Free 2012 by Whitley Strieber Page A

scream outside repeated. It was a human sound, and involved such extraordinary anguish that everyone in the church screamed with it, a roaring agony that, in embracing it, only made it more terrible. Children collapsed, their mothers going down with them. Ron Biggs of Biggs John Deere, fourth generation in tractors, emptied his twelve-gauge into the ceiling, a Remington notched with the lives of forty-one bucks and happy days.
    As bits of plaster and angels and clouds rained down, a hideous scraping sound slid along the shingles, ending with a thud in the side yard.
    Silence, then, followed by little Kimberly Wilson singing: “A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go, heigh-ho the derry-o…” until her mother hushed her.
    Total silence. This was not what they had been expecting. Now, a murmur among the congregation. Bobby looked to Martin. “Any idea?” Martin shook his head. This wasn’t supposed to involve people being dropped onto roofs, but that’s what it had sounded like. “Doctor,” Bobby said, “let’s you and I go out and take a look around.”
    Rose said, “No!”
    “Rose, I-“
    “Bobby, no! You stay in here.”
    There was a silent look between them. She knew Bobby’s duty, and finally turned away, her eyes swimming.
    Bobby and Doctor Willerson crossed the room, went out the vestry door. The body-if that’s what it was-had fallen down that side of the church.
    The congregation stood in silence, waiting, some bowed in prayer, other people simply staring.
    When they returned a moment later, the doctor said into the silent, watching faces, “I believe it is Mayor Tarr. He’s dead from a fall. He had a rifle. I believe he was on the roof trying to defend us, and lost his footing.”
    Peg fainted.
    As Ginger Forester and her boyfriend, Lyndon Lynch, who had been sitting with her, moved to help, there came more screaming, fainter, but from many more throats.
    One of the other groups was under attack. Bobby went to the main door, opened it for a moment, then returned. “It’s Saint Peter’s,” he announced.
    Mal Holmes said, “This is insane! What are we doing just waiting like this. Tarr had a point, let’s go outside, let’s put up a fight. For God’s sake, let’s fight!”
    “Our fight is in our prayers,” Reg shouted.
    Mrs. James cried out loudly, then, and shook her fist, a gesture that must have been repeated billions upon billions of times on earth over these past terrible weeks.
    “I want to read now,” Reg called out. “I have a text. And then we will pray. We will pray all night and the children can sleep in the pews.”
    “No way am I going to sleep,” Trevor said.
    “Me neither!” Winnie added.
    “Okay, kids, hush,” Lindy whispered.
    Winnie pulled on Martin’s pant leg. “I’m real thirsty,” she whispered.
    “I’ve, uh-oh, it’s in the street,” Lindy said. “When that thing-“
    “We have plenty,” Jim said, producing a bottle of Ayers water.
    “This is from the Book of Isaiah,” Reg announced. “Listen to this. Isaiah fifty-five, you can turn to it in the pew Bibles, it’s page four hundred and thirty-five.” He read, “‘So shall you summon a nation you knew not, and nations that knew you not shall run to you, because of the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, who has glorified you. Seek the Lord while he may be found, call him while he is near. Let the scoundrel forsake his way, and the wicked man his thoughts; let him turn to the Lord for mercy; to our God, who is generous in forgiving.’”
    At that moment, the lights went out. There was a roar from the whole congregation, ringing loud, shrill with terror.
    “Let us pray,” Reg called into the din. “LET US PRAY!” Voices dropped, flashlights came on.
    But there also came another light, crawling along the tops of the stained glass windows of the birth, youth, and ministry of Jesus that lined the west wall.
    Martin watched, unable to turn away, transfixed with horrified fascination.
    As