Apocalypse Cult (Gray Spear Society)

by Alex Siegel

  "I see." Ethel paused. "Get back here as fast as you can."

  "We'll try, ma'am. We're pretty far out in the lake, so it might be a while."

  "Victor and I have to attack now, while we still have the advantage of surprise."

  "Don't wait for me," he said. "I've had my fill of action."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Victor watched Ethel finish her phone call.

  "Did you hear what Aaron told me?" she asked.

  "I heard enough." He stood up. "Let's go."

  "There are three cult members left in the house and two federal agents in the van."

  "I'll take out the feds by myself, ma'am."

  "Aren't we eager tonight?" She raised her eyebrows.

  He cracked his knuckles. "I've been sitting in this fucking garage too long. I need to get my blood moving."

  "Just do it very quietly. There are neighbors all around, and I don't want any of them calling the cops because they see or hear something."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  He walked out of the garage and into the night. The sun had just set. The air was warm and moist, fine weather for killing. Garbage cans behind a neighboring house emitted the odor of rotting food.

  He rolled his shoulders and popped his neck as he moved. He should've taken the time to stretch and warm up properly, but his adrenaline was pumping, and he didn't want to wait.

  He paused when he reached the sidewalk. About seventy yards to his left, the brown van was parked on the street. Two DEA agents were inside. He had to kill both of them before either had a chance to fire a shot or yell for help.

  Victor performed a tactical analysis. The targets were in a static location with limited visibility, which meant he could get close. He carried five weapons: two knives and three guns. He decided to use his fists instead for the fun of it. His great strength allowed him to kill with just one punch. Even an inaccurate blow would stun his opponent for several seconds, long enough for him to finish the job.

  He tore off long strips of black cloth from his shirt and wrapped them tightly around his knuckles. He hated getting bloody knuckles. They hurt, they aroused suspicion, and they sometimes became infected. As a young man he had believed open wounds were a sign of toughness, and he had displayed them proudly to his friends. Now he understood that any injury was the mark of an amateur. A true professional never looked like he had been in a fight.

  He walked towards the van at a casual pace. He hoped anybody who saw him would assume he was just taking an evening stroll.

  He went around to the rear of the van and boldly knocked on the door. "Hello! I know you're in there. Come out where I can see you."

  A male voice responded, "Who is it?"

  "The police. We received a report that you were loitering here all day."

  A door opened a little. A Caucasian man with blond hair peered out, and he seemed too young for his job.

  "We're federal agents," the man said. "Hey, you don't look like a cop."

  "I'm supposed to be off duty. A fed, huh? Can I see some identification?"

  "Sure." He produced a badge.

  Victor examined it closely. "Looks legit. I apologize, sir. By the way, did you know one of your tires is flat?"

  "It is?"

  Victor nodded.

  The man stepped out of the van and came around the side. "They look fine to me."

  Victor punched him in the back of the neck, exactly where the first cervical vertebrae met the second. There was a pop as the bones dislocated, pinching and perhaps severing the spinal cord. The agent collapsed to the sidewalk as all his muscles went slack at once. Victor stepped on his throat to crush his windpipe. The man didn't even struggle as he died.

  Nice and quiet, Victor thought.

  "Joe?" another voice called from inside the van. "What's going on out there?"

  The second agent came out of the van with his gun drawn. Victor slapped the gun away and punched the agent in the solar plexus, forcing all the air from his lungs and silencing him. Then Victor performed a high spinning kick. There was a double thump as his foot smashed the agent's skull into the van. He was knocked out. Ethel and Marina aren't the only ones with martial arts moves, Victor thought. He crushed the second man's throat.

  Quickly, Victor tossed both bodies into the van, closed the door, and looked around. There were no witnesses. Perfect.

  He felt cold and empty inside, but it was the same after every kill, so he wasn't surprised. Sometimes when a challenging job went very well, he would experience some satisfaction, but tonight's work didn't meet that standard. The federal agents never had a chance.

  "Well done," Ethel said.

  He looked back and found her standing directly behind him. With her loose black and gray clothing, dark skin, and darker eyes, she appeared to be the ghost of death. He controlled his reaction enough that at least she wouldn't see him jump.

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said.

  "We'll have more trouble with the next part. We're facing three paranoid, brainwashed, militant zealots who will eagerly fight to the death. But we need them alive for interrogation, and there can't be any noise."

  "Don't forget the booby traps. There are always booby traps."

  "Of course," she said. "Do you want to suggest a plan?"

  He furrowed his brow in thought. "Edward could bring the truck here. We could use our night vision gear, smoke bombs, and knockout gas."

  "But that would take time, and you're so damn eager." She lowered her voice to parody his. "From sitting in the fucking garage too long."

  "Don't make fun of me."

  "Why? Do you suffer from the sin of pride?" She poked his chest with her finger.

  He snarled. "Back in the day..."

  "Excuse me, Victor. Are you about to threaten your commander?"

  "No, ma'am." He ducked his head. "Sorry." His heart beat quicker than it had at any time during the fight with the federal agents.

  "Don't be so huffy," she said. "It demonstrates a lack of self-confidence and maturity. I'm still waiting for you to suggest a plan."

  "What kind of heat are you packing?"

  "My usual. Two machetes, a thin blade, and a target pistol."

  He had seen her wield her machetes in battle. They were made of the toughest steel, polished to a mirror finish, and honed to an edge that would make a samurai proud. She could conduct a symphony of blood and suffering with those weapons. A spare knife was always useful, of course. However, he didn't like her pistol, but that was an old argument between them. The dainty .25 caliber bullets lacked stopping power. He preferred rounds that could drop a charging bull in its tracks.

  After another moment of thought, he said, "Honestly, I don't have a plan. That house is full of question marks that could kill us."

  Two engines roared. An instant later two green motorcycles shot out of the driveway, turned hard, and sped down the street. The riders wore green trench coats and had green tattoos on their faces.

  Ethel ran after them. "You get the third!" she yelled over her shoulder at Victor.

  He shook his head. She was extremely fast, but he didn't believe she could run down fleeing motorcycles. It was worth a try, though. Good luck and a few shortcuts might make up the difference in speed.

  Regardless, he had to worry about his own problem. There was a third cult member in the yellow house, and if Victor failed to capture him alive, the night could be a total debacle. The Spears were running out of people to interrogate.

  Victor sprinted across the street, heedless of the fact that he had no specific plan in mind. Entering the house was the first obstacle. He went around to the side yard and tried one of the windows, but it was locked. There was no way to force it open silently, and he couldn't afford to make any noise.

  He worked his way around the house, trying all points of entry. He came to a cellar door in back that looked inviting. There was a strong padlock, but the latch was anchored by just four wood screws. Using his brute strength, he tore off the padloc
k along with the latch.

  He went down into the cellar, which was very dark. It took precious seconds for his eyes to adjust enough that he could move without knocking something over. The floor was littered with old appliances, boxes, paint cans, and other debris. Even though the room seemed harmless, he took very slow, careful steps. His caution paid off when he brushed against a thin wire stretched across the floor. He followed the wire to the pin on a hand grenade.

  A classic that never goes out of style, he thought.

  Victor climbed a flight of wooden stairs. He walked on the sides so the steps wouldn't creak, but he still produced a few squeaks that seemed as loud as thunder to his ears. He nudged open a door and peeked into a kitchen.

  The light was on, but he didn't see anybody. The kitchen was old and had cracked vinyl floor tiles, but it was very clean. Every surface had been scrubbed until it gleamed, and there wasn't a dirty dish in sight. This fact worried Victor. A house full of men usually meant a messy kitchen. This group had to be exceptionally disciplined.

  He nudged the door a little more and felt unexpected resistance. Immediately, he backed off. He looked up and saw a shotgun pointed straight down with a string attached to the trigger. If he had opened the door another half-inch, the shotgun would've blasted his head. Carefully, he drew a knife and cut the string. Then, standing back, he pushed the door open with the tip of his knife.

  He moved into the kitchen. He smelled petroleum fumes, and the odor drew him towards an adjacent room. A man in green robes was pouring gasoline over a large pile of papers, blankets, and towels. Green tattoos around his eyes confirmed he was a member of the Church of One Soul. On the floor there were also several hand grenades, boxes of bullets, guns, and a small plastic crate marked "explosive."

  A floorboard under Victor's foot creaked. The man looked up, and their eyes met. Victor instinctively drew his gun but didn't shoot. He needed to capture this guy alive. The man grabbed one of the hand grenades, the nearest weapon within reach.

  "Back off!"

  Victor brandished his gun. "No."

  "I'll use this!" The man threatened to pull the pin on the grenade.

  "In here? You'll kill us both." Victor glanced at the explosives on the floor. "You'll blow this entire house to bits."

  "That's right."

  Victor considered his options. He wielded a specialty revolver that fired huge .50 caliber bullets. He loved his gun, but it was a terrible choice for this job. Not only was it loud enough to wake half the neighborhood, but it was too lethal. A hit almost anywhere on the body could cause death from shock and blood loss.

  "What's your name?" Victor lowered his gun.

  "Brimstone. Why?"

  Victor recognized the name from Marina's report. "Just being friendly."

  "Don't bother. You're an enemy of Simon," Brimstone said.

  "Calm down. Let's talk about this."

  "There is nothing to talk about."

  The gasoline fumes were making Victor nauseous. He wished he could open a window.

  "We could discuss how your friends abandoned you."

  "It was my choice," Brimstone said. "I volunteered to burn this house, and if necessary, I will die here."

  "Why?"

  "Because I led the enemies of Simon to this place. His loyal soldiers worked here for over a year without trouble until I arrived. Then suddenly, they were beset by foes. I must atone for my failure."

  Over a year? Victor thought. What the fuck have they been working on?

  "You made a mistake. That's no reason to commit suicide."

  "But I will kill you, too," Brimstone said. "Simon would approve."

  "He's dead."

  "I've heard that lie before."

  "It's true." Victor nodded. "I saw it with my own eyes. Your prophet is gone. The Apocalypse is officially postponed for another thousand years."

  "No! Simon's plan is almost complete. Very soon all of humanity will learn a hard but important lesson. Then Simon will rise to absolute power, and criminals like you will get the justice you deserve."

  "But if you blow us up, you'll never have the satisfaction of knowing you were right."

  "I don't need satisfaction," Brimstone said. "I have faith."

  Victor was running out of patience. He wondered if he could safely shoot the grenade out of Brimstone's hand. It seemed unlikely.

  Victor took a step.

  "Don't get any closer!" Brimstone held the grenade like a shield.

  "Come on. You don't really want to die."

  "In a moment of weakness, I allowed myself to be arrested once. I will not be weak again."

  "I won't arrest you," Victor said. "I'm not the police."

  "You're one of them, which is even worse."

  "Them?"

  "Simon warned us." Brimstone nodded. "Sworn enemies of Sraosha. Unholy warriors. Creatures made of darkness and hate."

  Victor chuckled. He had been called many things before, but never a "creature made of darkness and hate." He considered just shooting Brimstone in the head and ending this stalemate, but that would be an admission of defeat. Ethel wanted a live captive.

  "You think that's funny?" Brimstone said.

  "I think Simon filled your head with a lot of bullshit."

  "You have no faith."

  "Actually, I do," Victor said. "I have faith that the world will always have more than enough stupidity to go around. How about if we make a deal? I don't care about this house. If you want to burn it, that's fine. All I want is for both of us to walk out of here together."

  "No." Brimstone shook his head.

  "I can't leave without you. I have a job to do."

  "Your job is to doom mankind to an eternity of selfishness and critical thinking."

  "Do you even know what that means, or are you just mindlessly repeating Simon's catch phrases? If you're going to argue with me, try to sound like you have a complete thought in your head." Victor rolled his eyes.

  "Maybe you're right. This argument is a waste of time. I should give up."

  Victor was suspicious. "Then put the grenade down slowly."

  Brimstone placed the grenade on the ground behind the pile of papers. He raised his hands to show they were empty.

  "Good," Victor said.

  Brimstone smiled. "I do have one thought, and it's a happy one. My death tonight will be glorious. Take me now, Simon!"

  Suddenly fearful, Victor leaned over the pile so he could see the grenade for himself. The pin was out. Shit! He took two steps towards the door.

  Fire consumed him.

  * * *

  Aaron rode towards the shore of Lake Michigan. The night was cloudy and dark, and the air had finally started to cool after a very warm day. It seemed like he and Marina had been on the water for hours. They saw street lights on the horizon, which meant the trip was finally coming to an end.

  Marina's phone rang, and she answered it. She hardly spoke during the short conversation, but the stony expression on her face told Aaron the news was bad.

  After closing her phone, she said, "Victor is dead."

  "What!?"

  "A bomb killed him along with one of the cult members. The other two escaped. We have no leads, no captives to interrogate. We're completely fucked."

  Aaron shook his head slowly. He couldn't believe the news.

  "Ethel wants to meet us back at the hotel," Marina added. "We need to figure out our next move, whatever it is."

  He paused. "Do you want to talk about Victor?"

  "No."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aaron and Marina entered the hotel suite that had become their temporary base of operations in Kenosha. There was a central living room and two nicely furnished bedrooms. Edward sat in the corner of the living room and watched television with drooping eyelids. Ethel paced back and forth, still in her stealth outfit. Her legs moved unnaturally fast, which Aaron found disconcerting.

  "What took you two so long?" Ethel said. "I called an hour ago."
>
  "Sorry, ma'am," Marina said. "We couldn't find the harbor in the darkness. We had to hike through the woods and steal a car. It's been a long night."

  "Long" was an understatement. Aaron was so weary his eyes wouldn't focus properly. He could've fallen asleep leaning against a wall.

  "Regardless," Ethel said, "we're not resting until we have some kind of plan for how to proceed."

  "We'll think better with a few hours of sleep, ma'am," Aaron said.

  "You heard my orders."

  He sighed and looked for a place to sit. There was a couch, but its plush cushions looked dangerously soft and soothing. He settled for a chair made of metal, which was sufficiently uncomfortable to keep him awake. Marina sat near him.

  "Does anybody have any ideas?" Ethel said.

  Aaron rubbed his temples, hoping to push extra blood through his brain. His mind was completely blank.

  "There are more cult members out there," Marina said. "We just have to find them."

  Ethel shook her head. "By now the ones that escaped have warned the rest to expect trouble. They'll be extra cautious. Finding them could take weeks, and we might only have days."

  "What about the prisoners who are still in jail in Chicago?"

  "We've had enough trouble with the authorities. I was uncomfortable the first time you went into the jail, and we won't go back unless it's our last option."

  "I have an idea," Aaron said, surprised that he actually did. "That cult speedboat was travelling in a straight line. If we follow the same heading in the morning, we might be able to figure out where it was going."

  Ethel nodded. "And since it was a small boat travelling at night, I bet the destination was a larger ship. Otherwise, they would've driven a car around the lake."

  "A ship is a great place to store tons of explosives. It's mobile, big, and you can see the cops coming from a mile away. Simon made several obvious references to water."

  "And a ship can wander around for years without attracting attention. Lake Michigan is twenty thousand square miles."