Exodus: Book Two: Last Days Trilogy Read Free Page B

agree. Anyhow,” Rev. Bailey exhaled, “the crowd is tremendous outside. The news media is well-represented, and the L.A.P.D’s falling all over themselves to clear traffic. It’s blocked for miles. There is nothing I can do...” the reverend smiled smugly.
    “Why do they not just go away?” Devante asked.
    “They want to see you.”
    “Will they disburse then?”
    “Probably not.”
    “Nevertheless, we shall try.” Devante stood up and started for the door. “We will give them what they want, and I will request that they return to their homes.”
    “I don’t think that will...” Rev. Bailey tossed up his hands when Devante kept moving. “I urge you...” He followed him into the foyer. “Please do not open that...” Rev. Bailey cringed as the screams of the crowd flooded into the sound-proofed home. Devante was already outside.
     

The Vatican
     
    A black cloud hung over the Vatican. The clergy was disturbed, Cardinal Welsh included. The Pope had not shown his face or left his room since the doctors ordered a few hours of bed rest. It had been a while since anyone had spoken to him, so Cardinal Welsh approached the Pope’s private quarters.
    The Cardinal carried his entire ruse, a tray of food, as he moved down the plush corridor to the private bedroom suite. He hesitated before the huge double doors, knocked once, then, balancing the tray with one hand, stepped inside.
    “Holy Father,” he called out softly.
    The television was on. The Cardinal saw only the Pope’s hand resting on the arm of the chair, its back toward him. Toting the tray, Cardinal Welsh couldn’t help but see the latest spectacle: Devante arrogantly raising his arms above the masses, gathered as if for a trip to the Heavens.
    “God will hear our prayers.” Devante cried to the murmurs and shouts of the believers.
    Cardinal Welsh spoke. “I brought you something to eat.” He set it on the table next to the chair. “Holy Father?”
    No response.
    He walked around the table. “Holy Father, are....” Cardinal Welsh gasped.
    The Pope sat peacefully, eyes closed, head slumped. Reaching out tentatively, Cardinal Welsh touched his face, still lukewarm, but clearly and sadly dead.

CHAPTER THREE
     

Westing Biogenetic Institute
Chicago, Illinois
     
     
    Squatting over the blanket, Marcus accidentally dropped the pencil, then brightened as he watched it roll away from him. He picked it up and dropped it again.
    “The floor’s buckling,” he muttered to himself.
    He saw Reggie gagging over the sink in the dim light.
    “Still sick, Reg?”
    “Yes,” she replied weakly. “Can’t help it. Grape Gatorade and mint toothpaste.”
    “Brush with water.”
    “You said it would be harmful if I drank it.”
    “Reg, you don’t have to drink it, just brush.”
    “I might accidentally let some slip down my throat,” she said. “Or convince myself that it did and then I’d get sick anyhow.”
    “Sorry I asked.” He tossed up his hands. “Suit yourself.”
    “I will. And I’m surprised you aren’t sick.”
    “From what?” Marcus questioned.
    “From drinking the water.”
    “I don’t swallow when I brush my teeth,” Marcus said with an edge to his voice. “I’m normal.
    “Don’t snap at me.” Reggie wiped her mouth.
    “Sorry.” Marcus said. “I don’t think our rescue workers broke for dinner last night. I think they broke for Milwaukee. They aren’t coming back.”
    “What are we going to do?”
    “Get out.” Marcus crossed the room to the door. “This room is close to the side door. Maybe if we can get a crawl space going, we can get to the glass out there.”
    “We weren’t able to budge any concrete before.” Reggie came over to join him.
    “There’s been a lot of shaking and trembling. Maybe something shook loose.”
    “Well...” Reggie joined Marcus at the mound of rubble. “Let’s dig then.”
     

Monee, Illinois
     
    “...tragic day for Christians and Catholics as they awoke this morning to