The Conformity

by John Hornor Jacobs

  Casey gasps and asks, “What’s happening?”

  Beyond the pallet where Shreve lies, Bernard and Danielle stand. They’re whole, not bloody messes. But they’re there and not there all at once. It’s like the possibility of them plays out in my mind, bypassing all retinal brain activity, but superimposed in real space. They are near. They are far. They are bodiless. They are possibilities.

  “We have come,” Danielle says. Her mouth moves haltingly, like she’s trying to remember how to speak.

  “From far …” Bernard says. Behind him, another shadow flickers into existence. Davies, his cheeks hollow. He’d been in contact with us too. A member of the collective, if only for a while.

  “Not far,” Danielle says. She looks troubled; her skin becomes mottled with more shadows. It ripples from pink to gray to blue. Her lips are ghastly. Her eyes covered in snow. Then she’s pink and normal again. “No distance …” She pauses, rippling again, and now I see the same thing happening to Bernard and Davies.

  Maybe it’s just us, and not the visual manifestation of our dead friends, that’s causing the rippling, changing appearance of them. They’re broadcasting from inside our own minds and projecting themselves onto the real world. But … doesn’t this make “their” world more real now and ours, well, a little less real? Or just different.

  “Can you see them?” I ask Negata.

  He looks at me, puzzled. “No. You are seeing what?”

  “Danielle. Bernard.” I point to where they stand.

  Danielle shakes her head, and her hair swirls around her as if she was immersed in water, a slow liquid movement. “We have come with …”

  “With a message,” Bernard says, the words falling like wet stones dropped from a statue’s mouth. “A message.”

  “A message? From who?” Casey asks, her eyes growing wide and her face gaining this eager, almost hungry look.

  “From Shreve,” Davies says, finally joining the ghostly conversation.

  “What?” Casey says. “What’s the message?”

  The trio looks at me. I remember all the horror movies I’ve seen where the ghosts look upon the living in that one moment when their needs and desires remain unfathomable and indistinct and then … freaky ugly ghost face. But Bernard, Danielle, and Davies just stare, their faces rippling cycles of corpse gray, frozen snow-rimed, and pink and healthy. Thank whatever gods above that we’re not getting the bloody smear effect.

  Negata says, “Girls, you might want to—” He raises a hand and points to Casey’s nose. It’s pouring blood.

  Ooof. My head throbs, like hammers and hydraulic pressure and some demented factory worker ratcheting up the gears. I can taste blood. I wipe at my nose and the back of my hand has a long, crimson streak on it.

  “Ember,” Danielle says, “you must find the Liar.”

  “The Liar? That kid, Reese Cameron?”

  “Yes. He is needed.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. We must go. It is …” Danielle shimmers and ripples again. “It is hard.”

  “To return,” Bernard says.

  “Wait!” Casey’s voice is raw. “Did Shreve leave a message for me? Will he wake up? Did he say anything?”

  But they’re already becoming shadows once more, slipping into the veil of normal optical stimuli and out of the world of possibility.

  “Wait! Did he—”

  They’re gone. We remain silent for a long while, letting Casey compose herself. Might have been a tear there, at the corner of her eye—for the three ghosts or for Shreve sending me a message and neglecting her, who knows?

  So that settles that.

  Go find the Liar.

  But not before I find Jack.

  twenty-two

  –Dies iræ! Dies illa

  Solvet sæclum in favilla–

  TAP

  When I come to, the crick in my neck and the gag and ropes make me seriously want to kick someone in the vagina. The crazy woman with the bruiser. She’s talking now, but all I can see is that we’re in some sort of office—nice office, lots of books and a thick oriental rug and a big desk—but they’ve got us tied fast to these chairs and facing each other. The ropes are crazy tight. I can’t feel my toes and fingers.

  Jack’s face looks like shit. It’s bright red and beading with little pinpricks of blood and tears; snot runs down his face and chin. Blasted with rock salt, looks like, right in the puss. And, holy shit, does he seem pissed. But he’s looking at someone behind me so I turn my head to get a look. It’s dark in here, and they’ve got what looks like a massive church candelabra standing on the mantle above the (sadly) cold fireplace. It’d feel like we’d gone back in time five hundred years if it wasn’t for our wardrobes.

  The eye of the shotgun isn’t the best thing I’ve seen all day. He’s got it up nice and close to my face so that there’ll be no funny business. I don’t know if Jack can use his powers tied up—maybe he can, maybe he can’t, but he has always been very handsy when flying and attacking. From outside the room I can hear the murmurings of people and the voice of the lady. The crazy one. She’s got a thick, fruity voice that reminds me a little bit of Bernard’s, but the shit she’s spewing is the worst sort of mindfuck Bible talk.

  “For when I brought your ancestors out of Egypt and spoke to them, I did not just give them commands to burn offerings and make sacrifices, but I gave them this command: Obey me, and I will be your God and you will be my people. Walk in obedience to all I command you, that it may go well with you. But they did not listen or pay attention; instead, they followed the stubborn inclinations of their evil hearts. They went backward and not forward.”

  There’s a mutter of agreements and the shuffling of feet. Sounds like a regular tent revival in there. The bruiser, keeping the shotgun trained on me, backs away and steps out of my range of vision. But I’ve got to assume he’s letting her know that I’m awake.

  “Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are to whom ye obey; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness?” she says, her voice strong and vibrating, like she’s ending on a high note. “This is the word. This is the word of the All-Seeing God. The Panopticon. All things are possible within his vision, and he has come among the sheep to gather our flesh to his and our wills within his greater will. We are born into the end times, and now we call to us the Rapture.”

  She’s a damned natural, that’s for sure. With each word her voice thrums and resonates with just the right quiver of emotion. Judging from the murmurs and shuffling feet, she’s got the crowd now and she’s working it.

  Can you blast loose? I ask Jack silently.

  He gives a single shake of his head, so small I’d miss it if I wasn’t sitting facing him.

  Have you tried contacting Ember? Casey?

  Of course, idiot. That’s the first thing I did. They’re out of range. Or we’re not strong enough without Shreve as a signal booster.

  Don’t have to get shitty about it, I say. So, you can’t blast loose?

  I can blast out of here, sure, but the man said if I do anything he’s gonna shoot you. And it won’t be rock salt.

  Yeah, your face is totally fucked up, man.

  I should let him shoot you,he says. Jack’s kind of a trip: he’s one of those kids you meet who’s totally chill, just a regular dude hanging out, but there’s that light switch inside of him and if it gets flipped he goes red-hot. Like habanero-up-the-ass red-hot. When he was blasting the Conformity soldier. And when he knocked out the back of the plane, it was … something. It was something.

  If I can work my hand free … I send.

  Listen, can you fall over? Tip the chair?

  Maybe. It’s hard to feel my feet. But I might be able to shift my weight enough. Probably. Why?

  If they make me stand or lift me up, you fall over, right? They know I can fly. They know we’re different, and they’re gonna question you about where we come from. The woman—
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  She’s a bugfuck, right?

  Yeah. Not a strong one, but maybe strong enough to get in your head … Jack sends.

  What are you saying? I’m weak?

  Jack gives a silent, mental sigh and rolls his eyes. Tap, she stopped you, remember? Don’t know what she was doing, but she stopped you from running.

  I don’t say anything. He’s right. Maybe.

  She’s gonna try to do that again. If they lift me up I can blast them, but you’ve got to be on the floor. Low as you can. Shreve and I have done this before.

  The high and mighty Shreve. Giver of gifts. The taker of takes. But where is he now to save us? Right, unconscious back with the girls. I don’t say any of that. Or send it telepathically. No point, really. But I can fall over. My right leg is tied more loosely than my left, and I think I can tip the chair up and over with my right foot with some leverage and rocking.

  Yes. I can fall over.

  Great. You see me get picked up or stand, do it. Because shortly after—

  Boom.

  That’s right. Boom.

  The praying goes on for a long time. I can’t see anything except Jack and the section of the office that has the bookshelf and desk. We must be in a church, and the worship area is behind me.

  The biblical chanting and quoting drones on, and like when my mom would make me sit through church, I find my attention drifting. The ropes at my wrists chafe and cut off my circulation. I can’t seem to concentrate on the religious blather but, goddamn, it’s just gobbledygook. At some point there’s some nonsense sounds, like people saying, “oh conshalla non falla dalla was it talling conshalla” over and over again, and I hear yelps and strange vocalizations. But then everything quiets and the woman says, “Go, go from here, to your homes. To your children. Rejoin flesh of your flesh and blood of your blood and rejoice that soon you will be gathered to a greater flock. You will become one with the All-Seeing God and visit the fields and plains of the vaults of Heaven. You will know happiness. You will know being one with your maker. All praise the Panopticon!”

  In chorus, the worshippers respond, “Praise the Panopticon,” and there’s some serious brainwash fervor going on in their voices.

  Then silence except for shuffling. The sound of a push-handle on a door. Then footfalls echoing in a larger space, coming closer. Then silence.

  Someone else is in the room. You can feel the change now, like you know when someone—your sister or brother—is behind you. Jack’s eyes go to something behind me, and then a woman comes into view and stands, looking at us.

  She’s not an ugly woman. She’s not pretty either. She’s sweating some now, and her hair is wet at the temples and she’s got it pulled back, away from her face. With the fruitiness of her voice, I thought she might be fat but I don’t know why I thought that. She looks like she’s very fit but not muscular. She wears frumpy mom-jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Hiking boots. No makeup and no jewelry. She looks like she’s just returned from a strenuous hike.

  “My name is Ruth Gulch,” she says, moving to half sit on the edge of the desk. “And you two are different.” She lets that sink in some before continuing. She crosses her arms. Stares at us.

  “How did you destroy the wall of the library?” she says, her voice suddenly powerful, a whipcrack. It’s like I need to answer her. But Jack says in my head, Shut up, idiot. And I don’t.

  She looks at me, then over at Jack, and purses her lips. “Why are you in McCall? Why are you here, skulking about in our library?”

  She begins tapping her fingers on her arm, and I notice a strange little scar on her pinkie, silver and puckered.

  Check her hands, Jack. Looks like she’s chopped off her extra fingers.

  Jack’s gaze moves toward her hands, registering the scar, and then back to her face.

  “To get warm,” Jack says.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Devil’s Throne. A lodge there.”

  “And how did you get here? Horseback?”

  A pause. “We walked.”

  “You’re lying.” She looks at the man standing behind me. “Massey, get Bildings to fetch some firewood and shut the door, if you would, please. Now that our congregation has gone, the temperature is seriously dropping. We could use the heat.” The big, bearded man with the shotgun grunts in assent.

  Gulch moves behind her desk to sit in the big leather swivel chair there and then rolls it over to the small fireplace grate. The interior of the office looks like what I’d think of for some Irish priest’s office, cozy, lined in dark stained wood and leather-bound books, a picture window looking out on firs and frozen windswept lake. Real Old World shit. On the walls I can see the less-weathered places on the wood where pictures used to hang. And there, the shadow where a crucifix once was pinned.

  I’m not looking forward to finding out how far the crazy goes.

  Gulch rustles behind her desk, face in the fireplace grate. I can hear the sound of small blocks of wood. She’s fiddling with kindling. The heavy footfalls of Massey and Bildings sound, and eventually they come into view bearing armfuls of icy wood that they delicately place near the fireplace. Massey—or is it Bildings—grunts and squats on his hams, ducking out of sight beyond the desk, but I hear the telltale sounds of fire making—the hollow clatter of kindling, the mess of wrinkled newsprint, the hollow thocks of logs being placed. Then there’s yellow-orange light flickering in the dark room. Wouldn’t mind if they burned their goddamned eyebrows off.

  It’s silent for a long while except for the crackling of tinder and paper, and the air fills with the aroma of woodsmoke. Jack, his face like raw meat, looks like a sausage held over a fire until the angry juices spit and hiss. I hope he doesn’t blow before I’m on the floor.

  Finally the temperature in the room rises—though not before Gulch bitches at Massey. “Keep that door shut, and draw the blinds! I can feel the cold pouring off the windows!” They brew some tea with a stovetop teapot they shove into the coals. It’s so very comfy cozy here, three freaks with their teen prisoners. The ropes have probably turned my hands purple.

  Gulch, after she’s had some tea and snacked on a granola bar, returns her focus to us. This has all been a show. She crosses her arms like a principal dealing with miscreant youths—which we are, I guess, but fuck her—and Bildings and Massey flank her like a godfather’s bruisers, ready to deliver the beatdowns.

  “All right, now that it’s warm enough in here for higher thought and conversations, I’ll ask again: Why are you here?”

  Jack’s gaze flickers over to me and back to her. “We’re looking for a doctor for our friend.”

  “Your friend? Who is your friend?”

  “Does it matter? He’s been hurt, and he needs a doctor.”

  I can see the thought churning behind her plain features. The scary thing about this Gulch woman is that she doesn’t look scary. Quincrux, that creepy dude Norman that ran with the Red Team, even Shreve—they’re scary sometimes. She looks like anyone you might meet anywhere. At the grocery store. At the mall. At the soccer field. At church. Plain Jane, but crazy as shit.

  She looks at Massey and Bildings and says, “Would you two excuse us for a moment?” When they’re slow to respond, Gulch says, “I need to ask them some delicate questions, and maybe the sight of those two shotguns is tying their tongues.”

  Massey glances at Bildings, and the larger, bearded one gives a barely perceptible shrug like Who gives a shit? She’s the boss, and they tromp out—though they’re careful to open the door quickly and shut it behind them just as fast. Still, the temperature drops considerably after they leave.

  Gulch stands, moves to put her ass to the flames, warming her hands behind her back. “It’s getting late, and I have lots to do tomorrow.”

  “I bet the crazies take a lot of your energy, huh,” I offer. She looks at me, eyes narrowed.

  She ignores that, but it has irritated her.

  “Now that Massey and Billings have le
ft, let’s be honest.” She looks at Jack. “You, I can’t pierce. And Billings says he saw you flying before he shot you. And there’s the wall to the library you blew out. Clearly, you aren’t normal.” She moves to stand behind the desk, placing her hands on the desktop, her face an intense study. “You’re like me. Are you part of the Panopticon?”

  “The Panopticon? You mean the Conform—” I begin, but Jack gives a telepathic shout of No!

  Gulch’s lips purse. “You are in communication. I can’t hear what you’re saying, but I know something’s being said.” She leans back, letting her plain, blunt hands fall to her sides. “I didn’t want to do this—because, as you two probably know, it’s painful for all of us involved, but I’m going to have to take the information I need.”

  “No, you—” Jack says.

  “Time for talking is over, whoever-you-are. As I said, I can’t read you.” She inclines her head toward me. “But him, I can. And I’m going to get the whole story, one way or another.”

  Once, when I was first recruited by the Director to join the Society, and they brought me onto the plane, they introduced me to him—he was so damn polite—and he sat there chatting with me, smoking (on the plane!), and there was this overwhelming sense of dislocation and otherness. Maybe I was outraged but it’s hard to remember. It was only later, when I met some other bugfucks and could feel them scurrying around in my head, that I realized what was going on. Maybe that’s why Shreve bugs the shit out of me. I don’t know.

  But it’s pretty obvious what she’s talking about.

  “Wait. At least tell us why. Why are you doing all this?” Jack’s voice is raw.

  She looks surprised. “You mean the church? The parishioners? The All-Seeing God?”

  “Yes. And questioning us. Holding us.”

  “These are the end times, and I need to know what I’m supposed to do. To be pleasing in the sight of God. So that I may join with Him. And you have come here to tempt me. Us. To lead us astray.”

  Jack shakes his head. “No. We don’t care. But that thing … it’s no second coming—”