Year One
Webisode # 7 -
The Unleashed
The heart is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked:
who can know it?
I the LORD search the heart,
I try the reins,
even to give every man according to his ways,
and according to the fruit of his doings.
- Jeremiah 17:9 - 10
Enter ye in at the strait gate,
for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction,
and many there be who go in thereat.
Because strait is the gate,
and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life,
and few there be that find it.
- Matthew 7:13-14
But ye shall receive power after the Holy Ghost is come upon you;
and ye shall be witnesses unto Me both in Jerusalem,
and in all Judea and in Samaria,
and unto the uttermost part of the earth.
- Acts 1:8
******* *******
“If man does not get his head out of the sewers,
he is going to wind up in a very bad place,
where there is always weeping and gnashing of teeth.
These last days are also the last wake up call.
If no one gets it now,
then being left behind will be the least of their concerns.”
- President Walter J. Ballou
******** ******
Prologue
The Attack
A few months had passed since the vanishings. A month had passed since the Peace Treaty signing in Israel. And weeks after that, much of the United States of America was once again running on power. Cities were alive again and the lights illuminated the skylines at night. All hostilities for the most part had ended abruptly, although some pockets of terrorism still existed and forced law enforcement agencies and the military to respond with brute force.
President Walter J. Ballou had returned to the White House with a skeleton crew of Secret Service agents around him. Matthew Lambert worked overtime to see to the President’s safety. Every area of ground was checked. Once the White House was secure, they went about the task of getting back to the business of running the country. They were there for a few weeks without any incident.
That incident they were hoping to avoid, however, finally occurred.
Lambert knocked on the door to the Oval Office in the West Wing and opened it ajar. “Mr. President…?” He poked his head into the office.
President Ballou was at his desk, and held a cordless phone to his ear as he waved Lambert to enter. “Not to worry,” he said into the phone. “I believe we’re all set here. We’ll keep our appointment, old friend. With the Lord leading the battle, we’ve already won the war.”
Lambert entered the office and stood before the President’s Office. He heard the man’s side of the conversation and could only assume he was talking to someone about prophetical future yet to unfold. He personally did not adhere to such beliefs, but with what had been happening around the globe, he could not deny that biblical predictions were being fulfilled. He had found a Bible in the desk he was using and had begun to read it. If there really were answers in there, he hoped to find them.
“And Godspeed to you,” Ballou said into the phone. Then, he hung up. “Good evening, Matt. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to fill you in on the daily reports, sir,” Lambert told him. Since the threat against America, President Ballou wanted to be informed on all of the daily activities of the Secret Service men. Lambert gave his report and then added, “Looks like we’ve had exactly two weeks of uneventful days here at the White House, sir.”
“Don’t count on those days to continue to be uneventful, Matt. Things have a way of happening all by themselves, and these days it’s always a revelation.”
Lambert hesitated. “What revelation do you mean, sir?”
“That if man does not get his head out of the sewers, he is going to wind up in a very bad place, where there is always weeping and gnashing of teeth. These last days, my young friend, are also the last wake up call. If no one gets it now, then being left behind will be the least of their concerns.”
The younger man did not know how to respond to that, so he just said, “Yes, sir.”
President Ballou regarded the Secret Service agent. “What will it take to get you to see the truth about God and living in the End Times?”
Lambert shrugged. “Well, sir, all I can say is that He would have to show me something on a personal level. Something that only I would know about.”
“You’re not looking for signs and wonders then?”
“Signs and wonders are all around us, Mr. President. I wonder about them, but I haven’t been moved to decide because of them.”
Ballou nodded. “Because it isn’t personal.”
Lambert nodded once. “That’s right, sir.”
“Well…then, I won’t be too concerned about your soul, Matt. If there’s one thing I know about God, He is a very personal God. He’ll get your attention.”
“Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?”
Ballou waved him on. “That’s all. Have a good night, son.”
Lambert tipped his head. “And you, sir.”
Lambert left the Oval Office, closing the door behind him. He headed through the West Wing, which held a minimal staff due to the late hour, and also due to those whom had not been replaced since after the vanishings and the attacks. As he walked, he implemented a roll call on his headset. By the time his limited contingent of agents checked in with him, he was proceeding through the East Wing.
The East Wing was added to the White House in 1942 and served as office space for the First Lady and her staff. It also included the President's theater, the visitor's entrance, and the East Colonnade. Visitors touring the White House through Peace Time entered through the east entrance and followed the East Colonnade past the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden to finally enter the Residence to see rooms on the Ground and State Floors. The Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, which was named by First Lady Bird Johnson in honor of her predecessor, served as an informal reception area for the First Lady. President Jefferson added colonnaded terraces to the east and west sides of the White House. The East Terrace was removed in 1866. It was rebuilt on this foundation in 1902. For many years, a greenhouse occupied the east grounds of the White House.
It was at the east entrance when Lambert came to a quick halt.
The door was wide open.
He should have radioed it in and called for backup immediately, but he didn’t. He didn’t even draw his gun. He stepped through the doorway and checked the grounds. He then simply re-entered and closed the door. He turned and looked down the corridor.
A shadow moved.
Lambert narrowed his eyes and peered toward the shadow. Someone was standing in the doorway to one of the Residence rooms. This time, he did withdraw his gun from its holster and proceeded slowly down the hall. However, he still did not call for back up.
The shadow backed away and disappeared from the corridor, telling the agent that whoever had been in the doorway was now in the room.
Lambert stopped at the doorway and carefully peered in.
No one was in sight, but he thought he heard something.
Without hesitation, Lambert burst into the room with his weapon at the ready. Someone was in the room, waiting for him. He leveled his gun right at the man’s head, but hesitated. Recognition crossed his face.
“Lenox…?” Lambert began, lowering his weapon. “What are--?”
The man he called Lenox interrupted him by grabbing his gun hand and slamming him hard into the wall behind him. The man pressed his forearm into Lambert’s throat and rammed his knee hard into the agent’s stomach. At the same time, the attacker also slammed Lambert’s gun hand against the door frame. After three tries, the gun fell to the floor.
Lambert tried to suck in some air, but everything he once had was forced out by the attack. He gasped for breath as the man’s head crashed into his face. Completely taken by surprise, the agent stumbled and began to fall. He tried to recover some of his dignity by rolling away from his attacker. The man didn’t follow him and he wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He soon found out once he got to his feet in front of the double-sided window.
The man aimed a gun toward him. The gun was equipped with a silencer.
“What are you doing?!” Lambert demanded.
The man he had called Lenox raised the weapon and pulled the trigger twice. Two bullets slammed into Lambert’s chest and propelled him backwards through the window. Glass shattered everywhere as the Secret Service agent fell to the ground below the window. He landed hard, but some trimmed bushes broke his fall and dumped him unceremoniously on the ground where he struggled to bear the pain. The Kevlar jacket he wore under his blazer had stopped the bullets, but they still burned.
He struggled for breath and balance as he tried to rise to his feet. As he did, he tried to call for back up only to realize he had lost his head set somewhere. Either in the room his assailant had been or somewhere in the bushes or on the grounds outside where he had fallen.
He couldn’t take the time to find it.
He finally got to his feet and ran with a limp the entire length of the East Wing. It wasn’t that he was out of shape, because he wasn’t. But the attack had taken a lot out of him and he was feeling the pressure as he tried to get back to the West Wing before it was too late. He rounded the corner and saw the Oval Office. He could reach the French doors and enter through that way. All he knew was that the President had to be protected at all costs.
It clicked in his mind for just a brief second that there were no Secret Service agents on the veranda outside the Oval Office. There usually were, but not this time. That was all that registered in his mind as the entire Oval Office suddenly disappeared in an explosion that tossed Lambert to the ground and sent him into unconsciousness.
His name was Joshua Dunham, and he was a fireman for the Sharptown Fire Department in Maryland. He had been a fireman for twelve years. But once, he had been a rookie.
The year was 2001. It was September 11 and there wasn’t anyone in New York City - or around the entire globe - that would ever forget the attack upon the twin towers. Dunham’s first call as a fireman was to join others from his department and assist to the best of his ability at ground zero. At the time, he remembered being scared, but he used his fear to do the job that others could not. September 11, 2001 was the day Joshua Dunham became a firemen. It was also the day he had lost a man who had been like a father to him.
Brent Summers was a veteran firemen. He was a father, a grandfather, an American, and a hero. He was a man who had taken Dunham under his wing to show him how to live like a fireman. On that unforgettable night, Summers and Dunham were digging through the rubble in hopes of finding a survivor. Just one survivor was all they hoped for because if they could find just one survivor, it would fill them with enough hope to look for the next one.
“How do we find them?” Dunham had cried out in frustration as the smoke-filled air surrounded them.
“One at a time, son,” was Summers reply. “One at a time.”
Grimly, the two men, amongst others, searched desperately for someone to save. Eventually, they came across a large, black hole in the ground and looking into that hole was like looking directly into the gates of Hell. For the most part, it was black. A darkness so thick, it could swallow a man whole and erase him from existence. But there were also pockets of flame which shot upward. Dunham stared down that hole and doubted that anyone could be alive down there.
Slowly, he reached into his pack and brought out a couple of glowsticks. He smacked them into his hand, breaking them and causing the inside of them to light up. Extending his hand out over the hole, he dropped them one by one. They fell into the hole and several stories below, one of them happened to land on a man trapped in the debris.
Dunham peered. “Cappy!” he called out.
Summers joined him and together, the two peered down into the hole. “What’ve you got, son?”
Dunham pointed. “Someone’s down there.” He began to uncoil some rope. “Lower me down, Cap, and I’ll--”
Summers took the rope. “Easy, son. I’ll go. You stay up here and lower me down. I’ll tie the rope around him and after you pull him up, then you get me. Got it?”
Dunham nodded.
Summers tied the rope around himself and then lowered himself carefully into the mouth of the hole. Dunham used the rope to give the older man slack as he needed it. By the time Summers reached the unconscious, trapped man below, two other firemen had joined Dunham. Together, they had pulled one man out from the hole. They put him on a stretcher as the rookie began to pull up Summers.
Suddenly, there was loud groan from below and the sides of the hole literally shifted. Dunham could feel the ground at his feet become unstable and he tightened his grip on the rope.
“Cappy!” he shouted, looking down into the hole.
Summers was below him, almost within arms reach.
The shifting became worst.
Summers eyes locked onto Dunham’s. “Son…” the mentor said, “God…loves you.”
All of the sides of the hole began to collapse and Dunham held onto that rope for all he was worth. “Nooo!” he shouted. He stared in horror as Summers reached up with a knife and cut the rope. This he did, because if he didn’t the rookie would have died with him.
The hole collapsed inward, sounding like some hungry beast that was not yet satisfied with its dinner. It wanted more. The ground at Dunham’s feet began to sink into the collapsing hole but the younger man didn’t care. He was still trying to come to grips with what his mind had just witnessed. He wasn’t even aware of the hands grabbing him and pulling him away from the danger zone.
“Noooooo!” he shouted again, angry and frustrated. Feeling as if all hope had been sucked away from him.
That day, on September 11, 2001, Joshua Dunham had become a fireman.
As he now stood upon the lawn of the White House, staring at what used to be the Oval Office, he felt exactly as he had felt on that day.
There was no hope.
He sat alone in the dark. The office lights were off, and even though the sun was down and the sky was darkened, he sat at his desk in his large office. He sat up straight in his chair, the fingertips to each hand pressed together on the desk pad before him. His eyes were closed and for a long time, he didn’t move. He simply sat there and waited.
His phone rang.
Moving slowly, methodically, he reached over and picked up the phone. He didn’t have to see it because he knew right where it was. His eyes remained closed as he brought the receiver to his mouth and ear.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s done,” responded a voice.
The man hung up the phone.
And in the dark, a smile spread across his face. The smile became a chuckle, and then as the chuckle erupted into laughter, Tristian Salvadori sat back in his chair and opened his eyes.
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