"You'll hate me. You'll hate everyone around you. You'll even hate yourself. But most of all, you'll hate God. After all," Christopher explained, "he's the one who put you here in the first place.
"Think about it, Decker. You never asked to be here. You'd be better off if you'd never been born! So who deserves your hatred more than God? He stacked the deck against you right from the start!"
Christopher smiled and turned to walk away.
"And if I tell anyone?" Decker asked.
Christopher laughed a pathetic laugh. "Who would you tell? Besides, no one would believe you. Of course, if you insist on making a nuisance of yourself, I'll just have to make an exception and kill you myself." Christopher shook his head and added, "Don't be stupid, Decker. Unless, of course you're in a hurry to see hell." Christopher looked at Decker and laughed once more before walking back across his large office to his desk. Finishing his drink, he pressed a button on a control board at his desk which slid back the panels of a wall, revealing an 84 inch television screen. The set was already on, muted and tuned to a satellite feed of the executions. Christopher had apparently been watching them before Decker came in. Turning the sound back on, Christopher sat down to watch.
At first Decker took no notice of the scene portrayed on the screen but slowly the repetitious sound of blade after blade falling and decapitating victim after victim awakened his attention and he could not help but look upon the melee of blood and death. To Decker's surprise, Christopher appeared to take little pleasure in these deaths. Instead his focus seemed fixed on the faces of the executioners as they led the condemned to the guillotine, positioned them to die, and then released the blade.
As Christopher watched, Decker thought back to what Scott Rosen had said. He had told him about the plagues and the executions and about the coming battle at Petra. As the blades continually dropped and were raised again for the next victim, Decker began to comprehend the true significance of what had happened. To this point it had been quite enough to consider his own misery. His hopes and plans of helping to build a better world and a New Age had all turned out to be a lie. Christopher's promise that he would someday be reunited with Elizabeth and his daughters had been nothing but a tool to lure Decker forever away from them. His whole life had been wasted. He had been played for a fool and had proven himself more than worthy of that designation. And now he was only weeks away from eternity in hell. And yet, it occurred to him that there was an even worse toll for his life: he had actually had a key role in bringing on the world's destruction.
"How many?" Decker asked.
Christopher did not need to ask for clarification; he understood the question. "If you look in the bottom right of the screen," Christopher said pointing, "you can see I've got a special feed connected to this set that gives a running count of the executions. Right now it's just a few shy of 3,058,000," he answered. "The second number is the estimate of how many are left. We got off to a slow start," Christopher said almost apologetically. "You'd be amazed at the logistics that go into something like this. And, of course, we were at a complete standstill during the darkness, but my people are working around the clock at 114 locations with 22 more coming on line by Wednesday, each with at least twenty guillotines. They assure me the job will be completed by early September."
Decker looked at the second number on the screen. "You intend to execute 14 million people?" Decker asked aghast.
"Oh, I'm sure there will be a few stragglers," Christopher acknowledged, "but the police and security forces are doing a great job of rounding them up. Of course, it would have been more, but nearly three million of them died during the plagues."
Over 214 billion people had already died in the wars and other disasters. Christopher had given the numbers in his speech. Fourteen million more would be executed. Two billion or more would die in the battle at Petra. For those, however, death was only the beginning of their miseries, for beyond the veil of death waited damnation. Their fate had already been sealed with their rejection of Yahweh and their acceptance of the seal of Christopher's communion on their hand or forehead, a seal which Decker had first proposed.
Christopher had said that he could have picked any of a thousand other people and it was probably true: it didn't have to be Decker. If someone else had been chosen then perhaps they would have come up with the idea for the mark, or else Christopher or Milner would have proposed it. It was a part of the prophecy, so one way or another it would have happened with or without Decker. But that was not much comfort, for it had not been someone else. He had been involved from the very beginning. Decker looked back and could now see clearly all the times he had been seduced by the vision of Christopher's New Age into justifying whatever Christopher said and did. And though he did not yet bear the seal of the communion, he was no less marked, for the blood of billions was, at least in part, on his hands and head. Time after time he had accepted whatever Christopher said, no matter how bizarre, without questioning. Day after day he had helped Christopher build a foundation of deceit. Lie after damnable lie, Decker had been a part of it all and he had justified it as being for the 'good of Humankind.'
Decker's words of just a few minutes earlier came back to haunt him. "There's hardly a man or woman on the planet," he had said, "who hasn't been thoroughly familiarized with the message of the coming advance in the evolution of Humankind: movies, television, radio, newspapers, magazines, books, songs, plays, billboards, bumper stickers . . . your vision of the future is everywhere. There's not a child in school from age three and up who has not been trained in the ethics and tenets of the New Age. And even the younger ones learn the message through cartoons, toys and games."
My God, he thought, what have I done?
As a child in school, Decker had read with disbelief about the atrocities of history: the Nazis in World War II, Goebbels, Guering, Hitler; the mass slaughter of seventeen million Russians by Stalin. Later there was the genocide of Pol Pot, Idi Amin, and the like. Now as he looked at his life, he realized he was no better than any of them. True, he had not administered the torture and death himself, but he had facilitated it. All of it. He was no better than any of them.
Christopher had said the only possible response was hate, but Decker felt something far worse: the crushing weight of his guilt.
While Christopher watched the executions, Decker winced as each drop of the blade gave bloody demonstration of the result of his sin. Finally, but unexpectedly, his guilt found its voice in anger. There was hatred in his heart — Decker could not deny it — but it did not feel quite the way Christopher had described it. It filled his lungs with the frigid air of defiance. There was, he thought, yet something to be said.
"Christopher," Decker said softly, almost whispering.
"Yes," Christopher answered calmly, as though nothing the least bit unpleasant had occurred.
"What's hell like?" he asked.
Christopher muted the television and turned his chair to face him. "I'm afraid it's every bit as bad as you've heard," he said in a consoling tone. There was no real sympathy in his voice. It was just that he knew, for the moment, that there was no way left to hurt the old man. "Of course I've never actually been there. It's just an ignorant myth that hell is Lucifer's home. That's a bit like suggesting that a criminal's headquarters was in prison because that's where he wound up at the end of his career. "But as far as what it's like," he continued, very seriously, staring off into space as if he could actually see it there before him, "I believe it's a good deal like the darkness of the last plague . . . only a lot hotter."
Christopher had ended his description with a bit of dark humor but there was something else in his voice, something unexpected. For just that brief moment, Decker could sense the terror Christopher felt as he talked about it.
"And you'll be there, too?" Decker asked.
Christopher was roused from his vision of hell by Decker's voice and now smiled enthusiastically. Rising from his chair, he walked back over to where Decker
still stood. "That's the spirit!" he said, urging Decker on. "You want to see me in hell right alongside you!
"Vengeance!" he said.
"Anger!" he prodded.
"Hatred!" he urged.
"You're catching on faster than I expected! You'll fit right in!"
"Oh . . ." Christopher paused, "but don't get your hopes up too high. I'll be there with you, but, well, in Lucifer's kingdom there are a number of different levels . . . ranks, I guess you might call them. And with rank comes power; in this case, the power to be feared and hated. And I'm afraid you're nowhere near high enough in the pecking order to do anything to me."
Decker did not respond.
"Does that make you hate me even more?" Christopher asked in a condescending voice.
"Yes," Decker answered truthfully. But it was not his hatred that he was thinking about.
"Good!" Christopher responded, delighted.
"When we get there," Decker said slowly, continuing toward his point, "and when you're looking out over the flames of hell at all of those you've brought with you . . ."
"Yes?" Christopher said, goading him on.
"... you won't have any trouble finding me in the crowd."
Christopher laughed a hearty, cruel laugh and shook his head at Decker's attempt to distinguish himself even in hell. "Why?" he asked. "Will you be shouting your curses at me?"
Decker didn't answer.
"Well, you'll have to be yelling pretty loud to be heard over the billions of others!" Christopher said with a caustic chuckle. "You don't get it, do you?" he asked. "That's one of the few things I can actually look forward to in hell. Every time someone curses me for their pain it will be confirmation that I have accomplished what I set out to do. I'll love it. I will thrive on it. And, you know, it's really ironic," he said, truly amazed and cheered at this fact, "funny really, but even though it will be obvious that I enjoy their curses, it won't stop the damned from cursing me. They'll be so enraged, they'll just do it all the more." Christopher shook his head at Decker's feeble attempt and started back toward his desk.
But Decker wasn't through. "No," he said, pausing to reflect. "I won't be cursing you."
Decker dropped his eyes to the floor for a moment as his guilt briefly overpowered his anger. Biting his lower lip, Decker raised his eyes again and stared defiantly at Christopher, who had come back and now stood directly in front of him. Christopher waited, unsure what Decker had in mind, but eager for whatever amusement he was about to offer. "You're not the one that's responsible for me going to hell," Decker said, "I am." Christopher was unimpressed by Decker's realization and rolled his eyes in disgust.
"So, when we get there," Decker continued, "if you ever decide you want to look me up, you won't have long to look."
Decker paused to take a final rebellious, recalcitrant breath. His moment was here. It was not much to make up for a lifetime that had been reduced to a bad joke, but it was all he had, probably all he ever would have that could be put on the other side of the scales. He would hold on to it for as long as he could. Every instant he could stall put Christopher an instant closer to hell, and that in itself seemed worthwhile.
Christopher waited.
Decker's stare grew surprisingly cold and steady. Finally, when he knew Christopher would wait no longer, he spoke. "I'll be the one down on my knees among the flames of hell, thanking God for giving me exactly what I deserve!"
Decker's words were slow and crisp and firm, but they had not been shouted. Still, in the sudden silence that followed, they seemed to echo through the languid air and shake the entire room.
Christopher's teeth clenched and his nostrils flared, and Decker saw the muscles in his neck tighten like bands of steel. Christopher's burning gaze felt as though he was looking right into Decker's soul. He was. In a moment, Christopher seemed to find what he was looking for, and he did not like what he had seen: Decker had not just said this to enrage him. He actually meant it.
Christopher breathed in deeply and exhaled audibly like a bull set to charge. His eyes were flames. His face was red and his body stiffened and actually shook with rage.
Decker stood motionless, unable to take much pleasure in Christopher's reaction because of the awful weight of his own guilt. Christopher's brow was tightened in anger, the likes of which Decker had never seen in any man. His face was flush with fury. And then he did something which seemed very strange to Decker. He started to turn to the left as if he was going to simply leave.
Was he just going to turn back to the televised executions?
As Christopher's upper body turned, Decker assumed his feet would follow, but Christopher's feet were planted firmly on the floor. Swiftly, he raised his right arm up and to the left, his right hand forming a fist. Decker held his ground in anticipation of a backhanded blow delivered against his face with Christopher's full weight. He determined not to move or flinch. He would not give Christopher the pleasure of cowering before him. Then suddenly and totally out of place, Decker's eye caught a strange glint of light. It was just above Christopher's head and about a foot and a half beyond where Decker assumed his hand, now hidden by his leftward-turned body, to be.
Christopher raised his heel and pivoted on the ball of his right foot, and then turning with his full force and speed toward Decker, he straightened his arm at the elbow. Decker instinctively tightened his jaw in anticipation of Christopher's blow.
But, strangely, there was that glint of light again, and it was moving in perfect synchronization with Christopher's clenched fist.
As his fist came closer, Decker was suddenly dumbfounded by what he saw. It appeared that Christopher would actually miss him, his fist passing a good eighteen inches or more short of Decker's face. Christopher even seemed to be leaning back, as if to increase the certainty of a miss.
Then Decker realized Christopher had something in his hand. And again there was that strange glint of light.
Suddenly, Decker realized what it was.
From thin air... from nowhere, Christopher had drawn a brightly polished, double-edged sword and he was swinging it with incredible speed and with all his might toward Decker. As it came closer, Decker realized that it was aimed for his neck.
While some time is required to describe it, the entire incident took only a fraction of a second to occur. There was nothing to do. There was no time to duck or even blink. The blade was only inches from his neck. Swiftly it sliced through the air toward its mark. In an instant it was there, its cold edge pressing against the skin of his neck just before it penetrated.
Helplessly, Decker watched Christopher's hand, clutched tightly around the sword's grip, as it passed almost effortlessly before him, propelling the blade through his neck. The muffled crack of metal against bone as it separated his spinal column between the fourth and fifth vertebrae barely slowed the blade in its bloody path through skin and vein and muscle and sinew and nerve fiber.
Then it was through.
Decker's head had been completely severed from his body, and Christopher followed through with his stroke. Surprisingly, it had all been relatively painless.
Decker felt himself toppling as his head tipped and rolled to his left and off his shoulders. The room appeared to spin as his head tumbled freely to the floor. His forehead hit first, causing Decker to wince in pain as his head bounced and rolled,
landing finally on his left ear. At that moment, Decker's body crumpled to the floor beside him.
From start to finish it had all taken little more than two seconds. In his last moments of consciousness, as the blood drained from his brain, Decker could see Christopher standing there, his rage satisfied as he smiled down at him, the sword raised above his head as Decker's blood ran slowly toward its hilt and dripped down upon his hand. Beside his head, but out of Decker's line of sight, the blood pouring from his headless torso spurted erratically as his heart convulsed and stopped. Soon the flow would slow until it was drawn out by the force of gravity alone. The same was tru
e of Decker's head. Since it had been severed from the heart, there was no pressure forcing the blood out as would be the case with a normal wound; the only force draining blood from his head was gravity. The result, as Decker realized firsthand, was that a few seconds of life and consciousness remained after decapitation. Even in death, Decker's curiosity had found some distraction.
"I was wrong, Decker. That was more fun than I realized!" Christopher said as he walked away. "I'll see you in hell!"
Decker could feel the blood draining from his brain and watched the room grow dark as he began to lose consciousness. At least it was quick, he thought.
Then Decker heard something ... a voice. With the loss of blood to his brain, he had no idea where it came from, but he was certain it was talking to him. Then he remembered something and the realization hit him like a freight train. Despite his condition, despite his disorientation, no Other thought in his life had ever been clearer. He knew what he had to do, and he could not help but muse (if his body were still a part of him, he would have laughed out loud) that it should come to this: a split second from death and yet he realized that it was for this very day and hour and moment that he had been born.
At once Christopher stopped dead in his tracks.
"NOOOOOOO!!!!" he screamed, his voice erupting in a sound so terrifying that its source could only have been deep beneath the gates of hell. If Decker had still been able to hear, he would have recognized the voice from years before when he had been at a point near insanity. If he had still been able to see, as Christopher turned back and raised his sword again, he would have seen for the first time the true face of the man he had brought up as his own son. All the evil works and imaginings of mortal man could not have shown more darkly than did the hatred upon this true face of death.
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