by Ray Garton
“Because Christ didn’t possess anyone and tell them to kill for him.”
Hester stood suddenly, her fists clenched at her sides. She spun around to face Benjamin and spoke quickly. “The others will be coming soon. One sound out of her and you’re to shut her up, understand?”
He growled affirmatively.
“But don’t hurt her too badly. She’s going to participate in the ceremony tonight. And remember, Benjamin—” She moved close to him and lowered her voice. “—she is a liar. She is not your friend. And if I find you’ve been listening to her—listening to so much as a word—you’ll be standing out there all night.”
Without looking back, she left the alcove.
Benjamin paced nervously, angrily.
Lizzie realized her heart was racing. She took some deep breaths as she watched Benjamin. Finally: “Benjamin, I’m sorry if you’re—”
He rushed to her silently and slapped her face so hard that her head knocked against the cave wall. The blow made her dizzy and made her entire skull throb. She waited for the dizziness to subside before speaking again.
“Please, Benjamin, if I could just—”
Another slap, a bit harder this time. She felt blood trickling over her lip. When she looked up, she saw him towering over her, hand raised, waiting for her to say something, waiting for an excuse to strike her a third time.
She bowed her head, closed her eyes and said nothing more.
She had lost him.
11.
Two hooded white-robed figures waited just outside the mouth of the cave. Hester came out of the darkness and into the moonlight, smiling serenely.
“Orrin has given me an important message,” she said. The two figures moved closer.
“The usual procedure for finding the Chosen One is to be canceled for tonight. The decision has already been made. It’s your responsibility to get the Chosen One and bring him back here. Orrin wants Nathan Schroeder.”
12.
Marvin’s stomach had never moved around so much in his entire life and he was afraid that, at any moment, it would fly up into his throat and shoot out of his mouth. He clutched the seat beneath him with both hands and his legs were so tense their muscles burned. His head hurt so bad that sometimes it was difficult to distinguish between the throbbing of his headache and the throbbing of the helicopter’s rotors.
He wasn’t sure how long they’d been up; a few minutes, thirty minutes, an hour or more, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was fear.
Flash whistled happily at the controls, but they hadn’t spoken since leaving the ground. Marvin was afraid to even look at him; he couldn’t bear the thought of that angry old drunk piloting him through the air, so he knew the sight of it wouldn’t help his state of mind.
Between them, the dog sat on its haunches, fidgeting, panting and making excited whining and woofing noises. Occasionally, the dog leaned over and sniffed at Marvin and he brushed it away nervously.
Marvin wasn’t sure how long the trip was going to take, so he decided it might be a good idea to ask a few questions. He coughed to clear the fear from his throat, then said, “So, um, how long will this take us?”
“Aaaww, I’d say three and a half hours or so. Mebbe less. Have to stop and refuel, course.”
“What?” Marvin asked, turning to him. “Where are we gonna—” He choked on his words when he saw Flash tipping a silver-plated flask to his lips. He stared at Flash open-mouthed until he found his voice and screamed, “What the fuck are you doing?”
The dog jumped into Flash’s lap and Flash was so startled he rapped his head on the window beside him.
“What in theee hell you yellin’ about, boy?” Flash asked.
“That!” Marvin shouted, pointing at the flask. “What’s in it?”
“Whiskey. Want some?” He held it out to Marvin.
“Yes!” Marvin snatched it out of Flash’s hand so hard that whiskey sloshed out of the small opening and filled the cabin with its stinging smell. He put the flask between his legs and held it there tightly.
“Well, ain’t you gonna have some?”
“No! I’m keeping it away from you!”
Flash stared at him for a long time, frowning, then said, “Oh, no.” He unfastened his seat belts and rose a few inches from the seat, leaning toward Marvin and reaching for the flask.
The helicopter leaned sharply to the right and took a sudden dip.
Marvin screamed, sliding down in his seat.
“C’mon, now you give me that,” Flash demanded.
“No-no-no!” Marvin shouted, sliding a hand beneath his coat. He pulled out the gun and held it between both hands with the barrel a couple inches from Flash’s forehead. “Sit down! Sit back down!”
Flash didn’t move, just stared at Marvin for a moment; then he eased back into his seat, a smirk curling his lips.
“Just fly this fucking thing and forget about the booze!”
Flash cackled. “There’s two things I don’t much like to fly without. My dog and my drink.”
“How do you feel about flying without your brains?”
He cackled even harder, slapping his thigh. “You shoot me, you gonna go down, boy.”
“You keep drinking, we’re gonna go down anyway!”
“Oh shit, boy. I drink up here alia time,” he said, rising again to reach for the flask.
“Not with me you don’t, now siddown!”
Flash’s smirk disappeared. He returned to the controls and straightened the helicopter’s course again.
Marvin’s hands were trembling and his bladder felt full to bursting suddenly.
Flash glowered at him. “I don’t take this shit from nobody in my chopper.”
“Most people don’t pay you five hundred bucks to take ’em somewhere, either and if you want all of it, you’ll stay right there and get us where we’re going. Without your drink.”
He held the gun on Flash until he was satisfied the old man was going to do nothing more than fly the helicopter. Then he slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster, realizing that his fingers were numb from gripping it so tightly, and leaned his head back, trying to relax, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t.
Thinking of Lizzie, Marvin closed his eyes and prayed.
13.
The ice-pick beam from Jordan’s flashlight pierced the darkness of the woods as they walked parallel to the dirt road that led to the Alliance colony; the others had flashlights, too—they’d taken them from the store—but only Jordan used his. They walked close together, moving slowly, carefully and quietly.
Wildlife skittered and crept all around them.
Wings slapped overhead and an owl hooted.
“We’re probably close,” Jordan whispered. “If you hear anything that doesn’t sound like an animal, freeze.”
“Yeah, and then what?” Joan hissed.
“Don’t worry,” Jordan said, “I’m pretty sure the cave is just a little—”
There was a bustle of movement in the woods and it grew louder quickly.
Footsteps and quiet voices.
Jordan flicked off the flashlight, tucked it in a pocket and, just as he had instructed, Lauren, Joan and Coogan froze … and looked at him expectantly. He raised the shotgun cautiously, waiting.
Coogan drew his .45 from the pocket of his tan corduroy jacket.
Four people were walking through the woods talking, each of them wearing the same white-hooded robe Jordan had seen during his last visit to these woods. They came close to running into Jordan and the others, but stopped abruptly, startled. A woman gasped and a man touched her shoulder and whispered, “Remember, there is never anything to fear.” He pulled back his hood to reveal a balding middle-aged face with horn-rim glasses and gave them a guarded smile. “I think you’re probably lost, because this is private p
roperty. Can I help you?”
Jordan tossed a glance at Coogan, who tossed it right back. Then, an idea: We could sure use those robes, he thought. He pointed the shotgun at the man and said, “Don’t move and don’t say a word.” He turned to Coogan and said quietly, “You wanna back me up on this, please?”
“Oh.” Coogan aimed his gun and stood straighter, as if trying to be intimidating.
Jordan said, “Now, all I want you to do is take off your robes. Very slowly. Any screaming or shouting’s gonna be accompanied by gunshots.”
The man who had said there was nothing to fear a moment ago now looked terrified; his mouth hung open and his lower lip trembled. The other three removed their hoods; they were all women.
For a moment, Jordan felt a stab of guilt for holding three women—and even the rather pathetic-looking man—at gunpoint. Then he remembered that these people were on their way to a sacrifice and he felt better.
“Come on,” he said. “Take them off slowly.”
“This is a big mistake,” the man said quietly.
“No talking, just—”
An explosion of pain in the center of Jordan’s back sent him to his knees with a sharp cry. But he clung to the shotgun as he rolled over and fired and—
—a man dressed in black left the ground and flew backward as if he were being pulled through the air as the gun kicked back, missing Jordan’s face by an inch, and—
—a black running shoe kicked up out of the darkness to Jordan’s left and knocked the gun from his hand and sent it clattering over the ground, then the kicker, dressed exactly like the man Jordan had just shot, hurried after the shotgun and—
—Jordan looked at Coogan, who was watching with a face frozen in shock, his gun held limply before him, and Jordan shouted, “Coogan? Coogan!” as—
—the man in black bent down, swept up the sawed-off shotgun, and started to run as—
—Coogan blinked his eyes a few times, then aimed the gun and, with the briefest hesitation, fired, and—
—the shotgun was airborne again as the man twirled like a top, slammed into the ground and dropped heavily, making low, painful growling sounds, and—
—Lauren began to murmur in a panicky whisper that grew slowly louder, “Oh, god, oh my god, what’re we gonna—how can we—oh, god, what’ll we—” and—
—Jordan tried to ignore the pain in his back as he stood, but cried out anyway, moving stiffly as he retrieved the gun and said, “Calm down, Lauren, right now, do you hear me, just calm down,” and then—
—the four people Jordan and Coogan had held at gunpoint just a moment before began to cry for help, the man shouting, “Help! Somebody help us! Somebody help!” and the women simply screaming as—
—Jordan hurried to the man and pounded the butt of the shotgun into his face, knocking him to the ground, and—
—the women ran, their screams cutting through the woods as—
—Jordan put an arm around Lauren and hissed at the others, “C’mon, let’s just run, let’s get the hell outta here!”
They started out at a jog, with Coogan dragging behind a little at first, but catching up as they quickened their pace. Jordan took out his flashlight and used it to guide them around trees and bushes and large boulders sticking out of the earth. The only sounds were their footsteps and their breathing.
Jordan felt panic swelling in his chest. He didn’t know where they were headed or what they were going to do; he knew only that they had to get away from there. The car was in the opposite direction, but if they turned around, there were bound to be others gathered around the two men who had been shot.
The flashlight beam zigzagged over grass and tree trunks and wildflowers and—
—a child.
They all stopped so suddenly, they nearly fell in a heap.
It was a little boy. He wore a white robe, hood down, and held what looked, at first, like a stick pointed at them. But once the light was still, Jordan realized the stick was a spear with a deadly sharp point.
There was a whisper of disturbed brush and another child appeared holding another spear.
Then another. And another.
They came from every direction with their spears pointed only in one, white robes shimmering in the flashlight beam, small white faces ghostly and cold, some even cruel. Both boys and girls surrounded them, some with their faces hidden in the shadow of their hoods, and they moved forward steadily and with purpose, the points of their spears drawing closer and closer until they stopped just short of pressing against the four shocked adults.
Jordan held his breath a moment to see what they would do, then, to make sure they saw it, he lifted the barrel of the shotgun slowly.
“Oh, god, don’t you dare!” Lauren hissed. “My son could be here, he could be—Nathan? Nathan, are you here?” She started to turn, her eyes sweeping over the children. “Nathan, honey, Mommy’s—” She shrieked when the point of a spear prodded her hip.
Jordan ignored her.
“I’m sure,” he said slowly in a flat, quiet voice, “that all of you are perfectly willing and able to use those spears. But the problem is, I’m perfectly willing and able to use this shotgun, and if you don’t get out of our way right now, I will.”
Lauren rasped, “Jordan, you wouldn’t, my god, how could you—”
“Shut up, Lauren,” he said through his teeth.
The children didn’t move for a long time. Then the boy who had appeared first poked his spear into Jordan’s stomach hard and Jordan hitched forward and made a barking sound, half from surprise, half from pain. Then all of the children moved forward a bit.
Lauren began to cry and Joan put an arm around her.
Jordan’s voice had a tremor when he spoke again: “I’m only going to tell you one more—”
Another poke in the stomach. One in the leg. The arm.
He almost dropped the gun, but managed to stifle his cry of pain. His anger was overwhelming. He realized that, with the remaining shell, he could get most of them out of the way. But he couldn’t. No matter how deeply he reached inside himself for whatever it would take to do such a thing, he couldn’t find it. His mind raced as he tried to come up with a solution, an idea, a simple distraction he could toss at them, but—
—when he heard the footsteps approaching from behind, he stopped trying. It sounded like at least three people. Adults.
The children behind them shuffled out of the way as the footsteps neared.
An arm reached around Jordan’s neck from behind and pulled hard just once, making Jordan hack.
“Do not move,” a deep male voice said into his ear as a hand took away the shotgun. “Do not move even a little.”
Similar voices spoke similar words to the others.
“Very good, children,” Hester Thorne said. “I’m very pleased. Orrin is very pleased. You may go now. The ceremony will begin soon.”
The children left quietly and were gone in seconds.
Hester Thorne stepped before them, hands joined behind her back. She smiled and said, “I was expecting you.”
14.
They were taken into the cave and past the pulsing blue light to Benjamin’s alcove, where they were told to seat themselves on damp rocks.
When they arrived, Lizzie spoke to them only with her face. Her eyes widened and she smiled as if she were about to speak, but when she saw Hester, she clearly thought better of it and simply showed them how happy she was to see them.
The three black-clothed men who had taken their guns and brought them to the cave now stood in the alcove’s opening holding the guns as their cold eyes drilled into Jordan, Lauren, Coogan and Joan. Hester paced the alcove slowly as she spoke to them, but they obviously had a difficult time concentrating on what she said because their attention continued to be diverted by Benjamin’s presence and his odd p
ossessions … as well as his odor. The air in the small stone room was damp and cloying anyway, but it was made nearly unbearable by Benjamin’s stink.
When Hester realized this, she picked up the doll and the fire engine and threw them to the back of the alcove, where they slammed into the neatly stacked canned foods, knocking half of them over, and snapped, “Will you put this junk away. That too,” she added, pointing at the picture on the wall.
Benjamin hesitated, glanced for just an instant at Lizzie, then reached up and removed the picture, hiding it behind a rock.
“As I said before,” Hester said as she paced, suddenly calm again, “I was expecting you. But I was expecting more of you. One more, to be exact.” She stopped in front of Jordan and stared down at him. “Where is Mr. Ackroyd?”
Jordan bowed his head and stared at his lap.
“All right, then.” She stepped in front of Lauren. “Maybe you’ll tell me where he is.”
Jordan took Lauren’s hand and squeezed it. It was not an affectionate squeeze; it was a squeeze that said, Keep your mouth shut.
“He didn’t come with us,” Jordan said. “That’s all.”
“Then where is he?”
No response.
Hester glared at the four of them, then hunkered down in front of Jordan and smiled. “I know you’re a private investigator. Who are you working for?”
He said nothing.
She kept smiling. “Lawyers, maybe? There’s no end to the number of lawyers who would like to prove we’re doing something illegal here. For their clients, of course, clients who have relatives and spouses who’ve found the truth and have left their past lives behind. Or maybe you’re working for the press. They just know there’s a sordid story in the Alliance somewhere. And the tabloids … oh, they’re the worst. Is that it? The Enquirer? The Inquisitor? Maybe a magazine, like … say, People? US? Trends? Yes, maybe Trends. They seem to think one of their reporters disappeared here. I hear Edmond Fiske was very upset about—”