Free Fuse of Armageddon by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff Page B

I’m trying to get something straight in my head. Because I’ve really been thinking hard about what you said about the two hundred million bodies and how it will take all of the blood from all the bodies squeezed dry.”
    “Revelation tells us there is a great winepress,” Silver said, clearly irritated, “and that the blood came out of the winepress.”
    “Incredible,” Safady said yet again. “All two hundred million bodies get fed through a winepress to be squeezed of their blood?”
    “It’s not something I spend much time visualizing,” Silver said. “If we could move on . . .”
    “Did you see the news coverage of the tsunami a few years ago?” Safady asked. “It took weeks to dispose of only thousands of bodies. How long would it take to move two hundred million bodies to and through the winepress? That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Even at the rate of one body per second—which I think we would agree would be a mind-boggling logistical accomplishment—that would only be sixty bodies per minute, thirty-six hundred bodies per hour, and from what I’ve calculated in the last few minutes—” Safady’s brow furrowed as he briefly paused—“maybe eighty thousand bodies every day. Make it one hundred thousand bodies for even math. To squeeze blood from two hundred million dead bodies at that incredible rate would still take a minimum of two thousand days, or roughly five and a half years. Even then, I don’t think it would produce a high enough minute-by-minute volume of blood for a river four and a half feet high by twenty-five feet wide.”
    “I find this very macabre,” Silver said. “We need not contemplate—“
    “But earlier I heard a chorus of amens and hallelujahs when you described the two hundred million killed and all of their blood forming a river,” Safady said. He heard his voice begin to rise. Keep control of your anger, he reminded himself. Take satisfaction in what you are about to inflict on these people.
    He continued, forcing calm upon himself. “I heard joy as you had us contemplate the horrible deaths of liberals and gays and Arabs and Muslims who will be left behind. I find that just as macabre as wondering about God’s method of accomplishing this.”
    “The unjust will pay the price,” Silver said.
    “Amen!” an elderly woman shouted in Safady’s ear.
    “So you’re telling me that Jesus is going to return and spend His first five and a half years supervising the logistics of squeezing dead bodies of all their blood?” Safady asked. “Is that what Revelation tells us?”
    “Are you questioning the Word of God?”
    “I just want to know where the river of blood comes from. If that prophecy is not accurate, what else about your prophecies is mistaken?”
    “The truth is in the literal words of the Bible, young man,” Jonathan Silver said sternly. “When I hear you questioning that truth, I hear you questioning God. All the others around you hear that same lack of faith. I don’t appreciate it. I’m sure they don’t.”
    The predictable applause, amens, and hallelujahs followed.
    “Questioning your understanding of the Bible is questioning God?” Safady said, feeling the heat rise inside again.
    “Enough,” Silver snapped. “Does anyone else want the tour to continue?”
    More applause was directed at Silver and dark glances at Safady. These were scornful looks that gave Safady great satisfaction. Soon enough they would learn he was an Arab Muslim; soon enough they would learn to hate him much, much more. But all that hatred would be nothing compared to the hatred he had carried for them for years.
    He glanced at his watch. It was almost time.
    “If you will look over there,” Silver said, “you will see where the armies from the north are going to flood into the valley. Century after century of battles have been fought here. Napoleon once came and tasted defeat.”
    Silver spun on the large rock that was his stage and pointed in