Where Is Jesus Now, Page 2
J Niessen
defense jets. As I compare this knowledge to the overwhelming technology I’m viewing above, my hopes of survival sink.
Here we are all in harm’s way. A suffocating sense insists we within this community are already conquered and under subjective enslavement. Fighter planes roar in from overhead. Glancing franticly around at the school grounds, there’s no place for us to retreat to for safe cover. Missile rockets fire from the jets’ wings, while the alien ships keep still. The warheads explode on impact, but leave no physical damage. The invaders retaliate, releasing blue beams of powerful light. Massive metal-debris (from our destroyed fighter planes) plummets down onto homes beneath. Gracie takes off across the street, narrowly avoiding a car racing to get out of town. Self impulse triggers, implying we stick together. But my better judgment deduces she’s thinking irrationally. Foresight names the shopping center as a danger zone, soon to be occupied by looters, or worse, invaders. I feel in my heart that Gracie is lost to me.
I hide behind a large hedge at the front of the school. Gunfire cracks from residential homes. People’s domesticated civility is diminishing, and they’re turning to savage exploits. Questioning how Mom and Dad are handling the situation (obviously aware now from the violent crash of the fighter planes and the steady presence of the spaceships) I find it too risky to try and return home. Families franticly load into their cars but the vehicle engines won’t start.
The invaders commence with ground participation. Futuristic type soldiers (in advanced battle gear) march through the dark streets. I question how Dad will fare if he tries to protect Mom. He being a gun-control activist, he’ll have to defend with a makeshift weapon, with little chance of success against our enemies’ technology. Having been told several times, I recognize his mentality, shared with me during unthreatening times in life. He will wait in anticipation for the authorities, the only ones given the ability to fight back, expected to come and rescue us.
Hearing out my Father’s perspective, he shares, “Officials should be the only ones permitted to possess firearms. It’s why the government is here…to defend us.”
Religious believers preach “Put not your faith in guns, for Jesus will protect you.”
These varied concepts combine to move me with a sour awfulness that churns in my belly. There’s no sign of law enforcement. The fighter jets have been decimated, with no sight or sound of backup. The government’s not swooping in, as our all-saving hero, in defense of the weak spirited, whose trust they’ve placed in their leaders and manipulative government, to aid in such a time. Out of all the days of the year, the invaders chose this night to attack. Defenseless people are horrified. We need Him more than ever. Where is Jesus now?
Induced by this nightmarish reality comes mind-tingling clarity. We each are on our own. Goosebumps chill my skin. The hairs of my ears twitch hearing women, children, and men screaming as they’re pulled from their homes, herded, and subdued. I can’t be sure if the intruders use lethal force, as I hide and remain unobserved by the aliens that activate instruments pointed at their victims.
Massive hover vehicles, plated with heavy armor, haul captives in freight containers to the school grounds. There work surmounts on an outpost developed by alien construction crews.
Gracie comes running back and is dropped by a patrol guard. Instinct triggers to leap up, run to her, and evaluate her condition. But I remain still. No more than six feet in front of me a teen runs past along the street sidewalk. Another guard fires, and the kid collapses.
Without direction and growing nervous there’s a tug on my jacket. Looking down I find a masked pair of eyes (filled with intimidating cognition) staring back up at me. The raccoon lets go of my jacket to outstretch its hand. There’s no sign of malicious contempt in the creature’s body language or facial features. After shaking hands the raccoon makes a satisfied chuckling noise, and hurries along. It stops to affirm I’m following, and then demonstrates that the chosen travel route is safe to follow, as the guards remain unmoved.
I’m led to my old neighborhood. On the next street over, my parents are unnerved and lined up with other neighbors, being corralled into freight containers. How can I stand against this attack and effectively save my friends and family members? At the house behind me the raccoon slips past a split in the side gate to Mr. Gentry’s backyard.
Glancing back I spot the fence lurching open and a familiar figure catches my attention. Once across the street I follow Mr. Gentry along an uncovered, descending stairway which leads into his basement (built after the building’s construction) beneath the house. I recall when it appeared that a below-ground pool was going in, from the dump trucks hauling away loads of excavated dirt. It never occurred to me that he was renovating the property to house a fallout shelter.
“All communications have been disabled by an E.M.P,” Mr. Gentry whispers. “What that means is an Electric Magnetic Pulse has been initiated. But we’re able to communicate by C.B. radio, ones protected from the blast. Tilly’s trained to scout the area and find survivors.”
The raccoon enters from a small tunnel, sitting on a kids-like couch in the bunker.
Eyeballing my jumper Mr. Gentry compliments, “You must have learned they use thermal imaging to detect us.”
Static noise sounds over the C.B., an electronic “bleep,” and then a voice transmits.
“The route down Harden St. is set to clear in fifteen. HS project’s a go on signal.”
“Handle: Tango Romeo Alpha Yankee, copy that,” Mr. Gentry responds into the device. Other voices reply in order with their handle, to confirm. He flips a light switch several times and a wall panel slides open. Revealed is an arsenal of rifles and handguns mounted to the wall of the secret area. Ammo crates are stacked high on the floor of the revealed armory.
“Ever fire off one of these?” he questions. Realization prompts me on what I must do. Shaking my head, I hear Mr. Gentry out. “Well you have ten minutes to get familiar with one of ‘em. I suggest you carry an AR. Its standard round is 5.56. Most the guys we’re heading out with, will have the same.” When he’s done I share my contrary decision…
“I won’t be going with you. I need to get to the shop. It’s for personal reasons.”
Bewildered Mr. Gentry inquires, “What type of personal reasons would that be?”
Trying to explain will only lead to more inquiries, so I politely assure, “Sorry. But I don’t have time to go into detail. Good bye, Tilly,” waving to the raccoon, who responds with a chirping melody. Then I turn to my disappointed host, “Good bye, Mr. Gentry.”
With a scowl he raises the C.B. to his mouth and broadcasts, “You fellas go on without me. I need to see someone through safely.”
Mr. Gentry slips into a suit that looks like it’s made of aluminum foil.
He presumptuously checks the tag on my jacket, then nods, “That’s quite the gear you got there. How’d you get your hands on that type of setup?”
I realize now what the tag on my jumper stands for. Labeled “Anti Thermal” when I first inspected the light jacket, after opening the wrapped present mailed to me for Christmas, I slip the outfit on for our nightly walk. Is it a coincidence my older brother gifted this?
“It’s a present I got from Allan. Crazy how it’s coming in handy now,” I add.
Mr. Gentry pauses with a blank expression, then lightly asks, “So where we headin’?”
My worry is that the E.M.P wiped out the circuits to my project back at the shop. The name “Sleigh” has stuck with the project, dubbed after its shape as a horse-drawn-snow-carriage in its beginning stages. The core of its technology uses Artificial Intelligence taken from video game software. I utilize racecar simulators for the Sleigh’s vehicular purposes. As the project advances I incorporate aerial skills. Schematics involving its enhanced stages of design are self drafted, and then fine tuned through Internet resources. Sleigh has the ability to physically convert from one fo
rm of machinery to another. The final software version includes tactical military training and advanced forms of communications.
Mr. Gentry and I closely view the perimeter for signs of a threat. Once inside the shop, we keep from starting the backup generator, fearing the engine noise and excessive heat may attract enemy scouts. Car batteries are used to power indoor floodlights. The building is sealed up without windows. We work on raising the below-ground hoist manually.
Mr. Gentry’s unmoved reaction is disappointing, when my project is finally lifted. “I could use your help getting everything set up, and I’ll explain what it is you’re staring at.”
“Well,” he starts off. “My understanding in technology’s a bit dated. But you can go on trying to explain things, and I’ll do my best to follow along.”
“There are portions I’ve detached. We need to reattach those segments.”
Keeping busy with the set-up process I go on to describe, “It’s been my habit to separate connector cables from the backup battery, and Central Processing Unit, when I’m finished working, to keep the system from transmitting.”
Excitement in my showmanship dies. Nervous bewilderment has me in a dead still--finding the needed steps I have just clarified--complete.
Mr. Gentry’s interests peak. I
Here we are all in harm’s way. A suffocating sense insists we within this community are already conquered and under subjective enslavement. Fighter planes roar in from overhead. Glancing franticly around at the school grounds, there’s no place for us to retreat to for safe cover. Missile rockets fire from the jets’ wings, while the alien ships keep still. The warheads explode on impact, but leave no physical damage. The invaders retaliate, releasing blue beams of powerful light. Massive metal-debris (from our destroyed fighter planes) plummets down onto homes beneath. Gracie takes off across the street, narrowly avoiding a car racing to get out of town. Self impulse triggers, implying we stick together. But my better judgment deduces she’s thinking irrationally. Foresight names the shopping center as a danger zone, soon to be occupied by looters, or worse, invaders. I feel in my heart that Gracie is lost to me.
I hide behind a large hedge at the front of the school. Gunfire cracks from residential homes. People’s domesticated civility is diminishing, and they’re turning to savage exploits. Questioning how Mom and Dad are handling the situation (obviously aware now from the violent crash of the fighter planes and the steady presence of the spaceships) I find it too risky to try and return home. Families franticly load into their cars but the vehicle engines won’t start.
The invaders commence with ground participation. Futuristic type soldiers (in advanced battle gear) march through the dark streets. I question how Dad will fare if he tries to protect Mom. He being a gun-control activist, he’ll have to defend with a makeshift weapon, with little chance of success against our enemies’ technology. Having been told several times, I recognize his mentality, shared with me during unthreatening times in life. He will wait in anticipation for the authorities, the only ones given the ability to fight back, expected to come and rescue us.
Hearing out my Father’s perspective, he shares, “Officials should be the only ones permitted to possess firearms. It’s why the government is here…to defend us.”
Religious believers preach “Put not your faith in guns, for Jesus will protect you.”
These varied concepts combine to move me with a sour awfulness that churns in my belly. There’s no sign of law enforcement. The fighter jets have been decimated, with no sight or sound of backup. The government’s not swooping in, as our all-saving hero, in defense of the weak spirited, whose trust they’ve placed in their leaders and manipulative government, to aid in such a time. Out of all the days of the year, the invaders chose this night to attack. Defenseless people are horrified. We need Him more than ever. Where is Jesus now?
Induced by this nightmarish reality comes mind-tingling clarity. We each are on our own. Goosebumps chill my skin. The hairs of my ears twitch hearing women, children, and men screaming as they’re pulled from their homes, herded, and subdued. I can’t be sure if the intruders use lethal force, as I hide and remain unobserved by the aliens that activate instruments pointed at their victims.
Massive hover vehicles, plated with heavy armor, haul captives in freight containers to the school grounds. There work surmounts on an outpost developed by alien construction crews.
Gracie comes running back and is dropped by a patrol guard. Instinct triggers to leap up, run to her, and evaluate her condition. But I remain still. No more than six feet in front of me a teen runs past along the street sidewalk. Another guard fires, and the kid collapses.
Without direction and growing nervous there’s a tug on my jacket. Looking down I find a masked pair of eyes (filled with intimidating cognition) staring back up at me. The raccoon lets go of my jacket to outstretch its hand. There’s no sign of malicious contempt in the creature’s body language or facial features. After shaking hands the raccoon makes a satisfied chuckling noise, and hurries along. It stops to affirm I’m following, and then demonstrates that the chosen travel route is safe to follow, as the guards remain unmoved.
I’m led to my old neighborhood. On the next street over, my parents are unnerved and lined up with other neighbors, being corralled into freight containers. How can I stand against this attack and effectively save my friends and family members? At the house behind me the raccoon slips past a split in the side gate to Mr. Gentry’s backyard.
Glancing back I spot the fence lurching open and a familiar figure catches my attention. Once across the street I follow Mr. Gentry along an uncovered, descending stairway which leads into his basement (built after the building’s construction) beneath the house. I recall when it appeared that a below-ground pool was going in, from the dump trucks hauling away loads of excavated dirt. It never occurred to me that he was renovating the property to house a fallout shelter.
“All communications have been disabled by an E.M.P,” Mr. Gentry whispers. “What that means is an Electric Magnetic Pulse has been initiated. But we’re able to communicate by C.B. radio, ones protected from the blast. Tilly’s trained to scout the area and find survivors.”
The raccoon enters from a small tunnel, sitting on a kids-like couch in the bunker.
Eyeballing my jumper Mr. Gentry compliments, “You must have learned they use thermal imaging to detect us.”
Static noise sounds over the C.B., an electronic “bleep,” and then a voice transmits.
“The route down Harden St. is set to clear in fifteen. HS project’s a go on signal.”
“Handle: Tango Romeo Alpha Yankee, copy that,” Mr. Gentry responds into the device. Other voices reply in order with their handle, to confirm. He flips a light switch several times and a wall panel slides open. Revealed is an arsenal of rifles and handguns mounted to the wall of the secret area. Ammo crates are stacked high on the floor of the revealed armory.
“Ever fire off one of these?” he questions. Realization prompts me on what I must do. Shaking my head, I hear Mr. Gentry out. “Well you have ten minutes to get familiar with one of ‘em. I suggest you carry an AR. Its standard round is 5.56. Most the guys we’re heading out with, will have the same.” When he’s done I share my contrary decision…
“I won’t be going with you. I need to get to the shop. It’s for personal reasons.”
Bewildered Mr. Gentry inquires, “What type of personal reasons would that be?”
Trying to explain will only lead to more inquiries, so I politely assure, “Sorry. But I don’t have time to go into detail. Good bye, Tilly,” waving to the raccoon, who responds with a chirping melody. Then I turn to my disappointed host, “Good bye, Mr. Gentry.”
With a scowl he raises the C.B. to his mouth and broadcasts, “You fellas go on without me. I need to see someone through safely.”
Mr. Gentry slips into a suit that looks like it’s made of aluminum foil.
He presumptuously checks the tag on my jacket, then nods, “That’s quite the gear you got there. How’d you get your hands on that type of setup?”
I realize now what the tag on my jumper stands for. Labeled “Anti Thermal” when I first inspected the light jacket, after opening the wrapped present mailed to me for Christmas, I slip the outfit on for our nightly walk. Is it a coincidence my older brother gifted this?
“It’s a present I got from Allan. Crazy how it’s coming in handy now,” I add.
Mr. Gentry pauses with a blank expression, then lightly asks, “So where we headin’?”
My worry is that the E.M.P wiped out the circuits to my project back at the shop. The name “Sleigh” has stuck with the project, dubbed after its shape as a horse-drawn-snow-carriage in its beginning stages. The core of its technology uses Artificial Intelligence taken from video game software. I utilize racecar simulators for the Sleigh’s vehicular purposes. As the project advances I incorporate aerial skills. Schematics involving its enhanced stages of design are self drafted, and then fine tuned through Internet resources. Sleigh has the ability to physically convert from one fo
rm of machinery to another. The final software version includes tactical military training and advanced forms of communications.
Mr. Gentry and I closely view the perimeter for signs of a threat. Once inside the shop, we keep from starting the backup generator, fearing the engine noise and excessive heat may attract enemy scouts. Car batteries are used to power indoor floodlights. The building is sealed up without windows. We work on raising the below-ground hoist manually.
Mr. Gentry’s unmoved reaction is disappointing, when my project is finally lifted. “I could use your help getting everything set up, and I’ll explain what it is you’re staring at.”
“Well,” he starts off. “My understanding in technology’s a bit dated. But you can go on trying to explain things, and I’ll do my best to follow along.”
“There are portions I’ve detached. We need to reattach those segments.”
Keeping busy with the set-up process I go on to describe, “It’s been my habit to separate connector cables from the backup battery, and Central Processing Unit, when I’m finished working, to keep the system from transmitting.”
Excitement in my showmanship dies. Nervous bewilderment has me in a dead still--finding the needed steps I have just clarified--complete.
Mr. Gentry’s interests peak. I
