“They may be brainwashed too…. or worse.” I pause. Far worse. “Contain them for now. Make sure they do not escape.”
The neighbor, a short middle aged man with obedient eyes named Henry, quickly makes his way down the stairs and through the gathering crowd. Neighbor Agnes, a wretchedly ugly and old woman, steps forward and asks for instructions from me, her leader. “Agnes,” I say unto her. “Get the other deacons together. We must plan against further invasions!”
She nods and goes down the crowded staircase. I despise her wrinkles. People have now filed into the house and are gathering in the streets all around like a storm of fury. I lean down and separate Alana from her mother. “Take her to my chapel,” I order, and several other neighbors take the girl away, despite the mother’s reluctance. Oh, a mother’s reluctance. Her husband quickly goes to her side and helps her to stand. “Submit to your husband, wife, as it is fitting to the Lord,” I quote, then, approach them cautiously. Several good neighbors move with me like angels at my sides. I take off my fedora and say to the parents: “I need to speak with you two… about your daughter.”
†Delano†
I can’t help but strain to hear as much of the conflict as possible. I had come to a stop at a South Gothican corner just in time to see a group of people lynching a man. At the forefront of the vicious throng was his very son, fear, masked by rage, aflame on his countenance.
With the shouts and screams out of ear shot, I continue on to Captain Cassandra’s old house. Corbin and Roger should already be there. Cassandra lived over a liquor store near a commercial section of a South Gothican neighborhood. I park on the street and ignore the suspicious looks I get from some pub patrons nearby. As soon as I make my way up the stairs to Cassandra’s apartment, they head over to the limo and begin looking in the windows.
Corbin opens the door as I arrive at the top of the stairs and ushers me in with a hand on my back and suspicious look through the walls.
“You worried about the car?” he asks me as we walk past the kitchen and into the office. I shake my head no and then greet Roger with a hug. We’re all happy to see each other alive.
Roger is holding a particular file in his hands and many more are spread out over the desk. I can still feel the lingering presence of Cassandra as we move through her old space. Her smell… her breath is still warm in the room. I will miss her most of all.
“We got this from various cypera houses in the area, and attached them to Cassandra’s file,” Roger explains handing me a folder.
I flip it open and quickly skim through with a flicking index finger. I assimilate the thirty pages about a school rioting in about a minute and then look up at Corbin. “This candidate for a darkening… Is there more on him?”
He nods gravely and then hands me five more folders. A casual report on a murder in South Gothica, the killers name: Alexavier Ganithala age fifteen, catalogued by the cypera Julia Magnusson. A prison riot and fire. Among several hundred who die or go missing? Alexavier Ganithala, catalogued by the secretary Gregor Milonowski from prison records. Pantheon Theatre rented out the Saturday before Tuesday’s Reckoning? One Dominique Tsuba.
“Who is this?” I ask.
Corbin hands me a high school year book open to a page. It’s a picture of the high school’s main stage ensemble. He points to a girl, then flips it to another page to show me her portrait. Dominique Tsuba. He flips back to the picture that shows her holding hands with a rather normal looking boy next to her. Corbin flips to another page that shows his portrait. Alexavier Savage.
“A name change…” I ponder. “After he escaped from prison.” I get dizzy in my seat. “He was at the theatre?”
“It’s not over,” Roger says. Corbin points me back to the next folder. A photo shop owned by Corey Caprelli explodes mysteriously, one of the employees there that night – Alex Savage. Cassandra picks up the kid on her radar and orders a report on him. None of this ever reached her.
“Recognize the date?” Corbin asks. The photo shop explodes the night before the Reckoning, two days after the kid was at Pantheon. The next day, shortly after the news of the explosion in Neo Square, the school riots spilling out into surrounding neighborhoods. The name of the school. Solthweros High. Corbin slides the same yearbook over to me, showing the cover. In reflective silver lettering: Solthweros High.
Roger is looking at me with wide eyes awaiting my reaction.
“I sold that photo shop to Corey Caprelli,” I say, staring at the file. “I arranged for his take-over when I sent everyone the red scroll.”
“What?” Corbin stammers setting his hands down on Cassandra’s desk.
“What? What does that mean?” Roger asks.
“I have no idea,” I sigh.
“Did Corey have something to do with this?”
“Looks like we’ll never know.” I toss the file on the table and sit down in the desk-chair, my head in my hands.
Roger asks, “What about the prison or the pawn shop where the murder happened?”
“Or the school?” Corbin adds. “Did he have anything to do with those?”
“Corey? I don’t see why he would have,” I reply, at a total loss for answers.
“Well it’s not like this is a fucking coincidence,” Corbin spits.
“Where is he now?” I ask them.
Roger clarifies, “The kid?”
“Yes, the kid! Alexavier Ganithala! The kid who starts riots where ever he goes! The anti-Christ! The fucking source of all this!”
“He disappeared,” Corbin answers.
I sigh deeply and run my hands through my hair, mumbling something.
“What?” Roger asks, having not heard me.
I lift my head and repeat myself. “I said: no he didn’t.”
Corbin sees where I’m going with this, his face flushed. “He’s in Central.”
“Chaos follows the ground where this kids walks. He’s gotta be.”
“So how do we find him?” Roger asks.
The phone rings. We all turn and stare at the small black rotary phone mounted on the wall. It rings again before I rush over and pick it up. “Hello?”
Sabetha’s voice answers. “Delano. Get back here now. Jones has started a war.”
Corbin can hear the words over the receiver and heads for the door picking up his jacket off the coat rack. “We’re on our way,” I tell her. “Be careful.”
“I will. Get here quickly, Delano.” We both hang up. I stand and point to the desk as Roger heads out of the office. “And bring those files.”
†Val†
Nineteen
I lift my head off the steering wheel with a gooey string of blood. My eyes are crossed and won’t straighten. I feel nauseous and I know that this thirsty feeling is from moderate blood loss.
“Delano’s gonna be pissed,” I say. He dropped a lot of cash into this truck and the equipment in the back. And now I have to blow it up.
The train is slowing. I puncture the gas tank with a bullet, which isn’t enough for a movie style explosion, and only rarely sparks a fire. This time it does, which saves me a step in my plan. Get the rifle out of the cabin. Light the bitch. Check. Rig the grenade launcher ammo to explode and make this thing useless for anyone who might scavenge it… working on it. Train’s stopping. …Still working on it. Val, the trains stopping, and the place is starting to catch on fire. K. Got it. Get off the train – ‘cause this is going to be a shrapnel-y explosion.
Next step. The truck grumbles as the vault is blown open and then roars as the gas tank goes up. I hobble over to a sedan in a worker lot near the rail yard and start her up.
†Reverend Jones†
“Have they been contained?” I ask neighbor Henry as I lead the righteous storm of God fearing men and women down the street.
“Yes,” he replies obediently.
“Shall I call the PIPERs, Reverend?” Agnes asks.
“No,” you ugly bitch. “We can no longer trust anyone on the outside. Th
is must be solved by the community.”
“But Reverend Jones? Shouldn’t we wait till morning?”
I stop, and with me, does the large crowd. I look at the young man who asked the question, furious. I have always held myself in check, but it’s harder now. What gives this little insect the right to question me? How dare he! You insignificant little peon! “Why?” I ask him. “It is more our night than it is the demons’. And it is time we made it ours forever.” I smite the air with my fist and resume the righteous march. “Now take me to Paul’s parents,” I command.
Several minutes later, I have led us all to a small church near the edge of our borders. Sitting in the front row of pews, surrounded by six large neighbors, are Paul’s parents. They stand and quickly approach. I raise my hand to keep the guards from restraining them, and with but a gesture they obey me.
“What happened? What happened to Paul?” They ask of me.
“Your son succumbed to the temptations of the beasts. He is dead.” And though I did not pull the trigger, I wish I had, and I would, if I could go back.
The mother gasps and looks to the husband who seems as if he has not understood.
“What do you mean?” The father, Cyrus, asks after a moment. His wife hangs on his shoulder, pulling down his shirt with her sobs.
“He was trying to kill Alana Elise.”
Cyrus shakes his head. “No.”
“I saw it myself.” There is nothing more to discuss but your culpability in the matter.
“Paul loved Alana.”
I step forward, squinting with rage. “You knew about their affair?” You will pay for this.
“Affair? They were seventeen! For God’s sake, you’ve killed my son!”
“Cyrus,” his wife whispers through her own sobs, trying to calm him.
“Are you a loyal man to this community, neighbor Cyrus?” I demand of him in a whisper.
He leans in and snarls at me. “What are you saying, Jones?”
“I need you to stand before God, this community, and me, and swear you had nothing to do with this treachery,” I command.
Cyrus takes in a deep breath and answers defiantly. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Cyrus,” his wife, Marie, whispers again. “Cyrus, please.”
“Swear to me, damnit!” I, Reverend Jones, yell. Outside, more people are gathering and murmurs sweep through the crowd, building into a pulsing commotion.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Cyrus quietly demands.
“Listen to me,” I say to that inferior thing. “You are guilty of treachery and conspiracy. If you do not renounce all your deeds made for the demons, you are as guilty as your son. Do you hear me, Cyrus? Renounce your evils, or…”
“Goddamn you.”
“I beg your pardon?” I hiss.
“Goddamn you, Joseph Jones.”
Marie gasps. “Cyrus please. Mr. Jones, he renounces his deeds.”
“Stand with us now, Marie,” I say to the traitor’s wife. “Stand with us now or stand with the beasts.”
Marie looks reluctantly to her husband who refuses to meet her gaze then to the sneering crowd and finally to me. In her hesitation, she makes her choice.
Seeing this, that he is alone and resolved to his fate, Cyrus leans in very close and whispers, “You’re a murderer and a coward, Joseph Jones.” At this, the six guards begin to close in on Cyrus who breaks his gaze on me and looks to them. Marie remains still. The men behind her swarm in and quickly restrain Cyrus, lifting him into the air – but he does not resist.
Marie screams and tries to rush back to her husband but a woman in the crowd – a woman whom I’ve seen before… who I recognize but whose name I cannot place – comes to Marie’s side and grips her by the shoulders.
As Cyrus is carried down the aisle of the church, his form lifeless and defeated, I lean over to one of the nearest faithful delegates and whisper. “Get the wife too.”
As the captive Cyrus reaches the street, a struggle develops back near the altar. Several men are trying to take Marie away, but the woman with her is resisting them. I turn and speak. “You there, neighbor,” I yell to the woman with the black hair and long slender nose. “What is your name?”
“She is from a South Gothican Church.” A nearby neighbor answers. “She just came to us just before the fires.”
“Before the fires?” I repeat suspiciously. “Why do you protect this woman?” I demand. “What could your motivation be?”
“She’s innocent. She renounced her claims to the beasts,” the woman replies. “Let her be.”
“No. She must be cleansed,” I proclaim.
“Hasn’t there been enough blood tonight?” says she, putting herself between Marie and the good neighbors.
“She must be a spy!” a neighbor says, pointing at the woman.
“Marie must be cleansed. Stand aside. I demand it!”
“I will not,” says the woman. One of the neighbors tries to move in, but the woman pushes him away and quickly becomes the target of all those who remain in the church.
“This is pointless,” the woman protests. “There is no need for her to die.”
“She’s one of them! She’s of the beasts!” They yell.
“Get her! Get them both!” We must be cleansed of their infection.
The crowd surges in and despite the woman’s ferocious attempts to stave off the righteous throng, she is overwhelmed. On the street outside, Marie and the woman are brought next to the already savagely beaten Cyrus and made to kneel before me.
“We will not stand for an invasion of the beasts!” I yell and the crowd roars in agreement. “We will not have our numbers corrupted by these agents of inhumanity!”
Kneeling before the spitting and cursing crowd, Marie begins to sob uncontrollably. “Cyrus,” she whispers, but Cyrus has forsaken her.
†Sabetha†
From a nearby rooftop and with the aid of binoculars and a sound dish amplifier I watch as the woman between the couple, her reach peaceful and steady, takes each by the hands and bows her head. With a voice no louder than the mouthing of words, she begins to pray. In a matter of moments, I’m sure they can feel the crowd beginning to drift away. All six hands have been joined in a circle. Their fingers are intertwined. The couple looks at one another.
“Cyrus,” the woman whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “I love you.”
To those who can see this, the Reverend’s words lose meaning, and while those further away continue to cheer, those nearest grow silent. Reverend Jones sees at his feet something he cannot describe. It’s a simple act – so simple it confuses him. And this act, despite its perfectly unnoticeable quality, has tremendous meaning; not visually or even emotionally, but on a sensory level all together higher.
No one of us who witnessed the simple event would have described it in quite the same way, I’m sure, but all who see it can feel its power and beauty. The three victims kneeling before the raging world find peace while holding each other’s hands and bowing their heads.
Despite the suddenness of the tragedy which this night confronted them, they find peace. I will myself to tear and the sight becomes rosy through my blood tinged eyes.
“Oh dear God,” I hear someone gasp through the headphones. Regret and compassion fill the witnesses as they stare at the kneeling three.
Reverend Jones can feel his power over the crowd slipping. He can see an unattainable splendor born of acceptance and ascendancy kneeling in peace before him. He knows he can never attain such a thing, and somewhere deeper, much too deep for him to understand or accept, he knows that he is unworthy of such a beautiful fate.
“Witchery!” He cries. “Do not be fooled by this devilry! Slay the beasts quickly and cleanse our community! We must be delivered! Slay the beasts!”
The crowd, renewed with fear, attempts to stomp out the grace they cannot understand. And they stomp and stomp and try their best to destroy the housing of that gra
ce, not knowing it that it will continue to endure.
I leave the reconnaissance gear where it falls and head back home for my duffle bag.
†Reverend Jones†
The crowd is at a fever pitch and I am enlivened by the power of the Holy Spirit! I have realized my position in the world. With the entire neighborhood roused to the cause, hanging on my every command, I am now invincible. I can do no wrong.
I shout out orders, spit flying from my wet lips. My eyes whirl wildly from person to person trying to hold onto it all. I feel filled with heat. The neighborhood must be cleansed! I send forth my sheep and return to my castle to oversee the efforts.
At my home I tell the man at the door guarding it that I am not to be disturbed. I am praying, and I need to know the will of God before I can be of any more help. My orders have been given, see to it they are carried out.
In the basement of my home, in my chapel, on my… altar lies Alana Elise. She is as she was the last time I saw her: empty. Her eyes stare blankly at the ceiling but I know what she wants. She has been calling me with her mind, with her magic. She has been casting spells in her room to bring me here, touching herself while watching me minister on television. She didn’t think I knew, but I did. I reach out to touch her but recoil before contact.
“You wretched seductress. Why have you brought me here? What is it you want from me, you Delilah! You filthy whore!” She does not answer, only beckons me to lie with her. I fumble with her pajamas, pulling them off of her and then tilting her to and fro to pull her panties down to her knees. But for all she has done to arouse me, to torment me, I find myself flaccid. Oh that jezebel! That witch! So I spit upon her and at this she seems to respond, but only by cowering, yet it fuels the blood in my loins. She is crying. I slap her across the face for doing this to me. For her, like all women before her, back to the dawn of time, tricking and seducing good men, she should be punished. Humbled as all great men before me have done by God…
Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) Page 22