Truman Going Home

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-4835-2376-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 210 Seiten

Reihe: Going Home

In his classic novel, '1984.' George Orwell described a degrading, dehumanizing dystopia where the government had become 'Big Brother' and freedoms were no more. 'Going Home' is about a similar time period predicted to occur before the return of Christ.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Truman, Jon

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1 It began with a ripping, growling roar as the earth beneath the railroad tracks pushed upward. Some would later say it sounded like the ear-splitting howl of a hurricane. But, this wasn’t a hurricane. This was an earthquake. And not just any earthquake. This one was nearly as big as the largest known to man, the 9.5 quake that devastated Chile on May 22, 1960. One after another, each of the four, 188 metric ton engines rose, stalled, then— fell. The lead engine slammed into the ground beside the tracks and began a gouging slide down the embankment toward the highway below. Like a giant metal anaconda, the one mile long train with its four engines and ninety coal cars snaked downward. The adrenalin-charged conductor held on with one hand. With the other, he yanked the train’s horn unleashing its ear-piercing wail. It was followed by a metal on metal sound as a towering coal car slid behind the back of their SUV, smacked the bumper and then, like the crack of a bullwhip, catapulted it forward. It skidded sideways for about twenty feet, and then rose, spun, pounded into the ground and rose again, only to do another somersault. Three times. Four. Five. That’s when she heard her mother’s scream. Three more times the SUV flipped until finally, mercifully, it thudded to the ground, upside down. All four occupants, her parents in the front seat and she and her brother in the back hung upside down from their seatbelts. She couldn’t see outside for the dust that billowed around the SUV. She held her breath and listened with the ears of a child afraid some spectral figure was lurking behind the closet door. She could hear the squealing sound of spinning bent wheels and smell leaking gasoline. Her head snapped to the left, toward her brother. His arms dangled like a lifeless rag doll. MOMMY…DADDY…!” she screamed. But…no one answered. From her car seat in the back, she stared wide-eyed at her mom and dad. What frightened her most was her father. His head was twisted almost fully backwards. His dead, sightless eyes, opened wide in fear were staring at her. *   *   * It all began on a Fourth of July. 11:00 a.m. Mason and Rebecca Clark, their eight-year-old son Ethan and six-year-old daughter Breanna were on their way to the Ocoee River. Located in scenic East Tennessee, the world class Ocoee offers white water rafting at its best. For that very reason, it had been selected to host the 1996 Kayaking Olympics. Today would be a repeat. Kayakers from all over the world would again compete before thousands of onlookers. Blankets, lawn chairs, picnic baskets, and not a few umbrellas to block the sun’s rays would soon dot the banks of the Ocoee. Since moving to East Tennessee the Clarks had visited the Ocoee on numerous occasions. It was only fifty-three minutes from their East Tennessee home of Etowah. They had moved here following graduation from the University of Illinois. When asked why, they would say—topography. Bounded on the East by the Appalachian Mountains and on the west by the Cumberland Plateau, Etowah was the gateway to the Cherokee National Forest. Besides, Etowah was a great place to raise a family. So upon graduation and a June wedding, Mason and Rebecca Clark packed up and put down roots in Etowah. Mason opened his optometry clinic. Blond haired, blue-eyed Rebecca, who was a degreed RN, began her nursing career at Etowah’s Starr Regional Medical Center. Sixteen months passed and Ethan was born. His sister, Breanna, entered the world two years later. As was their custom, when the Clarks took a road trip in the family SUV, they would sing. One song that topped their list was a Tennessee favorite, “Rocky Top.” Mostly though, they sang songs Ethan and Breanna had learned in Sunday School: “If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands,” “I’ve Got that Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart,” and “Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory!” Rebecca would turn around in her seat and lead Ethan and Breanna in the motions. It was such a fun time for the Clark family, they barely noticed the heat. And, as is often the case in a Tennessee July, it was hot. So hot, Mason and Rebecca could see shimmering translucent waves of heat rising from the sun baked road. Any thoughts of that, however, were quickly dispelled as they neared the Ocoee. Soon, they would join thousands who would line its banks, watching world class Kayakers as they sluiced, slipped, slid and splashed through the Class IV Ocoee rapids. *   *   * 3 pm. It had been a great day, but on the way home, things changed. As always, Bree’s five-eleven, lank, bespectacled father encouraged his family to sing. But for some reason, Breanna—or Bree as he preferred to call her—refused. Precocious, towheaded, light blue-eyed Bree sat rigid, staring into space. Her eyebrows were pinched inward, and her mouth had a slight downward turn. Something was wrong. Something had happened, or maybe—was about to happen. Something—bad. As Bree’s father glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his mind leaped back in time. It was three years ago. Mason, Rebecca, and Ethan, who was then five, and Bree who was three, were at a funeral. Mason’s younger sister Sophia had died in a tragic automobile accident. She was only twenty. A long line of mourners and well-wishers lined the walk leading to the Carter Funeral Home. Being family members, they excused their way through the crowd to join Mason’s parents, his older brother, Jim and sister Joan. As they walked, Mason noticed that three-year-old Bree kept looking in places where no one stood. She would stare upward, first here, then there, as if seeing invisible personages who, judging from her gaze, had to be seven or eight feet tall. Later, toward the end of the visitation, Bree was nowhere to be found. Mason looked at his wife. “Where’s Bree?” “I…don’t know. She was here a moment ago.” Mason began walking throughout the funeral home until finally he found Bree. She was standing in another room. It was empty, save for the green-cushioned metal seats and a casket centered on the wall. Apparently, there would be another visitation following his sister’s. Bree was standing to the right of the casket, her back to her father. She was gazing upward. As he had noticed when they first made their way through the crowd, whoever or whatever Bree was looking at, real or imagined, had to be seven or eight feet tall. And Bree was talking, but—no one was there. Mason stood, frozen and listened to a one-sided conversation between his daughter and who knows who—or what. “My name is Bree, what’s yours?” Silence. “That’s a funny name.” Silence. “My auntie died. Why are you here? Silence. “Really?” Had Mason heard the other side of Bree’s conversation, he would have been reminded of a verse he had seen many times as he read through his Bible. “Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?” That was the first time Mason knew that his daughter was different, for Bree could see what no ordinary human could see. She could see angels! What he didn’t know was—that was not all she could see. *   *   * It happened on their way home. An earthquake. They had become increasingly common in the past ten years, but neither he nor his family had been affected by one, at least, not directly, that is—until now. It began with an ear-splitting, roaring sound as the road behind them began to rip apart as if an invisible giant cleaver had sliced through the pavement. An ever widening gap, seemingly aimed at the Clarks’ SUV, caused it to shimmy and shake from side to side. Mason’s knuckles blanched as he gripped the steering wheel. His rapt attention was instantly drawn to the rearview mirror. His eyes widened. There, no more than 100 feet away was a semi. The ever expanding fracture in the road beneath the fully loaded, 80,000 pound tractor-trailer continued to split as it snaked toward them, lifting the semi. It rose five, ten, fifteen feet, then tilted and toppled on its side, skidding and scraping toward the back of the Clarks’ SUV. Sparks like those caused by locked wheels of a boxcar, flared around all sides of the fifty-five foot tractor-trailer, causing...