Shaina MacLeod adjusted her hi-hat cymbal one final time and glanced around the transformed living room that had become their rehearsal space. The elegant North Dallas house bore little resemblance to its original purpose—expensive furniture had been pushed against the walls to make room for her seven-piece Pearl drum kit, Ron's collection of vintage bass guitars and amplifiers, Yasmine's impressive array of keyboards and synthesizers, and Bradley's carefully arranged guitar setup with multiple amplifiers and effects pedals.

The four musicians had been living together for three days now, settling into an surprisingly comfortable routine despite their vastly different backgrounds. Bradley's gregarious nature and decades of session work had made him a natural leader, while Ron's legendary status and dry Scottish humor commanded everyone's respect. Yasmine's prodigious talent on multiple instruments left them all slightly awed, though her genuine modesty prevented any jealousy. And Shaina had found her place as the rhythmic foundation, her powerful drumming style complementing the others perfectly.

They had spent the morning running through various songs, testing their chemistry and exploring each other's musical instincts. The results had been encouraging—better than encouraging, actually. Despite never having played together before their angelic summons to Dallas, the four musicians clicked with an almost supernatural synchronicity.

"He should be here any minute," Bradley announced, checking his phone for the third time. "Danny texted that they were pulling into the driveway."

Shaina felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach. She had watched the YouTube video of John Foster playing "Texas Flood" at least a dozen times since discovering it two days ago, still hardly believing what she had witnessed. The man who had supposedly died and returned from the dead as God's prophet could play guitar like Stevie Ray Vaughan himself—a level of technical skill that should have taken decades to develop.

"I still can't wrap my head around that performance," she said, gesturing toward Bradley's laptop where the video remained queued. "That's not just good playing—that's transcendent. Like he channeled Stevie Ray's actual spirit."

Ron nodded from his position behind his 1973 Fender Jazz bass. "Aye, I've been playing professionally for fifty years, and I've never heard anyone capture that tone so perfectly. There's something beyond technical skill at work there."

Yasmine looked up from her keyboard, where she had been quietly working out chord progressions. "Do you think it's connected to his... gifts? The divine abilities he's supposed to have?"

Before anyone could answer, the front door opened and voices carried in from the foyer. Shaina straightened behind her kit as footsteps approached the living room.

John Foster entered first, carrying a well-worn Fender Stratocaster in a black case, followed by a young man who looked like a younger version of John himself. The family resemblance was unmistakable—the same strong jawline, the same confident bearing, though the son appeared to be barely out high school.

"Good morning," John said warmly, his voice carrying the same authority Shaina had noticed in his YouTube video. "I'm John Foster, and this is my youngest son, Danny."

Danny raised a hand in greeting, setting down a Fender amplifier and a backpack filled with guitar accessories and small pedal board. "Pleasure to meet you all. Dad's been looking forward to this for days."

Shaina stood and introduced herself first. "Shaina MacLeod, drums. From Manchester, England."

The others followed suit—Bradley with his characteristic enthusiasm, Ron with reserved dignity, and Yasmine with her bright smile. John shook each person's hand, making eye contact and clearly taking the measure of each band member.

"I understand you've all seen the video of me playing at my company's farewell party," John said with a slight smile. "I hope it didn't set expectations too high."

Bradley laughed. "Are you kidding? We've been trying to figure out how you developed that level of skill. That performance was incredible."

"It was a gift from God,” John replied simply, and something in his tone suggested he meant that literally. "Speaking of which, I want to discuss the music we'll be performing at our events."

Danny had been setting up his father's amplifier and pedal board, and now plugged in the Stratocaster, testing the connections. The guitar came to life with a warm, rich tone that made Shaina's musician's heart sing with appreciation.

John strummed a few chords, his fingers moving across the fretboard with the fluid confidence she remembered from the video. "I've decided on the song that will close each day's event. It's a cover of a Johnny Cash song called 'God's Gonna Cut You Down.' I'll handle the guitar solos, but I want the full band supporting it."

Shaina nodded, though she wasn't immediately familiar with the song. She had grown up more on classic rock and modern alternative music than country or gospel.

"The other two songs we perform each evening will be your choice, subject to approval from my advisors," John continued. "I want this to be collaborative. You four were chosen specifically for this work, and I trust your musical instincts."

Danny pulled a memory stick from his pocket and approached the large television mounted on the living room wall. "Dad found a cover version he really likes. Thought you might want to hear it."

The screen came to life, displaying a YouTube video titled "God's Gonna Cut You Down - Booster Patrol." Shaina had never heard of Booster Patrol, but as the song began, she immediately understood why John had chosen it.

The track opened with a driving rhythm that made her drumsticks twitch with anticipation. The lyrics were biblical and uncompromising, speaking of divine judgment and the certainty that evil would not escape justice. As the song progressed, it built to a powerful climax with guitar work that was both technically impressive and emotionally stirring.

"Bloody hell," Shaina whispered, completely absorbed in the performance. The drumline was clearly digitally produced and not live, but she could already hear how she would approach the song differently—more power in the fills, tighter groove in the verses.

Bradley was nodding along enthusiastically. "I actually know this song. Heard it a two years back and loved the arrangement. This version is fantastic."

Ron studied the bass line intently, his fingers unconsciously moving along the neck of his instrument as he absorbed the musical structure. Yasmine was equally focused, likely analyzing the keyboard parts and harmonies.

“Except for the organ in the middle, it’s the same all the way through, isn’t it, apart from the virtuoso guitar solos?”

Danny played the song twice more, while the band set up their instrumentation to accommodate the song’s arrangement. As the third playing concluded, John strapped on his Stratocaster. "What do you think? Are you ready to try it?"

"Absolutely," Shaina replied, settling behind her kit and adjusting her stick grip. “Let's see what happens."

What happened was magic.

John counted them in, and from the first measure, Shaina felt something extraordinary occurring. The song seemed to play itself—her hands found the perfect groove without conscious thought, her fills complemented John's guitar lines as if they had been rehearsing together for months.

Bradley picked up the rhythm guitar parts intuitively, his decades of session experience allowing him to support John's lead work perfectly. Ron's bass line locked in with Shaina's kick drum like they shared a single heartbeat, while Yasmine's keyboard work added atmospheric layers that elevated the entire arrangement. She even managed an organ solo that matched the video.

But it was John's singing and guitar playing that truly amazed her. The divine gift she had witnessed in the "Texas Flood" video was fully present—his guitar solos soared with technical perfection and emotional depth that seemed to channel something beyond mere musical skill. When he hit the final, wailing note of the song's climax, Shaina felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

They finished in perfect unison, the last chord ringing out into sudden silence.

"Jesus," Bradley breathed, then looked embarrassed. "Sorry, probably shouldn't take the Lord's name—"

"I think He approves," John said with a gentle smile. "That was exactly what I hoped for."

Danny, who had been recording on his phone, looked up with obvious amazement. "Dad, that was incredible. You all sounded like you'd been playing together for years."

Shaina felt the same astonishment. In her experience, it usually took weeks or months for musicians to develop the kind of chemistry they had just displayed in a single run-through. Yet somehow, impossibly, the five of them had clicked immediately and completely.

"It's like we were meant to play together," Yasmine said wonderingly, echoing Shaina's thoughts.

Ron nodded sagely. "Divine appointment, perhaps. We were all called here for a reason."

As they prepared to run through the song again, Shaina realized that her life had just taken another dramatic turn. Three days ago, she had been a drummer from Manchester with a modest YouTube following. Now she was part of a band that seemed to possess an almost supernatural musical connection, preparing to tour the world in support of a resurrected prophet.

The thought should have terrified her. Instead, as John counted them into their second run-through of "God's Gonna Cut You Down," Shaina felt a profound sense of rightness, as if every beat she had ever played had been preparation for this moment.

The band had found its sound, and it was glorious.