The agony of the violent expulsion filled his head with new pain.
Chunks of bodies. Heads. Split torsos. Intestines. Legs so cleanly detached they appeared the work of a butcher's cleaver. These were his apostles.
These were the witnesses who would have sung the glory of the new day. As he painfully contorted to a sitting position he saw the bloody fragments of the TV newswoman and her shattered video camera. Videotape spread from a cracked cassette like entrails extruding from a wound.
He grabbed a handful of his magnetically recorded miracle, then cast it down into the mud.
Worse, as his fuzzy thoughts cleared he knew the connection was broken. The voice no longer whispered in his head. His psychic link with the computer was severed like a nerve.
Why have you forsaken me?
McCurdy tried to get to his feet, but he was too heavy. He fell, rolled onto his back, and looked up at the sky.
He had been duped. Deceived. Now, with a fresh clarity of thought, he began to realize what he had done.
It was a sin too great to be forgiven. It was a realization no mind was strong enough to bear.
He wanted to repent, but to whom?
He felt moisture on his cheeks.
Was it raining again?
In the distance, he saw three people running toward the farmhouse.
"What do I want from you?" The creature's words carried images and meaning directly into Father Sullivan's mind. "This is not a matter of I and you, William."
Father Mosely's mouth wasn't moving. Sullivan wasn't listening. But communication occurred just the same. Sullivan could feel it humming in his brain.
The alien presence in the room had increased tremendously. Its power made it almost visible in the darkness. It was all around him like a nauseating vapor.
"You are far too provincial, William. You must learn to think grandly. Not just globally, but universally, cosmically. It will soon be within your power to make things better, easier, for many people on many different levels."
By now there was no more room in Sullivan's mind for prayer or independent thought. The onslaught of demonic ideas overloaded the strength of his mental resources. He was enduring a kind of psychic brainwashing. Everything registered as true; he found himself believing every word.
"First I want you to consider the near-fanatical capacity your race has for destruction. While boasting that you strive for order, you destroy with intent. You destroy with abandon and from innocence. Destruction is in your nature—and by design, that's exactly as it should be.
"Most of what you do is of little consequence to us. If you seek to befoul life-sustaining waters with your waste and excrement, that's fine and good. If you want to annihilate a companion species or two—a bird or animal or fish—so much the better. If you prefer to engage in warfare for politics, principal, economics, or even population control, we have no quarrel with that. In fact, over the eons we have done our share to encourage you along all those lines. We enjoy your antics until they begin to affect our well-being. The truth is, your antics bring death. And death is . . . of great value to us.
"That's right, William, we . . . encourage certain of mankind's delusions because they provide us with . . . merriment. Your struggle to the stars is a favorite comedy. What can you possibly hope to gain from such frivolity? Your efforts are akin to those of a mite on a carnival wheel.
"But while your puffery and pride may entertain us, they must be controlled and directed, for—after millions of years—you are starting to become dangerous. Even when you act out in ignorance you often perpetrate far greater damage than you have the capacity to understand. Universal damage. Cosmic damage.
"The balance of nature is something your kind can never understand. Why? Because nature extends too far beyond you. You cannot fathom the simplest cause and effect relationships, so any concept of totality is impossible.
"Let me give you an example: you have the wisdom to recognize how your destruction of forests endangers the creatures residing there. Yet you selfishly continue, though ultimately that same destruction is a far greater danger to your own oxygen supply. You can't muster the will nor the wisdom to stop. Headstrong you violate nature's precision: you kill, you damage, you destroy. But individually you are protected; your trivially short life span exempts you from suffering any immediate personal consequences of your actions.
"By dismissing us as supernatural what you have failed to understand is that we too are a part of nature. We may not be accessible to your telescopes, microscopes, or electronic equipment, for we exist outside the confines of space and time. Yet—along with birds and fish and animals—we are a companion to your species.
"As one trained in Roman Catholic theology, William, you are better equipped than any scientist to understand the nature of our existence. You understand spirit. You accept its reality. Do you understand?"
Yes, Sullivan understood perfectly. The colloquial phrasing, the familiar, almost companionable mode of address, the ecological examples, the overall logic of the presentation—all of it might have been articulated by a friend or colleague. Mosely's demon knew how to speak to him, how to convince him. Sullivan was beyond resistance, yet the creature continued.
"Unlike your kind, we have existed since the beginning of time. Symbiotically, we are linked to you like an older brother who has been with you since the moment of your birth. Throughout the ages we have played a critical role in your upbringing by creating your myths, your folklore, and . . . your religion."
Sullivan closed his eyes. He had expected that final revelation, but didn't want to hear it. Protesting, he knew, would do no good. Defending his faith was impossible. Though he tried to form a prayer in his mind, he could not. He wasn't in control. All that filled him was the creature's words.
"Unlike you, we are not bound in the evolutionary manacles of brief birth-death cycles. We have watched your mistakes, have watched you repeat them, and regret them, and repeat them again, until your blunders grow and evolve beyond your ability to correct. All the while each of you is restricted to a lifetime of a scant seven decades; your blunders evolve while you do not.
"Know this, William: mankind is an imperfect animal. In each of you, from the most primitive cave dweller to the most advanced humanistic thinker, each of you holds within himself the capacity to destroy all things. You are held in check only by the vague and vanishing concept of conscience.
"And who created conscience?
"We did.
"Then we taught you how to acquire and instill it."
Father Sullivan groaned, slumped in his chair. The rosary beads were hot coals against his wrists. His skin seemed to vibrate like the head of a drum pounded by the creature's words.
"For thousands of years we have revealed ourselves to you by accident and by design. We present ourselves as angels, spirits, fairies, monsters. Even demons. We are your UFOs and the UFO occupants. And whatever form we take, our purpose is to guide, instruct, and ultimately to keep mankind confused, ideologically at odds with itself. We see to it that your religion, your scientific research, your political philosophies, are fragmented into myriad conflicting and non-uniform disciplines. Thereby, we render all your institutions ineffective.
"Our tools—or weapons, if you prefer—appear to you as magic, supernatural intervention, and individual inspiration. I'm talking about lies, jokes, coincidences, and metaphysical theatrics. I'm talking about cosmic minstrel shows like the one occurring around you right now. By forming and reinforcing human experience, we help to perpetuate your most primitive beliefs. Thus, exactly like the farmer who fences his livestock, we control you."
Father Sullivan felt himself shivering. He wanted to pass out but the creature's words burned like a fire in his mind.
"We are like you, but we are your antithesis. Where human beings boast of their instinctive quest for order, logic, and fulfillment, our goals are quite different. Different, and I'm afraid completely beyond your capacity to understand.<
br />
"That's why we have the right to command and direct you. And this relationship has worked well for millions of years. But now something has happened.
"Unfortunately, we've never completely controlled the channels of communication between our dominions. Some of you, through accident, instinct, or imaginative persistence, have almost come to know us. Some have even initiated communication using magical rites, spiritualism, channeling, and religion. Those, you see, are the languages of communication between our realms. Sometimes when you call, we answer. Sometimes we do not.
"What do I want from you, Father Sullivan? Only what is best for all of us.
"A short half century ago you stumbled onto something essential. You learned to manipulate the most fundamental particles of matter and nonmatter, and, in doing so, came very close to the source of creation. Immediately, you used this knowledge for destruction. Yet even today only a minuscule portion of the devastation you caused in Japan is known to you. Typically, what you do not perceive is of no concern.
"Make no mistake, William, it is not the residual damage to you and your world that concerns us. It is the damage to us. You have discovered the means to kill the undying. You have learned to eradicate spirit, to destroy soul.
"And now, with your mindless enthusiasm and wide-eyed blindness, you have stumbled onto something vastly more dangerous. As usual, you were looking for a weapon but you found a key. It is the key that will unlock the door to our domain.
"Quite simply, Father William, we will not allow you to control that key.
"We have begun a new era of expanded intervention and . . ."the creature laughed, "unrestrained contempt. We will no longer laugh as you annihilate each other. From now on we will relieve you of that pleasure. We will torture and destroy you ourselves.
"Today, on this hilltop, it begins. It cannot be stopped. It cannot be reversed. As the deluded Dr. McCurdy asserted: a new time has come. It's in motion right now. And unimaginable changes will follow.
"For you and your kind, life will become far more difficult but. mercifully less abstract. Certain religious zealots will believe the Devil is at the helm. At first everyone will look for sanctuary in their churches—but to no avail.
"As demons and angels, we have taught you that your religion is effective against us. But as you have seen, we lied. And thinking you were safe, you have squandered the eons. In all the time you've existed you have built no defense to repel us.
"Many of us are here already. When we come en masse, there'll be nothing you can do.
"What can you do for us, Father Sullivan? We will require of you no more than we asked of Hamilton Mosely a decade ago. As you can see, his physical state has degenerated terribly. This body hasn't the strength to rise from this bed. So it can be of no use to us. . . .
"What do we ask of you? Nothing, William, nothing at all. We already have you. Come closer to me now."
Eyes pinched closed, Sullivan lurched forward, propelled by invisible hands. The sound of laughter echoed in his ears.
"Look! There's Jeff and Casey!" Karen pointed toward the front porch of the Dubois farmhouse as she led Alton along the dark muddy road. She watched a grotesque shadow approaching the house—Jeff carrying Casey in his arms.
He mounted the steps and lowered his daughter into a wooden Adirondack chair. Then he stood up straight, massaging the muscles of his lower back.
Casey cried, "Dad, look!" She pointed into the darkness directly at Karen.
Waving, Karen ran ahead. She saw how haggard Jeff appeared.
His face was painted with grime and rusty-colored stains. His clothing was so filthy he appeared to be sculpted from mud.
"Oh, Jeff. . . ."
They embraced in front of the steps. Karen smiled and cried at the same time.
"Thank God you're all right," Jeff said hoarsely. He hugged her so hard it hurt. Alton threw a big arm around both of them.
"Jeff, Jeff." All at once Karen redirected her gaze. "Oh, Jeff, is Casey. . . ?"
"She's fine. She's been through hell and she's exhausted, but—"
"Let's just get away from here," Casey said,
"What about Father Sullivan?" Alton asked. "He was inside last I seen him."
Jeff shook his head, looking confused, "I don't know; I haven't checked." He fell back onto the steps and put his face in his hands.
"And McCurdy?" Alton pressed.
"I knocked him out. Whatever power he had, I think he lost it. Alter the massacre—"
"Massacre!" Karen and Alton spoke in unison.
"They're dead. All those people in the field, dead. I don't know what happened. There was a blast of wind. Cold. Freezing wind. People started falling. Shattering, li-like statues made of ice." Jeff rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.
Karen turned, facing the empty field. "The whole crowd? All of them?"
Jeff nodded.
She didn't know what to say. The men stood silent. Everyone traded frightened, disbelieving glances.
"Oh my God," Karen finally said, "I still can't believe any of this. What's going on here, Jeff? How can s-something like that be happening?"
Jeff blinked at her several times as if trying to get his eyes to focus. "That damn computer. It's just as we figured: McCurdy somehow tapped into another . . . realm, another dimension or whatever you want to call it. And they're coming through. I think they're . . . attacking us."
"Holy shit!" Alton grabbed Jeff's arm. "Then that's what happened to Stuart, ain't it? Somethin' from the other side . . . it pulled him in?"
"That's about the size of it. They used Skipp McCurdy's religious beliefs to manipulate him. Made him think he was leading the way to the world's salvation. They gave him a taste of power, then they took it away. But the gate, the passageway's still open. And I don't know what's going to happen now . . ."
"You make it sound like . . . I mean is it really . . . an invasion?"
"Christ, I don't know, Karen. I think that's just what it is. Unless . . ."
"Unless what?" Alton leaned forward. "You figger there's somethin' we can do?"
"I don't know. That's what I've been trying to figure out. Christ, I'm so tired my mind's hardly working."
"Can we . . . close the door, somehow?" Karen asked.
"Maybe. If McCurdy opened it with the computer, maybe we can use the computer to close it."
"But that's in Boston! Do we have time to drive—"
"McCurdy's got a terminal upstairs in the bedroom. I saw it when I was up there. He wasn't using it. Apparently he had some sort of telepathic connection with the CPU in Boston. But now McCurdy's done his job so he's become obsolete. His mental connection's broken. So maybe, if I can just get to that terminal. . ."
Jeff stood up. Karen watched his glance shift from the house back to the dark field and the slopes beyond.
The terrifying circle of light was gone now; the whole panorama was beginning to brighten. A wavy red ribbon of morning rested on the mountains to the east.
"Al," Jeff said, "why don't you see if you can find a car, then get the women out of here."
Al nodded. "Mine ain't workin', but maybe I can get one of 'em started. Looks to me like things have settled down some. . . ."
"But wait! What about you?" Karen clutched Jeff's filthy shirtfront.
"I'm going to get to that terminal and see if I can put the CPU out of commission. Whatever door McCurdy's opened, I've got to close the sonuvabitch and bar it forever. If I don't, we'll be getting all sorts of unwanted visitors."
"No! You come with us. Just grab the terminal and let's get out of here." Karen looked him directly in the eyes.
"I'll find us a car." Al carried Lucy up the steps where he placed her on the cushions of the old porch swing. "You take care now, sweetie," Karen heard him whisper.
Then he about-faced.
As he walked off the porch and away, he said, "You folks round up whatever you need. I'll be back in a jiffy."
McCurdy dragged himself through the
mud.
He was too weak to get to his feet. Even if he did, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to walk. He slapped the wet ground as he pulled himself forward. Foul water splashed his face and he spat it back at the soggy grass.
Though the sharp pain in his jaw continued its electric jolts, the tears had dried in his eyes. More than anything else he wanted to pray, but he feared the wrong deity might hear him.
Mumbling to himself, he crawled.
He knew he was alone. Completely, totally alone. There was no one else to hear him.
He had something to do. Something important. But he had to keep that to himself. It was for him to know. Just him.
He tried to click his tongue, but pain stabbed at his mouth like shards of glass.
The house seemed such a long way off. He wasn't sure he could make the distance without passing out. Determined, he kept inching along like a snake in the mud.
A clear perfect thought shone brightly in his mind.
Karen followed Jeff through the front door of the farmhouse. Just inside, they stood together in the dark hall, looking around.
The air was foul. The whole placed reeked with a terrible nauseating stench Karen could not identify.
She peered into the gloom, not wanting to get too far from Jeff. Downstairs, the rooms seemed empty. A kerosene lamp burned beside the couch in the living room. Two candles flickered atop a drop-leaf table near the bottom of the stairs. To the left, the unlighted kitchen seemed cavernous. Its furnishings were buried in shadows.
"You wait right here," Jeff whispered. "Keep an eye on Casey and Lucy. I'll go upstairs and grab the terminal."
"Okay, but hurry."
She watched him poke his head through the living room door. "Father Sullivan!" Jeff called.
When no one answered, he walked straight toward the stairway at the back of the house. There he hesitated, looking up. "Are you here, Father?" Jeff's voice seemed uncomfortably loud in the quiet house.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 42