by S. E. Meyer
“He has Fleishman's, and it's getting bad,” Sheila added.
“Yes, cuff him and bring him too. It will make it easier for people to decide what to do with him if they see his ugly red face.”
Billy turned to Atticus. “You two meet us at the church in half an hour. Let's get this over with once and for all.”
CHAPTER 50
4 years earlier.
Atticus gripped the brass handle of the narthex doors and entered the empty church. With slumped shoulders and head down, he shuffled to the front of the sanctuary and crossed the transepts. While wiping a tear from his left cheek, he lifted the lighting candle to the left of the chancel and lit a votive with a shaking hand.
“You look troubled, my son,” Father Jeffrey said from behind him.
Atticus turned to face the priest.
“Let's talk, my son.”
Atticus swallowed hard, pressing his lips together. “I cannot find the words, Father.”
“Is this about your situation? Has it ended?”
Atticus nodded. “My heart cries out. She was my true love.”
“My prayers are with you for your loss.”
“You don't understand Father. She has passed. I will never love another.”
“Time heals all things, my son.”
“Even death? Loss of love? Heartbreak? Does time heal those wounds, Father?”
“Time and Him. Allow Him to wrap his arms of love around you. Find comfort in that.” Father Jeffrey gestured towards the crucifix. “But there will always be a scar.”
The narthex door clanged shut, startling the Holy Ghost from the Father and son.
Atticus whipped around. “You!” he roared.
Damarion hoofed to the church’s front, taking long strides.
Atticus shook his head. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm taking Franks' place today.” Damarion opened his jacket, revealing a small box.
“No, I will not trade with a traitor!”
“I am not a traitor!” Damarion said.
“I found out Cromwell has Victoria in the Chamber. I've been looking for thirty pieces of silver, but instead, I found a ransom.”
“I would never betray our plan. Losing Margaret is a huge blow. We are all mourning her death, but we must move forward with the plan. Our purpose is greater than one life.”
“Get out!,” Atticus demanded through red cheeks. “It had to be you. If it wasn't you then who else betrayed us all?” Atticus slapped the pew with his palm. “You say our purpose is greater than one life, but you would do anything to save Victoria.”
“I swear to you, Atticus, I would never give up our plan for one person, no matter how much she means to me.”
“I said get out!” Atticus shoved Damarion, pushing him backwards.
Damarion turned, shaking his head. He took three steps and stopped, turning back to Atticus. They both stared up at the crucifix for a quiet moment before Damarion spoke. “You put your faith in Him, Atticus. Remember, His purpose was also greater than one life.”
Atticus picked up a prayer book from the pew. “Funny you should mention Him.”
“Why?” Damarion asked.
“He was also betrayed by one of His twelve closest friends.” Atticus turned, throwing the book at Damarion. “Now get out!”
Damarion retreated to the Narthex and exited through the doors.
Atticus sat down on the pew, holding his head in his palms. “Give me strength,” he whispered.
Atticus smelled smoke.
He glanced around the church to find thick black ribbons rising between the walls and baseboard trim. More smoke poured in from two cast iron grates open to the basement.
He stood, looking for the source as the sanctuary filled with a choking cloud.
Atticus coughed, dropping to his knees. The priest grabbed him by the arm. “Come, the church is on fire. We have to get out.”
They raced between the pews to the Narthex and flew through the doors. The smoke was thick inside the main exterior access. They both slammed into the doors, bouncing backward.
Father Jeffrey rattled the handles. “They're blocked!”
“There must be another way out!”
“The side door. Behind the alter.” The two men ran to the sanctuary's front and headed for the side exit. The priest pried the handle with both hands. “Someone has locked us in.”
“Damarion,” Atticus whispered. He turned, taking a step back before slamming himself into the door.
“I don't know what to do,” Father Jeffrey shouted. “We're going to burn alive!”
Flames licked the walls around them as both men coughed, sputtering, the smell of burning lead paint and layered lacquer stinging their eyes.
“I'll get to a window,” Atticus said. He fled to the sanctuary, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Atticus's shoes slid on the melting red carpet as he raced to the stained glass.
They're too high.
He spun on his heel, attempting to return to Father Jeffrey as a wall of fire burst through the floor grates, engulfing his path. Sweat dripping from his chin Atticus jumped through the flames landing on the other side in a ball of fire. Heart pounding, he went into a fit of coughing as his clothes melted to his skin. He screamed, writhing on the floor as the priest crawled to his side. He covered Atticus with sacrament cloth, extinguishing the flames and grabbed him by the arms. Skin slid away from his forearms as the priest pulled, dragging Atticus backwards towards the door. Father Jeffrey turned, beating on the hardwood exit, choking in smoke as the wails of Atticus rung in his ears.
The back door opened in a sudden thrust, revealing a teenager.
“Oh, thank God, my son. Help me get him outside,” the priest urged.
The teenage boy grabbed one arm, while the Father Jeffrey grabbed the other. Atticus cried out before losing consciousness as they slid his body along the cool grass.
“Call 911. What's your name boy?” the priest asked, out of breath and still coughing.
“Richard,” the young man replied.
“Well, Richard. You're a hero. You saved two lives today.”
CROSS CUT
Richard arrived home with soot streaked across his cheeks and smelling of smoke. He entered the ballroom to find his grandfather awaiting his return.
“Well, is it done?” Cornelius asked.
Richard nodded, balling his fists.
“Are you sure? You stayed long enough to verify his death?”
“Yes,” Richard lied.
“Good. There's hope for you yet, boy.” Cornelius turned to the brandy in his left hand. “Their leader has fallen. The rest will follow. My only regret is not being there to hear his skin crackle.”
Cornelius smiled. “You're dismissed.”
Richard headed for the stairs to his room as Cornelius entered his study. He tapped his tablet and pulled up the local news channel.
“This is Rebecca Ryder, reporting live from the scene of a church fire on Easton's west side.”
Cornelius leaned in towards the screen, watching the flames lick the sky in the background.
“I spoke with a survivor of the fire a few moments ago.”
The view changed to a priest sitting in front of an ambulance, wearing a blanket and taking oxygen through a mask.
“Father, how did you survive this devastating fire?”
Father Jeffrey pulled the mask from his face. “We have a hero in the city.” He coughed before continuing. “A young man helped us escape.”
Cornelius raised an eyebrow. “Us?”
The priest took another breath of oxygen. “His name is Richard, and he's the only reason Atticus and I survived.”
Cornelius slammed his glass on the desk, sending a spray of brandy across his tablet.
“Richard!” he screamed through red jowls. “Get in here!”
Richard arrived with belt in hand. “I'm sorry. I couldn't do it,” he said, handing the belt to his grandfather.
�
��You're sixteen, Richard. You're an adult now. You must learn to do whatever it takes,” Cornelius spat.
Richard lifted his shirt and leaned forward towards the wall. “I couldn't take the screaming. I had to let them out.”
“You're a lying little shit, useless if you can't follow simple directions.”
Richard winced. Anticipation of the pain was nearly as unbearable as the pain itself. “Get it over with.”
“No,” Cornelius said. “My belt has lost its bite. I‘m taking you downstairs.” He smiled. “Maybe the Chamber will teach you a lesson.”
CHAPTER 51
Present
Cornelius's motorcade moved through the city streets heading for the warehouse district. There was an underground bar set under Third Street where Cornelius enjoyed unwinding with illegal gambling and prostitution. It was rare for him to leave the house. A man with his stature and money could have anything delivered to his home, except for what he found below Third Street.
Cornelius's phone rang. “Yes, what is it?”
“We re-locked onto the girl's signal and sent a fly by with the drones, per your instructions.”
“Yes?” Cornelius replied.
“I'm sending you the footage now.”
Cornelius lifted his tablet from the seat and tapped the screen. His eyes widened.
“There is an entire town out there. And it would appear they're all cured.”
Cornelius bit into his lower lip.
“And another thing, Sir. Facial recognition came back. They are all from Easton.”
Cornelius shook his head. “Impossible. Right under our noses. Enough of this. It's time to end it. Prepare the drones for an air strike. I want it gone. All of it, you understand?”
“Yes, Sir. I'll recall the drones now. They will be recharged and armed by morning,”
“You have the girl's coordinates. Let me know when you're ready.” Cornelius ended the call.
After lighting a cigarette, he let out a stiff breath as the city blocks rolled passed the tinted, bulletproof glass of his window. The motorcade came to a red light, stopping at the corner of Wellington and Bridge St.
There was a large crowd assembled near the intersection with their forearms crossed into the shape of an 'X'. Several demonstrators held signs that read. 'Representation through choice.', and 'Young voters matter.'
Cornelius pursed his lips, recalling what his father used to say.
'You can fool some people all the time and you can fool all the people some time, but you can't fool all the people all the time'.
He shook his head.
What is that all about?
The car made its way to the warehouse district, pulling up to a building with peeling paint. The only signage was the graffiti that stretched across its walls.
Miss Cross will have an update.
Thick smoke hung in the main room of the underground bar as Cornelius and his entourage found a table. Large clear tubes hung from the ceiling, spanning the room above their heads. A number hung from each one in bold print.
A waitress set a glass of brandy in front of Cornelius as a woman sat down next to him.
“Ah, Miss Cross. Glad you could join us.”
“And for you?,” she asked Cornelius's campaign manager.
“Double Vodka Cran,” Candice replied.
As the waitress moved passed Cornelius, he reached out and pinched her thong, snapping it back in place along the crack of her ass. The waitress turned and smiled. “You like what you see? I can meet you in back.”
Cornelius patted her ass cheek. “Maybe later dear, I have some business to take care of.”
The bodyguard on Cornelius's right turned to face him with a smile. “Ah, got to love the revealing underwear around here.”
“Yes, panties are nice, but they're not the best thing in the world,” Cornelius replied.
“They're not?”
“No, but they rank high on the list.” Cornelius smiled. “I'd say they're next to the best thing.” Cornelius's ensuing laugh turned into a sputter as the waitress continued around the table, taking orders from Cornelius's security staff.
Cornelius turned to Candice. “So Miss Cross, how are we looking on the campaign front?”
Candice raised a plucked eyebrow. “Quite well.”
“You're confident we will get my opponent's votes?”
Candice shook her head. “No, we won't.”
Cornelius frowned. “What do you mean?” he choked.
“The campaign is going well. Trust me. The Shepherd is doing its job and we've identified the persuadables for the campaign.”
“You're going to persuade them to vote for me?”
“No, we're going to persuade them not to.”
Cornelius shook his head before taking a long pull from his glass. “I still don't understand.”
“That's why you hired me. We will never get your opponents hardcore supporters to switch sides. The undecided voters of particular age and psycho-demographic will win this campaign. Within that group we started a movement. I planted seeds everywhere with the Shepherd's help and it has taken off. It's called Young Voters Matter. I even came up with a symbol for it.” Candice crossed both of her forearms in an 'X'. “My seeds flourished, and it has now spread organically. The message of the movement is that the particular group we're targeting does not feel represented. They don't feel that there is anyone that has their back, or caters to their needs. They want more options on the ballot.”
“How does this help me get them to vote?”
“That's just it, Sir. We don't need to get them to vote for you. We need them to stand up for what they think they are supporting. They won't get additional options on the ballot, it's too late for that, so we covertly continue to support the movement. We've been running continuous targeted ads with the message that neither you, nor your opponent are a good choice. We want them to believe it doesn't matter who they vote for. You see what I'm saying? We have enough supporters for you to win this.”
Cornelius took another drink. “So you're saying I will win by telling people not to vote for me? Smearing my campaign? How is that helping?”
“We're only targeting a specific group based on analysis of their social media accounts. We're able to create a psychological profile of everyone based on everything they say, where they go, and who they interact with. You know how the Shepherd works, this takes it to the next level. We're efficient at voter profiling. We know what the people will do before they do it.”
The waitress arrived with her cocktail and Candice took a long drink before making eye contact with Cornelius. “Bottom line, Sir, this is about taking votes away from your opponent. I have given your opponent's supporters a cause to believe in so they stay home on election day.”
A man stepped up to the table. “Place your bets.” As he spoke, a rat dropped into each tube at the room's end. They were each confined to the first section of tubing by a sliding door.
Several people at the table picked a number and wager.
“And you, Sir?” the man asked Cornelius.
“Let's put a hundred thousand on number three.”
The man nodded and moved along to the next table as Cornelius turned back to Candice. “How do you know this will work?”
“I stole the idea from research I did on elections from the first part of the twenty-first century in several countries, including this one.
A group named Cambridge Analytica swayed the vote by using the exact tactics I've explained to you. They did it globally, getting into bed with the largest search engines and social media companies before selling their wares to the highest bidder. And they did it for decades.”
Candice took another drink, a grin tugging her lips.
“That's the wonderful thing about psycho demographics and targeting ads. We only show them to the people who will respond. And we're able to promote the fake movement to only those who would most likely join it. No one else will even know what it is.”
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Candice leaned in towards Cornelius. “Ever see a social media post and wonder what the hell some people are talking about? Most often during election years? That's proof of select targeting. You were not aware of the information prior because you were not the target. It’s not until people share such a post that makes it visible to others outside of that target, but by then it doesn’t matter. By then the message has done its job. All for one purpose, using manipulation through psychological warfare to sway an election just enough to change the outcome.”
A bell sounded and the doors to the tubes opened. Twelve rats ran across the ceiling as the room erupted into a thunderous roar. It was over in less than a minute and the number three illuminated on the wall. A man dressed in a suit walked to Cornelius's table holding a receipt. “Will that be cash, credit or wire transfer today, Sir?”
Cornelius smiled. “It is turning out to be a rather productive day. Place the winnings on my account and open the bar for the night.”
The man nodded. “Very generous, Sir.”
James leaned in towards Cornelius's ear. “How do you do it? What's your secret?”
While taking another drink, Cornelius flipped through the contacts on his phone, stopping at Damarion. He pressed the call button.
“It's easy. I always bet on the biggest rat.”
CHAPTER 52
“Is it true?” Atticus asked Anna as they walked towards the church.
Anna swung her head. “No, but I had to come up with something. You said we had to get them back to Easton,”
Atticus nodded. “I hope it works, but it's good to hear Cornelius isn't bearing down on us just yet. That would be terrible news.”
They entered the packed church and approached the front, passing cramped pews and a few dozen townspeople standing along the wall for lack of seating. Richard was sitting in the corner, cuffed and chained to the nearest pew.
Sheila stood in front of the pulpit. “Is everyone here?” she yelled over the murmuring crowd. She raised her arms, and the church quieted.
“Dear people of New Easton. We have some news to share with you and we would like you to vote on what we should do about it. We’ve been told Cornelius Cromwell has found out about our little town.”