Second Horseman Out of Eden

by George C. Chesbro

  “Demons! Demons!”

  The little fingers kept slipping away.

  “Garth, help me!”

  Billy Dale Rokan’s voice momentarily rose above the screams. “Go back! It’s a trap! The demons are here!”

  And then the child was pulled from me. I collapsed on my face, struggled not to sink down into the hot mist that was swirling all around me. Then my vision cleared for a few moments—just long enough for me to see that Garth was using his body to block the entrance to Eden. I could see that he was standing on top of bodies, and between his outstretched legs I could see the bodies of other white-robed people who, in their blind panic to escape from the “demons” with their white lights, had crushed one another against the ground or the concrete wall.

  As I watched, my mouth opening and closing in horror, the Browns, with Vicky being dragged between them on the ground, rushed up to him. Garth hit the man with a right cross to the chin, knocking him, unconscious, to the ground. Then he grabbed the woman’s arm as she tried to slip past him, pushed her hard to one side at the same time as he scooped up the child in his arms.

  The last thing I heard before falling down into the hot mist was the sound of more distant screaming coming from inside Eden.

  18.

  The screams of the doomed, poisoned men and women who had “escaped” back into Eden kept echoing through my dreams, along with visions of the people crushed in and around the doorway. I thought I had seen Garth stop the Browns, and rescue Vicky—but I wasn’t sure it hadn’t been an hallucination. To escape the screams and visions, and to satisfy a terrible need in me to make sure the child was safe, I struggled back up through the hot mist that still cloaked me.

  I opened my eyes to find myself looking up into a very familiar face that was brightened by a most unfamiliar smile. Mr. Lippitt, our ancient, totally bald, seemingly ageless friend who was the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency and with whom we had shared so many adventures, hardly ever smiled. But now his smile was a veritable grin, and his large, soulful brown eyes gleamed with warmth.

  Behind him and slightly to his left, at the opposite side of what appeared to be the hold of a cargo plane outfitted as a hospital emergency room, my brother, wearing slippers and wrapped up in a heavy gray woolen blanket, was watching as an Air Force medic gently applied a sling to Vicky Brown’s injured left arm. A few feet away, a very sheepish-looking Mr. and Mrs. Brown stood by themselves, trembling slightly, arms wrapped around one another, also watching the daughter they would have killed to save from an end of the world that hadn’t come, and demons that didn’t exist. They looked not only sheepish, but also bewildered and lost—as if, for them, their world really had ended, and they had no idea how they would cope with the one they found themselves in. Despite the infectious pus I knew their thoughts to be, and despite what they had tried to do, I found I felt deep pity for them.

  “Don’t bother asking me how I feel, Lippitt,” I croaked, trying and failing to sit up in the bed. “I feel like shit.”

  “Considering the fact that you have double pneumonia and are suffering the effects of amphetamine overdose, I don’t really find that too surprising,” the D.I.A. Director replied, still grinning. “Actually, what I was thinking is how cute you look in pink sneakers. They go quite well with your slightly greenish pallor. It’s really quite festive.”

  “You and your warped sense of humor can go to hell, Lippitt,” I said as I finally managed to sit up.

  “Lie back, Mongo,” the old man said seriously, gently gripping my shoulders and trying to push me back down onto the bed. “You’re going to be all right, but you’re a very sick man.”

  “It’s all right, Lippitt,” Garth said as he came across the hold of the plane, put one arm across the Director’s shoulders and used the other to support my back. “He’s not going to be able to really rest until he’s checked out the situation. Everything’s fine, brother. You see Vicky and her parents over there, and none of the bombs exploded. It’s all over.”

  I turned, looked out one of the plane’s windows. Searchlights had been set up on the desert, and emergency and police vehicles were everywhere. There were reporters and photographers with sick expressions on their faces as they watched teams of gauze-masked paramedics carting plastic-shrouded corpses out of Eden.

  “The others?” I asked in a small voice.

  “A couple who got mashed in the doorway will survive,” Lippitt replied, shaking his head slightly. “The rest are all dead—either trampled, or as a result of the poison they drank after running back in there.” He paused, sighed, added softly, “Crazy bastards.”

  “Crazy bastards is right,” I said, glancing over at the Browns, who, shamefaced, were studying us and listening to our conversation. “Christ, Lippitt, they panicked when the searchlights came on. They thought you were demons.”

  “I thought they might be chasing you, Garth, and the child. We’d been waiting outside for more than two and a half hours, worrying about you and wondering if you were all right. We were all a bit on edge. The moment the door opened, my first concern was to see just what was going on. I never dreamed the lights would cause them to try to run back and poison themselves.”

  “There’s no way you could have known. You’ve been out here since ten?”

  Lippitt nodded. “Ten here, midnight New York time.”

  “But—”

  “In all likelihood, that was when the signal was supposed to be sent to detonate the bombs. But there was no need to bomb this place, Mongo—especially since you, Garth, and the others were still inside. The National Security Agency managed to identify and scramble the signal from here to the satellite; in fact, I think they might even have found a way to destroy the satellite itself, although they don’t want to confirm that, even to me. The point is that the thermonuclear bombs weren’t going off once the signal had been disrupted; we confirmed that from the bomb that was dismantled in New York. Our next concern was the welfare of the Frederickson brothers, the child, and the rest of the people in this cursed place. We had no way of knowing how those inside would react to our forced entry, and virtually no chance of getting in without announcing our presence. Considering the forces and technology the planners of this thing had at their disposal, it was even conceivable to some people, including me, that they might have some sort of doomsday device—say, another hydrogen bomb—inside that they could set off if they were attacked. We just didn’t know. You can’t see it from here, but we did manage to attach a listening device to the section of the dome over the living quarters. We obviously couldn’t hear everything, but we heard enough to know that the two of you were still on the loose and taking care of business, so to speak.” Lippitt paused, looked back and forth between Garth and me, smiled wryly. “Past experience with you two has taught me never to underestimate the ability of the Fredericksons to take care of business, and themselves. If we’d heard anything to indicate that you’d been captured, then we’d have gone in. As it was, I felt the best course of action was to wait and see what happened. As I said, the situation was uncertain when the door was finally opened, which is why I ordered the lights turned on.”

  A khaki-clad angel of mercy appeared beside me with a china cup filled with what turned out to be chicken broth. It seared the roof of my mouth when I sipped it, but I couldn’t remember anything ever tasting so good. Then the female medic held up a little paper cup with two purple pills in it. Garth took the cup from her, set it down on the bed next to me.

  “Thanks, Lippitt,” I said between more sips of the steaming broth. I was almost ready for sleep—lots and lots of it. “Thanks for taking care of business at your end, and thanks for caring about the kid and us. You do good work.”

  “No, my friends,” Lippitt said. Then he really surprised me by hugging Garth, and then me. “You are the ones who do the good work. Because of your willingness to risk everything, including your lives, to help one child, the lives of millions of other people have been saved f
rom a singular act of evil and insanity. The entire world owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude. And who knows? When the parts of this story that won’t be classified come out, perhaps people will come to listen to deranged hatemongers like William Kenecky with just a bit less credulity and tolerance. Incidentally, our mutual acquaintance, the president, would like to speak to both of you on the phone when you feel up to it. He’d have been here in person, but he felt that his place was in the White House situation room until this matter had been resolved. I agreed, of course.”

  I looked at Garth. “You want to talk to Shannon?”

  He shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

  Lippitt smiled thinly. “You’re still angry with him over the Archangel business, aren’t you?”

  Garth said, “Mongo and I are still angry with a lot of people over the Archangel business, Lippitt. But not you.”

  “Hmm. Well, anyway, he wants to mount a very big White House dinner to honor the two of you with the Medal of Freedom; your second, I believe. But these won’t be awarded in secret. There’ll be a lot of publicity. I suggested to him that he consult with you before he starts making a lot of plans for your futures—he sometimes neglects these little niceties, as you’re aware. And so he delegated me to ask if you would accept the honor, and agree to the publicity. My opinion is that it would be good for you to accept. I know you don’t much care for the president, but he likes and respects the two of you very much. I also know that you think he’s amoral, but in this case I think much benefit could come from the publicity surrounding the story; perhaps it could serve as a warning to others about the kinds of religious charlatans and zealots exemplified by the people who built Eden.”

  I thought about it, and almost laughed when a most diabolical thought occurred to me. I looked at Garth—and could tell by the look on his face that the same thought had occurred to him. He raised his eyebrows mischievously, grinned, and nodded to me.

  “You tell him, Mongo.”

  “Garth and I accept, Lippitt—but there are conditions.”

  “And what would they be?”

  “There are two other men who have to be similarly honored—one in particular.”

  “Who are they?”

  “One is Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey of the NYPD, now retired. The other is Frank Palorino, another cop. If it weren’t for McCloskey, Garth and I would have been vaporized hours ago—along with New York City and those millions of people you mentioned. We’ll tell you all about it when we’re feeling a bit more chipper.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Lippitt said evenly, his eyes, if not his voice, mirroring his interest. “And I don’t see that there would be a problem in honoring the other two. In fact, I suspect the president might feel it would be to his political advantage to honor the common man, so to speak.”

  “Another thing, Lippitt,” my brother said.

  “What is it, Garth?”

  “Palorino will advance very quickly in the department. It’s McCloskey we want really taken care of—the full treatment; that’s as it should be. We want him to get the full honors and publicity treatment. Like Mongo said, he’s retired now, and he’ll be looking for a decent job to while away his retirement years.”

  “In short, Lippitt,” I said, “Garth and I want Malachy McCloskey to suddenly find himself very famous and very rich.”

  Mr. Lippitt narrowed his eyes as he looked back and forth between my brother and me. “Somehow, I get the impression that there are things you’re not telling me.”

  “We’ll tell you all about it, Lippitt,” I said. “Later. There are also two pilots from British Airways—”

  “Of course.”

  “For now, you give Shannon the message about our conditions. If he wants our help in getting political mileage out of the Eden business, he has to take care of those other people—especially McCloskey. And McCloskey can’t know that we had anything to do with it.”

  Lippitt merely shrugged. “Politics, patronage, and influence aren’t within my jurisdiction. But if I tell the president that the Frederickson brothers would like to see a retired police lieutenant become rich and famous, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if such a thing came to pass.”

  “Hot damn,” I said.

  “I love it,” Garth said, grinning at me.

  A soldier wearing general’s stars came up to Lippitt and whispered something in his ear. Lippitt nodded.

  “Excuse me,” the old man said. “I have to take care of some matters. Mongo, take your medicine.”

  I took the purple pills Garth handed me, washed them down with the last of the chicken broth. As far as I was concerned, it was time to go to sleep. I lay back on the bed, sighed, closed my eyes—and felt Garth gently nudge me.

  “One more thing, Mongo,” Garth said in an oddly stern tone of voice.

  “Mm.”

  “Did you tell Vicky you were one of Santa’s helpers?”

  Thoroughly puzzled by such a question, I opened one eye—and was startled to see that Garth was, if not angry, at least upset. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because it seemed like a good idea at the time, that’s why. What’s the problem, Garth?”

  Garth raised his arm over me and pointed out the window to the bright lights, the emergency vehicles, the dense, poisonous mist oozing out of Eden’s door and rising into the night sky. “That’s the problem. Human superstition is the problem, and feeding little kids all that shit about Santa Claus sows the first seeds. You start off by filling kids’ heads with fantasies, no matter how harmless they may seem, don’t be surprised if a lot of them grow up with some very twisted fantasies about God, death, and you name it.”

  “You’re putting me on, right?”

  “I want you to tell her the truth. She’s already got enough shit in her head that’s going to have to be flushed out. She doesn’t need any more.”

  I said nothing. Garth abruptly turned, walked across the hold to where the medic had just finished adjusting the sling on Vicky’s arm and was rewarding her with a large red lollipop. My brother spoke to the man, who nodded. Then he bent over, whispered something in the little girl’s ear, took her hand, and led her back to my bedside.

  “Tell her, Mongo.”

  “Hey, brother,” I mumbled, now desperately wanting nothing more than to sleep for a very long time, “you want to be Scrooge, you tell her.”

  “Tell her the truth, Mongo.”

  “You tell her.”

  “Sweetheart,” Garth said, kneeling down next to the girl, “I have some things to say to you.” I turned my head, looked down, and saw that his features had softened; his eyes glowed with a degree of gentleness and kindness I saw only when he spoke to children, or those in great need. “First, I’m certain that other people who care a lot about little kids won’t want you to live with your mommy and daddy until they go to doctors who will make them feel better so they’ll never try to hurt themselves again. If that happens, would you like to live with Mongo and me until they get well?”

  The child looked across the hold at her forlorn parents, then back at Garth. “I love my mommy and daddy, Garth.”

  “And they love you,” my brother answered. Tears had begun to roll down his cheeks, and he made no move to brush them away. “It’s because they love you that I think they’ll want to go for treatment so that they’ll be better able to take care of themselves and you.”

  The child thought about it, nodded. “Then I’d like to live with you and Mr. Mongo until they’re better. Are we going to live at the North Pole?”

  Garth slowly but firmly shook his head. “No, Vicky. We don’t live at the North Pole. You’ll be getting your puppy, but it won’t be coming from any Santa Claus. Mongo and I are going to give you a puppy, because we love you and we want you to be happy. But Mongo isn’t Santa Claus’s helper. He’s a fine man with a lot of love in his heart, but he doesn’t work for Santa Claus. There is no such person as
Santa Claus. Children should learn to have love for all other people in their hearts, but they shouldn’t be told things that aren’t true. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  The child was silent for some time, sucking thoughtfully on her lollipop. Finally she nodded. Garth kissed her forehead, then straightened up, realigned me on the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.

  “Sleep well, my brother,” Garth said softly. “You’ve earned it.”

  I heard Garth walk away, then felt a child’s hand patting my forearm.

  “I still believe you, Mr. Mongo,” Vicky Brown whispered.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Mongo Series

  Chapter One

  In the purple distance neatly scripted alphabet vultures with Zs for eyes soared in the thermals swirling over and around an alphabet volcano spewing what appeared to be incomplete, fractured sentences and clustered gobs of words that were half submerged in a river of blood red lava. Block-letter trees formed an oppressive jungle that appeared like a great fungus growth that was an infection on, rather than a part of, the land. The exhausted, hapless soldier who had wandered into this eerie and alien landscape was hopelessly entangled in a web of punctuation-mark vines. His boyish features twisted in anguish and horror as crablike creatures—rendered, like everything else in the landscape except the soldier, of a profusion of single letters and half-formed words or sentences—dined on his left leg. The foot had already been consumed, and a gleaming white shaft of bone protruded from the ragged flesh of his ankle, which was spewing blood of red and blue. I looked for some pattern, complete sentences or phrases, in the maelstrom of letters and words but couldn’t find any; in this haunted place, the twenty-six letters of the alphabet were just the skeletal matter of mindless creatures that existed to rend, consume, and infect, not make sense. The painting, titled The Language of Cannibals, was by a man named Jack Trex, and I rather liked it. I found the notion of these flesh-eating letter-creatures food for thought.