243 days after the incident

Lucky are those who died. Are they? I’m still deciding that. I was one of those who survived. Some people say we were spared to suffer the great tribulation. Religious people. I’m rolling my eyes right now, just so you know.

I still see hope—not for this world. This world is gone; humanity finally managed to destroy it. Finally. But a new world, a better one, built on the ashes of this old world, by someone more responsible than our current leaders.

At this moment, I find myself in Refugee Camp Zeta, one of thousands spread across the world. In this case, I’m on a small island in New Zealand, a quiet place. We are 174 days after the incident, as you saw in the title. Jesus hasn’t returned yet to take His people, and the Earth destroyed itself.

Unfortunately, the actual date of the incident was erased. So I will narrate this book as before and after the incident—the day humanity entered such a great religious war that thousands of innocent lives were lost. The day our world was destroyed.

People call it the end of the world. Honestly, I think the real end of the world is still yet to come. I see this as a preparation for what lies ahead.

I look at the constellation Orion above me—so beautiful, so majestic. Under this constellation, Jacob slept and dreamed of a ladder reaching to heaven, with angels upon it. It was in this constellation that a simple woman once had a vision and saw Jesus returning for her. The most beloved constellation for those who still await the return of Jesus to transform this fallen world into a better one.

And now I look at it… and I begin to remember.

64 days until the incident

It was a beautiful November morning—I don’t remember the exact day. I woke up in my apartment. It was raining heavily outside. I didn’t have a TV, but I opened a news website to check the day’s headlines.

It was the same as always: conflicts in the Middle East intensifying, with Iran threatening to destroy Israel—the usual nonsense. Waves of protests across England, the United States, and São Paulo, something that had become frequent with the wars in the Middle East.

I didn’t want to stress about it. I was in too good a place in life to think about war. I had just finished paying off my apartment, I had a nice car on financing, I worked part-time as a teacher and part-time as an Uber driver—I liked both.

And as if that weren’t enough, to complete my happiness, I had two beautiful daughters whom I had adopted just over seven months ago.

No, I wasn’t married, and I had no interest in relationships. But I loved children, so I decided to adopt two lovely girls—one six years old and the other twelve. I only wanted the six-year-old; the twelve-year-old came as a bonus. They were sisters and lived in the same orphanage. The younger one was fair-skinned with thick red hair, while the older one had blonde hair.

They were incredibly happy when they found out I was adopting them, since no one wanted them due to a certain degree of autism.

I closed my notebook and put water on to boil. I taught classes in the afternoon at the Federal Institute, and early in the morning I started my Uber shift after taking the girls to school.

“Are you already awake, Daddy?” I heard a voice.

Little Paulinha was standing there, holding a pink teddy bear and rubbing her eyes. She was wearing her pink pajamas.

“Hi, baby. Why did you wake up so early?”

“Nightmare.”

Their names were Maria Paula, the youngest, and Maria Natália, the oldest.

I picked her up.

“Are you still scared?”

“A little.”

“Tell me about the nightmare.”

“I saw bombs falling on our house. Dead people. It was really scary.”

I think I’ve been leaving my computer open too much.

“It’s over now, baby. Go back to sleep. I’ll make breakfast soon.”

I kissed her forehead, and she went back to her room.

I prepared breakfast—hot barley drink with toast. I made their plates. One liked toast with mayonnaise, while the other preferred toast with jam. I filled their mugs with chocolate milk and turned on some music.

A few minutes later, they came out of the room, already dressed and freshly bathed.

“Ready for school, girls?”

Natália let out a yawn.

“It’s the first day of school, Dad. We’re never ready.”

I laughed. After a good breakfast, I took them to school—an evangelical school in the neighboring city.

“Dad, why do we have to study in a school in another city?” Natália asked.

“Because I don’t trust the regular education system much,” I said, smiling at her. “You’ll like it there. And if you need anything, you have the phones I bought you.”

They showed me their phones—simple flip phones.

“Why can’t we have smartphones?” Paulinha asked.

“When you’re older and more responsible, I’ll get you smartphones. Until then, these are enough. Okay?”

They nodded.

I lived in the city of Petrolina, in an apartment in one of the four buildings in the Cohab Massangano neighborhood. The city sits on the banks of a river that separates the state of Bahia from Pernambuco. On the other side lies the city of Juazeiro, a historic city connected to Petrolina by a bridge. And at that moment, traffic was terrible.

I looked at the line of cars—it seemed like an accident had happened in the middle of the bridge. The cars were moving slowly.

“So slow!” Paulinha said.

“I know. Next time we’ll go by boat.”

Finally, traffic started moving, and we continued to the school.

After giving them both a kiss, I waited with the app on for a ride request. I plugged in a USB drive, and a Casting Crowns song started playing.

Soon, the app beeped. Someone two blocks away was requesting a ride. When I arrived, it was an older man wearing a raincoat and a hat. He held a bag, had a beard, and dark eyes.

“Man, you saved my life. Today’s weather is terrible.”

Indeed, the heavy rain had turned into an even stronger downpour.

“Terrible day to be out,” I said.

“Yeah. Hey, are you Jewish?”

I looked at the Star of David—a small necklace a Jewish child had given me once when I drove her home. I had hung it on the car’s rearview mirror.

“Actually, I’m a Zionist—I support the state of Israel.”

“So, did you see the news? Iran is threatening to drop a nuclear bomb on Israel.”

The car had entered the main road toward the bridge.

“That’s crazy. If Iran does that, it’ll trigger an unprecedented nuclear war. The United States will respond. Then China, Russia—it’ll be World War III.”

“I know, it sounds insane. But after the incident in Tel Dan, where Iran’s supreme leader died, allied countries are all supporting a nuclear escalation against Israel.”

Not many days earlier, Iran’s supreme leader had been killed in Tel Dan, Israeli territory, during a peace conference between nations. Israel denies responsibility, but Iran, Iraq, and several other countries—including Brazil—accuse Israel of betrayal.

Still, a nuclear escalation was something absurd to even consider.

We crossed the bridge, and I dropped the man off at Simão Durando Square, in front of Maria Auxiliadora School.

“Look, man—you seem like a good guy. Take this card and go to the address on the back. Maybe it can save your life.”

I looked at the card. It read: Twilight of the World Community—salvation awaits in the flame. On the back, there was an address.

“What is this—” I started to ask, but the man had simply vanished.

I put the card away and moved on to the next ride.

60 days until the incident

CRASH!!!

The sound of breaking glass spread throughout the apartment. I was reading a paper book—yes, one of those prehistoric books people used to read in the past—when I heard it.

“Girls, is everything okay?”

Silence. When there is silence, it’s best to worry. I stood up and went to the kitchen. Broken glass was scattered across the floor, a cup—the kind you buy filled with tomato extract—shattered. A dark liquid, acerola juice, was spreading across the floor.

“Paulinha!” I called.

She came out from behind the refrigerator, her face dirty and soaked with tears. She hid her hands behind her back and looked sad.

“Let me see your hands.”

She showed them, somewhat reluctantly. There was an ugly cut on her palm.

“You’re going to yell at me!”

“She didn’t mean to, it’s my faul—” Natália started to say, but I raised my hand to silence her.

“I’m not going to yell at you,” I said, kneeling in front of them.

“You’re not?” Paula asked.

I grabbed a cloth and pressed it against her hand.

“I’m not. You are my daughters, not my servants. A father who yells at his children isn’t really a father. Let’s do this: I don’t yell at you, and you don’t yell at me, okay?”

They both nodded.

“And now, what should we do?”

“We clean the mess we made,” they both said, wiping their tears.

“Great. Nat, get a glove to pick up the shards, cut a bottle and put the glass inside so no one gets hurt again. Paulinha, get a cloth and clean the juice. And remember, only get juice from the juice machine—no using the blender.”

Natália took a one-liter plastic bottle, cut it in half, and put the shards inside. Then she taped it shut and threw it in the trash.

Meanwhile, Paula cleaned the floor.

“Are we having a movie tonight, dad?” Paulinha asked as I sat down with my book.

“Yes, we are, as soon as I get back from college. And it’s almost time for me to go. Are you ready, girls?”

“Can I go in this outfit?” Natália asked. She was wearing a long black casual dress.

“You can. Let’s go. I think I’ll be late today.”

I always took the girls with me to work. I taught experimental chemistry and organic chemistry at the Institute. The girls loved the lab. I had adopted two little scientists.

While I was sitting on one of the campus benches reading my book, with each of the girls beside me also reading, one of my colleagues, Carlos—a math teacher—sat next to me.

“Hey man, have you heard about the protests in São Paulo?” he said. He was overweight, bald, wore glasses, and had a contagious smile. My best friend.

“I don’t watch TV, Carl,” I said. I called him Carl because he reminded me of Luke Cage, the Marvel superhero whose name was Carl Lucas.

“You need to see it, man. It’s gone from protests to carnage. It’s a complete mess over there. Check it out, I’m heading to class now.”

“Me too,” I said, standing up. “Girls, put on your lab coats.”

I had custom-made small lab coats for them. Carl left, and I walked with the girls. On the way, I looked it up and saw a wave of protests and deaths in support of the Palestinian people. Everyone was condemning Israel’s actions and supporting Gaza in this endless struggle.

I entered the lab. My students were all outside, ready for class. When everyone came in, we began.

Back home, watching a movie with the girls, I kept thinking: what if that wave of protests reached here? Petrolina is a city where Jewish culture can be seen everywhere. The foundation of the São Francisco Valley’s culture is Jewish. If that wave of protests reaches here, it won’t only end with the Jews—it will destroy the entire valley.

Juazeiro, the neighboring city, had some Muslim minorities. I had never met them, only once saw a mosque while I was lost looking for an Adventist school. There was even a large graffiti: “Palestine resists” on a wall.

Pro-terrorists.

Well, the movie we watched was “Daniel the Musical,” something that made the children laugh. Afterward, I put them to bed and kissed each one good night.

59 days until the incident

Friday is preparation day, although it should begin on Sunday. On Friday we do everything double. The girls and I clean the apartment, water the plants, and feed the cat. Our Saturday meals are prepared on Friday—simple things. A roast, rice, beans—nothing goes into the fridge, and it lasts until lunch the next day.

An ovo-lacto vegetarian diet. No meat, chicken, or fish. The girls took a while, but they got used to it—by their own choice.

I went to work and came back early. After showering and getting ready, the apartment was prepared to receive the small group of teenagers who met there. A youth group from church gathered at my apartment to study the lesson and the Bible.

56 days until the incident

“Paula, wait for the ferry to dock!” I shouted.

The ferry was approaching, and Paula looked ready to jump onto it. Both girls were excited to ride a boat, even if just for a few minutes to cross the river.

Although there was a bridge, there was also the ferry crossing. Two small boats operated—while one went, the other came back, back and forth. I paid for their tickets, and we boarded, sitting near the bridge. As the boat moved, we would pass by the large blue stone woman lying on an island in the middle of the river—a statue of Yemanjá, queen of the waters.

The children loved looking at her. Beautiful, breathtaking, completely blue.

“Do you think the river will ever take her away?” Paulinha asked.

“Maybe not,” I said. “There’s an iron rod coming out of her back, anchored into the island. If the river ever takes her, it’ll have to take the island too.”

The island was actually a small islet. The real island was larger—Ilha do Fogo—named after legends of torches lit there before civilization reached the valley. It also served as a military base and had a beach with beautiful rocks. The bridge passed over it, allowing access.

When we reached the other side, I helped the girls off safely.

“You have beautiful daughters,” said a young man with a southern accent. He wore a traditional Jewish hat and black clothes.

“Thank you. You’re from the south, right? What’s happening over there?”

“A real genocide. Many Jews decided to leave São Paulo. They’re all coming here.”

The news was alarming. And now, as their only option, Jews saw no alternative but to come here.

“What people are capable of in the name of religion…” I said.

“This has nothing to do with religion, brother. It’s about ethics. Muslims have always wanted to exterminate Jews from the face of the earth, and the hatred only grows. It’s only a matter of time before they want to eliminate all other religions as well.”

58 days until the incident

I crawled across the map and carefully observed my target. Using a sniper rifle with a high-precision scope, I aimed at her head and fired.

“Come on, that’s not fair,” Natália said, watching her avatar drop and the words “you’re dead” appear on her laptop screen.

Paulinha just laughed.

The girls and I were playing Call of Duty together, each of them on their own laptop.

I laughed.

“Better luck next time,” I said.

It was Tuesday—game night. The girls and I set that night aside to play until ten, when it was time to go to bed.

“Alright, I give up. I’m going to get something to eat,” Natália said, placing the computer on the cushion and standing up. “Do you want me to bring you something from the kitchen, dad?”

“Just a juice box and a sandwich.”

“I want something too,” Paulinha said, getting up and leaving her laptop behind.

While the girls were gone, I left the game and checked social media. It was the same as always. The war in the Middle East continued, with Israel receiving thousands of missiles and the international community criticizing it for defending itself.

“The world is incredibly hypocritical,” I muttered.

In 2023, Hamas, a terrorist group from Gaza, invaded Israel and took several hostages. After many negotiations, deaths, and war, the hostages—both living and dead—were finally returned to their families. Then it happened again. A terrorist group linked to Hamas invaded southern Israel during Passover and took more hostages, and the war has continued ever since.

Anti-Israel protests in São Paulo continued, causing widespread destruction of Jewish institutions and even the murder of Jews and their supporters.

“I think I should delete my social media to keep my sanity,” I said, scrolling through the news.

Natália brought what I had asked for: a box of apple juice and a vegan burger. I closed the apps.

“It’s time for bed, girls.”

And it was true—it was already past ten. The girls pouted, holding their snacks.

“Eat your food and go to bed. You have school early tomorrow.”

They sat down and ate. I went out to the apartment balcony and looked at the city lights and the flow of cars. Far away, beyond the sea, a war was being fought between freedom and terrorism—and most of the world was on the wrong side.

“Dad, we’re done,” Paulinha said, holding onto my pant leg.

I picked her up and held Natália’s hand. I put Paulinha in bed and kissed her forehead.

“Dad, is it true that we’re going to die one day?”

“Paula, what kind of question is that?”

I looked at Nat and then back at Paulinha.

“Sweetheart, whether we die or not, I don’t know. But I do know one thing: we have the promise that Jesus will return and give us eternal life, so death and pain will be gone from this world forever.”

“Forever, dad?”

“Yes, forever.”

“So you’ll never die again in that new world?”

“That’s right, my love. Never again.”

“Then I hope Jesus comes back soon.”

I kissed her forehead again and turned off the light. I took Natália to her bed. She had her head down, looking thoughtful.

“Do you want to say something, Nat?”

She just shook her head.

I tucked her in.

As I was about to leave, she grabbed my arm.

“If God is loving, why would He burn so many people in hell?”

I knelt beside her bed again.

“It’s not God who decides who goes to hell—that’s a personal decision. God won’t force someone to go to heaven if they don’t want to.”

She nodded. I kissed her forehead and turned off the light.

57 days until the incident

A girl was carrying three heavy grocery bags across a supermarket parking lot. I watched while putting my own groceries into the car. She wore a blue blouse, a long patterned skirt, and had a head covering—a kind of scarf Jewish girls wear. Her eyes were green and her hair was blonde.

She lifted the bags again, then set them down. She looked at me with a tired expression.

“Could you help me, please?”

“Sorry… it’s just that with all these feminist movements nowadays, I feel a bit hesitant about helping a girl.”

“I’m not a feminist. I appreciate a man’s help—even from a skinny one like you.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, then crouched and picked up one of the bags.

“You’re stronger than I thought,” she said as we walked through the parking lot.

“Thanks. Where are we taking these?”

“To that taxi over there.”

We approached a silver car with a taxi sign on the hood. The driver was tall, Caucasian, and had a thin beard.

“Where are you going? Wait… are you Jewish?”

He looked at the girl with clear disgust.

“I am. Why?”

“You people are terrorists. I don’t take terrorists in my car.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“You kill children. Dirty Jew.”

I grabbed the man by the neck and slammed him against his car.

“You’re going to get in your car and get out of here,” I said, tightening my grip.

He nodded, eyes wide.

I threw him to the ground, ripped the taxi sign off his car, and threw it in the trash.

“You don’t deserve this job. Now get out of here.”

He got up, got into the car, and drove off.

“What did you do?” the girl asked.

“I dealt with an idiot the way he deserved.”

She looked shaken.

“Well… thank you. We deal with this kind of thing every day. I even stopped using the bus because of the hate.”

“Yeah… I thought this only happened in São Paulo, but it seems it’s reached here too. I can drive you home, if that’s okay.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

We walked to my car.

“São Paulo is unbearable. Many Jews have left São Paulo and Rio looking for safer places. Several of my Jewish brothers went to the Amazon. My family and I came here.”

I put her groceries in the car and opened the passenger door. When she got in, she noticed the child seat and booster in the back.

“Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No—and yes. I adopted two daughters.”

“Wow… that’s amazing. I’ve never seen that before. A single man adopting two children.”

“So, where to?” I asked, pulling onto the road.

“Loteamento Recife, near an Adventist church. By the way, my name is Layla.”

“Nilton.”

We arrived at a simple place in Loteamento Recife—not exactly a house, but a group of six small units together.

“You live here?” I asked while helping unload the groceries.

“We rented the whole building. Thank God all the rooms were empty. Thirteen families are living in five small units. These are my brothers—Yudah, Yakub, and Yuseph—and their wives.”

There were about fifty people living there, packed into small spaces. Some mattresses were outside, suggesting that not everyone slept indoors. Some children played in the yard while others watched TV.

Despite being small and crowded, everything was very organized.

“I just want to thank you in the name of Hashem—blessed be His name—for your help,” Layla said, shaking my hand.

“You have our eternal gratitude,” Yakub said. He was tall and had a thick beard.

“You can come to my apartment if you need anything. It’s in Cohab Massangano. Bring the children—they’ll enjoy playing with my daughters.”

“We appreciate your kindness,” he said with a smile.

When I left the place and got into my car, I felt uneasy. A senseless war that had begun in the Middle East was now reaching our doorstep.

And were we ready for what was coming?

That question would be answered on the day of the incident.