Free The Brink by Austin Bunn Page B

crumpled it. That was when I realized we were talking to a Luciferian! Bo has told us so much about them, their ways of scrambling our message, that I expected his eyes to blaze + his lips to peel + show fangs. I really wanted to grab your container, Leah, + run.
    â€œThat was totally unnecessary,” I said.
    The Luciferian belched + his eye machines looked from me back to you. “And what’s up with the twinky turtleneck get-up?” Then, to himself, he muttered, “California, land of the freaks.”
    â€œThis entire world will end in two days,” you said + it was beautiful.
    Back in the van, we put our tuning forks to our heads + asked the Next Level what to do + I heard, “Return to headquarters.” “Right now?” I said into the universe, but silently. “Can’t I spend more time with Leah?” Then I swiveled my eye machines + saw you looking into the minivan beside us in the parking lot. The sliding door was open + those two twin babies, new vessels, fresh from the manufacturer, blinked in the backseat. Their mother bent over them + you waved to them in a tiny way. But the mother saw you + swung the sliding door shut.
    â€œFinish your work,” the Next Level returned, so I drove. According to my stopwatch, it had been one hundred + twenty minutes since we had launched from Rancho Santa Fe + we still hadn’t picked up the fuel for the space jump. At the Ralphs, a cashier vessel with a bumpy facepart scanned our big jars of applesauce + cases of pudding + jugs of vodka. He said, “Looks like a party—can I come?”
    I wanted to say, The invitations were given out two thousand years ago!
    â€œThe invitations were given out two thousand years ago!” I said.
    â€œNo need to shout, dude,” he said.
    â€œI wasn’t shouting,” I said.
    â€œLady,” the cashier vessel asked you, “this guy doesn’t have you against your will or anything, does he?”
    You smiled + bagged.
    But in the car, I could tell something was wrong. In the passenger seat, you watched the brush fires + hugged your legs to your chest. You left the Bible on the floor. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to bang your frequency. In the driveway, I parked + neither of us moved.
    â€œMichael, do you ever have doubts?” you said softly to the dashboard. This close, your facepart was a sun that I couldn’t look into.
    â€œDoubts?” I said.
    â€œDoubts about the Gate,” you said. “About us going.”
    Leah: we all have spirits—memories + hopes + addictions + behaviors rattling around in our containers like sneakers in a dryer. They are the additions + we need to subtract them + get empty. My Spirit List is long: you, mainly, then my father then Boulder Colorado + my old programming job . . . These spirits make the doubts about the Gate + doubts are how the Luciferians win. They’ll tether you here to the earth to endure the recycling. To fit through the window in the sky , Bo teaches, you have to let go of everything that you are carrying. Nobody said it would be easy to get the scales to zero.
    â€œSpirits make doubts—” I said, but you said, “Never mind,” + suddenly you were light years from me.
    Inside the mansion, you walked straight to the SpiritRoom to decontaminate, which I thought was a good idea. We needed time apart. I took the grocery bags to the kitchen + hovered in front of the computers, each one blinking, “Red alert! Hale-Bopp is coming!” in an important font. I could hear Brian in the den recording his testimony for the video camera. Did you read his screenplay Beyond Human , which will change the world after we leave? It is 422 pages about Bo’s emergency landing on the planet, how the away team created Jesus + the other vessels + what happens after the long war of earth living is finally over. It’s so big Brian bound it with six-inch screws. Brian