I counted thirty, maybe forty reporters all lined up on the sidewalk. I don't think anyone would be stupid enough to try and trespass. After standing at the back of the small crowd for a minute, I attempted to push my way through to get the frontmost position.

    I got maybe three people in when those in front started to bind together, blocking me from getting any further. Being just a half of foot taller than most of the people here, I noticed that a woman wearing a baseball cap had the frontmost position, right at the edge of the sidewalk where it meets the dirt path.

    Somebody poked something in my back and I turned. A man with a microphone was trying to get through and those around me shoved me back against him. I started to complain, but another reporter started yelling.

    "Hey!" A man in yellow pants said. "Hey! I see blinds opening! I think he's coming out!" The shoving stopped and movement all around stopped. The reporters' and journalists' chatter stopped and everything, and this is the eerie part, everything, was silent. No birds squawked the morning song, no dogs yapped, or cats chattered. Plus, my thoughts seemed to have stopped altogether.

    All was dead.

    We all watched as each window, one at a time, became stripped of the drapes and blinds and opened, letting in the morning sun and cool air. Mr. Bails (as I assumed that's who it was) started on the third floor and it took him about five minutes to go through the large house and make sure the windows were open.

    He must be coming out next, I thought. And so did the others. With one fluid motion, the group of us moved forward in anticipation.

    The oak door to the house finally did open and a thin man, mostly wrinkles, stood in red shorts in the doorway. His hair was still in it's good brown condition. I wondered how his health was at the moment, at 45. He raised his boney hand and showed us his palm.

    "Stop. Do not move further." His voice cracked like dust and sand had been in his throat for years.

     We stopped. No one had gained more than five feet and no one in the back, including me, had moved more than one foot.

    "I will talk to one," Mr. Bails said.

    Slowly, each reporter raised his and her hand. Some around me raised both of their hands, perhaps to double their chances. I strained my neck just to get a better look at Mr. Bails, to remember a good description to put in my article.

    And then he chose.

    He pointed to us, but that didn't tell us who the one was. Mr. Bails moved his finger around and ended up somewhere near me, as far as I could tell.

     "You," he said. "In the back. The tall one."

     I looked around. There was no one taller than me, so I gathered he meant me. I waved my way through the crowd, hearing murmurs of me being "lucky". As I made the trek to the house, I felt the eyes of all the reporters and journalists boring into my back, hating me. I won't get the first story, I could already hear them complaining, I am going to have to settle for the scraps and the useless information. Who's going to read my article? But I felt no sympathy. This was my time and I was going to take advantage of it.

    Mr. Bails stepped aside and I walked past, into his house. He followed me in and he shut the door without a sound. Not even a clap or a click.

    "Good morning," Mr. Bails said calmly. "My name is Harold Bails, as you may have already known."

    "I did." I glanced at a painting on the wall and read the inscription on the brass plate. The First Circle. "My name is Jack Williams."

    "Of which paper?"

    "The 'Burbian Gazette."

    Mr. Bails thought for a second. "Don't believe I've read it." He waved the thought away. "Oh, well. Please, come with me into the study."

    On the way to the study, I saw to other paintings, each entitled The Second Circle and The Third Circle, respectively. The wood paneling in the foyer matched that in the hall. It was honey gold and very shiny. The lights from the hallway shone into the wood and I could nearly see my reflection.

    We reached the study and my mouth dropped open. It wasn't a study exactly, but a library with a high ceiling. Something ornate was painted on the ceiling, but I couldn't tell what it was. Each wall, even over the door, was covered in shelves and shelves of books of different sizes and colors. In the center of the room sat two leather chairs and a coffee table. On the right, immediately after the door, a bar took up about ten feet. But still, there were books behind the bar. One peculiar thing I did notice was that there were no windows.

    The only way in, or out of this room was through the door. And that, in turn led to a roomless hallway which brought you to the foyer. From there, other parts of the house could be accessed I was sure.

    Mr. Bails must like his privacy.

    I continued my gaze upward.

    "Recognize the inspiration?" Mr. Bails asked, making me jump. In my observations, Mr. Bails had moved behind the bar.

    I shook my head.

    "That's called The Fourth Circle. You probably saw the first, second, and third circles on your way in."

    "From Dante, right?"

    Mr. Bails smiled and nodded.

    "I see you've kept up with literature."

    "I just remember from high school, that's all."

    Mr. Bails indicated to one of the chairs.

    "Please sit. Would you like a drink?"

    I smoothed my pants and sat down. "No thanks.

    "You may want a stiff drink after what I have to tell you," he said, laughing.

    "All right, then."

    As he made two bourbons, I asked: "How did you support yourself for twenty years?"

    "I acquired a handsome inheritance that left me bored and in search of meaning."

    "And what did you find?"

    "Simply, Jack Williams, that I am the Messiah."

    I felt woozy and my face dropped twenty degrees. I leaned back on the antique chair.

    Mr. Bails came towards me with the drink in slow motion and handed me the glass with the same snail-like speed and he sat down across from me even slower. I think I was ill.

    "Are you all right?" Mr. Bails asked.

    "Yeah, fine."

    "Aren't you glad for the stiff drink now?"

     "Pleased." It could have been motor oil, and I still would have drank it. The bourbon burned my throat and I coughed three times, then finished the drink. "Thanks."

    Mr. Bails sat back and crossed his legs. "What do you think?" I coughed again. "About you being the Messiah?" He nodded.

    "I don't know. It's very unbelievable."

    "Is it?" Mr. Bails took a drink of his own. "Do you believe in God, Mr. Williams?"

    "Yes."

    "Do you believe that I talked to God?"

    "Honestly, no."

    "Do you believe that anyone ever has talked to God?"

    "I couldn't say." And I really didn't know what to say. "God is an entity. A being that is carried within our souls and hearts."

    Leaning forward, Mr. Bails said, "I assure you that God in not surreal and not an entity. God is very much real, like you and me sitting here discussing Him."

    "And He chose you to be the Messiah?"

    "That is correct."

    "Why?"

    "I didn't ask why.

    There's no reason to ask why. He's God." Suddenly, I remembered my tape recorder. I pulled it out of my pocket and checked the tape. It didn't matter: it wasn't even on.

    Mr. Bails looked at my hands. "Don't worry about that. You'll remember what you need to print."

    "Twenty years ago," I was just beginning to get my confidence back. "You said you were going to find the answers. Did you?"

    "I sure did."

    "And what were the questions?"

    "Questions of life, mortality, and the future of the human race." "Then what were the answers?"

    Mr. Bails stood up and walked over to the bar. "Another drink?"

    "No."

    He poured himself another while I frustratedly waited.

    "The answers Mr. Williams," Mr. Bails said, "are contained in the destruction of the world." "I'm afraid I don't understand."

    "I didn't expect you to. Let me see..." He lowers his head for a moment as he returns to the chair. "I am here to start the destruction of the world, as outlined in Revelations. It can't be stopped, no matter how much time there is to prepare."

    "The end of the world?" I clenched the glass in my hand. "Is this what God told you to do?" "He told me what to do, how to carry out the actions, and that's what I intend to do as The One."

    Mr. Bails peered into my eyes and I couldn't take it any more. All this talk was ludicrous. I eased up and stuck my recorder in my pocket.

    "Listen, this interview is over," I said.

    "I don't see how you can consider yourself the Messiah and still talk about the end of the world."

     "Did you ever stop to think that maybe that's what the Messiah was always intended to do?"

    "Good-bye, Mr. Bails." I walked out of the study and through the hall and paused at the door. Behind me, I heard Harold Bails yelling.

    "I am the Messiah and there's no denying that Jack Williams! Be careful of your own soul my young friend, when He requests your presence up above! You can be frightened all you want...you can't stop it!"

    I whipped open the door and ran hard all the way to my car. Some of the reporters who remained tried to ask me questions, but I warned them not to get in my way. They didn't.

    Lynn greeted me at the door of Chick's when I walked in. She always looked pretty, every time I saw her.

    "Hi there, Jack," she said.

    I grunted something and found my booth at the corner of the restaurant. Lynn personally brought over a glass of water and a cup of coffee for me and I thanked her. She sat across from me and extended her smooth legs out into the aisle.

    "What's wrong, Jack?" She asked.

    "What makes you think there's something wrong?"

    "Your pale, Jack. And I've never seen you pale."

    "Just ill, that's all." I avoided Lynn's eyes and I think that's what gave me away.

    "There's more," Lynn said.

    "Now fess up."

    And so I told her everything. About Mr. Bails being the Messiah. About how I wanted a front page story so badly. What he plans to do. About his neighbor. The answers he sought. Everything. When I was done, Lynn sighed.

    "And did you believe him?" Lynn asked.

    "I don't know. I just don't know any more." I finished the coffee and laid down a dollar. "He sounded so convincing."

    Lynn put her hand on my forearm.

    "Go home and rest. Sleep on it. When you wake up, I'm sure you'll find that it was just a fantasy. Perhaps even a joke from your boss." I nodded.

    "Yeah, rest. That should help." I got up and pecked Lynn on the cheek.

    "Thanks, Lynn." "Feel better." And I did go home. And I did rest. I slept for seven hours and when I woke up, I knew what I had to accomplish.

    Mr. Bails was coming out of his house when I strolled up the sidewalk. He was dressed in a suit jacket and a pair of brown slacks. He wore tennis shoes and a checkered tie. When he saw me, he waved. All that smugness stirred my anger.

    "Hello, Jack. Returning, I see."

    "Where are you going?" I asked.

    "I'm ready to start the end of the world," he responded.

    "I came to ask you a favor," I said.

    "If it's about not ending the world, I'm afraid I can't do that."

    "No, it has nothing to do with that."

    "All right, what's your favor."

    "I would like one last interview before you leave." Mr. Bails smiled.

    "That would seem pointless, don't you think?"

    "It's for the future generations, so they can understand what brought this upon their world. Only you can help them understand."

    I hoped I played on his ego just right, because I desperately needed him to do this interview.

    "I'll grant you the interview, Jack." Mr. Bails turned around and I followed him through his house. I swept my eyes past the paintings and kept my eye on the study. As I suspected, he went into the study. He asked me to sit down.

    "No need," I said. "I have only one question." I went to the study door and shut it.

    "Then ask." Mr. Bails started to sound impatient.

    "What would happen if someone killed you?" Mr. Bails shrugged.

    "I suppose God would have to find another Messiah, why?"

    "Curious. You know how journalists are."

    He didn't say anything. It was like he knew what I was going to do next. I pulled from my back pocket a sheath knife that I received from my father when I was younger. The blade was ten inches long and the green rubber handle made the knife eighteen inches total in length. I took an offensive stance with the knife and I sprinted for Mr. Bails. He never moved.

    Mr. Bails was definitely far enough from me that he could have moved, but he didn't. I raised the knife at heart level and gripped the handle harder. And ultimately, I reached Mr. Bails. The knife entered his body with a squish, and then a pop. I felt something warm dotting my face and in the back of my mind, I knew it was blood.

    Mr. Bails and I sprawled to the floor and this impact drove the knife further into his heart. He gasped--if surprise or pain I don't know--and muttered something that I thought sounded like, "In time". For insurance, I closed my eyes and twisted the knife. It made a sucking sound and Mr. Bails stopped -muttering. Looking at his face, I knew he was dead. His eyes stared upward, into heaven. I washed up in the bathroom and left the house on Columbus Street and I left the end of the world to rot in Mr. Bails' house.