Prologue
Present-
Rosslyn Metro Station
Arlington, Virginia
0645
A boy stands outside the rundown metro station watching his breath form clouds in the chilled morning air. He holds an old red backpack in his left hand and grasps his mother’s wool-gloved hand with his right. He gazes up at the gray morning sky as a light snow begins to fall. The boy shivers, straining to hold on to the warmth of the night’s bed and morning’s hot breakfast.
He shifts his gaze from the dark sky above to the metro’s entrance below. The creaking, grinding staircase descends deep into the darkness. Warm, moist air rising from the tunnel has the odor of unwashed bodies, urine, and mechanical lubricant. The shaft reminds the boy of the gullet of a terrible beast waiting to swallow him whole. He grasps his mother’s hand tighter and nestles into her threadbare coat.
Raymond and Margaret Bloom examine a map of the D.C. Metro system encased behind graffitied Plexiglas. They peer at the diagram as though it were written in Sanskrit. Margaret regards the boy burrowed into her side and smiles. Her child has always given her peace; even in the womb, his presence provided a sense of harmony and tranquility. My sweet, beautiful boy, she thinks as she brushes his hair with her fingers.
Pastor Ray, as he is called, stares at the map. “If we get on the wrong train, we’ll never make it in time. I can’t be late, I just can’t.”
The Capitol is not far from the Bloom family’s home and community in Wytheville, Virginia. But this city and its people feel like a different world from their tightknit southwest Virginia town, nestled between the North Carolina and Tennessee borders. The Blooms don’t travel often, but Pastor Ray insisted they take the train up for the conference. The largest meeting of such wonderful and likeminded people in history, Ray had been boasting for months.
Christians for a Christian America, it was called. The event was to be a gathering of the greatest minds in modern Christian theology, focused on educating and promoting the concept of a singular Christian nation. The banners read AMERICA: One Nation under God, One Nation Loved by Christ. The organizers knew of Pastor Ray’s work through one of his many sermons the youth in his congregation posted on the internet. Thanks to the internet, he could now reach thousands—if not millions—of God’s children with his message. He thanked the Lord for his good fortune.
Pastor Ray continued to stare at the map trying to figure out how to get to Union Station. If I can decipher the mysteries of the Holy Bible, I can figure out this darn map, he thought with a chuckle. He checked the time. “Mother, we need to get moving if we’re going to make it in time. How’s my little angel doing?”
“Oh, he’s quite well. Aren’t you, my love?” Margaret put both arms around the boy and held him closer. He did not resist.
As mothers tend to do, she grabbed a handkerchief from her bag and wiped a smudge from her boy’s frozen pink face. She then picked him up and swung him on to her hips. The boy laughed, and the sound warmed Ray and Margaret. The Blooms descended through the darkness, hand in hand, to the platform below.
…
The boy sat on his mother’s lap as the train shook and rattled its way under the Potomac River into the metropolis beyond. He tried not to think about the dark emptiness into which they hurtled. He had always feared darkness. In his fright, he remembered a prayer his father taught him when he would wake, screaming, in the the night. He reached into his bag, pulled out his father’s dog-eared King James Bible, and opened it to Isaiah 60:19. The text was highlighted:
The sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory. Isa 60:19
The boy closed his eyes and grasped his mother’s hand harder, repeating the words over and over. His pulse slowed and his muscles relaxed as he prayed. Margaret stroked his hair as Pastor Ray busied himself with his presentation. Ray glanced up at his boy and saw anxiety written in his face.
“It’s alright, son. You’ve nothing to fear. How’s this: after the conference, we’ll go to the Capitol building and see the big Christmas tree!”
The boy smiled. “Really? Can we go now, Dad? Please!”
“Sorry, don’t forget, we’re here to preach the word of God and change the world.”
“But how are we going to change the world?” the boy asked.
“Simple. Love Jesus Christ and put your faith in Him, then His word will illuminate the path He has chosen for you. That’s all we can do to fight against the evil in the world. So have faith, my boy, because God has faith in you.”
“Amen,” whispered Margaret.
“Amen,” repeated the boy.
…
The brakes squealed as the train jerked and slowed into Union Station. Ray and Margaret took their son’s hands and exited the train into the shifting mass of bodies beyond.
The human wave carried the Blooms through hallway after hallway until they reached the central terminal. In the middle of the large open space, they stopped to take in the beautiful structure and crazed activity. Morning sunlight streamed through the giant windows and cast tangible warmth on the family; thousands of people crammed in around them on their way to and fro.
Ray spotted their exit along the far wall and tried to usher his wife and son to the door.
“Father, let’s stop for one second,” Margaret said. “I need to straighten up the little one before we get there.”
“We really are in a rush, Mother.”
“Won’t take but a second, I promise.”
Margaret fumbled through her bag trying to find her handkerchief, a white cotton cloth with delicate flower embroidery. She kneeled down in front of her boy. His face was still flushed, though he seemed to have defrosted a bit from the walk from their hotel to the Metro station. She brushed his hair away from his face, straightened his coat, and wiped his already impeccable face. She gave him a strong hug and kiss before standing back up.
“Alright, let’s get go—”
A powerful blast tore through the far end of the large terminal; the concussion ripped across the open space knocking the Blooms to the ground. A brief moment of dazed silence followed the thunderous noise as thousands recovered from the shock; then the crowd emitted a collective ululation of fear and panic.
Thousands rushed for the exits. Margaret and Ray tried to get hold of their son as the mob pushed him just out of reach. The boy screamed as bodies collapsed onto him, driving him into the cold hard floor. His right shoulder burst from its socket as he landed. He screamed in pain and fought to see his parents.
Margaret and Ray yelled and pushed people aside trying to reach their child. Ray shoved a man hard and his hand gasped the boy’s glove; for a moment, he thought he could pull him close. Then another surge from the mob pushed Ray and Margaret away from their son. The boy raised his head just enough to see his mother’s face drenched in tears and etched with horror; he could hear her screaming, “MALACHI! MALACHI! MY SON! NO!”
Then, a series of massive and successive explosions tore down the length of the room catching all in the inferno. Malachi Bloom felt the floor collapse beneath him. He sank into the abyss below, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Something came out of the fire and struck him on his head. Then: only blackness and a blissful silence.
…
Dennis O’Conner felt like he had been through hell. His body ached in ways he could never have imagined. He’d give anything for a cup of hot coffee and a good night’s rest. He had been through almost twenty straight hours of climbing, digging, falling, lifting, and climbing up again. His clothes were torn, and he couldn’t tell if the blood on his shirt was his or someone else’s. So far, the rescuers had only found a handful of survivors; few would make it. They had found plenty of bodies, parts at least. The lucky ones were somewhat intact. Most were just pieces of meat attached by tendon and gristle.
He felt his sweat under layers of clothing and protective gear mixing with the sub-freezing air. The big man, who was known for his equally big smile, rested for a moment on a large piece of broken concrete jutting from the putrid mass of rubble. He had been on duty at the firehouse when the first call came in and was on the first truck to respond. The moment he laid eyes on the massive smoldering hole that had been the beautiful station, he drew a sharp breath of gratitude for his many years of training.
He remembered the voices of the old craggy firefighters at the academy drilling the tenets of disaster response over and over. Some had been at the Pentagon on 9/11. The trainees at the academy sat around for hours listening to the stories as though they were being told urban legends or tall tales. It was too big, too frightening to imagine that they would one day see the same things.
Dennis’s radio crackled and brought him back to the present. “Dennis, you copy?”
“Yea, I’m here,” he coughed.
“Get your ass back here; you’ve been out there way too long. The rapid response teams are already deploying. The area is still too unstable for anyone to be out there at less than a hundred percent.”
“I’m fine. I’ll come back in at sunrise. I need to be out here.”
“Fine. You’ve got two hours; then you’re back here. Got it?”
“Copy, two hours ’til sunrise.” Dennis replied as he trudged back into the debris.
…
Fifty feet beneath the mass of twisted steel, rebar, and concrete, little Malachi began to wake. He descended from a dreamless sleep into a blissful fog. For a moment, he thought he was in bed at home, listening to Mother and Father shuffling around downstairs, making breakfast before church. Then reality flooded his mind he became overwhelmed by the fear and panic. He screamed into complete blackness; he screamed as loud and long as he could, until his screams dissolved into violent sobbing. After an eternity, the worst of the panic subsided and his tears and breathing slowed.
Malachi was in pain, but not a pain with which he was familiar; rather, this agony came from every inch of his physical being and exploded into his soul. Malachi blinked again and again in the darkness, but could see nothing but stars floating in his dazed vision. He smelled the ash from smoldering fires, and he tasted blood, dirt, and ice. Malachi’s right leg was pinned; any attempt to move it resulted in pain so intense his body convulsed in shock. He could not move his right arm, and any attempts caused more suffering. He felt around his head with his left hand; it was wet all over, he could only assume with blood. He gently cupped his hand over one ear; light and pain exploded in his head. He sobbed a while longer, then darkness took hold again.
…
He awoke sometime later. Had it been only a few minutes? A day? Malachi couldn’t tell. The pain remained, but his fear had withered enough for him to get his bearings and assess his situation. He felt cautiously around the small space where he was confined. His left side was up against a concrete wall, and to his right he could feel stone about two feet away. He could just reach a ceiling of cold steel above him.
Malachi continued to search. His hand grazed a familiar and soft fabric. The backpack! It had been on his shoulder when the explosions began. It now lay just beside him, partially buried. He strained to pull it close. Finally, it gave and he cradled the limp dusty bag. It was a good sign.
He managed to free the main zipper and felt around inside. He’d packed a small juice pouch, he remembered, a granola bar and Father’s King James Bible. He inhaled the bar and drained the little pouch of apple juice before realizing it should have been rationed. He held the Bible to his chest and screamed again for his parents; only darkness and silence replied.
…
Dennis balanced himself on some bent rebar in the middle of the debris. It was his third consecutive shift and he was really feeling it now. The rescuers were making progress, but every gain took a physical toll. Two more survivors had been pulled, one at hour twenty-five and another at hour twenty-seven. Both had been severely wounded, dehydrated, and almost hypothermic…but alive. It had now been thirty hours since the attack. It was almost Christmas.
…
Malachi was dying. He floated in and out of consciousness; each time, waking became harder. The nightmare would reveal itself as reality, the pain would return, and he would sob. He prayed for water, warmth, and salvation as he wiped the frozen tears from his face. All he could do was repeat Isa 60:19 over and over in the dark and hope his parents would come to save him.
…
The echo of tapping sounded like it was coming from miles away. Malachi first dismissed the noise as random clatter from the shifting pile of rubble. But the sound became rhythmic: tap tap-tap tap-tap tap…tap tap-tap tap-tap tap. Someone was there! He tried to yell but all he could muster was a shrill screech. After a few attempts, he realized it was no use. He reached around and found a small chuck of concrete which had broken from the wall beside him. He banged the rock against the ceiling of his makeshift tomb: tap tap-tap tap-tap tap.
There was no response; the silence dragged on and on. He banged the rock harder: tap tap-tap tap-tap tap! He waited, trying not to breathe or move. Suddenly, a response: tap tap-tap tap-tap tap. Malachi summoned all the energy he could and tapped out the pattern one last time before blacking out again.
…
Dennis had been the first to hear the feeble sounds from deep below. A separate crew was working 20 feet away tapping rhythms on the most significant metal supports to maximize dispersion. Dennis had his ear pressed to ice cold steel when he heard the faintest tapping. It was the same pattern the crew was making, but seemed more distant, more imperfect. He yelled to the others, “Stop! I hear something!” Hundreds froze. Dennis put his ear back to the metal and opened his mouth to improve his hearing even the slightest. The pattern came back, this time stronger, with more authority.
“I got one! I need help here!”
…
Five hours and 40 feet of steel and concrete later, they could see the boy below, pinned beneath a massive piece of concrete. The crew could not move the slab or the surrounding rubble without risking crushing the child they had worked so hard to reach.
Dennis was closest to the boy. The blond-haired child was unconscious, but he could see steam from the boy’s breath in the flashlight. Dennis cracked open a few heat packs and threw them through a small gap in the rubble.
Dennis peered at the boy through the hole. One of the child’s legs was smashed under the largest slab and his right arm was pinned beneath him at a sickening angle. His head was caked with dried and frozen blood. “How the hell is this kid alive?” Dennis mumbled to himself. A veteran rescuer with one of the rapid response teams overheard him.
“There’s no logic to it. Sometimes people get small wounds and die from the panic. Others survive for days with critical injuries. Call it the will to live, or just God’s will. I’ll tell you this, though: if we manage to get this kid out of here alive, it’ll be one hell of a Christmas miracle.”
Dennis grunted. “Ah shit, it’s Christmas, isn’t it? Damn near forgot.” He looked down at the boy. “Come on little guy, hang in there. I’m coming for you.”
…
Three hours later, they reached him. The boy’s pulse was poor and his breathing shallow, but he was more-or-less stable. The rescuers did their best to structurally support the small space; it took another hour to jack the block crushing the boy’s legs. There wasn’t room for a stretcher, so the crew decided to carry the boy out. After so many hours of exposure, every moment counted.
Dennis lifted the frail child into his arms. He was shocked at how light the boy felt, even after the exertion of the last two days. With great care, he crawled out of the tunnel, nestling the child against his chest and whispering, “Stay with me, little man. Stay with me.” Halfway up, Dennis looked down at the bloody child in his arms; this time, the child looked back.
…
Malachi was in a dream. He floated in the arms of a large-winged beast—an angel, the great and powerful ones of which his mother and father had spoken. He was dead, he was sure of it. Now he was being carried to the kingdom of heaven. Malachi’s pain and fear faded; he felt only infinite joy. For the first time in days, he cried of happiness.
…
As Dennis neared the top of the wreckage, the rescuer beside him took out an American flag from her bag and draped it over the child. The hard-faced woman grunted, “I can’t find any more thermal blankets so it will have to do until we can get him into triage.”
Floodlights created a small island of day in the immense darkness of night. When Dennis came into sight, thousands erupted in cheers and applause. The noise startled the boy and woke him. Malachi looked up and saw the outline of Dennis’ face framed by a halo of brilliant white light.
“You’re an angel, aren’t you?” he whispered, before collapsing back into Dennis’ arms.
Dennis had held it together for two long days, but now he lost himself. He fell to one knee weeping over the broken and bloodied boy.
Dozens of news crews, broadcasting live to millions all around the world, captured the image: the firefighter kneeling in a crater of destruction, cradling the small bloody child wrapped in an American flag.
