'In 2011 an American radio host, Harold Camping, claimed the apocalypse was approaching, and he was very specific about the date. He announced that Judgment Day would occur on May 21 in the same year. The day all true believers would ascend to heaven, and then the end of the world would follow in five months, particularly on October 21.

His predictions had convinced hundreds of his followers to quit their jobs, remove their kids from schools, sell their properties. Thousands of followers in Asia assembled in a small Vietnamese town, waiting for the Judgment Day to take place. It ended with a massacre as the police arrested many for extremism, and others were shot dead.

On May 21, when the predictions failed, Camping was far from apologetic. He insisted his omen was fulfilled, and the world would be destroyed in five months.

Later after October 21, when the apocalypse had not occured, Camping refused to comment about it...'

Detective Bryan Muster rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms above his head. For the past hour, he had been googling similar incidents to the case he was assigned to. Doing the homework first.

The number of apocalyptic prophecies since Nostradamus, even before that, was mind-blowing. Clearly, none of them had come true, since mankind was still alive and kicking... More or less. However, none of the groups he'd read about claimed to be psychic. They'd mostly based their predictions on false interpretations of religious texts, or written their prophecies in a cryptic manner that could match many general events throughout history. None of the incidents had involved ritualistic murders, or children drawing mutilated dead bodies.

A quiet rap on the door interrupted Bryan's train of thought.

"Come in," he rumbled.

The door opened quickly and a woman in a fitted pantsuit entered. She was pretty, Bryan admitted to himself. A brunette, mid twenties, graceful and well-proportioned. Her heart shaped face, button nose, and full lips would turn heads anywhere, although it escaped his mind why she was in his office.

"How can I help you?"

The woman smiled, showing attractive dimples. "Actually, I am here to help you."

She stepped closer. Bryan got up from his seat, still confused.

The woman reached out her hand. "Arwah Williams."

Brian recovered from his temporary memory loss. "The newbie?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "Are you really going to call me that?"

"Not for long." Bryan shook her hand. He certainly hadn't formed the right mental image of the new partner, but professional skills were a completely different matter and he wouldn't let her off easy just because she was the boss's niece.

"Uncle Jack told me a lot about you."

"Chief Slemmer," he corrected. "We keep our personal lives outside of the office."

She raised her hand to the side of her head. "Yes, sir!"

"And we don't salute."

She narrowed her eyes briefly. The cowboy showdown kind of look. Challenging.

"Alright, Williams, let's get to work," Bryan commanded. He felt it would be unsuitable to call her 'detective' just yet. "Have you read the case file?"

Arwah twisted her lips for a second, much like her uncle, before she replied, "yes, I did. I believe we'll manage to visit the crime scenes and interview everyone today."

Youthful enthusiasm, Bryan thought.

"It doesn't work that way, Williams. We're not going to solve the case in a New York minute. It could take weeks, months, or even years, to come up with a final conclusion."

Williams folded her arms. "Well, if doomsday is coming soon, we don't have much time to waste, do we?"

"No we don't," Bryan agreed. Doomsday or not. "But if the world's ending, this conversation would be pointless."

Bryan snatched his suit jacket from the backrest of his chair and slipped it on. He gestured with his hand to the door. "Shall we?"

When they arrived at the first crime scene, it was a filthy back alley - No cameras anywhere, no foreign DNA evidence, the forensics affirmed, and no bloody footprints except for the victim's, who had been decollated, disfigured, and shed less blood than usual in these cases.

There were two other separate, yet similarly mangled, bodies found in different places. The second and third bodies were found in local inns, apparently corroded to death in their beds, extremities disconnected like worn rag dolls.

All in all, no solid clues were found.

"That doesn't make sense," Bryan told the medical examiner, after the autopsy. "No signs of violence, resistance, or DNA evidence whatsoever? Is it even murder?"

"Nothing is certain, yet," The examiner rubbed his eyebrows, shaking his head slowly. "I thought it was acid exposure, but the chemistry test results came negative. It's not post mortem decay, either. And everything about them is just... physically wrong."

"Wrong how?" Bryan asked.

"The internal organs are spongy and shrunken, about half of their normal size. Extremely low blood count, osteoporosis, skin Atrophy, muscle atrophy, 'everything' atrophy. I've never seen anything like that!"

"Aren't there diseases that cause that kind of damage?"

"Hansen's disease and flesh-eating bacteria are not even close..." The examiner kept shaking his head in bewilderment. "It could be a rare autoimmune disorder that I don't know of, but that kind of tissue loss does not happen overnight, and it certainly is not something people can live with. It's like half of their physiology has vanished."

"And they don't exist in official records," Arwa chimed in, holding a printed paper in her hand.

Bryan glared at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we couldn't identify them. They officially don't exist."

"All three?'

"Yup."

"Where were they before they died, then? Outer space?" Bryan sneered.

Arwah shrugged. "They might have kept a low profile on purpose."

"It's not that simple, people can't just erase their records, and it doesn't explain how they died, or if they had any connection to that cult."

"The connection is the kids and their drawings," Arwa noted. "And that video where the cult leader, Vinson Coldwell, said 'people shall wither and die and that is the first of signs' which is exactly what happened here."

Bryan was stumped. He didn't know anything about that video. "Where did you get that video? Was it in the case file?"

"No, it was on YouTube," she said simply.

Bryan's eyes expanded. "Vinson Coldwell is on YouTube?"

He'd never thought to check out YouTube for evidence. He must be seriously outdated.

Arwah had a smug smile on her face. "Everyone who wants to influence people is on YouTube."

Great! Now the newbie's head is swelling up, Bryan thought, though he couldn't help but admire the simplicity and effectiveness of her approach.

"You really did your homework," Bryan said as they exited the coroner's office.

She trotted down the stairs. "And some extracurricular activities."

"Focus on the main syllabus," Bryan pointed out, before she got too pleased with herself.

Arwah's chin pointed up, while she stood by the driver's side door, oozing expectations.

"My turn to drive."

Bryan's brows furrowed. "There's no turn, I always drive."

She narrowed her eyes. "You think women are bad drivers?"

Bryan pulled the car key and pressed the unlock button. "I think anyone under thirty is a bad driver."

Bryan recalled his older brother driving them into a tree in his childhood. He didn't trust anyone's driving since then.

She sighed and circled around the car to the passenger side. "So, where to now?"

"You'll interview the kids, I'll talk to the parents."

"Do we have something on the parents?"

"Not exactly, but sometimes they aggravate the children's anxiety during the interviews."

"Distraction, then."

"And observing possible suspects."

Bryan pulled up in front of the appointed house; an average-sized colonial. As a matter of habit, he didn't wait for his partner to leave the car. He marched straight to the front door and rang the doorbell, Arwah trailing behind him.

A skinny woman opened the door timidly.

"Mrs. Johnson?"

"Yes, how can I help you?"

Bryan displayed his ID. "Detective Bryan Muster with the police. We'd like to ask you and your son a few questions."

The woman's eyes grew into circles, but she let them in.

"Mom, who is it?" A child's voice asked from the inside of the house, followed by a muffled clicking sound.

"It's okay, honey, they're nice police officers who want to talk to us," the woman reassured her son.

"Again?" The boy whined.

The detectives stepped inside as the boy approached, struggling with a pair of metal crutches.

Bryan held his breath, feeling a lump in his throat. The boy was about seven or eight years old, just a bit older than his daughter. His little body was frail, his thin, crooked legs touching at the knees. He decided, then and there, that he would switch roles and let the newbie talk to the mother.

He squatted down in front of the boy and smiled gently. "Hey, buddy. You're Kyle, right?"

The boy nodded and wobbled slightly.

"I'm, Bryan. Is it okay if we talk a little bit? My partner here will chat with your mom, as well." Bryan gestured to Arwa to convey the hint.

"Are you here to ask me about the angel?" The boy blurted out.

Bryan blinked, taken aback. "Uh, what angel?"

The boy turned his face to the side. "The angel I saw in the living room. He talked to me before I drew the broken man."

****

*In-chapter prompt: An angel talks to someone