CHAPTER 3

            Sophie draped her long, toned arms against the smooth olive skin of her legs. She felt the muscles pull and twist beneath the skin of her back and shoulders and sighed contentedly. The air was sweet with dew frost and pulsed with lilting birdsong. There were distant creaks and groans as the mountain itself were waking to a new day.

            Creamy, lemon light flitted through the tall conifer branches and lit patches of the dirt and gravel road that wound along the mountain pass. There would be no other human souls on these roads today, a thought that brought Sophie no little satisfaction as she began her jog. It was her and the trees and the occasional creature peeping from the ferns and no one else.

            Sophie fell into a comfortable pace and felt the dormant, sleepy blood begin to crank its way through her veins, flowing into her neck, into her extremities. She felt its warmth spread over her body like the touch of some giant, invisible hand. She tried to clear her mind, to distract it from the questions that had nagged her for months, ever since she had received the Resurrection Notice... It wasn’t proper to ask all the questions she had in mind, at least at first, anyway, and knowing that she’d likely need to wait days–if not weeks–for all the answers was unbearable. One hundred and ninety-two years. That’s how long it had been. What could she even say to begin to mend the gap?

            Sophie shook her head free of the thought as she rounded the first bend. She breathed deep, catching the scent of pine and moss and the previous night’s rain all at once. She focused on the crunch of the gravel as it shifted beneath her dark green sneakers. It was a path she knew better than anyone, perhaps even better than the bears and deer and wolves and whatever other animals roamed these woods. She’d been jogging it for decades, ever since construction first began on the Welcome Center at the peak.

           The trees had grown some in that time but the road had remained unchanged. She could run the entire five and three-fifths miles with her eyes closed, she was sure of it. Sometimes she’d run it in her dreams. But not lately. Lately the visions of her sleep had been occupied solely by the events about to unfold.

            Sophie glanced at the LED screen on her wrist. 6:46. Only two and a half hours left. The wait was excruciating.

            At least Mom and Dad would be there. They always knew the right way to deal with these kinds of things–especially Dad. After all, he and Mom had been through in the Last Days, and then the Great Tribulation... They could handle anything. Though lately he’d been quiet, barely mentioning what was about to happen today. Was there awkwardness there? Could it be that he may even feel a little… threatened?

            Sophie was pricked by the needle of guilt and immediately chastised the thought from her mind. No, surely not that. Dad was probably closer to perfection than any of the rest of the family now, so there wouldn’t be anything resembling jealousy in his mind. Probably he was just worried about Mom.

            Forty minutes later, Sophie slowed to a walk as she stepped into the direct light of the grassy clearing. Closing her eyes and spreading her arms, she leaned back and let the sun caress her skin. She felt its purifying effect. She could almost taste it, feel it in her lungs and bones. It was delicious.

            A minute later she’d reached the small wood cabin at the edge of the clearing. She peeled sweaty clothes from her body and threw them in the steaming laundry pot, then slipped herself into the partitioned shower. Morning showers meant the water from the roof reserves hadn’t yet warmed to a high temperature, but she didn’t mind. Cold showers sometimes were great for days like this, when the mind wouldn’t rest.

            “Good jog?” Sophie heard as she entered the spacious cabin, squeezing her damp hair with a towel.

            “Wonderful,” she replied. The place smelled like fresh bread and ripe fruit and Sophie suddenly realized she was voracious.

            “How’d you sleep last night?”

            “Oh, same... Pretty restless, I guess.” Sophie grabbed a peach from the wooden bowl on the kitchen table and took a bite. “Where’s Dad?”

            “He headed up to the Center right after you left. I think he’s just as nervous as you.”

            “Really? You think he’s worried?”

            “I’m not sure. He’s been a little tough to read lately. I think he just wants to make sure it’s a good transition for you.”

            “For me?”

            “Yeah. This is big deal for our whole family, you know. But especially for you.”

            “I’ll be fine.”

            “I’m sure you’ll look it. But you’re like your Dad. You tend to internalize things that bother you. Sometimes you gotta get it out there, you know?”

            Sophie shrugged as she nibbled at the last parts of sweet fruit around the peach’s pit.

            “But you’re right, you’ll be strong. You always have been.”

            “Thanks.”

            Another half hour passed and Sophie was dressed and ready. She unlatched the old metal box behind their cabin and yanked down on the handle inside. She heard the clank of winding gears and tensile wires as the machine groaned to life, gnawing at the thick steel cable held high in the air. A moment later the gondola swung into view. Sophie stood quietly on the yellow line as the chair scooped her up and flung her into the air. How odd, Sophie thought, that once this whole landscape had been covered in a thick layer of snow.

            At its peak, the mountain stood only 7,220 feet tall, but it was enough to see for dozens of miles in all directions. The air was cool and crisp when Sophie stepped from the lift and onto the landing platform at the peak, switching off the mechanism before she entered the Welcome Center.

            “Where’s Dad?” Sophie asked as she breezed through the glass doors.

            “He’s in the kitchen. Been there since early this morning,” said her brother, Daniel.

            “He seem ok?”

            “Seemed fine to me. Why wouldn’t he be?”

            Sophie grabbed a manila folder from the mahogany cabinet behind the front desk and stared at its contents. It was reflex and nothing more. She knew the contents better than anyone else and could recite every word on every page if given the chance.

            The woman’s name was Liping. She’d been the owner of a small restaurant on the outskirts of a city in Central China. She’d died in childbirth at thirty-two years of age. Dark hair and eyes. 5’5”. And so on. Sophie returned the folder to its cubby and caught her reflection in the tall mirror beside the desk. She wasn’t fond of dresses and was beginning to sweat beneath the embroidered silk despite the cool atmosphere. But regulations required formal wear for receptions.

            “You look beautiful, Feifei,” Charlie said as he appeared suddenly from a doorway. Sophie jumped. It had been years–decades, even–since she’d last heard her childhood name spoken to her, and it only served to intensify her discomfort.

            “Thanks, Dad,” she said.

            “Today’s the big day, huh?”

            Sophie nodded.

            “Don’t worry, it’ll be OK.”

            “Yeah, I hope so.”

            Charlie winked and looked at his watch. It was 9:27. “Better get moving. She’ll be up any minute now.”

            Sophie straightened her back and took a deep breath, moving along the path from the back porch towards the steps and the door of the Room. She kept her hands stiffly at her sides. In her mind she was turning and running for the door, ripping her clothes from her body as she descended the gravel path with the speed of water moving downhill, flowing over anything that might get in her way. Down the turns and bends, down to the grass clearing and the cabin and the smell of home and bread and life. Down to comfort. This was not home. This could never be–

            Sophie froze as the handle of the door began to turn slowly in its bronze casing. It creaked and clicked and the door slowly opened.

            A woman emerged in a dark red dress. Long black hair encased her round, pink face and fell softly on her shoulders. Her eyes, two black pearls, glowed with cautious calculation. She said nothing as she studied the girl in front of her.

            “Hello, Mother,” said Sophie.

***

            There had been no sound, no feeling, just the absence of light. Of anything, really. It had felt like falling down a deep, dark well and watching the stars above retreat into nothingness.

            And then, a row of planks. They were sawn roughly and formed what appeared to be a ceiling overhead, their ragged and burred edges offending the room’s otherwise perfect angles. There was a red door on the wall to his left, a simple wooden closet to his right, and in front, a picture window that took up the whole wall. And beyond the window… Jack gasped as sat up and drank in the scenery. It was more beautiful, more grandiose, more breathtaking than anything he’d seen before.

            Jack reached for the white sheet covering his body, wanting to get up and get a closer look at the view, but the sudden realization of what he’d find beneath the sheet stopped him.

            He recalled the ambush, the grenade at his feet, the explosion. There would be nothing there, or perhaps something worse than nothing, and yet... And yet there was feeling there. He could feel their sensations running from the tips of his toes down to his ankles and past his shins to his knees and thighs. Slowly he pulled at the sheet.

            Another gasp.

            How? How was it possible? Had he dreamed the attack? Or was this the dream? His legs were there, perfectly intact, strong and unharmed. He touched and admired the curved bones in his feet, squeezed and plied the plump muscles coiled in his calves. Who had done this? Or was this... Heaven?

            “No way,” Jack muttered, pivoting his body as he swung his legs to the ground. So those churches had it right after all, he thought, chuckling to himself. I wonder if they were right about the other place too.

            Jack felt a chill. Hadn’t expected that in heaven. Of course, being naked probably wasn’t helping. He walked the few steps to the room’s wardrobe and flung the door open. He fully expected a closet full of white robes, maybe even a rack of glowing halos, but the options surprised him. Normal civilian clothes. Stuff he’d worn all his life. He settled on an ash grey short sleeve t-shirt and khakis with brown leather boots and dressed in the mirror.

            Excited but with the faintest hint of trepidation, Jack approached the door. He opened it to find a young boy standing on the other side. He looked to be in his late teens, early twenties, and held a clipboard in the nook of his arm.

            “Hello, Jack,” he said.

            “Hi...” Jack said, feeling awkward. “So you must be... like... an angel or something... right?”

            The boy simply smiled. “You must be hungry. Let’s get you fed, and then we’ll get to the questions.”

            “Lead the way,” Jack said, suddenly famished.

***

            There had been so much confusion there, in the end. That old, awful carpet smell mixed with mold and dirt, the ceiling fan swirling dizzily overhead, distant muffled noises like sounds heard underwater, and of course the medicine bottle. Should’ve read that label. Oh, but the pain! Pain like she’d never felt before, pain like the constricting muscles of some invisible python, coiling itself around her body and pushing out the light.

            It had been the worst migraine of her life. It had taken every bit of her strength just to reach for the bottle, the bottle that swayed on the table as if reflected in a wavy circus mirror, swaying impossibly this way and that, just out of reach. She’d grasped wildly for it, felt the back of her hand smack its edge, heard it tumble onto the floor, its contents rattling inside like the tail of a snake. She’d been frantic in the end, anything to stop the pain, anything at all.

            She couldn’t remember how many pills she’d taken. She’d thumbed them numbly into her hand and swallowed them without the thought of counting. Their effect had been swift.

            Adrina’s eyes fluttered open in the sunny wooden room. She probed her mind for the recent memories that would explain her surroundings, but there was nothing. Her mind kept coming back to that dirty apartment carpet and the migraine. A handful of pills. Her head was a skipping record. So what was this place? And where was this place? Adrina craned her neck forward to peek out the window at the foot of her bed. Only trees and mountains as far as she could see. So this ain’t Detroit, she thought.

            Adrina rubbed her temples, struggling to piece it together, but nothing seemed to fit. If this was a hospital, where were all the medical stuff? The machines that made those beeping noises, the invasive wires and tubes and hanging bags of liquid, the IVs running from her body to everyplace else? Adrina looked for a CALL button, something to summon a nurse or a doctor. Someone to give her answers. But there was nothing. In fact, there was nothing even to indicate that this was a hospital room.

            Unless... It was possible, of course, that this was another place. Not a hospital, but something worse. A rehab center. Adrina’s mom had always said she’d check her in if things got out on control, but Adrina never imagined... Yes, it was the only explanation. Any moment now a woman in white would walk through the red door and Adrina would be fed a tray of pills and tasteless food, and then there’d be shrink appointments, and they’d ask what everyone wanted to know, about... About him.

            Adrina bolted from the bed, tossing the sheet in the air. In seconds the closet was open and items were streaming out. They weren’t her clothes, but they weren’t terrible. The fabric was thick and new, and nothing had tags. It all seemed very expensive. Adrina wondered where her mom had come up with the money for it. Adrina grabbed a loose-fitting grey cotton sweater, black jeans, and a pair of brown sneakers and began to dress.

            Where am I? Adrina thought for the third time in as many minutes as she cinched the laces of the sneakers. She didn’t see a single building for miles outside the picture window at the foot of her bed, and it sure didn’t look like anyplace she’d ever been to. California? Canada maybe? Where would she go? How would she get back?

            Adrina struggled to set the questions aside and focus on a more immediate task. There would be opportunities to ask questions later, once she was far from this place. There had to be something else nearby, maybe a resort or a hotel, a bed and breakfast where she could... Cash. She needed cash.

            Adrina pat the pockets of her pants. Nothing. It was the same story in the closet. Dozens of pockets and not a dime in sight. Whoever these people were, they had obviously thought of everything. She would have to figure something out.

            Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

            “Adrina? Are you in there? Is everything OK?” Said a voice.

            Adrina froze in horror. She needed to move, and fast. “I’m still getting dressed, I need a few minutes,” she lied. And then, slipping silently across the room to the far wall, she unlatched a side window and clambered out.

***

            It had been a busy week. First the arrival of the foreign spices–Sichuan peppers, plum sauce, star anise, fennel seeds, and black bean sauce, to name a few–then the hours spent poring over the recipes in the kitchen, practicing to get the dishes just right, and of course the expectation of waiting for their guests.

            They were among the first of the unrighteous, and it had taken nearly four years to prepare for this day. In an effort to understand as intimately as possible the people they would be welcoming back, Charlie and his family had hit the books. Fortunately, there were the libraries.

            A few decades into the New World, the Organization called for the formation of specialized research teams. Initially, the teams were tasked with collecting information that was directly pertinent to life in the New World: agriculture, irrigation, simple machinery, green architecture, basic electrical systems, and so forth.

            These research teams would first comb through the mountains of books that were salvaged from the wreckage of the Old World, or in some cases, those abandoned on the shelves of the few libraries still standing. Usually, older publications were discarded in favor of newer ones. The facts and methods were checked and tested, additional research was performed, and new manuscripts were written to serve as a global standard. In the future, as more advanced or efficient ideas were introduced, these too would be scrutinized by the research teams, and the process would repeat. In this way, the shared knowledge base of mankind progressed in a highly efficient and unified way as never before.

            Of the many subjects tackled by the research teams, the one that concerned Charlie and his family most was 20th Century History and Culture. Since its establishment nearly five decades prior, the Historical Committee had compiled thousands of reference materials, one for nearly every culture that had existed in the Last Days of the Old World. As persons from previous generations were resurrected, the committee would have access to the knowledge and experiences of an even earlier generation, allowing them to reach back further in time. The process was expected to continue on until the day that Abel would be brought back, a point that many were already referring to as Resurrection A.

            Charlie’s family had spent two weeks perusing their community library’s history section, reading up on the diet, clothing, living conditions, and customs of the people they’d be welcoming back. When they’d done the reading and made the necessary notes, they returned to their cabin in the clearing and began the numerous preparations.

            In some cases, of course, it was impossible to recreate things exactly as they had been. Overly worldly or obscene styles of dress, for example, would not be provided for the resurrected even if they’d been accustomed to such styles in the past. Generally, though, a concentrated effort was made to make the guest feel as comfortable as possible, from the first food and drink consumed to the wardrobe in the rooms’ closets. It was hoped that these familiar aspects of life would encourage a quick assimilation into the New World.

            Of course, things had been easier with the righteous. After taking their first breath and opening their eyes, they generally knew what this place was and showed a keen respect and appreciation for the efforts of their brothers and sisters. They were willing to learn and adjust. Many were ready to get to work welcoming back others within just weeks or months. 

            The unrighteous, however, would be a different story. The Organization anticipated that they would need to be weaned gradually into their new lives. They came from all manner of backgrounds and cultures and it was expected that some of their worldly thinking might return with them. While their bodies were perfect, their minds needed to make the choice to change.

            Charlie knew his family. He had seen them grow and mature for nearly two centuries since passing into the New World, and he had confidence that they would do well in their exciting new assignments. True, each of their guests would be returning with unique challenges and complex situations, but with Jehovah’s help he knew it would be successful. Still, he had his concerns, particularly regarding Harold.

            Harold was to be Charlie’s guest, but Harold was everything that Charlie was not. Well-educated. Fiercely intelligent. And from the information they had at hand, it appeared he might also be rather arrogant and stubborn. Charlie hoped that life in paradise would slowly chip away at some of Harold’s rough edges, but there were no guarantees.

            Charlie had, for a time, wished that the unrighteous could return as clean slates, free of any barrier that might inhibit their salvation, but he couldn’t deny that the conditions were fair and reasonable. After all, members of the Great Crowd, though rightly disposed, had all needed to make changes in the New World. Even now, they were continually working towards perfection. Why should the unrighteous be any different?

            Charlie took a deep breath as he straightened out the wrinkles in his brown corduroy slacks and blue cotton shirt. From what he’d read, Harold was both austere and fastidious in his choice of clothing, and Charlie wanted to present an appearance the man could respect.

            It was 3:35, five minutes past Harold’s scheduled resurrection. To Charlie, it had felt like an hour. Finally, he heard the first faint stirrings of life behind the red door. The wooden floorboards creaked and whined in the room, and Charlie imagined Harold gazing through the window, trying to make sense of this mysterious awakening. He could hear the closet door squeak open and the metallic scrape of hangars sliding against their bar. The minutes passed as Harold dressed.

            Finally, the door swung open.

            The man standing on the other side was a robust, youthful version of the photographs they had on file. His hair was dark and full, the skin beneath the wrinkles restored and rejuvenated. The flesh of his face, arms, and neck had filled out, and Charlie began to understand why his file had described him as having had many girlfriends in his youth.

            But for all Harold’s remarkable metamorphoses, his expression had remained the same. Charcoal eyebrows arched downwards above a deep set stare that wavered between studious and accusatory. His lips were a pencil straight line against square jowls. He stood the same, too, head hunched, shoulders slightly raised, a vulture in a sports coat.

            “And you are?” he asked. His voice was deeper, more commanding, than Charlie had imagined.

            “Hi... I’m Charlie. You must be Harold.” Charlie stepped forward and extended his hand. Without moving, Harold glanced at it and then back into Charlie’s eyes. His head tilted slightly to one side.

            “Then perhaps you can enlighten me, Charlie, as to how I’ve come to be on top of a mountain.”

            Charlie cleared his throat and let his hand drop back to his side. “Of course. Perhaps a bite to eat, first?”

            Another pause as Harold studied his host. Charlie shifted uneasily. He suddenly realized how hot corduroy pants could be.

            “Please, after you,” said Harold stiffly.

***

            They had eaten mostly in silence. Liping found it difficult to make sense of her surroundings. The view from her bedroom had been startling, the air so clear that she felt she could see the curve of the earth. Where was she? Who were these people? How and why had they brought her here?

            As they ate and her strength returned, the mental fog gradually cleared. She could remember the hospital. She’d waited for hours to see a doctor, a nurse, to see anyone, really, but had been ignored. Just wait. Just another moment, the staff kept telling them. The pain was unbearable. Something was wrong with the baby, she was sure of it.

            Too old. That was the problem. Her mother had been telling her for years. A woman should have a child before twenty-seven. It was bad luck to wait too long. The energy force of the body was too diminished. It was a recipe for disaster. But Liping had disagreed. The restaurant had been the focus of her life, more important than family, more important than her health, and certainly more important than getting pregnant. After all, how would she provide a good life for a child without a sizable savings?

            Maybe she really had brought it upon herself. Maybe the child was cursed from the beginning.

            “Tea?” Asked the young woman across the table. Liping paused a moment, then nodded. The girl tipped the porcelain pot and refilled her cup. The leaves were freshly dried, giving the drink an aroma unlike any Liping had experienced before but she carefully concealed her approval.

            “I’m sure you have some questions about this place...” The girl said, leaning forward with her arms against the table. Liping noted her posture studiously. It was not the way a Chinese girl would behave. This was, without a doubt, a foreigner. She shook her head, No.

            “No questions? None at all?” The girl prodded.

            “You claim to be my daughter,” Liping stated.

            “That’s correct.”

            “Then you should be able to tell me some things about my family.”

            Liping watched the girls face transform into a frown.

            “There are only a few things I know. After you gave birth, I was put in an orphanage.”

            “Where?”

            “In Zhengzhou, Henan Province.”

            “Why an orphanage? Why didn’t my family take you in?”

            “There was no one left after the flood.”

            Liping pressed her lips tightly together and closed her eyes, recalling the horrific images. It had rained for days. The rain seeped into the hot, baked soil and everything eroded. Hills just melted away, turning themselves into muddy detritus that wiped out entire villages. There was no hope for the poor. Liping had been lucky. Her uncle had brought her to the hospital before the worst of it. They’d weaved through the traffic on his motorbike. Then he’d left her there on the gurney to get the others. It was the last time she saw him.

            Liping focused on the pain, drawing it inside her chest and locking it safely away. She would not be weak now. Behind closed eyelids, she felt the tears’ slow retreat. She forced a smile and opened her eyes.

            “I don’t remember giving birth. What can you tell me about that?”

            The girl paused. She looked uncomfortable. Perhaps she was preparing to lie.

            “What I’m about to tell you will be difficult for you to believe. But please, I ask you to be patient, and to keep an open mind. For every question, there will be an answer, in due time,” she said.

            Liping nodded once.

            “The labor of childbirth put your body under a great deal of stress. The hospital was understaffed that night and unprepared to deal with the huge amount of patients coming through the doors. With no one there to monitor your condition... You… Well, you died.”

            “Died?” Liping asked. A scornful smile wound itself onto her face. She scoffed into the air. “So what is this then? Have I come back as a different woman? Is this the spirit world?” The feelings of confusion, disbelief, and anger manifested themselves in an irreverent laugh.

            “No. Actually, the truth is that you’ve come back as yourself. This is Earth, and we live in a paradise.”

            The words floated in the air momentarily as Liping thought back to a time when she, too, was a young and impressionable girl. She was only nineteen when she took over her aunt and uncle’s roadside restaurant. It had been barely large enough to fit the kitchen equipment, so the guests usually sat themselves outside on flimsy plastic chairs and tables that brushed up against the busy street traffic.

            Liping was a hard worker and a capable chef, and eventually hired others to help in the kitchen as she juggled the constant flow of customers. The days were exhausting, but there was satisfaction in knowing she was paying the rent and the workers and still managing to stash away a bit on the side.

            And that’s when she met Zhang Rui. Zhang was the well-dressed manager of a construction company from the city. He’d often pull up to the restaurant in a car full of his colleagues, upper-class exporters and factory managers and even the occasional government worker. Had it not been for Liping’s specialty pork rib soup, these men would have likely never found their way to her humble, dusty diner. They were a class apart. Maybe two.

            Zhang was friendlier than the others and soon caught Liping’s attention. He was extravagant in his spending habits, and there were months that his patronage served as the small restaurant’s primary source of income. Liping was grateful. So when Zhang offered her a business proposal, she was happy to consider.

            Mr. Zhang knew the owner of the property block which Liping’s restaurant belonged to. They had gone to college together in Shanghai. In a few months, Zhang explained, the landlord would raise the prices in an effort to drive the small shops out and attract wealthier retailers. The news frightened Liping, who worried that the rent hike would deplete their already meager savings. Always the gentleman, Zhang had a proposal.

            He would talk to his friend and negotiate a deal: Liping’s restaurant could stay for a minimal rent increase if they updated their storefront. Such renovations would typically cost 100,000 RMB, but if Liping went through Mr. Zhang’s construction company, they could give the place a facelift for a mere 80,000 RMB. Liping happily paid Zhang a 40,000 RMB deposit and waited.

            And waited.

            Two weeks later, when construction workers and supplies had still not arrived, Liping anxiously phoned Mr. Zhang. The number had been disconnected. She never saw him again. But more painful for Liping than the loss of money was the tirade her family launched into when they discovered she’d been scammed.

            How could you be so foolish! It’s just like you to make such a stupid mistake! You are still such a child! On and on it went. For nearly ten years, each and every family conflict and minor disagreement would eventually devolve into accusations and criticisms involving this one unfortunate event. It was Liping’s Big Failure.

            But she had vowed never to fail again. This meant, in effect, never trusting again. And now, sitting at this luxurious table with its expensive dishes and listening to a young foreigner with her fanciful stories of life after death and paradise made Liping bristle with suspicion and doubt.

            “Thank you for the meal,” Liping said politely. “But I’m afraid I need to be getting home now. Perhaps you could tell me which bus to catch.”

            The girl stared blankly at Liping. Apparently she had not expected this. “I’m sorry, but there aren’t any buses here.”

            “OK. Then maybe you can tell me what direction I can walk to find the nearest town with a bus station.”

            “I’m sorry, there are no towns near here either. I know this is hard to believe, but–“

            “Then perhaps you have a telephone I could use?” Liping was beginning to feel impatient.

            “Again, I’m sorry, but those things–the buses and the towns and the big cities–you won’t find them in this world. Those are things from the past...”

            Liping found the girl’s tone aggravating. She spoke as a mother would to a naïve child.

            “Fine. That’s fine. Then I will be returning to my room for the night.”

            And with that Liping stood from the table and dismissed herself, leaving the girl alone and speechless.