Americosis Vol. 1

by Haydn Wilks

  ***

  “He’s on the sofa right now,” Maybelline half-whispers into her phone, peering in through the window at him, “as naked as the day God made him.”

  “And you’re sure the girl you saw was a real Native American?” her sister Loreal replies.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And after the truck hit her--"

  “She disappeared.”

  “And he told you--"

  “That there’s some funky things going on with time on account of him traveling through it.”

  “You know, this sounds so much like the plot of my novel, it’s crazy.”

  “Which novel?”

  “It Ain’t Cheating if it Happened a Century Before You Were Born. You ain’t read it yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m gonna, just as soon as I get finished working my way through your last one. You know I ain’t much for reading.”

  “But it’s so much like what you’ve described, it’s uncanny. You don’t suppose he might be a fan of mine, do you? Trying to get at me through you?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m freaking out here, sis. There’s some seriously freaky-deaky voodoo going on.”

  “Alright hun, I think you’d best get in your truck and drive this guy right over. I’ll get Hank to give him the old polygraph test.”

  “Who am I gon’ polygraph?” Hank asks, overhearing.

  Loreal finishes the phone call, then answers him: “That was Maybelline. She ran into some guy with her truck last night who said that he was a time traveler.”

  “God damn Loreal, so now I gotta give the son’bitch a polygraph test? She ain’t smart enough to work out for herself that he’s bullshitting her?”

  Ted, a mountain of man with a thick brown beard, lets out a low chuckle from the seat besides Hank, out on the back porch of Hank and Loreal’s ranch house.

  “It’s not just what he’s saying, Hank,” Loreal reasons, “the way Maybelline told it, there’s a whole lot of freaky-deaky stuff been going on since he showed up. She saw some Native American girl in real old-time clothes, and she disappeared right in front of her.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lor, it was probably just a fuckin’ Mexican kid playing tricks on her! God damn it, it ain’t bad enough I gotta run polygraphs on twelve kids twice a week, now you want me to wire up some asshole to find out whether he’s traveled back in fuckin’ time or not? I’ll tell you the answer right now, Loreal, and it’s a big fat fuckin’ no he didn’t!”

  “Honestly, Hank, you’re probably right, but if we just run the test on him, she can put her mind at rest.”

  “Put her fuckin’ mind at rest!” Hank says, getting to his feet, a big mug of coffee in his hand, Ted still chuckling, “I think she’d be better served waking her mind the fuck up! Polygraph a fuckin’ time traveler! That is fuckin’ stupid, Loreal. That is the stupidest God-damn thing I ever heard in my God-damn life! And hell, even if this son of a bitch does make the drive over from New Mexico to West Texas, and I do wire his stupid ass up to our lie detector, and it does say that he ain’t lying about being from the future, all that proves is he’s so fuckin’ stupid, or so fuckin’ crazy, that he actually believes his own God-damn fuckin’ bullshit!”

  “He’s probably from out of state,” Ted stops chucking long enough to suggest. “Last time I drove through New Mexico, I figured I’d made a wrong turn and wound up back in the 19th century.”

  “Ex-fuckin’-cactly, Ted! Now if you’ll excuse me, Loreal, I gots me a class full of kids that need teaching. And Ted, do me a favor and try and hammer home to my wife that there ain’t no God-damn way I’m giving a polygraph test to some fuckin’ moron who thinks he comes from the fuckin’ future.”

  Hank hops down the steps from the porch to the big field behind his home and strides across the grass, hollering as he walks: “Kids! Class begins in T-minus 15 seconds! If your butt ain’t inside my classroom, then it’s gon’ get whooped!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Williams,” Tyler, 6 years-old, says, his trousers round his ankles, pissing against a tree.

  “Pull up your pants when you address me, son!” Hank yells, approaching a group of shipping crates that have been converted into a classroom.

  New York, New York

  Erica Fitzkoff-Baldini steps into the entrance area of her 10th floor Madison Avenue practice and greets Rebecca on reception with a smile.

  “Good morning, Dr. Fitzkoff. How was your vacation?”

  “It was nice. Beautiful beaches, stunning views, incredible weather.” Shame about the company.

  “You look like you’ve caught the sun a little.”

  “What’s my schedule today? Barry Rogers is up first at twelve, right?”

  “Barry cancelled. But a new client took his place.”

  “Really?”

  “A whole entourage turned up here this morning. I think it might have been for a celebrity.”

  “A celebrity,” Erica says, smiling. There is nothing more intriguing than peeling back the public face and climbing into the mind of a well-known entity. She’s been visited by musicians and stage actors several times, as well as authors, like American Psycho writer Bret Easton Ellis. But none of those had sent a whole entourage to arrange an appointment for them.

  “Dr. Fitzkoff,” a man’s voice calls out. Erica turns to a baby-faced guy with short, neat blonde hair and a simple light-grey suit. “I trust your most gracious secretary has explained to you who I am?”

  Erica glances at Rebecca: “Up to a point.”

  “Well perhaps I could explain things more fully in your office?”

  “By all means.”

  Erica leads the well-mannered blonde man into her office and sits down on a black leather chair, he taking a seat on the couch opposite.

  “Dr. Fitzkoff, I’m here today on behalf of a very important man – perhaps one of the two most important men in the country. I’d like to begin by seeking your assurance that nothing that is revealed to you will be repeated to any other person.”

  “Of course not. I’m bound by patient-doctor confidentiality.”

  “Naturally. But even the fact of my employer speaking to you has the potential to be quite massively problematic. That is why he will be unable to visit you at your office. I am sure that your charming receptionist is most trustworthy, but there are many other potential hazards that we must navigate: staff and customers at other businesses in the building, your other patients, the list goes on. I cannot begin to stress the severity of the consequences if word were to spread that my employer had consulted with a psychiatrist.”

  “Okay,” Erica says, her curiosity increasing. “Where would your employer like to meet me?”

  “What time will you finish with your last appointment today?”

  “Probably around eight p.m.”

  “My employer will be staying at a hotel a few blocks from here. The Four Seasons. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “Of course.”

  The blonde smiles. “I guess we can expect you there at around eight-thirty?”

  “Sure.”

  He hands her a business card. “Give me a call when you arrive.”

  Erica looks at the card. It’s plain white except for a cellphone number; no name, no indication of who the blonde works for.

  “I have to ask,” Erica says, “why did your employer choose me?”

  The blonde smiles again. “Dr. Fitzkoff, I think America may be the only county on Earth where our most eminent scientists and healthcare professional are blessed with the good looks of Hollywood movie stars. But even in such an environment, you are a stand out, if you don’t mind me saying. We showed our employer the headshots of several of New York’s best-known clinical psychiatrists, and the moment he saw yours, he became quite smitten.”

  Erica tries to stop herself blushing, as her lips pursed into a smile. Her inner goddess wants to take offence, to lash out at the reduction of her credentials to how good she looked in a photograph, but the fact was the comp
liment has come from someone important enough to have well-mannered blonde guys in good suits running around making appointments for him. After a week stuck in paradise with John Baldini, it’s just what she needs to hear. A week of rushing through perfunctory sex once her husband had grown tired of slugging back rum-based cocktails. Months, maybe years, of roughly the same.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to dash,” the blonde says, rising to his feet again. “My employer’s schedule is quite hectic. We’re only in New York for the day, and have a lot of business to attend to in that time.”

  After the blonde has left, Erica think back over the small sliver of information he let slip regarding his employer: one of the two most important men in America. Erica wonders who that could be: perhaps Jay-Z or Kanye West? LeBron James or Floyd Mayweather? Robert Downey Jr. or Dwayne Johnson? Then she realizes she’s conflating importance with fame. She tries to think higher up the hierarchy. Perhaps the blonde represents Rupert Murdoch or Michael Bloomberg? Sergey Brin or Mark Zuckerberg? Bill Gates or Jeff Bezos? Then she wonders if control of capital wasn’t the truest measure of an American’s importance, and thinks of names like David Koch and Jeffrey Immelt, Jamie Dimon and Lloyd Blankfein. Then she realizes all except LeBron are residents of either New York or California, and California has more than enough local psychiatrists to choose from. She wonders for a moment if it is LeBron, perhaps dealing with the moral quandary of an offer from the New York Knicks. Then she tries to think of someone else from outside the West or East coast hubs who could be described as ‘one of the two most important men in America’. She struggles to think of anyone fitting the description.

  Jesus Loves America’s Kids Ranch, Texas

  “Yup?” Hank says pointing at Libby, 15, a girl with red-streaked black hair and a raised arm.

  “What about dinosaurs?”

  “The flood wiped them out,” says Josh, a blonde mop-topped 17 year-old, rolling blue eyes at the answer’s obviousness.

  “Actually, Josh, that ain’t necessarily the case,” Hank corrects him. “A lot of folks think the flood wiped out the dinosaurs, but some scientists say the dinosaurs might’ve actually died out a little while after that. We know God instructed Noah to make sure the ark contained two of every animal, dinosaurs included. But the world was a very different place after the flood cleared. The climate was cooler, the vegetation reduced. It’s possible the dinosaurs died out as there simply wasn’t the food nor the weather to sustain reptiles of their size. Yup?”

  Libby lowers her arm and speaks again: “I thought you said climate change was impossible?”

  “I said man-made climate change was impossible. The flood was an act of God. And whether dinosaurs died out directly because of it, or they died out sometime soon after, all we know for sure is big freaking lizards once roamed the Earth, and now they don’t roam the Earth no more. Yup?” Hank sighs, pointing to Libby again.

  In a classroom full of kids whose ages range from 5 to 17, Libby is the only one with the gall to keep challenging Hank’s interpretation of the Good Lord’s truth. Hank glances at the other kids and wishes Libby could be a little more like Hayley, Joyce & Anne, 8, 9 & 9, three cute little things who never say a word out of place, or Bobby, 12, quiet and studious, or Jake, Jake & Tyler, 5, 5 & 6, who quit fooling around whenever Hank hollers and gives them the evil eye, or Becky & Sarah, both 11, who are fine just as long as they’re not whispering to each other, or even Lionel, 8, a muling braying moron and borderline retard who could still be scared into silence with a little hollering and the old evil eye, or the gold standard, Hank’s nephew Josh, the school’s blonde-haired blue-eyed great hope.

  “So when did the flood happen?” Libby asks, lowering her arm again.

  “A few centuries shy of four and a half thousand years ago.”

  “But in public school they told us the dinosaurs died out sixty-five million years ago.”

  “And they also taught you it’s okay to be gay. And to dye your hair to look like a gosh-danged demon. And to listen to devil-worshipping emo rock bands. And about sixty-five million other incorrectualities, all of which have led to you being sent here, so that I can set you on the path to true knowledge. And the path to true knowledge is paved with the love of Jesus Christ. And the only alternatives to you following that path are eternal damnation with Satan, or repeated butt-whoopings from me until you clear that public school clap-trap out from between your ears and achieve enlightenment. Now has anybody else got any gosh-danged questions? Yup?”

  “Can I go to the bathroom?” one of the two Jakes asks.

  “No you cannot,” Hank snarls. “You can cross your dang legs and wait until I announce the next bathroom break.”

  “Hank,” Loreal half-whispers, pushing the classroom door open. “Maybelline’s here.”

  “Aw, now the real fun starts. Ted, you mind jumping in and taking the class for a while?”

  “I’d be glad to,” Ted says, jumping up from his seat and clapping his hands together. “Alright kids, let’s move on to one of the lessons the great flood taught us; the importance of controlling wild animal population numbers.”

  “Where in the fuck did you find that new girl?” Hank asks Loreal, as they walk across the grass to their house.

  “You mean Libby?”

  “Is that her name? Libby the God-damned liberal fuckin’ lesbian.”

  “Her mother got saved all of a month ago. Someone at church suggested sending her here to try and rectify some of the damage public school done to her.”

  “Well it’s gonna take a whole lot of God-damn rectifying. I wish you’d let me start by shaving her stupid fuckin’ hair off.”

  “I told you before, Hank, you can’t go shaving teenage girls’ hair off, it ain’t no good for their self-confidence.”

  “Her self-confidence? God-damn, Loreal, her self-confidence is the first fuckin’ thing she needs knocking out of her! A few years of public schooling and the girl thinks she’s a fuckin’ dinosaur expert. Now where’s your sister at so I can get to polygraphing this fuckin’ moron she’s brought along with her?”

  Loreal keeps quiet as she leads Hank into the house, hoping he’ll calm down before they reach Maybelline. A minute later they’re in the hall, Hank ignoring Maybelline and eyeing America’s self-proclaimed Savior up and down, from his thick bald head to his far too baggy clothing.

  “Zack Wylde’s still popular in the future, huh?” Hank says, passing judgment on the Savior’s loose-fitting Black Label Society T-shirt.

  “I had to give him some of Kevin’s old stuff,” Maybelline explains.

  “Right, of course you did, ‘cause when you go back in time, you go naked, right? Either that or riding in a fuckin’ DeLorean.”

  America’s Savior stares at Hank and says nothing.

  “Right then, Arnold, the polygraph’s this way.”

  Hank leads the others into the small windowless room the students’ twice-weekly interrogations are held in. The Savior sits down. Loreal and Maybelline make small talk about the drive from Logan as Hank wires the Savior up.

  “Alright,” Hank says, the arm of the lie detector zig-zagging across printer paper, “let’s start easy: what’s your name, son?”

  “You might have trouble pronouncing it,” the Savior says, before producing some weird clicking sounds with his tongue.

  “What language is that?”

  “Again, you might have trouble pronouncing it, but .”

  “Right. So in the future, people speak a blend of English and fuckin’ chicken clucks? So at least we know China ain’t taking America’s top spot any time soon.”

  “In my time, China is the world’s oldest enduring civilization. Unfortunately, America no longer exists. But I’ve studied ancient American texts quite extensively. That’s why I’m here. In my time, humanity is facing a great many problems. I’m certain they can be solved by saving the brief but bright-burning nation of America.”

  “Uh-huh. And when you talk a
bout ‘your time’, when exactly would that be?”

  “It’s hard to express in a manner you’ll understand, but--"

  “If you start clucking at me again like a God-damn African tribal chicken, I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

  “I am from a time long after humanity stopped using the date numbering system you use at present.”

  “Uh-huh. Well how many years into the future are we talking here?”

  “Your concept of ‘years’ is based on the passing of four seasons. I am from a time when seasons have ceased to exist.”

  “Son, you are in Texas right now, alright? If I drive a day due south of here, I’ll hit the fuckin’ equator. They ain’t got no seasons there neither, but they still know what a fuckin’ year is.”

  “And we measure the passing of time also, but translating it into a number that would be of meaning to you is quite difficult. Math isn’t really my strong point.”

  “And what is your strong point?”

  “Fighting.”

  “That’s funny, ‘cause I’m something of an expert in handing out ass-whoopings myself. So that’s why they sent you back here, huh? To fight?”

  “I was sent back because I volunteered. I’m part of a small group – in your parlance, you might call us freedom fighters. We’re attempting to change history – to improve it.”

  “So you future folks do a lot of time traveling?”

  “No. Especially not this far back. We’ve made many attempts to reach this time period. A lot of good men and women have been lost in the process.”

  “Uh-huh. And why this time exactly? Shit, if you’d shown up a couple of days earlier, we was cooking a hog roast.”

  “Now is the time scientists first start experimenting with wormholes. None last long, nor will they for the next couple of centuries, so picking the right time is what I believe you might call a crap shoot.”

  “Uh-huh. This conversation right here is what I might call a crap shoot. Loreal, what’s the machine saying?”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Loreal says, looking at the printer paper.

  “Or he’s too God-damn stupid to know otherwise. Alright Mr. Future Smarty-ass, tonight at half seven, the Houston Texans take on the Indianapolis Colts. What’s the score gon’ be?”

  The Savior smiles for the first time in the 21st century. “If you traveled to Ancient Rome, would you know which gladiators were going to succeed at the Coliseum?”

  “Man, if I wound up in Ancient Rome, I wouldn’t know whether to shit or wind my watch, but it seems to me that you done traveled through time quite deliberately. So let’s stop beating around the bush here – tell me, Mr. Time Traveler, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to save America.”

  “Uh-huh. And what exactly have you come to save America from?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Not yet. All I know is that in a short time from now, America disappears from the historical record completely. Your culture’s surviving texts point to a great number of threats that exist at this time – Arab terrorists, the Chinese, the Russians, the North Koreans, the Iranians, lone-wolf British madmen, zombie outbreaks, all manner of invading alien species--"

  “These ‘cultural texts’ you speak of, they wouldn’t happen to be Hollywood fuckin’ movies, would they?”

  “Some of them.”

  Hank starts laughing. “Jesus Christ. Alright, fuck it, that is it. Maybelline, in my expert opinion, you are almost as dumb as he fuckin’ is for bringing his stupid ass across state lines and making me listen to this shit.”

  “Hank!” Loreal scolds him.

  “It’s alright,” Maybelline sighs. “Listening to him now, I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe any of it.”

  “According to the machine, he ain’t lying,” Loreal reasons.

  “Loreal, this son of a bitch is crazy as a motherfucker,” Hank replies. “Of course the machine don’t know it’s bullshit, ‘cause even he don’t know it’s bullshit. We’re just lucky he weren’t so crazy that he went and done something nasty to Maybelline on the drive over here. Now Loreal, if you’d be so kind as to run out to the classroom and grab Ted, me and him’ll drive this poor son’bitch to the nearest mental hospital and make sure he ain’t posing no further danger to himself nor others.”

  New York, New York

  Erica’s last patient of the day is Max Swanson, a typical case of an ambitious young guy with a good education cracking up beneath the pressure of being drafted into the frontline of global financial warfare. He suffers anxiety attacks and dreads work, but he’s traveled too far from a small town in Massachusetts to go home and disappoint his parents. She tries to maintain her professionalism and stay focused on his strife, but her mind is racing ahead her, down Madison Avenue, left on East 52nd Street at the Porsche Design store, and along the traffic-clogged skyscraper-lined street to the Four Seasons. She’s outside the hotel by 8.16pm, her curiosity propelling her there earlier than the time she agreed with the blonde. She stares up at the city’s signature hotel, stretching up to the starless sky. She takes her phone and the blonde’s plain white business card from her pocket.

  “I’m outside.”

  “Perfect! Wait in the lobby. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  Erica walks into a high-ceilinged lobby lit with low-level orange light, bordered by bright stone pillars and adorned with trees and chandeliers. Erica listens to the buzz of low-level chatter, scanning the men in suits reading newspapers, and the excited tourists taking selfies, or pointing their phones in all directions to capture panoramas, mementos of their close encounter with the great and good of the global capital.

  “Dr. Fitzkoff,” one of two young guys in well-fitted suits with neat hair says, appearing beside her a few moments later, “please follow us.”

  They lead her to an elevator that takes her all the way to the 51st floor. She follows them to a room with huge windows looking down onto Central Park and the city’s skyscrapers all around it. The blonde rises to greet her, then leads her to one of several couches positioned around a fireplace in the room’s center. A dozen other men and women in suits stand or sit around them, locked into their own discussions and phone calls. The blonde pulls a fountain pen from his pocket and pushes a small stack of papers across a coffee table toward Erica.

  “I appreciate you are bound by strictest patient-doctor confidentiality, but you will forgive me for taking a few extra precautions,” he says, handing Erica the pen.

  She picks the papers up and scans through the document, which seems to bind her to never speaking a word of what happens to another living soul, on pain of being sued into oblivion.

  “This is rather dense,” Erica says. “I think I should probably have a lawyer read through it before signing anything.”

  “I’m sorry, but my employer is an incredibly busy man. If you don’t sign this, I’m afraid we’ll have to end our interaction and move on to our second-choice psychiatrist.”

  Erica taps the pen, staring at the lines of legalese. Her curiosity gets the better of her.

  “So can you tell me who you work for now?” she asks, the document signed.

  The blonde checks her signature before answering: “Robert Sanchez.”

  Erica’s eyes widen. One of the two most important men in America. It’s so obvious. But if she’d known the blonde was working for a Presidential candidate, she would have guessed Bob Archer was in greatest need of a psychiatrist.

  “Mr. Sanchez hasn’t been himself lately,” the blonde says, saddened. “It’s been a trying campaign since the primaries.” Erica knew the story. Everyone did. Robert Sanchez had been a total outsider, and he’d no doubt accumulated a lot of sleepless nights beating Hilary Clinton to the Democratic nomination. “Perhaps the pressure’s gotten to him. But what do I know?” The blonde smiles. “A lot less about the human brain than you do, that’s for sure. I should probably let
you judge for yourself.” He stands up. “Dr. Fitzkoff, would you follow me?”

  Erica Fitzkoff-Baldini follows the blonde into the suite’s master bedroom. The curtains are drawn, blotting out all but a thin sliver of the park and the city around it. Robert Sanchez sits on the bed, staring at the sliver of city. He turns to Erica and rises to his feet, smiling. He’s the same handsome, tanned prospective leader she’s seen on television, though his smile seems weaker, his cheeks looser, his eyes worn. Still, as she shakes his outstretched hand, his presence threatens to overwhelm her; she almost feels reduced to some dumb heroine in a Kindle ebook sold cheap on Amazon, whisked to a hotel suite for an improbable dalliance with a well-known multi-millionaire.

  “Dr. Fitzkoff,” he says, beckoning her to sit upon one of two chairs facing one another. “I’m delighted to meet you.” He sits opposite her and looks at the blonde in the doorway. “You can leave us to it.” The blonde pushes the door closed. “I expect my aides told you why they think I need your help.”

  “They told me you’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

  “And what effect did they say that’s had on me?”

  “They didn’t go into specifics. They just said you’ve been experiencing a lot of stress – which anyone would, in your position.”

  “Anyone,” Robert Sanchez smiles. “Do you know of any Presidential candidate who’s ever required the services of a mental healthcare professional?”

  “I’d imagine they all might have benefited from one.”

  “FDR, do you think he ever saw a psychiatrist? The country had been through the Great War and the Great Depression. Then we’re faced with the threat of Imperial Japan to the West and Nazi-conquered Europe to the East, and when it all comes crashing home on Pearl Harbor, the only thing he can do is hold his nose and join arms with the Soviets, whose very existence was based on a desire to erase our capitalist democracy, our way of life, everything this nation was supposed to stand for since the time of our founding fathers; I mean, you want to talk about pressure, that’s pressure. And do you think FDR ever talked to someone like yourself?”

  “He may have done. It’s not something men in his position usually broadcast.”

  “And why do you suppose that is?”

  “I suppose he might be afraid others would see it as a sign of weakness.”

  “Do you think Nixon ever saw a shrink? Now there’s a guy that needed help,” Robert Sanchez laughs – a warm, inclusive laugh; friendly, charming; Presidential. “What the heck was that guy’s problem? I want to hear your professional opinion. I’m curious. Recording phone calls, keeping enemy lists, getting caught bugging the Democrats’ offices – what was he, paranoid? Delusional?”

  “His behavior was certainly paranoid. He seemed to think there were a lot of people out to get him.”

  “But he was right!” Robert Sanchez laughs. “He was President of the United States! At the moment the Sixties counterculture levee broke, with the military mired in an unwinnable war in Vietnam. And look at what happened to the President before him!” He makes a mock gun with his finger and fires. “Reagan had a grenade thrown at him. And don’t tell me half the Middle East wouldn’t love to put an end to George Bush Junior. Pressure. My aides think I’m ‘under pressure’. If they think I’m cracking up now, what do they expect once I move into the White House?”

  Robert Sanchez looks away from Erica, back at the sliver of city in the crack between the curtains. She scribbles a note in the pad she’s placed on her lap: ‘concerned w/ comparing self to past pres., teams op.; doubting ability to do job?’

  “Do you remember that rumor about Obama?”

  “That he wasn’t a U.S. citizen?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “That he was a Muslim?”

  “Exactly,” he says, looking back at Erica. “Obama was the first African-American President. I may be the first Hispanic one. A lot of people thought Hilary would be the first woman in charge. Race and gender are no longer barriers to becoming President. But how long do you think it’ll be before America elects its first Muslim?”

  “A while.”

  “A long while. And why’s that?”

  Erica looks at the sliver of city. “9/11. However unfair it may be, in the American popular consciousness, Islam is inextricably bound up with terrorism.”

  “That’s part of it, a big part, but I don’t think we’ll see a Jewish President any time soon either. Nor a Hindu, Sikh, nor Buddhist one. But I think candidates of those faiths would still have a better shot at becoming President than an out-of-the-closet atheist would. Do you know what percentage of the United States self-identifies as Christian?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Eight-three percent. And what do Christians do when they’re under pressure?”

  “Pray?”

  “Exactly!” he shouts, holding his arms out triumphantly. “They talk to God.”

  “So do you…”

  “Pray? Absolutely.”

  “So you… talk to God.”

  “Every day.”

  “And… does God answer you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What form do His answers take?”

  Robert Sanchez smiles. “Are you Christian, doctor?”

  “Yeah,” she says uncertainly.

  “What denomination?”

  “My dad’s side is Eastern Orthodox. My mom’s Catholic.”

  “I didn’t ask about your parents, doctor. I asked about you.”

  “I guess I’m Catholic.”

  “You ‘guess’? You’re not certain?”

  “Not exactly. I’m not a regular church-goer.”

  “Do you pray?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And does God answer?”

  Erica hesitates. She wants to keep Robert Sanchez engaged and satisfied without lying to him. The truth is she views prayer as a purely psychological act, not a spiritual one; a way of focusing the mind’s energies, a kind of contemplative meditation. “I find it gives me peace of mind,” she says diplomatically.

  “Peace of mind,” Robert Sanchez repeats, smiling. “I guess the answers He gives you depend on the questions you ask.”

  “How does He answer you?”

  “Do you remember George W. Bush said he prayed every day of the Iraq war? Tony Blair did the same in England. The difference was, Bush told the American public he was praying, and they trusted him all the more for it. Blair kept his faith a secret until he left office. What does that tell you about America, doctor?”

  “America is a more religious country than Great Britain.”

  “Who are Israel’s biggest supporters?”

  “Us.”

  “And who does the Bible identify as God’s chosen people?”

  “The Israelites.”

  “We’re living at a turning point in history, doctor. If you listen to scientists, we’re facing climate change, unprecedented mass extinctions, the acidification of our oceans, the destruction of our environment. It’s gotten to such a point that even the Pope publicly acknowledges it. Against that, you’ve got the ever-increasing pace of technological change, the race to Mars, the search for extra-terrestrial life. The world’s more globalized than ever before, but it’s also never been more precarious. The Jews are back in Jerusalem, but all around them, chaos rages. Look at the mess Obama’s left Syria in, or the mess Bush left behind in Iraq. You’ve got the Iranians trying to acquire nuclear weapons, and they’ve got them already in Pakistan – a nation with a virtually independent intelligence agency, a secret service who kept the perpetrator of the biggest terrorist atrocity the world has ever witnessed hidden in plain sight, all while its government was saying it was our ally in the War on Terror. Then in East Asia, you’ve got the rise of China, their territorial claims brushing up to the beaches of every country they share an ocean with. You’ve got North Korea, with nuclear warheads ready to go. Then in Eastern Europe, you’ve got civil war raging in Ukraine, on the E.U.’s d
oorstep, with Russia annexing their land and growing ever more aggressive. You said your father’s family is Eastern Orthodox, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Where are they from, exactly?”

  “Poland.”

  “When did they come to America?”

  “1946.”

  “During the war…?”

  “They were interned.”

  “By the Germans?”

  “By the Russians.”

  Robert Sanchez smiles. “Who are the two main threats to America’s status as the world’s sole superpower?”

  “Russia and China.”

  “Russia and China. Two resurgent countries. Two countries with big aspirations and the ability to fulfill them. Two countries that are atheistic to their core. We are living in precarious times. If you were God, who do you think you’d talk to about it?”

  Erica sits silently for a few seconds, though the answer seems obvious.

  “In the movies, the old ones, what’s that thing the aliens say?” Sanchez continues. “‘Take me to your leader.’ And who do they take them to?”

  “The President.”

  “Exactly,” Robert Sanchez exclaims, throwing his arms open again.

  “Are you saying that God speaks to you directly?”

  “Not directly, no. Even Moses had to address a burning bush.”

  “But he does communicate with you?”

  “Through an intermediary.”

  “What kind of intermediary?”

  “The archangel Gabriel.”

  Erica stares at Robert Sanchez for several seconds, wondering how best to proceed.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “No, I… I mean… you actually saw the archangel Gabriel?”

  “Yeah. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Erica says, having flashbacks to going to Mass with her mother. “He spoke to Mary.”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  “And where do you see him?”

  “Usually late at night, when I’m alone, in hotel rooms like this one.”

  “And what does he tell you?”

  “He tells me God’s views on our election platform.”

  “And what does God say?”

  “He says we need to move away from some of our more liberal social policies, like support for gay marriage and abortion. We need to stand up to Russia and China. We need to clean up the Middle East. We need to recognize we are God’s favored nation. We need to recognize and confront those who are in league with Satan.”

  “Such as…”

  Robert Sanchez laughs. “The whole country is swarming with devils. Our entertainment industry is poisoning the globe with sexually suggestive music videos, and with Hollywood movies fronted by false idols. The whole cult of celebrity is idolatry. It’s an insult to Him. Our military are doing His work. We should expand their remit.”

  “Expand their remit?”

  “Allow them greater scope to reshape our world. Root out evil wherever it lurks. God was greatly disappointed in the way our country lost its nerve throughout the second half of the twentieth century. He allowed 9/11 to happen to awaken us. But many are still asleep. Now God wants us to initiate the Age of Aquarius, to pour out the filth and muck that has festered too long over the planet’s surface. The time has come for righteous warfare.”

  The door opens suddenly; Erica looks toward it and sees the blonde.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s almost time to go.”

  “I’m appearing on Craig Irving’s show tonight,” Robert Sanchez smiles. “I’m sorry doctor, I feel like we were just getting started.”

  Robert Sanchez walks to the door, where he’s immediately surrounded by chattering, suit-wearing aides. The blonde pushes the door shut and addresses Erica in private. “What’s your verdict?”

  “I think he’s delusional, showing signs of paranoia, experiencing hallucinations…”

  “Uh-huh. So is there anything you can prescribe for it?”

  “Medication? On the basis of one short conversation, no. I need more time to assess him. But I’d say there’s definitely cause for concern. He may have to be removed from the campaign trail for a while, taken to a professional facility--"

  The blonde laughs. “The election’s six weeks away. That’s impossible.”

  “The longer we wait, the worse he might get. Some of the things he said… I think he may have to drop out of the race entirely.”

  “What, and hand the White House to the Republicans?”

  “He’s displaying symptoms consistent with paranoid schizophrenia. If he’s elected, he may endanger the whole country.”

  “More than President Bob Archer would?” the blonde scoffs. “No, that’s out of the question. What we need you to do is keep him together enough to get through the next six weeks. After that, we’ll have a few months until inauguration. You’ll have time to fix him then.”

  “Mental illness really isn’t as simple as that. And what you’re proposing is spending the next six weeks lying to the American public. I can’t--"

  “If you can’t, someone else will. And remember, you’re the only person outside of his inner circle that knows anything about Mr. Sanchez’s condition. If word gets out, there will be consequences.” He stares Erica dead in the eye for several seconds. The heaviness of what he’s saying is obvious. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

  He exits and rejoins Robert Sanchez and his entourage. Erica watches them rushing around, a half-dozen people babbling at the candidate at once. She opens the door and slips quietly out into the hallway.

  Jesus Loves America's Kids Ranch, Texas

  “I know a guy that works for one of them Japanese motorbike manufacturers, Kama-something or Yoko-whatever,” Hank says, turning his head from Maybelline to the so-called Savior, “and every so often, they fly him out to Japan for a couple of days. He told me they got toilets over there that spray water up your ass to wash the dingleberries off, if you’ll pardon my French, Maybelline. Y’all using them things in the future?”

  The Savior ponders the question for a moment. “Toilets, restrooms, showers; when we see these things depicted in your cultural artifacts, it amazes us. I’m from a time when all resources are far scarcer than they are now, at the end of the Piscean epoch of plenty.”

  “So them little water-jet gimmicks ain’t caught on, huh? Are there any other advances in restroom technology we got to look forward to?”

  “That’s one area where my time is perhaps more primitive than your own. Only the elite can afford to flush away their waste products; for most people, their feces is an essential energy source.”

  Hank arches an eyebrow and looks up at Maybelline. Maybelline’s staring out the room’s open door.

  “Do you hear that?” Maybelline asks.

  Hank's eyes grow wide as he trains his ears on it: screaming.

  The Savior shoots out of his chair and pushes past Hank and Maybelline, the wires from the polygraph test flying off behind him. Hank and Maybelline follow, quick, out through the hallway, to the back door, where a scene of utter insanity greets them: five crazed beasts, somewhat akin to giant rats, snarling and snapping, kids running to escape them. They’ve got long tails and a smattering of dark brown feathers atop reptilian scales; tiny stumps for arms, with wing-like feathers suspended beneath them.

  Hank, Maybelline and the Savior watch in disbelief as one beast launches itself at the two Jakes. A jaw full of razor teeth clenches onto one Jake’s back. The beast jerks its head sideways and tosses the Jake into the air, opening its mouth to catch him and slam him into the ground, blood spraying up upon impact.

  “Jesus fuckin' Christ,” Hank mutters, fumbling with his belt for his holstered Glock 22.

  “What the hell are those things?” Maybelline says, watching one beast's huge tail dragging behind it as it races across the grass toward Hayley, Joyce and Anna, as the three girls scream and try to escape. Ha
yley and Anna flee in opposite directions, leaving Joyce alone in the charging beast’s path. It leaps forward, its leg stretched out in front of it. A spike jutting out from its talon-like feet slams hard into Joyce’s throat, flooring her.

  “Take this,” Hank says, thrusting his Glock into Maybelline's hands. “I'll get the serious shit.”

  Hank sprints back into the house as Maybelline struggles to lift the heavy Glock in her shaking hands. As the three other beasts run about, snapping and snarling at the children, Maybelline looks down the barrel at the two beasts nuzzling their elongated heads into little Jake and little Joyce. She moves the gun between the beasts, struggling to force her hands into following the erratic bobbing of the feasting beasts’ heads. Then she hears snarling closer, and sees little Billy run and trip upon the grass no more than 20 feet in front of the ranch house's back porch. A beast leaps toward him, driving its talon into Billy as it lands. Maybelline shoots. The beast shrieks, then turns to the source of the pain coursing through its back. Black soulless eyes lock on Maybelline. Its gargantuan jaw snaps open and the beast shrieks again, then charges across the grass toward her. Maybelline screams and falls as she stumbles back. She hits the wooden floor of the porch, closes her eyes and throws her hands up to protect herself. She hears a huge bang and reopens her eyes to see her Savior, gripping the Glock with both hands, the beast slowly backing away from him, dazed. The Savior fires again, the bullet smashing straight into the beast's right eye. The beast stumbles backward and falls, vanquished. The Savior runs into the fray. Maybelline hears another bang behind her. She looks up at Hank, a sleek black Bushmaster Predator stretching out in front of him, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun strapped to his back. Hank runs his rifle over the battlefield, settling upon a beast ducking and weaving away from a few near point-blank blasts from Ted's Beretta 9mm, Ted's shots winging the beast and doing nothing to stop it. The beast gets close enough that its jaw springs open and snaps shut on Ted's outstretched Beretta-wielding arms, snapping them off. Hank fires straight into the beast’s side. The beast turns to Hank and snarls, then looks away. Hank follows the beast's eyeline to Loreal, herding a few of the kids towards the classroom.

  “What in the fuck am I witnessing?” Hank mutters.

  The beast runs toward Loreal and the kids and leaps into the air, Hank firing off another shot and missing it. The beast lands, its talon spearing poor little Lionel through his underdeveloped noggin. He falls to the floor and the beast throws its head down, ready to feast. Instinctively, Loreal kicks it in the side of its head. The beast snaps at her leg and brings her to the ground, tearing the limb straight off. It rears back, jaw open wide, ready to finish her. The Savior charges across the grass, leaps onto the beast's back, presses the Glock to its skull, and blows its brains out.

  Hank moves his focus across the field, to the other three beasts running around the rest of the kids, corralling them. Hank fires at one creature and hits the side of its chest, staggering it. The other two lose interest in the terrified kids and stare straight at Hank.

  “Jesus Christ...”

  The two beasts charge across the field towards him, stump-arms with their dangling wings stretched out at their sides, jaws open, primeval shrieks emanating from within. Hank drops the Bushmaster and swings the Remington 870 out in front of him. The beasts come within striking distance of the porch. One leaps up, its talons stretched out in front of it. Hank fires. The blast hit the belly of the beast, blowing its brown feathered hide open. It's carcass crashes into Hank and knocks him to the floor. Maybelline sits up a few feet behind and sees the second beast leap, talon stretched out in front of it. It crashes onto the porch just in front of her. Its huge jaw stretches open and falls down onto her. Its jaw clenches and the beast rears its head back, tearing Maybelline in half.

  Josh holds the classroom door open for Tyler, Becky and Sarah to run inside, then looks back across the field at the Savior, Glock stretched out in front of him, creeping towards the one beast who remains upon the grass, stalking around Libby, Anne and the surviving Jake. Josh is torn between saving himself and helping the others. What would Jesus do? The beast moves left and right, second guessing its prey, then stops. Josh pushes the classroom door closed.

  The Savior pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He pulls it again; nothing. A third time; another soft click and no follow through. He's out of bullets, Josh realizes. The beast throws its jaws open and lunges forward, snapping at little Anne and ragging her to the floor. Josh's eyes dart across the field in panic, then fall upon Ted, or Ted's corpse, and his severed arms a few feet away from him.

  Josh runs toward Ted's arms as the beast feasts on little Anne. Libby and the surviving Jake turn to run. Josh reaches Ted’s right arm and pulls the Beretta 9mm free of its grip. He swings the gun up in front of his face and points it in the beast's direction. Josh closes his eyes and fires. The beast is unmoved. Libby screams. It takes Josh a second to release what’s happened; he's hit little Jake in the back of the head.

  “No…” he mumbles, looking at Libby, looking down at the last of the Jakes. “No…” Josh drops the gun to the floor, hyperventilating.

  Libby's scream draws the beast's attention. It leaves what remains of little Anne and creeps toward her.

  Another blast rings out. The beast stumbles to its side. One more blast. The beast falls. Libby looks at the porch and sees Hank with the Bushmaster, dead beasts either side of him. She looks around at the carnage of the field: the fallen bodies and savaged carcasses of child and beast, now lying still and quiet in eerie calmness.