Glorious Appearing: The End Of Days by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins Read Free Book Online

will ya?” the soldier said, digging the other boot from a crevasse where Buck had apparently left it as he struggled free.
    Trembling, Mac tightened his fists around the boot. “A little help, huh, pal?” the soldier said, briefly turning back to the stuck boot.
    Mac took a step to get a good angle. Just as the young man freed the boot from the crack and turned toward him, Mac barkened back to his sporting days as a youth. He fired the matching boot so hard that the raider had no chance to react. The sole caught the bridge of his nose and sent him catapulting back over the wall.
    To be sure he wouldn’t have to face him again, Mac hurried through the gate. He found the young man splayed on the ground, clearly dead. He ran back in and found enough holes and protrusions to hoist himself up to where Buck lay. He wanted to do something—anything—but he could think of nothing. Whatever he did besides appearing to ransack the body would only give him away, and what would be served?
    Mac sucked in deep breaths as he surveyed Buck’s injuries, gaping wounds that left Buck in a deep pool of black blood so sticky that it had barely begun to run down the wall when it coagulated. His whole right side had been torn open, and wounds also disfigured his hip and neck.
    A bullhorn called for assignees to the potentate, and Mac knew he might be identified as an imposter if he didn’t report. As he reluctantly pulled away from Buck he prayed that the same fate had not befallen Rayford. It just wouldn’t be right if no one from the original Trib Force had survived to see the Glorious Appearing. It was four o’clock.

THREE

    DESPITE HIS SUBSTANTIAL injuries, Rayford had managed to crawl several hundred yards to an outcropping of rock. With his free hand—though its heel had been scraped raw—he somehow had scooped away enough topsoil from behind the rocks to allow himself to stretch out away from the relentless sun and beyond anyone’s view.
    He had exhausted every reserve of strength and had to trade the hope of being seen by his own people for fighting off dehydration and blood loss long enough to survive until the Glorious Appearing. He gingerly positioned his body in the shallow grave in such a way that if he lost consciousness, his gashed temple would remain pressed against his hand. Every time he thought he had stanched the blood flow long enough for it to stop pulsing, he was proven wrong when he released his palm for even an instant.
    It was a relief to be out of the sun, but the benefit of the slightly lower temperature with the topsoil gone did not last. Within half an hour Rayford’s mouth and tongue were dry, and he felt his lips swelling. He fought drowsiness, knowing that unconsciousness was his enemy. His wounds stabbed, and he worried about going into shock.
    Delirium soon followed, and Rayford daydreamed about people spotting the ATV and following the trail of blood, only to find his lifeless body being pecked at by vultures. At times he discovered he had roused himself to consciousness by singing, praying, or just babbling.
    As he stiffened and his temperature rose, he began to feel the deep pang of each injury, and he prayed God would just take him. I wanted to see it from this side of heaven, but what’s the difference? Relief, please. Relief.
    He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he could bleed to death from any wound other than the one to his temple. When it seemed everything had ebbed from him but his last breath, Rayford considered releasing his hand and letting his life’s blood slip away too. But he could not.
    He quickly lost all sense of time and had to remind himself that his watch seemed to be functioning properly, despite his fast-fading ability to focus. Rayford was stunned to see how little time had passed since he went careening. The sun was still high in the sky, but he would have bet hours had passed. It had been a mere fifty minutes.
    When he awoke groaning, he realized he had actually