Beyond the Rapture

Signs of the end of the age are upon Kay's college town. . .

I've never thought much about the apocalypse before. Much less the Rapture. Now I wonder if I've been blind on purpose, or just ignorant.

The end is coming.

I can taste it. I can smell it. I can feel it.

Hold on. . .

PRESENT DAY

Kay Jameson just wants to be a normal college student. To her shock, two fellow students physically threaten her in the journalism lab during the first week of school. Thank goodness Mitch, an artist, comes to her aid. Why do the students hate her? And what is the meaning behind Mitch's unusual drawings?

At home, her parents' arguments are tearing Kay up inside, and her sister seems to hate her. No matter how hard she tries, Kay just can't seem to do anything right. Even worse, her budding romance with the handsome Trent is creating an uncomfortable distance between Kay and her best friend, David. Kay is determined to do everything she can to salvage the relationships that mean so much to her.

The hate attacks on Kay and her church continue to intensify. Who is behind them?

Is it truly the end? Is the Rapture next?

EXCERPT:

FUTURE

Ash darkened the morning sky as Isola strode rapidly down the middle of the empty lane. It was quiet now. Sunday morning; her favorite day of the week. Everyone still slept in their sweltering beds, savoring the luxury of sleeping in late on their one day off.

But not Isola. She inhaled through gritted teeth, hating the burning taste of the smoky, bitter air which choked the city.

The desire to revisit the place had been building within her over the last month. It tugged at her empty soul. She wasn't sure why, but it felt like something waited for her there. Something valuable...

RmmmmRmmmR.

With a sharp inhale, she jerked her head left. Acrid air seared her lungs. She'd taken a chance, walking out here alone, while everyone slept. But she saw nothing...yet.

RmmmMRmMRM.

The mechanical rumble jarred the asphalt beneath her feet. It was about to turn the corner.

She had to hide.

Heart thumping, Isola paused to weigh her options. The pavement radiated heat up through the worn soles of her tennis shoes. She scanned the buckled concrete sidewalks and the dingy, crumbling buildings beyond. The broken windows looked like gaping black holes. But the stores weren't empty. Or safe.

The grinding, deafening roar made her want to run. Instead, she fought for the calm and logic that survival required. Outwit and outsmart. Don't run like a rat into the nearest sewer.

Her gaze focused on the stripped metal autos littering the sides of the street. She made a leaping, rolling plunge and dove into one of the vacant cars. The driver's side door was ripped off, the chassis bent double, seats gone. Its front end rested precariously on the tailgate of a rusted, dilapidated blue truck.

The hot metal seared her skin, and bolts ripped into her flesh. She yanked her knees to her chin and tumbled to the far, passenger side of the car. The back window revealed bits of her to the oncoming tank. And the leering, dangerous men inside.

The car swayed gently, cramming her neck uncomfortably into the crevice where floor and engine compartment met. She dared not breathe. Would the soldiers notice the car's movement? Would they stop to investigate?

She waited. The adrenaline and fear pumping through her blood made her feel sick. If the tank stopped, she would scramble out and run. She wasn't finished yet.

The familiar, cold lump of metal which dug into her waistband comforted her as the thundering rumble drew closer.

The olive green tank slowly heaved by, its nose dipping and falling as it rode the stationary waves of the demolished street. The American flag painted on its side said its soldiers were supposed to protect her. But she knew better. Oh, she knew better.