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Welcome back to Ship of Fools, my satire on conspiracy theories, hoaxes, and anti-science beliefs.
Reverend Paul Lee heads for the Grand Canyon after disembarking the Anóitoi. He’s looking forward to the annual raft trip he leads exploring the rapid creation of this remarkable geological feature, but his journey takes an unexpected and perilous turn.
REVEREND Paul Lee maneuvered his electric sedan around the sweeping corners of Highway 89A in the Arizona Strip. On a long drive like this one, and through such spectacular country, he lamented having forgone the self-driving option when he bought the car. But caring for God’s Creation, rather than making driving less of a chore for himself, had been the point of the purchase. Still, it was an effort to keep his eyes on the road, especially as more exposures of the East Kaibab Monocline revealed themselves on the descent toward the Colorado River, just the first of many rock layers demonstrating the wonder — and awesome brevity — of God’s handiwork that he and the passengers on the upcoming raft trip would experience over a five-day trip.
Still, it was going to be a relief to reach Lee’s Ferry and set up camp for the night. He’d stepped off the Anóitoi at just six that morning and now it was late afternoon. Good thing he’d scheduled an extra day at the campground near the put-in, time he would spend preparing his personal gear, sorting the educational packets for the guests on the trip, and going over notes for his lectures — or Creation Talks, as he liked to call them.
The cruise had been productive, except for his missed opportunity to fully engage with Elizabeth Dare and Lonnie Ester. He’d hoped to buttonhole both of them at least once more during the trip. While he held out little hope of persuading Dare to take Creation Science seriously, he did see some prospects for pushing the billionaire more toward caring for the people of Earth and for their only God-given home. Perhaps both were too blinded by materialism, a belief that reduced both humans and the Earth to mere physical processes, and therefore subject to exploitation free of any moral or ethical concerns. He felt he still had to try, but then both had disappeared in the night, along with the flat-earther, Sarge Marshall.
And Ester had called him a “young-earther,” as if he were on a par with those who believed in a vast, millennia-long conspiracy to hide Earth’s true shape from a gullible populace. The irony was, he’d put considerable effort into dissuading his flock from a variety of false beliefs, from the flat-earth nonsense to geocentrism to fears of a global Jewish conspiracy, and especially the more recent fantasies of QAnon and its long train of conspiracist progeny. Why so many in his community were susceptible to such phantasms was difficult to understand, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. With the secular world having proved itself unworthy of trust, any belief that held itself up against that fallen order must offer a powerful alternative for those who saw their Truth shunned at every turn.
This was the Truth he would teach his flock on the upcoming raft trip, one based on solid, empirical science, unblinded by any assumptions of naturalism or gradualism, and conducted by some of the sharpest minds in geology and astronomy. That the facts revealed by these experts conformed to a literal reading of the Bible was hardly surprising. The Holy Book was God’s own Truth revealed, so how could accurate, unbiased science find anything else?
The inerrancy of the Bible was the bedrock of his faith. Admit that even one word was not literally true, and soon one would begin to question the miracles of Moses and Jesus and even the Resurrection itself. And the Resurrection was the entire point, the only shield between humanity and its vengeful, homicidally insane Creator. For Reverend Paul loved Jesus, but he feared and sometimes even loathed his Savior’s wrathful Father — a feeling he kept entirely to himself.
Thus, the urgency of his pastoral work, saving as many souls as he could from the horror and misery foretold in Revelations. He didn’t pretend to know when the End Times would come, but the angry patriarch who lorded over the Old Testament had consigned 99.9 percent of humanity, not to mention the same proportion of his sentient terrestrial Creation, to death by drowning. There was little doubt He’d do similar, and worse, again. Humanity’s only hope was in the loving embrace of Jesus Christ, the good cop to His Father’s bad cop in this crime-and-punishment saga.
So Reverend Paul had centered his ministry, first in his webcast and then in his televised teachings, on the kinder, gentler aspects of Christ’s message, emphasizing the first chapters of the New Testament. The approach had proved quite popular for an Evangelical community still recovering from its dance with the Trumpian devil and one too many culture wars. His flock had grown to multitudes that surprised even himself, so much so that these raft trips usually filled quickly. This one had elicited less interest, no doubt due to it being held in the off-season for Grand Canyon rafting, a choice the reverend was now beginning to regret.
Global warming was encouraging more raft trips at this time of year, but even still, the water flowing from the depths of Lake Powell would be just as cold as ever, and the air temperatures would hardly be what you could call warm. That, and the low angle of the sun would keep much of the river and its banks in shade. It would be a far different experience from the spring and fall trips he’d organized — more of a focus on sheer survival, but also an opportunity to meditate on God’s glorious Creation without the crowds of other rafters common in the more popular seasons, some of whom had been quite rude when they realized the purpose of his own group.
One other drawback of the trip’s timing: none of the experts he usually brought along had been willing to commit to a trip at this time of year, so he would be providing all the technical information himself. He’d read enough, and heard their talks often enough, that he felt he could do a decent job of pinch-hitting for them, but it was still one more detail that would make this outing less comfortable than those in the past.
He said a little prayer, putting his apprehensions about the trip’s challenges in Jesus’ hands, and tried to concentrate on the drive and the Lord’s work laid out so clearly before him. The Vermilion Cliffs were just coming into view, glowing a deep orange in the westering sun. The road was surprisingly busy for the time of year. A black SUV had been behind him for miles now, and once a Jeep passed him at an incautious speed for the two-lane road. Maybe another raft trip was putting in tomorrow, or maybe this was the evening commute in the area.
He arrived in Marble Canyon and stopped for bottled water at the gas station (the campground water having a strong metallic taste), glad he no longer needed to pump gas. He’d charge his car at the campground. One less thing to remember at the end of the trip. On his way in to the convenience store, he noticed the Jeep that had passed him parked by the air pump, along with another vehicle, the drivers chatting with their windows rolled down, tattooed arms resting on the window frames.
Back in the car, he took a moment to call his wife, Joanie, and the kids, since cell service at the campground was spotty. As he chatted with them, he spotted the black SUV that had been following him parked across the road at a fishing charter outfit. It was hard to miss, being matte black with dark-tinted windows. It was quitting time; maybe the charter company also had a bar.
Thinking no more about it, he said goodnight to Joanie and the kids, then pulled onto Lee’s Ferry Road, trying not to gape at the spectacular red cliffs and the well-named Cathedral Rock — if not a sign from the Lord that man should worship Him and all His Creation, then what was it?
A few miles later, he pulled into the campground, paid the iron ranger for a spot for two nights, then drove around the loop and backed into his site. He would pull over to the charging station once he had everything unloaded. But first he took a moment to take in his surroundings. The campground was nearly empty, with only one other spot occupied at the far end of the loop. Backed up against a set of rugged, eroding cliffs, with the Vermilion Cliffs in the distance and jagged peaks across the river, the setting was dramatic, though the campground itself was rather bleak, its few young shade trees bare now with the approach of winter, the sparse shrubs likewise dormant, and the native grasses all turned to brown. The Colorado River itself didn’t look like much — preposterous to think it could ever have carved something as gargantuan as the Grand Canyon.
He set about the work of unloading his camping gear and had his head buried in the trunk when several loud vehicles entered the campground. By the time he looked up, four trucks and Jeeps, the matte-black SUV leading, had stopped in a semi-circle around his campsite, blocking not only his car’s exit, but also any view from the campsites across the loop — not that anyone was around to witness whatever was about to happen.
He tried to relax, telling himself these must be local fishing guides selling their services, or maybe people working with Tom, the rafting guide whose company he always hired, though none of them looked familiar from past trips. He knew he was clutching at very slim straws.
Two men climbed out of the Jeep, men with shaved, stubbly heads and neck tattoos — the ones from the cruise. They openly carried sidearms at their hips. Another man, this one more normal-looking, with a close-cropped beard and carefully trimmed hair, emerged from the passenger seat of the black SUV.
“Reverend Paul Lee?”
“That’s right. How can I help you?”
“Well, Reverend Lee, seems Jake and Bulldog already tried to make you a proposal, back on the cruise.”
It was true, they had accosted him once or twice more on board the Anóitoi, but had given up, leaving him to enjoy the last days of the cruise in peace. By now, he’d almost put them out of his mind.
“They say you weren’t too amenable, so I thought I’d try my own hand at persuasion.”
“If it’s anything like the hateful bile these two were spouting, you can forget it.”
“It’s true, they can be a tad aggressive, but I wouldn’t call it hateful bile, more just looking out for our own kind — decent, white, Christian folk. Now please, get in the back and we’ll be on our way.” He opened the rear door of the SUV and held it open.
“Do I have a choice?” He’d heard one should never allow kidnappers to force one into a car, that one should yell and resist and do everything possible to avoid falling under their power. But what good would it do? With the vehicles blocking his view, he couldn’t see if the neighboring campers were around, and what could they do if he yelled? There had never been much of a ranger presence at this spot, and especially not once it became part of the Zone and federal authority had been removed.
“Not really. If you resist, no one’s around to help you.”
“Very well. Can I bring a daypack?”
“You won’t be needing it. If everything goes smoothly you’ll be back here in no time.”
He sighed, seeing that he had little choice. He walked docilely to the vehicle and climbed in, waiting for the fellow to close the door for him. It was only when the kidnapper reached for his arm and clapped a handcuff around his wrist, attaching the other end to the door grip, that he realized the depths to which his faith was about to be tested.
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Things are looking grim for Reverend Paul. Do you think he’ll find a way to escape? Failing that, who will come to the rescue?
Next up: Chapter 15, “Over the Line,” in which the Fool’s Gold crosses the Equator and Liz tries to get Sarge to explain why the stars are different down here.
If only gut feelings shouted louder!