Jacob's Trouble 666 is a novel by Terry, which was published a number of years ago. It tells the story of Jacob Zen, a young, lower echelon U.S. government official, who is forced to take on staggering responsibilities, when millions of people vanish, and his world begins coming apart. Terry wanted to share with you this fictionalized account of the Rapture and of the first part of the Tribulation era in serialized form. Although it is fiction, it is a story that could take on startling reality with your very next breath, because Christ's shout: "Come up hither" (Rev 4:1) could happen at any moment!

Chapter 12

The doors were giving under the violent blows. Jacob frantically pulled the suit jacket from his body and spread it on the desk. He shoveled the computer diskettes, videocassettes and Marchek's notes and Bible into the coat, then wrapped the coat around the materials. Only one direction to take — down the hallway and out either the kitchen door, or the front.

He scrambled from the study into the dark hallway, hearing the glass of the French doors shattering, and their wooden frames splintering. Escape did not seem possible, and he fleetingly wished for one of the miracles Hugo Marchek credited his God with performing. He must decide now which of the exits to try, or else turn and face those who were breaking through the stubborn doors separating the study from the garden. Too latel Now the other doors were being pounded! Soon he would be hemmed in on both sides; nowhere to go but up, down, or out one of the bedroom windows — but they would be waiting outside the windows — There! Above him! A way that might put off the confrontation for a few seconds more.

The chain, attached to a large, rectangular piece of wood at the center of the hallway's ceiling. It had to be. He grabbed the dangling chain and pulled. Yes! A folding stairway to the attic, something he had not seen for years. The contrivance was his lone remaining hope. But was there time?

He unfolded the ladder to the floor and, without taking time to consider its sturdiness, vaulted up its steps. At the ladder's top, kneeling on the planks of the attic floor, he leaned as far down the ladder as possible and grabbed one of the rungs to refold the steps against their plywood base.

Footsteps! Running heavily toward the hallway! They were in the house! They would be in the hall within seconds. He tugged the folded stairway toward him, and its spring mechanism guided it into place flush against the attic floor. Did they hear the spring-slap sound? Or did their own noisy rush through the house drown out the stairway's closing thump?

They were beneath him now; beneath the folded ladder. The voices of at least three men, looking for him, telling each other that their quarry could not have gotten out of the house, could not have gotten past them. If only there had been time to take the hanging chain off the plywood.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the attic, and there was enough illumination to make his immediate surroundings visible. Boxes with old clothes, Christmas tree ornaments, papers. A box with tools and cans of glue, cans of paint and three one-gallon cans of paint thinner.

The paint-thinner! He pulled one of the cans from beneath the tools and other cans. It was full. Then the others — all were new cans and full!

He unscrewed the caps and sniffed to be certain. Yes! Paint-thinner. He emptied the contents of the cans into an empty bucket he found nearby.

One of the voices below him was shouting. "Here! He's in the attic! In here!"

He heard the hurried shuffling of feet as the others ran back into the hallway. There would be no more chances. It had to work, or he was finished!

He fumbled through his shirt pocket — empty! Where were they? Had he dropped them? His tormentors were pulling the chain now, lowering the ladder! He shrank back into the darkness, still searching. His pants! They were in his pant's pocket!

The ladder was being unfolded and events were simultaneously shifting into slow-motion. The book of matches pulled out of the pocket — the steps unfolded — the cardboard covering of the matches flicked open — the ladder making contact with the floor -- the voices, angry, desperate to get to him! — pressure on the ladder — the disappearing stairway creaking and groaning beneath his pursuers' weight — the match struck — not lighting the first time — another try and the match disintegrated — a new match, handled with a shaking hand — Lit!

The head and shoulders of the first man, a square jaw, the black eyes not seeing Jacob yet in the darkness of the attic. Jacob hid the glow of the match by cupping his hand over it. The head ducked back down just below the attic's floor. They were hesitant, probably concerned that their quarry had a gun. Jacob wadded and twisted a piece of cardboard and held the match to it until the paper lit. Now was the time to move!

He had positioned himself at the back of the rectangular hole in the attic's floor so that the attackers' backs were to him when they ascended the steps. He moved forward on his knees in order to see them, three in all, two on the ladder and one on the hallway floor below — all with drawn handguns. He splashed the paint-thinner on them with one douse. The two men on the ladder staggered, almost losing their balance. Jacob threw the cardboard torch at the man at the top of the steps. The attacker erupted in flames, and in his agony he triggered two rounds into the ceiling. The fire spread instantaneously to the man just below him. Both men, screaming, fell on top of the third man.

He had to break out of this attic! Others would be waiting outside, possibly, but he would quickly be overwhelmed by the smoke and fire if he stayed longer; the old home would go fast. Luck! A sledgehammer in the box of tools. But could he beat his way out of the attic through the roof? No. The ceiling was too high to reach the 1" x 8" planks of the roof with any degree of leverage. He looked at the gable vents 30 feet away, where the light poured in through the slats. The answer! He hurried toward the light, hearing the sounds of his would-be captors writhing and screaming on the hallway floor. Pressing his face against the vents, he looked out on the grounds, having a good view in all directions, and satisfied himself that no one was waiting outside.

The men had stopped screaming. Had they been overcome by the flames? Or was the fire extinguished, and their pursuit on again? No... Impossible... The fire was too engulfing, too intense. The men were unconscious, or better yet, dead.

Using a side swing, he crashed the 10-pound sledge head into the old wooden slats that made up the gable vents. Because they were brittle, their destruction was quick and complete, and he stuck his head and shoulders through the opening he had just made, to again look for potential threats. It was a long drop to the ground, with little vegetation to break his fall. He could not afford a broken ankle or leg. He had to remain mobile.

Leaning out the hole farther, he looked at the surface of the house and saw what looked to be a pipe, painted white, which apparently was a conduit for electrical wires because it ran up from an electric meter located six feet off the ground on the house's rock surface. There should be just enough space between the pipe and the stones, at various points along the pipe's length, to provide a good grip.

His first try at the pipe almost ended in disaster, but he regained his balance and, after stretching again, he finally managed to reach the pipe and get a firm grip. Then, by carefully negotiating the rock surface with his feet, he let his legs straighten beneath him until the toes of his shoes dug into the crevices between the stones on either side of the pipe. He wouldn't risk dropping the coat with the tapes and diskettes wrapped in it; he had fought, almost died, for the secrets they held. He could not chance damaging them. But the descent would be clumsy if he held the folded coat; maybe even cause a fall. The best way to carry his cargo was with his teeth, leaving his hands free for a better grip. He paused, holding the pipe with one hand while using his teeth and free hand to make sure the coat was still wrapped securely around the materials. He held the coat between clenched teeth and slid down the pipe, using his shoe soles to apply braking friction against the stones.

Already, thick, dark smoke was billowing from cracks around the window sills. Whatever he had left in the home that might be of use to him in his search for the truths he must uncover was now irretrievable. But, irretrievable to his enemies as well. The old home would be gone in minutes, and because of the calamitous events of the past hours, all available firefighters and equipment were concentrated on the major disasters. One burning house meant nothing, now. Why, then, did one man mean so much to his enemies? Why could he not, like the burning house, simply be ignored? To be allowed to come to his end in his own, natural time?

They would not stop. He knew that now. However, four of them would no longer hound him — no longer come at him on highways, in the back of cars, in attics, with blood-lust in their eyes, murder in their hearts. Like the ones that night who had driven the tow-truck, trying to run Karen and him down; but were they a part of the same group of murderers? One thing for sure, three of them were now only a stench, swirling skyward behind him. He moved cautiously from the yard, looking around to spot trouble and to get his bearings, trying to find the van he had left parked along the street.

The nauseating thought clutched at his instinctive side; they had been able to follow him since he left Naxos. What made him believe he could elude them now? There was an answer and he had to find it, if he was to survive, find Karen, and somehow, somewhere, the two of them were to wring a new beginning out of this nightmare world.

The van was just ahead, the hood to its engine pulled forward — open. Someone had been at the motor, tampering. His enemies, or just vandals? He would stay clear of the van. He had to find another vehicle and get away from Rockville -- drive until he could figure where to go to look over the materials without fear of being found again. But, was there such a place? Their agents seemed able to anticipate his every move. Probably were at every roadblock looking for him.

Fatigue was again his greatest nemesis, now that his human tormentors were temporarily off his back. Paranoia, filled his head with defeat, hopelessness, terror. There must be a place to rest, somewhere. Surely a place to hide while he assessed his best options and analyzed his chances.

He hurried along the sidewalk, back toward the burning house, becoming aware that he was limping, feeling the skin on his right knee begin to burn. His right pants- leg was torn at the knee, the result of making contact with the protruding stones on his way down the pipe. A small spot of blood had soaked through the cloth. The injured calf, too, ached, contributing to the limp.

People were gathered in the street in front of the burning house, and it was good to see them — to know there were still human beings who were not intent on attacking him. They made no effort to fight the blaze, or to enter the house to see if someone might need rescuing. They were quiet, scarcely talking to each other, as if in shock. Their eyes transfixed on the flames that streamed and flickered upward into the morning sky. They paid him no attention when he passed behind them in the middle of the street, limping toward the navy blue car parked on the side opposite Marchek's, now almost consumed, home. It was the agents' car. Plain, without decorative chrome, a government-issue vehicle. It could not belong to anyone in this crowd of onlookers, all obviously native to the neighborhood. No outsiders among the gawkers. No one looking for him, looking for associates who had gone into the Marchek house to take Jacob Zen. The blue Chevrolet was the car that had brought his would-be captors here.

He opened the door and slid behind the wheel, then scanned the crowd again. The people were oblivious to all but the flames. He looked over the interior, his eyes meeting a round screen of dark glass 13 or 14 inches in diameter. The keys were in the ignition, the agents having left them there, no doubt, in anticipation of having to chase him. During an escape attempt, they would not have to fumble for the keys, losing precious seconds.

He started the car and the scope lit up with a circular line-schematic, white on a dark blue background. Obviously tracking equipment. They were tracking him! But how? He would have to be carrying a homing device of some sort with him. The most likely place for something like that would have been the attache' case; but it detonated at McLean. The videotapes — it could be in the videotapes! If the homing sensor was in the tapes, he was still carrying it, and other tracking devices like this one were tracking him now, or soon would be. He must find the transponder and get rid of it.

He unwrapped the coat from around the materials and looked over the videotapes. Nothing but plastic cases and the videotape which the cases protected. Though he was neither expert nor totally up-to-date on the latest technological advances in mobile surveillance, he did have some knowledge of such things, and he knew of no tracking device so powerful yet small enough that it could not be seen by the naked eye. But that did not mean that new super-micro breakthroughs had not been achieved, his knowledge thus made obsolete. What if the videotape, itself — its celluloid-like composition — possessed innate qualities that provided those radar-like instruments with a homing signal? The device must be found and destroyed!

For now, though, the best thing was to keep moving until he could find where they planted the signal device. In the lining of his clothing? In his shoes? He must check at first opportunity.

Where to go in order to have time to check for the transponder — to review the materials — to rest ~ to figure out how to get to Karen, if she were still alive.

He could take this car belonging to his enemies, and... No... They must not know that he learned they had the tracking capability. They might then bring into play new methods, new devices. He must let them continue to track him, if they could, until he could find the homing device; then he could destroy it, or deactivate it. Somehow use it to his own advantage if, of course, he could elude them long enough. He had to leave the car as he found it, the keys in the ignition, the homing scope turned on. He had to get away. Now! The ring was tightening; he sensed its deadly noose, felt it gathering about him. He must get away from Rockville and the eschatologist's burning house.

Time — it no longer meant anything, he supposed, but he wished for his missing watch. Time was something familiar — silent — an invisible companion that linked his rationality to a world which two nights before had made sense, but in that one confounding second, vaporized when the agent's reflection disappeared from the rearview mirror. Time was still a real commodity, even though one he could not see, represented by the incremental sweep of the second hand on the watch Karen had given him. The watch was at Naxos — rather, in Naxos. Time could now be recognized, be fleetingly harnessed in his mind, only by the silent counting of the seconds, and the buildings' shadows creeping traverse of the vast concrete surfaces across from the apartment, from whose window he watched the pitiful, meandering souls dazedly shuffle along the streets of Boston. Time remained a constant; time could not have changed as had everything else during the past hellish hours. The electric clock in the kitchen which he could see through the narrow, doorless opening read 11:56. But the long shadows indicated it was more like 3:00 in the afternoon.

Electrical service was disrupted for more than a day when the disaster happened, and Boston was one of the luckier of the big cities. Most were still without electricity, according to reports he monitored between naps since the quick trip to Boston and the occupation of the apartment, one of many dwellings left vacant by the disappearance.

Had the high-speed helicopter trip from the small Maryland airport — the result of a hastily-made friendship with a pilot who was trying to find missing members of his family in Boston — thrown his enemies off his trail? Did the flight break the chain binding him electronically to those who wanted him dead? He had checked clothing, shoes, everything he could think of where the transmitter might be hidden. Had it fallen from wherever it had been placed? Jostled loose, perhaps, during the latest leg of his flight from his enemies? And if not, if the device was still in place, had the distance put between himself and them broken that invisible umbilical cord which drew him into the center of their devilish surveillance screens?

The naps had helped relieve the terrible drag of fatigue, but not eliminated it. He longed for hours of sleep. Sleep free from the need to keep watch out of the eighth story window — free of his inner urgings to search for a video recorder in order to play the tapes, to locate a compatible computer, in order to go over the data on the diskettes. The compelling necessity to remain watchful. The dread, that if he left this apartment the transmitter would again put him within range of the surveillance screens, kept him from looking for the equipment he needed to plan. Soon, he must break out of this cocoon of hiding; soon, he had to open himself up to them.

His eyes burned from the strain of watching the street below and the streets surrounding the buildings across the way. Nothing of consequence, only people continuing to shuffle about in shock, searching for a corner of sanity to grasp. An occasional car moving one way or another along the streets, swerving to avoid the several wreckages strewn about. His eyes next focused on slender, colorful objects which darted in a hazy, liquid world; his mind followed, its thoughts aborted by the realization he was looking into the large aquarium atop a wooden cabinet that was layered below with shelves housing items for maintaining the fish tank.

Exotic fish darted or treaded in mid-water, their gills opening, their O-shaped mouths puckering then dilating. Some of the larger ones, apparently less easily frightened, seeming to observe him as intently as he did them. Bubbles ascended in a steady stream from the tank's re-oxygenation system, but the water looked murky, most likely a result of the hours without electrical power to run the cleansing machinery. Should the fish be fed? The tank cleaned?

Jacob smiled, mildly surprised that such simple thoughts gave him, for a brief moment, remembrance of the formerly normal world — a small degree of relief from the bizarre present. He looked through the supplies, seeing a half-dozen boxes of different kinds offish foods. With his index finger, he tapped what he considered a generous helping from each of the boxes and stirred the floating bits so that most sank.

"I don't know if this is how they did it for you, my friends, but eat, drink, and be merry... for tomorrow your feeder may perish," Jacob said, bending to look into the tank to watch the fish take the food, then dart swiftly from the others before returning near the surface to gobble more.

His own stomach rumbled, persuasively arguing that he had not been faithful to it since leaving Naxos, except for the meals on the plane while crossing the Atlantic, and the crackers and light snacks of cookies and chips he had munched since. He was reluctant to attack the more substantial foods in the refrigerator, not knowing how long the electricity had been off. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door, the food aromas entering his nostrils, setting in motion deep cellular hunger that weakened him and burned the pit of his stomach. He decided to risk it, and ate his fill. Within minutes, the warm, satisfying waves of replenishment flooded his body with energy he had not felt in a week.

At some point, he would have to get more food. And, someone was bound to come to check this apartment sooner or later, whether relatives of its former occupants, building management or some other authority. He sipped the soft drink from the aluminum can and returned his thoughts to matters he had managed to put aside while he ate. Troubling things, but things which, with a full belly and at least some sleep, seemed less overwhelming than before.

First matter to attend to — find the VCR and the computer, then study the materials, while at the same time avoid being located by the assassins. The VCR wouldn't be hard to scrounge, but the computer could prove difficult to find. The particular type he needed had been made obsolete by the UNIVUS equipment. Most people had turned in their old home computers as token payment for the new.

The Federal government had supposedly sold, but actually had given, the antiquated computers to Third World countries. This was, of course, after making substantial modifications, to make the computers compatible with telecommunication systems throughout Europe, the United States and Japan. Odds were against his finding one of the old computers without putting himself in jeopardy, because he would probably have to range far from the apartment. Regardless, it had to be done.

Throughout his time spent in the apartment, he had listened and watched with an eye and an ear tuned to the 40-inch TV screen set into one wall, while keeping the other eye and ear alert to things happening on the streets below. Since the disappearance, all networks had periodically given way to the Emergency Broadcast System, which continued to drone only official government speculations about what had happened. A government, he reminded himself, which had proven to be his enemy. And, he was convinced that government was the puppet, or at least the client, of those in the man-made caverns of Naxos. He was equally convinced, that their intentions were to persuade all people of the world that they, those elite few in Naxos, should direct the course of world affairs from here, forward.

The officially sanctioned theory had evolved and remained unchanged - that a sudden cosmic illness, one like which must have devastated the dinosaurs, had occurred. It was a non-stop assault aimed at quelling panic, and all the major networks lent their top anchor people, as well as, lesser journalists to the effort. Now that the networks had been given back the airwaves, they continued the concerted attempt to put the public at ease.

Gone now from those networks, was the formerly innate skepticism, the antagonism to the questionable intents of governments and politicians. On all issues involving the great disappearance, and that was the only thing being pondered by them, the line remained the same; it must have been a cyclical cosmic disturbance like that which made the dinosaurs extinct. They added to the supposition: Now scientists were quite certain that such a phenomenon erased from paleontological record, all traces of the missing-link anthropoid/homo-sapien beings of evolutional theory. Emergence evolution thus made unnecessary to the explanation of man's beginnings.

But he knew that the words were lies - that the government, like everyone else, had no idea what really happened. He knew from the things he learned while listening to and watching the Vice President that night while in the crawlspace at Stone Oaks. It was all a sham, and they would mold and herd the people, through their deception, into some sort of computerized, one-world society, unless somebody made people aware of "The Plan," And that, if for no other reason, was why they wanted him dead or alive. If he were going to die anyway for the data contained m the tapes and diskettes - or worse - live a life of such confining, agonizing existence as to make it not worthwhile, good sense as much as enraged ego dictated that he pursue that knowledge — claim it for his own.

The inner-voice, that same instinct, or whatever it was, told him that the volatile materials had locked within them directions for survival — escape for himself — maybe for humanity — for Karen, if she were still alive. She had to be among the living; that hope, he felt to his marrow, was the source that kept the inner-beacon lit, his energy-fires kindled.

He knew the truth of their conniving. Once he had viewed the tapes and the information on the diskettes, he would know the extent of their deceit and their ambition. He was doomed for certain if he merely sat and did nothing. They would find him and kill him, or else the system would gradually absorb him along with every other pitiful creature under its dominion, and snuff out all personal liberty. One man alone could do little to assuage them — to stop implementation of their plans for their victims. But to sit and do nothing was slow, excruciating self-execution. Worse. As one man who possessed information that could damage the monster, to sit and watch those terrible jaws tighten without using that weapon as best he could, would be genocide through omission. But one man — one man — alone.

A clicking, rattling sound at the apartment's front door! The brass knob turning quickly, one way, then the other! Had they found him again? How many this time? What route of escape? Eight stories — no fire escape from the apartment's balcony — nowhere to go to get away!

He must face them, surprise them! Bash their insidious brains out, before they killed him. The stricken thoughts caromed in his mind, while he hurried as noiselessly as he could to the door, tightly gripping a pewter statue of an American Revolutionary War soldier he took from a lamp stand. He stood beside the door with his back to the wall which met a plaster and wood door-facing that protruded 12 inches into the room, providing him a recess which could hide him for a few valuable seconds when they came through the door.

If they were his would-be killers, why were they trying to open the door with a key? They had surely scoped the situation, knowing that he could not escape this time, except by climbing on the facade of the building, or by trying to jump from the iron railing to another balcony. Why did they not burst in like they did at Marchek's home? But, then, they did not need to burst in. They would take their time; there was no place for him to run.

The door would open any second. It would move open, away from him, giving him a free swing at the first one in. The first through the doorway would pay admission with his skull!

Drawing back the pewter soldier, he glanced first at the area of the opening where the man's head should appear, then looked downward where the feet would take their first steps into the apartment. He caught a glimpse of the toe of a black, patent-leather shoe and he blinked, his panicked reasoning ability thrown out of sync by the shoe's appearance. A woman's shoe! And it pushed the door open to its fullest extension before disappearing momentarily from view. A woman! Could they have sent a woman to do their work?

Papers crackled in the hallway. The sound of paper sacks or bags being gathered from the hallway floor. She was picking up something made of paper. Not the premeditative actions of someone intent on rousting out her prey. Keep the weapon poised — do not be caught by surprise.

Jacob pressed his back flat against the niche, holding the soldier high, ready to strike.

A hand came into view and pushed against the door, which had swung fully open, then rebounded to a nearly shut position. Ovaled, perfectly manicured nails of crimson, tipping the ends of the slender fingers. Smooth skin — a young woman's hand.

She struggled through the opening, trying to handle a large paper sack full of grocery items, and at the same time her purse and keys. When she closed the door, he stepped from the wall.

Her piercing shriek startled him, even though he thought he was prepared for it. She was unable to speak, her complexion going chalk-white, her face frozen in a look of terror. The sack and purse had exploded against the floor, sending its contents askew. She started to fall, her knees buckling. Jacob lunged and caught her, then carried her to the long sofa, put her on it and knelt beside her.

"I'm sorry... I won't hurt you." He held her hand and patted it, wondering why people always patted the hand when someone fainted, or the cheek, which he then patted gently, trying to revive her. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Her eyes fluttered sleepily, then opened to their normal width before gaping in panic. She looked at Jacob, who put his hand over her mouth and pinned her gently against the sofa cushions, feeling her stiffen beneath his grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Believe me... I... will... not... hurt... you. I'm going to let you go, now. Please don't scream... Please."

Relaxing his grip and taking his hand slowly from her mouth, he backed away a couple of feet, still kneeling on the floor on one knee, his hands, palms up in the air for her to see. "See... I won't hurt you."

The young woman lay still for a moment, then sat up quickly and withdrew into the corner of the sofa. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jacob Zen. I didn't think anybody still lived in this apartment. I've been here for three days. Please believe me... I won't harm you... Okay?"

She silently considered his words, but did not relax her stiff posture against the arm of the sofa.

"Look." He took his wallet from his back pocket. "See. My name is Jacob Zen. I'm a liaison officer with the United States State Department. Take it... See for yourself."

He offered the wallet and she cautiously accepted it and examined the card, her pretty eyes glancing fearfully at the photograph then at his face. "What are you doing here? What do you want?" Her tone betrayed the fact she was near tears, and he moved slowly farther away from her, hoping to put her more at ease so he could begin winning her trust. She tossed the wallet timidly in his direction and he leaned to retrieve it from the carpet.

"Like I told you. My name's Jacob Zen. May I have your name?" "What are you doing here?" "As I said, I'm liaison officer with the State Department. You know what's happened... AH these people vanishing... These crazy things that've been going on. I thought whoever lived here disappeared like the rest." His explanation met icy silence.

"Look. This is classified," he lied, "...but I was sent here to do some work that requires staying out of sight. I felt I could do that by picking a place like this, rather than checking into a hotel under a phony name. When I checked this apartment out, I found evidence that whoever lived here hadn't been around for quite some time. The fish tank hadn't been cleaned after the power was off for so long — there was spoiled food on the counter top ~ things like that. I thought it would be a good place to do my work."

The woman eyed him warily, but with a bit less suspicion, he thought.

"Look, I really am sorry I frightened you. I thought the place was okay to use — that no one would return. I'll just get my stuff together and get out."

"I haven't been able to get back..." the woman said, ignoring his offer to leave, her voice quietly soft. "I was in Maine when... it happened... at my mother's home. She just..." Her tears came. "She was gone." The girl looked at him, her eyes liquid with her grief. "Mother was there, having coffee, eating, laughing... then she vanished. She just wasn't there anymore."

He wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her, to give the human compassion he, himself, wanted — needed. Such an action would be misunderstood. Best simply to commiserate from the safe distance separating them across the carpet. "We've all lost someone close to us." The words were not acknowledged; she wiped away the tears with her fingertips.

"I've been trying to get back home since then," she said, able finally to choke back her emotions. "Everyone's gone crazy. The whole world is insane."

"I know. I've been out in the middle of it. But everything will get back to normal. Things will be better soon."

Without realizing it, he had moved across the carpet and put a hand on her shoulder, and she had made no move to get away from him, her fear apparently lessened. He was glad. He, too, needed the contact, and they silently spent the moment locked in each other's arms.

"You know my name. What's yours?" he said in his most gentle tone, looking into her eyes, brushing her tears with his fingers. "Melisa Jantzen."

He took her hand and cupped it in his hands. "I'm very happy to meet you, Melisa. We'll work our way out of this thing together. Don't worry." He lifted her chin with a crooked finger and offered a reassuring smile, which was returned shyly. She nodded understanding agreement. When he released her and stood, he bent to pick up the grocery items and the purse. He put her things back into the purse except an open package of cigarettes and her gold cigarette lighter.

"Do you mind if I have one?" He showed her the package and she nodded. "Are you from Maine?" he asked, then savored a deep inhalation. "From Boothbay Harbor." "Yeah? Where's that near?"

"We like to think other places are near Boothbay," she said. " It's not far from Brunswick and Lewiston... just north of Portland."

"I lived, as a very young boy, in a little bay town in New York. Didn't stay there long, though. My father died and Mother and I moved to the Washington D.C. area when I was six or so. I haven't spent much time in really small towns. McLean isn't all that big, but with the D.C., Virginia, Maryland region being so heavily populated, you don't get the feeling of living in a small town. Like most of the northeast, it's all become megaplex."

"What took you and your mother to Washington?" Her tone sounded of genuine interest, and he was glad she had relaxed to the point she apparently felt she could trust him.

"Mother was a looker at 25 and caught the eye and heart of a diplomat, who whisked us off to his home at McLean, Virginia. And, except for Mother's death, I lived happily ever after. Well... until recently, anyway."

A stupid mistake—bringing her thoughts back to their dilemma. Her eyes filled with tears again. "What has happened? What is this all about?"

He cradled her head against his chest. "Everything's going to be okay, Melisa. We're in it together and we'll work it out, together." He hated the trite cliches', even while he spoke them, and the words rang hollow in the room while the two of them sat clinging to each other. It ran quickly through his mind that their plight was symbolic of that of humanity. Confused and huddled, awaiting their fate. Together, yet solitary in their second-by-second journey into the uncertain future.