John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

Hold On To Your Hat

Another shot rang out. Fletcher Howard had managed to squeeze off yet another round. This one almost found its target, actually grazing the outside of John's left ankle  but his adrenaline infused body never felt it. He reached back into a basket that had been lined with pitch. In it was a torch made from a tree branch wrapped in at-shirt soaked in, of all things, Kava and thick, black oil. The plan was to light the torch, throw it into the swirling dust storm and ignite the micro particles and anything standing in it. Every once in a while,the news would report on an unfortunate tragedy involving a grain elevator that hadn't been properly ventilated. Seems that when superfine wheat dust reaches a certain critical dust-to-air ratio, a certain density, it creates optimal conditions for a very dangerous event. A spark would inadvertently be introduced by some poor unsuspecting sap and set off an incendiary chain reaction capable of taking out entire small towns. Others have documented this physical reaction on a much smaller, yet lethal scale using non-dairy coffee creamer agitated by a fan in a 55-gallon drum. When ignited, those micro-fine particles react like a cannon. YouTube is filled with idiots finding out the hard way just how big of an explosion it can produce. Knowing that does put a certain thrill into your morning coffee. Well, that was the idea behind John's plan. Except he miscalculated one thing. To get the correct amount of solids to remain airborne, a great deal of wind needed to be generated. The same great deal of wind that was now preventing him from keeping his torch lit. Each time he would raise a burning torch and approach the dust storm it failed to stay lit. At his third attempt and subsequent failure, he raised his head in frustration. It was then he saw an object in the sky. It made no sound but was in the shape of a small airplane. It quickly came into view, flying directly over the elder's nautilus formation and was making a beeline towards the ever-growing dust bowl.

"Oh my God, it's Sam!" Em shouted. It was Sam, about 200 feet up and draped in his sacred Sponge Bob-Square Pants robe. Around his neck were the coveted neon, glow-in-the-dark rave necklaces the villagers were so fond of, on each of his fingers, glistening ruby-red ring pops adorned each knuckle. And what self-respecting royal would venture out without the finishing touch of a hot pink, 'We're # 1' foam finger crown perched atop his head?

"He's flying...a plane... that doesn't fly," a befuddled Em exclaimed "It's a prop! A bamboo prop. That's... impossible!"

"Pretty sure he doesn't think so," Professor Wharton remarked.

Slung around Sam's neck was his goatskin satchel that housed many of the vintage artifacts he'd picked up over the years, many from the servicemen and women that had abruptly left so long ago. One such article was Sam's magical fire box. It was an old brass colored Zippo lighter. On one side the remarkably preserved red and black circle logo of Lucky Strike was still visible, on the other, a raised relief of Rita Hayworth in a polka dot two piece, her top almost completely worn off. He removed it from the bag, opened it and with his thumb, struck the wheel against the flint. One would probably think that after seventy years the chance of the lighter fluid still being fluid and that it would still be combustible were pretty slim. Considering Sam was actually flying a large-scale model airplane constructed entirely out of bamboo and jungle vines through the air tells you that Sam's operation of the immutable law of believing was firing on all cylinders and old lighter fluid was not going to be given even the slightest consideration. The spark lit the wick and its classic blue and orange tipped flame persisted even in the face of buffeting wind shears thanks to its patented stainless steel windscreen. His plan was to approach the giant dust storm from above, drop the lighter down into the swirling haze and quickly turn back, making his escape to safety.Up to that point all went according to plan. Except as he dropped his flaming magic fire box, the wind caught it and threw it back up and over his head. Sam quickly looked about but it was nowhere to be found. He felt a sudden burning on his wrist. Then on his knee. It was the hot, burning pink ooze coming from above his head, dripping down on him. The lighter had become lodged in one of the folds of his royal headdress and flames had already engulfed the raised finger portion of it. As the fire grew larger, flaming pieces of pink foam blew back and onto the tail section, igniting the 70-year-old bamboo like Carolina fatwood.

He looked back at the ever-increasing fire and quickly realized there was little he could do now. But Sam too had a plan B. He looked down over the unbroken nautilus, his birds eye view allowing him to really see the significance of its shape. Starting from the center, a seed and working its way outward, getting stronger with each ever expanding, overlapping wall until it's end. He reflected on how he had carried that nautilus pendant as long as he could remember, hoping that one day it would be complete. That day was now here. He had led a good life and had lived to see the return of his Messiah. How could anyone ask for more? He banked the bamboo plane to the left and entered into a steep dive. He began chanting loudly "USA, USA, USA..." and disappeared into the swirling mass. John and the villagers stood in horror as Sam's flaming plane dove into the thick dust. The moment he disappeared every sound was sucked out of the air producing a deafening silence you could actually feel.

 John, suddenly realizing what was about to happen, turned to Em and yelled, "Now Em, NOW!!"

In one fluid motion Em reached behind her head, drew her machete from its canvas sheath and sent it hurtling towards the thick rope vine wrapped around the large gum tree. Like watching lightning inside a distant thunderhead, a small orange flash was all the warning they would get as the machete found its target, severing the vine in one clean swoop. The entire palm frond floor beneath the nautilus suddenly let go, dumping everyone unceremoniously into the large pit she and her fellow workers had dug. A tremendous roar and bright yellow wall of flame raced across it's opening. The heat was so intense that much of everyone's hair had been singed and whatever scant clothing they wore gave off small wisps of pre-combustion smoke. The blast produced such a sonic boom that most everyone was rendered partially deaf. It was a gift however, as it served to block out the horrific screams of the few remaining Nephilim who were not fortunate enough to die instantly in the blast. John was the first to recover and scrambled over to Em to make sure she was all right. He reached out to her, cradling her head in his arms. She began to cry but then quickly got herself back in check.

"We have to check on the others," she said softly.

"Funny place to take a nap!" a voice bellowed from above. 

It was Aiden surrounded by the guys. "Come on, let's get you out of this hole. Little Em... you alright, luv?" 

He lowered a makeshift ladder and John helped each of the Elders out. Professor Wharton took his turn and paused to look at John. John wordlessly motioned for him to head up and then helped Em, following directly behind her.It was a horrific sight even with the thick smoke obscuring most of the gory details. Lying before them was a scorched, barren wasteland, much of it still on fire. Bodies and pieces of bodies were everywhere. But the worst was the smell. The smell of burning human-or more accurately- almost human- flesh was something that could never be forgotten. It so permeated the air that one could taste it in the back of the throat. They stood in silent disbelief at the degree of devastation. As far as the eye could see there was nothing left. As the winds began to shift and move the curtains of smoke, the first glimpses of Sam's smoldering wrecked plane became visible. It was nose first in the ground and had pinned what remained of Fletcher Howard's charred body, still holding his stolen rifle.

 In a sudden realization Em sighed, "Oh Sam." The sadness was overwhelming. Professor Wharton, echoing Em's sentiment, "Sam." 

Aiden reached out and put his arm on the professor's shoulder. He quickly shook it off prompting a look of surprise from the group. 

"No! Sam!" he said emphatically and pointed into the thick cloud of grey smoke. Just barely visible was the silhouette of a short, slight man making his way towards them. It was Sam- his foam finger crown reduced to a pink blob of hardened goo in his hair, his Sponge Bob Square Pants sacred robe looking anything but. He raised both arms victoriously and shouted,"Whakapono!"

"That's my bloody robe!" Aiden protested.

"Yeah," John said. "But he doesn't know that." 

John looked at Aiden, a bit of confusion on his face. "Long story."

Sam stood before the group, a huge smile on his face.

"YouTube? I be on YouTube?" He immediately launched into his spirited version of "God Bless America" accompanying himself with a display of his dancing prowess. It was quite a sight.