Eps# 01: Foreshadowing The Beginning of the Creation Saga
Reality is real… but governed by a hidden system.The Creation Code.
Episode 01: Foreshadowing
Calls to end injustice go unheeded. Divine rule and the laws of man are discredited. The Supreme Court is besieged. Help called for, prayed for… never comes.
Protest signs blocked my escape: Black Lives Matter, Defund Police, Antifa, White Privilege, Reparations, Tax the Rich, Burn America Down.
Shoved through the horde, I stumbled down the courthouse steps amidst shouts: “Fascists! Nazis! Racist pigs!” A sudden push snapped me backward. Tumbling over a cement barrier, my tie got caught and squeezed my throat.
Need air!
Tear gas burned my eyes while my lungs scorched with smoke.
Pro-police supporters in riot gear, the Brotherhood of Law Enforcement, a vigilante militia, stood firm. Tension crackled in the air; their tactical vests emblazoned with bold letters: BLE. The militia stood with visors down, expressions obscured, looking like rigid dark sentinels. They remained unmoved by the chaos.
Online threats. Scary phone calls. Restraining orders issued. Would BLE help me, or seek revenge? Justice or vengeance? Safety or danger?
A masked protester lunged through the line; his sign thrust high. Bold, black letters screamed:
VIRGIL—HE IS HERE.
The second coming? Wild prophecy? A warning?
No time to think. The officers attacked. Batons swung, hammering the masked man to the ground.
“Police brutality!” The crowd erupted.
A crush of bodies surged toward the police.
Gotta get out of here.
The police megaphone crackled, “Get back!”
The captain’s voice boomed over the chaos. His fingers twitched over the holster. Shields locked. The line surged forward. Protesters stumbled, shoved, and fought. No safe direction. The wrong move could turn this crackdown into a massacre.
People scattered as instinct took over. Panic drove every step.
A lyric drifted up from some distant memory, ‘just the nature of my game.’
Wriggling through the chaos, my shoulders crashed against bodies. The police formed a phalanx; their shields created an impenetrable wall, forcing the crowd back. The rhythm of boots marching on the pavement sounded methodical, almost mechanical. They throbbed. The rhythm shifted as the march changed to a charge of riot police, an unrelenting force.
Barely escaped the crush.
Grunts, groans and calls for help echoed about.
Face to face with a riot policeman, the view through his visor revealed nothing but cold determination staring back.
Protesters ran in every direction, their eyes gushing from the gas. Fear surged. The swarm of bodies was suffocating.
There’s nowhere to go but through the entangled madness.
I crawled over the fallen to make headway. Behind me, I heard the thud of batons striking signs. A rhythmic beat reminiscent of tribal warfare.
“Disperse immediately!” came the booming order over a loudspeaker, and as if on command, the line of BLE supporters united with the police, the threat clear. No need to adhere to law and order. The Brotherhood released rounds of tear gas and charged in fist fighting and wrestling demonstrators to the ground. Kicked into submission, the protesters’ resistance faltered.
The sharp, stinging fumes reached my eyes and throat. A quick pull of my necktie over my nose and mouth filtered the acrid air. A cough followed; a rough sound that was lost amidst the chaos.
Flames flickered in the hills. Smoke blacked out the stars and muffled sirens, horns, and shouting. Loud bangs, gunshots, or fireworks, ripped through the air, brief flashes of red, white, and blue piercing the haze.
My pulse quickened.
Each crack splintered the air, sending ripples of fear through the crowd. A pro-law enforcement vigilante dragged a protester off and chained him to a truck. A knee drove into the man’s back, and his screams were swallowed by the rage.
This sultry summer night, sweat dripped down my back, and heat radiated from the pavement. My heart pounded; the pressure building in my chest gave rise to an urgency to escape the clamor and confusion. I needed shelter from the disorder generated by my client’s exoneration.
Gusty winds swept through Los Angeles. Southern Californians call these warm gusts born in the vast haunted canyons of Utah’s Great Basin, the Santa Ana winds—or in Spanish: Diablo Viento—the devil’s breath. Hot blasts fan fires in the hills and wreak havoc throughout the region. The night sky glows as thick smoke and ash muffle car horns. Sirens wail. People scream; fearful. They seek refuge.
Phil Collins’ song; In the Air Tonight loops through my mind, syncing too well with the night’s chaos. The melody cuts off—abrupt, like a needle scratching vinyl.
What the…!
An old man stands by my car. I hesitate, my pulse quickening, a chill running down my spine, until my sense of fear turns to wrath, and I mutter, “Hello?”
“Sorry to startle you. It’s my habit, always rushing ahead.” His voice remains smooth, unfazed.
Trying to regain a confident demeanor, I inhale deeply, choking on the smoky air. My voice turns cold, professional. “Sir, please step aside.”
I try to push past him, but he doesn’t budge. Then, with a movement too fast to follow, the obstinate one steps away. A stumble into the car, adrenaline flooding veins. A glance back, the man looms, unmoved. Fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. He stands on the sidewalk as if nothing strange occurred, staring, his expression unreadable.
I slam the car door shut, listening to the locks click. Breathing through my nose, I steady the pounding in my chest. Sealed inside, the engine starts. A glance flicked to the rearview mirror—he taps his watch, not bothering to check the time. That eerie smile unchanged.
“What?” I mutter aloud, turning to view my car’s digital dashboard clock—just shy of midnight.
The hour grows late. His voice echoes in my mind, clear as a bell, though the window remains closed. His lips do not move, yet I hear him add, “Drive carefully.” He raises a cupped hand to his mouth, mimicking drinking. His voice in my head remarks, “You’ve had a big day.” The SOB displays a sharp-toothed smile, as if relishing the fear he sees on my face.
I respond telepathically, Thank you, sir. Now—goodbye, trying to maintain some semblance of control.
He affirms, and as I watch him in the rearview mirror, I step on the gas, zipping onto the boulevard. The idiot waves his hand, his forefinger pointing like a wizard casting a spell. I hear the chant again, louder, the sulfur stench thick in the air. “Jerk,” I say aloud, shaking my head, focusing my eyes on the road ahead.
Red, white, and blue lights strobed in my rearview mirror.
What did I do wrong?
Driving while Black?
I pull over. The policeman approaches the car. I roll down my window. “Officer, I’m a lawyer. I have a gun and the permit in the glove compartment.”
The officer’s hand rests on his holster, and I catch a glimpse of a patch on his uniform—Fraternal Order of Police. It’s barely visible, but my heart pounds. The brotherhood. Not a real cop. My hand moves toward the glove compartment.
“Blue lives matter,” he says coldly.
Flash.
Bam.
A bullet rips through me. My body jerks forward, hands locking onto the steering wheel.
I gasp—lungs suck for air. The glowing car clock reads straight-up midnight. Awareness slips—like sinking into sleep paralysis. Darkness unfurls.
Dark.
Darker.
Gone.
Welcome to Season One of The Creation Saga.In this story, a civil-rights attorney discovers that reality itself may be governed by a hidden “Creation Code.”Curious to hear your thoughts as the mystery unfolds.— Richard Episode # 2: Out of Body, continues Angelo’s journey beyond the veil of death.
