The Rapture

There's this mural of John Lennon's face that I see every morning. Below his face it says "Imagine", and it always leaves me wondering about that first line: "Imagine there's no heaven..." This week's SciFiSunday entry looks at one way to get to one of the most famous lyrics in music history.

I was sitting in the cool dark of my grandmother’s bedroom, kneeling by her bedside. She reached out to me, her pale white hand trembling visibly. “Robert…” she whispered, her voice like the rasp of a saw tipping through the wet stump of a dead tree. I leaned in toward her face, craning my neck so that I could press my ear against her weathered lips. 

“Yes, Grandma?” I asked hesitantly. 

“Robert,” she croaked, writhing as she spoke my name. She clutched at me with her bony, bloody hand, clawing at my neck and face. “Robert! Jesus is here… the Lord is with us, in this room…” 

“Yes, Grandma,” I sighed, untangling myself from her grip. 

“The Lord has come for me, Robert!” she continued, her black eyes sparkling like obsidian as they stared off into the distance, toward an all powerful savior that only she could see. 

My grandmother was in the final hours of being Raptured. I knew this because I had seen it happen to almost everyone else in my family, and billions of people around the world, over the last three months. The Rapture had started in December, around Christmas Day. I can still remember the news reports bubbling up through all the “best of” shows and New Year’s sales. It was easy to ignore for the first couple days. But then people around me started to die. 

My grandma’s eyes rolled around in her skull and then locked on me. “Robert!” she creaked, “Are you…” she licked her lips hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer the the question she was about to ask. 

“Yes, Grandma?” I prodded. I already knew what she was going to ask. She was going to ask the same question that every other person who had Raptured had asked me over the last few months. I’d talked to others that hadn’t been Raptured yet, and they had all experienced the same thing. When someone was near the end, right before they were about to be Raptured, the questioning would start. 

“Are you… going to be…” my grandmother faltered. At this point, I’m sure that she already knew the answer. The Rapture had been going since December. It was almost Good Friday. So far as I knew, my grandma was one of the last people in the world being Raptured. 

As January and February slowly ground down and everyone from my grandmother’s church group had already been Raptured, she began to fret. By the end of March, my grandmother was frantic. Why hadn’t she been Raptured? Had she done something to upset the Lord? Had she committed some unforgivable sin? Was her faith not strong enough. 

The news media hadn’t helped my grandma’s worrying. In the early days, there was widespread panic. A mystery disease that killed its victims in just three short days was engulfing the world. But then the statistics started to come out. When the Alt-right and the Christian-right first grabbed hold of what was happening, the panic quickly flipped and an hysteria swept over parts of the country: the End Times were coming.
I don’t remember who it was that first made the connection, but by mid-January, the symptoms had become widely known and data scientists had started to publish their findings. The three day disease seemed to be targeting people of faith. True believers all over the world were falling into a delirious fever, having religiously inspired hallucinations, and then dying peacefully in their sleep. Word on social media quickly spread: people weren’t dying of a disease, they were being Raptured. 

The nature of the symptoms helped reinforce the belief that this was a religious experience and not a disease, especially among Christians all over the world. From the onset of the first symptoms, it took three days for someone to die. The Christians imbued this number with special meaning. On the second day of the sickness, people developed sores on their palms and sometimes along their forehead. Christian leaders said these were sores were Christ-like stigmata that proved the faith of those being Raptured. And finally, there were the religious hallucinations that happened just before death. People were raving about seeing Jesus and the media ate it all up. 

Once people started to believe that they were being taken away to heaven, things started to fall apart. Mega churches held “Rapture parties” where the sick would kiss members of the congregation and smear blood across their mouths and eyes to help speed them on their way to being Raptured. In the places where religious violence had been raging for years, war ceased immediately as millions of people simply went home and died in their beds peacefully. People all over the world were dying, and they were excited to be doing it. In the US, the death infrastructure was completely overwhelmed. I’ve heard reports on the radio that there are dead bodies in homes all across the country. In big cities like New York and Los Angeles, the homeless populations just piled up in the streets. 

But by the end of March, the number of Raptures happening had dropped off to almost nothing. The official estimate put the global death toll at somewhere in the neighborhood of four billion people, though many officials are quick to point out that there’s really no way to be sure. It seemed that anyone who was going to be raptured had already been raptured. Almost everyone in the world with a strong religious conviction was dead.
Everyone except my grandma. Tears were welling in her eyes as her lips formed the words. “Are you going to be... Raptured?” she managed to ask at last. My grandmother had always considered herself a “good” Christian. She prayed for parking spaces at Walmart, and dismissed anything that didn’t fit with her world view as “the Devil’s doing”. So when everyone else in my grandmother’s Bible study group had died by the end of February, she started to get genuinely worried. 

“Yes,” I nodded, coughing meekly. “I started to show the signs just this morning,” I told her, the lie coming out more easily than I had anticipated. 

“Let me… let me see your hands,” she said, her large eyes darting around the room wildly. I hadn’t thought of this. 

“I only just started to Rapture,” I told her, looking away awkwardly. “I don’t have the stigmata, yet.” She sighed heavily, her body going still. It seemed like she was satisfied with my dodge. 

By the end of March, after innumerable millions of zealous believers had Raptured, the news coverage started to change dramatically. With the media and the government suddenly devoid of people who believed in ghosts, gods, and paradises filled with virgins and golden palaces, the notion that there was some divine rapture sending deserving souls to heaven was replaced with the more down to earth news that the world was being ravaged by a highly contagious, highly selective epidemic. 

My grandmother would sit in front of the television, damning the news anchor for the lies he was delivering. “It’s a Rapture!” she would cry hysterically. “You son of a bitch, you don’t know your ass from your elbow from a hole in the ground! This isn’t some disease! It’s the Lord taking His people back to His kingdom!” All of her favorite television personalities had either died weeks ago or gone into hiding to cover up the fact that they hadn’t been raptured yet. 

Three days ago, my grandma had burst into the living room, her body agile, her eyes bright. “I’m Rapturing!” she cried. Big fat tears started to run down her cheeks as she danced around like she was a little girl. I tried to smile, but I could feel the tears running down my cheeks too. My mom and dad had died in January, along with almost everyone else I knew. My grandma was one of the last people in my life. 

I’d never felt that religious fervor burning in my body, but I’d never had the balls the tell anyone. I wasn’t like my Uncle Frank, who had been banned from family events because of his open disdain for anything religious. I hadn’t heard from him since last summer. 

“Robert…” my grandma whispered, her lips barely parting. 

“Yeah?” I asked her. 

“I’m going with Jesus now,” she told me. 

I reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly, as if I could keep her from going by holding on. She closed her eyes, and then let out her last breath. I put my head down on her chest and started to sob. Now I was alone. 

A dull thump-thump-thump echoed in my head like a heartbeat. “Grandma?” I said, sitting upright. I pushed my fingers up against her neck, but there was no pulse. I sat in silence for a moment, confused, then the thump-thump-thump came again. “Ah,” I sighed, realizing it was the door. I closed the door to my grandma’s room as I left, then went to answer the door. 

I recognized the huge, fat man standing on the doorstep the moment I opened the door. 

“Bobby,” he said, engulfing me in a sweaty bear-hug. 

“Hey, Uncle Frank,” I muttered. 

“How you doing?” he asked, pulling me outside into the bright afternoon sun. 

“I… uh… Grandma just died,” I said awkwardly. 

“I knew she would,” he said. “You and your Uncle Terry were the only ones I figured would survive this mess. Terry didn’t make it, though.” He paused for a moment, looking at me. “What’s wrong, Bobby?” 

“Well…” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Everyone’s dead.” 

“Yeah,” Uncle Frank laughed. “All those hypocrite assholes are dead. Have you been watching the news? There’s peace in the Middle East. There hasn’t been a single hate crime reported in the States in over a month.” 

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “But… I mean, I’ve heard all that on the news. But everyone is dead.” 

“They’re in Heaven,” he corrected me. “With Jesus.” 

“I guess you’re right. It’s what they wanted.” A sense of bitterness suddenly replaced the loneliness and sorrow I’d been feeling. “Yeah…” I said, screwing up my face. “They did want to die. They wanted to die and be with Jesus more than they wanted to be with me.” My mom, my dad, everyone; they’d all said the same stupid thing: “I’m doing with Jesus now.” 

“We’re better off, Bobby,” Uncle Frank said. “Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Where are we going?” I asked. 

“Anywhere you want,” he told me. “It’s Sunday. That means we can do anything we want.”