in one hand which he was skillfully smoking. His face was flushed from bourbon. I wondered if he was going to pray.
I noticed that several people had begun smoking openly, which at one point had been prohibited in the dining room. One thirty-year-old confessed to having just taken up smoking cigarettes. Well, she posited, it’s not like I’m going to get cancer before tomorrow night, is it?
Mr. Minority Leader ahemmed meaningfully. He thumbed his red suspenders. It seems to me that there is a subtle difference between the deaths of Mr. Majority Leader, Madame Fluffy, Fluffy herself, and our lovely Miss Serveuse. Three creatures died by being cast into the ocean, now dangerously hot and toxic, but take note, they did not go voluntarily. Miss Serveuse, on the other hand, leaped voluntarily to her death, her first death, and was raised from the dead and returned to us. The Lord spared her, no doubt valuing her Faith. There rose a murmur of agreement.
What does this tell us? continued Mr. Minority. Going to your death voluntarily, trusting in God’s life-saving grace is the key. Once again, Faith comes first, as it always has. Now that I have seen it, I am convinced that it is the highest proof of God’s pride in our Faith.
Mr. Plenty spoke up: But the sad and lovely Missy did not do it to show her faith; she wanted to end it all. She was so full of pain that God and Faith did not even enter into it. The drummer was nodding in agreement. Maybe she believed that Mr. Majority Leader, having just killed a puppy, would be going to hell and she wanted to be with him no matter what, so killing herself, which many acknowledge is a grave sin, would land her in the infernal ovens of the Beast. That was a contortion of logic that caused many to sigh in perplexity.
Well, I always wondered how that irksome man managed to get on a Paradise tour, mused Mrs. Majority. Here we are again with those mysterious ways of the Lord. I say I hope he gets what he deserves, nothing more or less. Many nodded their heads contemplatively. She was ready to speed off to her stateroom – she glanced meaningfully at Mr. Plenty.
Well, everyone knows that God is love, spoke up a middle-aged man who was holding hands with his wife and smoking a cigarette with exaggerated pleasure. He tried to blow a smoke ring to emphasize his point. Nobody got the point. What I mean is, perhaps God sent them to Paradise because their love was so strong. Mrs. Majority smirked ever so slightly.
The drummer had finally had enough. As you all now know, she was pregnant, he said now deliberately into the microphone. Maybe that’s why God was trying so hard to save her, bringing her back like that.
My ass, muttered Lady Majority, as she left the dining hall with Mr. Plenty on her arm.
An Indian lady of upper years with a long white ponytail and a green gown stood up. Let me get this straight then, she began: If you are deeply in love, pregnant, and deliberately cause your own demise, then you will be reincarnated and returned to life. Specifically, here on this ship. She waited for a response.
The Captain, wanting to regain control of the discussion, said: Whether one jumps or is pushed should not be relevant, should not even be a concern, because no one is going to be jumping into the ocean or shooting themselves anymore. I forbid it. And besides, it’s bloody bad manners. Gets everybody worked up. This is supposed to be a joyous experience.
With everyone’s attention back on him, the Captain continued: Let’s all save our dramas for Paradise where we will have a wiser arbiter, or better yet, forget those emotional agonies that daily plague us humans. Tomorrow, we will all be raised up in the Rapture. For now, smoke your last cigarettes, drink the best cognac we have on board, no charge – it’s all-inclusive – and dance until the sun rises if it be your wish. He could see the faces of his flock relaxing, some already up and heading for the bar to refresh their joy.
Mr. Minority Leader was red in the face as he stood again. He thanked the Captain for his sage words. But, he pursued, for us who are not pregnant or in love, there is no way of knowing whether we will be reinstated or not, should we fall into the sea. The jury’s out but – you know – I have lived my whole life with no evidence to support my beliefs.
Mr. Minority Leader raised his eyebrows in an unexpected expression of contrition. Nevertheless, as the Captain says, what does it matter? We are not going to be testing God, shouldn’t even be thinking about it. It’s a trust thing, isn’t it? We trust God and He trusts us. I was wrong to worry about bad people on this ship. God doesn’t make mistakes.
Once again, heads nodded. It was the second time someone had said that. It was an old refrain, though no doubt true. I made a note in the margin: Mistakes?
The music started up. Glasses tinkled and tobacco smoke billowed, fairly filling up the air. No one seemed concerned, as dance floor twirling broke out again.
I left the dining room to get some air on deck, though it was no longer fresh. I noticed the Captain peeking into La Serveuse Missy’s cabin, no doubt just in case she had been reconstituted again. But the cabin was empty. He looked relieved. So distressing to have people shooting themselves, on the dance floor of all things, he murmured, looking at me. And such a pretty thing. Then he checked Madame Fluffy’s cabin, just in case. No one there either. He let me take a photograph of himself beside the empty bed.
I accompanied him as he exited Madame Fluffy’s cabin and headed again for the dining hall. I was hoping to file all the photos and notes in New Ireland before the Rapture gathered everyone in our final day, claimed us all, OK not all, but the worthy ones, and whisked us up and away to golden streets and fields. I wondered if some people had been created with flaws which made them unworthy. Mistakes? The question of Mistakes began to plague me.
The Captain looked worn out. He said: My wife passed away last year from the Big C. I’m looking forward to seeing her again. But you know, I’m anxious. Our relationship took a funny turn near the end, and well … I’m not sure she’ll want to see me. Does Heaven smooth out the rough edges?
I made a note: If all the rough edges get smoothed out, will we even know each other … up there? You can sandpaper a wooden chair until it falls apart.
The ship sailed on into morning, and a hubbub at breakfast hinted at the excitement, anxiety even, that each passenger had been holding in reserve. Someone yelled: Ireland, New Ireland. I can see it. A rush to the deck railing and the passengers and crew alike loudly cheered, raising arms, eyes focused on the green land at the horizon, doing their best to ignore the dozen or so bloated corpses near the entrance to the large harbor. Some were anxious that the Rapture might already have started. Without them.
Then the cruise ship struck it, the rock that had been innocuously hiding in deep water for millennia until now. The cataclysmic events of the past ten days had released tectonic forces that lowered the bedrock in some places and raised it in others. Fresh lava had been released here as well, congealing around the uplifted bedrock. The rock, lurking just below the surface, punctured a hole in the luxury liner. Steaming seawater surged in.
Just like the Titanic, said Mr. Minority Leader, who took a swallow from a bottle of bourbon. So. What now, Captain? he asked. The docks of New Ireland are there across the harbor. But we won’t get there, will we, Captain? Looks like God is going to be testing us anyway, huh? Or is it the other way around?
The Captain had no time to answer as he was already doing what he was trained to do. Emergency alarms had started clanging. To your lifeboats, to the lifeboats, all passengers, please report to the lifeboats immediately, the Purser announced over the intercom. Forget possessions, just hurry.
The synthetic boats aren’t going to survive the hot acid soup, are they? Mrs. Majority Leader asked one sailor crew member, who answered: The Captain thinks there’s a chance that the boats will resist the acid bath long enough to get us to the docks. Mrs. Majority turned to a most disheveled and bleary-eyed Mr. Plenty. They stepped into one of the first lifeboats to be launched. As they sat down on the bench, I saw Mr. Plenty cross his fingers behind his back. I snapped a photo of the pose, pondering the wisdom of eons of humanity.
Then, I dutifully waited in line and managed to join a family with four children, the eldest that thirteen-year-old who had spoken up earlier. It was the last boat, and I was about to step into it when someone brushed by me, taking the last seat. It was Missy Serveuse, her hair rumpled but no longer bloody. I searched for a gunshot wound but her skin, though still pale, was flawless. I took another snapshot just as she focused her gaze on me. And winked.
I changed my mind, she said. I choose life. I need to have this baby. I thought she mumbled something about Hell or high water. She did not mention the impending Rapture. I did not speak but nodded to let her take the last seat.
The thirteen-year-old lit up a cigarette and passed the pack to his younger siblings who each took one. Soon, everyone was puffing happily as the boat was cable-lowered and set off across the boiling sea. I could see the yellow gases emitted and rising from around the plastic boats as they began to dissolve in the acid bath. It was necessary to row as the motors had started, but the thin aluminum propellers had dissolved in a matter of seconds.
It was only the Captain and I left on board. The bow was already under water as the Apocalypse tour boat continued to sink. The Captain spoke: Well, Sir, that leaves us then. Shall we conclude our adventure with a nightcap of fine cognac? Nightcap – at ten o’clock in the morning? I responded. Well, soon it’ll be lights out for us all, eh, so why not?
We took our glasses to the tilting guardrail to better watch the departing lifeboats and lit two fine cigars drawn out of the Captain’s uniform pocket. Been saving them, he said, in a confiding voice. We studied the scene as patiently as one could in the situation, savoring the cognac and puffing thoughtfully. As they eventually neared the docks, the boats continued to dissolve until they became transparent. Then, one by one, the boats disintegrated entirely and vanished, immersing their passengers into the steaming acid. Wails and groans could be heard in the distance as one boat after another got thinner and thinner and suddenly was no longer there at all, until the last lifeboat vanished from sight.
A great swelling in the sea suddenly caught my attention. Look, I said, and we both watched as a great whale rose out of the water and continued to rise through the air. Other whales of assorted species rose out of the sea and ascended into the celestial. The Rapture had begun.
The Apocalypse cruise ship continued to drop lower in the toxic sea, and as the Captain and I approached our ends, we toasted to life and the inevitable, downing the delicious brandy in a final swallow. As the water began to take us, we puffed on our fragrant cigars and watched the ascendance of the large marine creatures, with some envy, I confess. The last thing I heard was the sizzle of the cigar’s red tip striking the ocean water. Then it was hot and painful. I smelled sulphur. Then nothing.
END
