Fear knots in my stomach—fear that won't leave—can't be pacified. Fire rages from the woods where the vindictive lightening has attacked through the rain. I scream his name in agonizing terror. I whisk through the rain. Searching. Searching. Searching...

Then I stop, my heart attacking my chest. I bend down and retrieve the sopping clothes, clutching them against me. His denim overalls, his white tee-shirt, a pair of sunglasses. Even his shoes.
    

“Where is my husband?” I scream. But there is nothing—only the satanic roaring of the thunder, sounding much like a lion roaring over his victim. And the constant beating of the rain, like the final drums that are played before death. The fire cracking and devouring the once beautiful woods, its flames like the very pits of Hell.
   

I fall to the ground, crumpling up into a ball. I didn't want to believe it—how could I after all these years of mocking my husband's beliefs? No. That couldn't be it. This couldn't be the end of the world—could it?
    

The rain ceases nearly instantly. The earth is enveloped within an enigmatic stillness that brings chills to my body. I stand looking through the dark fog that has taken its place. Eyes seem to be glaring at me—everywhere I look there seems to be a malignant wickedness without reins to hold it back.
    

“God, help me!” I howl. But there is no righteousness here. There is no chance of redemption. No salvation that my husband was so confident in.
    

The fog closes in around me, consuming me in its blackness. I run, but the beauty in my land is doomed to a horrifying eeriness. But I don't care—just got to get away. Anywhere. Someplace away from this cursed nightmare of unrealistic happenings. My husband's words come back to me, from some distant memory pushed back into the far corners of my mind. I shove them away—try to forget them. It's nonsense. It was nonsense yesterday; it must be nonsense today. But the words keep surfacing... Keep whispering in my ear... Keep telling me in that lethal voice that it's too late—that after six thousand years the world has finally come to an end. “My dear,” he'd said, his eyes quite suddenly sad, “there will come a day when you will be alone. You will be friendless in a world of prevailing wickedness. You will be captive and slave to the Mark of the Beast.” He'd paused there, touching my cheek, blinking back the tears. Then he'd whispered very quietly, “The Lord will come, my dear. And you will be counted amongst the lost.”
    

I close my eyes, gripping the clothes closer to me, shaking my head against the truth. I try to block out the words... Try to stop them...
    

But they came, nonetheless, until finally I just stood here—not running, not even trying to escape. “You my dear, will suffer seven years of tribulation. You will be left behind...”