by Jon Land
“Politics, Pascal,” Martenko said finally, “in this case coming in a formal request from the leader of the Russian Orthodox Church, Patriarch Aleksey II, himself responding to widespread panic and wild rumors spreading through the area. Superstition is winning out and, when that happens, the devil is winning too.”
“Politics indeed, especially given the Russian Orthodox Church’s rocky relationship with the Vatican.”
“I’m glad you’re a student of the world,” Martenko nodded. “It inspires me to have even more faith in your ability to carry out this assignment. You’re going to a town called Kusk in the Krasnoyarsk Krai area. Population until two days ago, nearly two thousand.”
“What happened two days ago?” Jimenez asked, as if he really didn’t want to hear the answer.
“They all died, violently and inexplicably, each and every resident. Women, children, the elderly—no one was spared. I tried to look at the pictures, Pascal, but I couldn’t past the first couple, and yet what I saw will haunt me for the rest of my days. Any probing by the Russian press has been slowed, if not halted altogether, by the Kremlin, and the army has taken control of the area.”
Jimenez knew the early postings of Martenko’s career in the church, including Nigeria, had subjected him to all manner of atrocity. So for him to make such a statement carried a significant degree of portent on its own.
He waited for Cardinal Martenko to continue, looking suddenly small in his billowing robes. “They died by their own hands, Pascal. Killed each other. Families, friends, loved ones, neighbors, even infants … They were found torn apart. Literally.”
* * *
The cardinal had gone on to explain how the town was served by the Russian Orthodox Church and how church officials had petitioned the Russian government to request Vatican involvement in the form of an investigation. While acceding reluctantly to those demands, that government had officially requested that the Vatican keep its involvement confidential. In spite of that, rampantly spreading rumors were flying, in lieu of any rational explanation for what had happened. Most of these involved superstition and the devil in some form, a wild myth that at this point could be debunked only at the highest levels of the Catholic Church to calm the local population. The Russian government, known for its penchant for controlling any situation, had proven utterly unable to control this one, and that made them even more concerned about containing it. Word had leaked out and was spreading fast, reaching the cities by now, even though the government had imposed a news blackout. But that blackout hadn’t stopped the Russian people from fanning the rumors that extended well beyond Moscow’s ability to contain them.
And yet forcing the Vatican jet to land so far away, when there must’ve been airfields closer to Kusk, represented a feeble attempt to create the illusion that the government still had a handle on the unprecedented tragedy. The deteriorating weather conditions, light snow expected to grow into a blizzard, provided a convenient excuse in this regard, as well as to keep the curious out of the area until the proper “sanitation” procedures were completed. Jimenez knew that, especially in a case like this, a priest who possessed his level of scientific acumen was in the best position possible to dispel the kind of myths and rumors likely to otherwise take on a life all their own, as had already been somewhat demonstrated by superstitious tales of a small town supposedly visited by the devil himself.
He was met at the airport by Father Alexi Sremski, an emissary dispatched by Patriarch Aleksey II himself to serve the Vatican’s needs, as well as act as an intermediary with the Russian government and military. Sremski was a short, stout, bald man who dressed in full ceremonial robes in spite of the rigors of the journey and deteriorating weather that was confronting them.
“You’ve been to this town already?” Jimenez asked him, after greetings were exchanged.
Sremski nodded, the motion seeming to genuinely pain him. “And now I know what Hell looks like. You’ve heard the reports of a meteor strike somewhere in the area of the town?”
Jimenez felt a chill surge through him. “No, I hadn’t.”
“Among the last confirmed contacts with the people of Kusk were several calls received in the aftermath of the strike, forty-eight hours or so before all contact was lost. But there’s no evidence of anything even resembling a crater anywhere in the area.”
Jimenez nodded, trying to push the trepidation he was suddenly feeling as far back in his consciousness as he could. Mention of a potential asteroid strike in the area rekindled too many memories, stoked too many fears.
Their three-vehicle convoy, Jimenez and Sremski’s sandwiched by two Russian military SUVs, encountered no less than three checkpoints on the roads leading to Kusk, the last of which was entirely closed to traffic. At each, they were required to present the same identification and clearances to steely-eyed sentries clearly on edge over the tales that had undoubtedly reached them as well. They wore heavy, woolen overcoats, the piles of snow on the roadsides seeming eternal, unaffected by the sunlight and moderating temperatures.
They were kept longer at the final checkpoint set up on the single artery leading into Kusk. Jimenez busied himself with studying what he could glimpse of the town through the trees. Judging by the number of mill-like buildings they’d passed along the way, he guessed this was an agricultural town, impoverished by a combination of the weak Siberian economy and shuttering of virtually all the surrounding industrial mills. Jimenez realized their parking lots had been empty and their gates locked. He could see any number of homes dotting the landscape on the town’s perimeter, no signs whatsoever of the people who’d lived in them.
Army personnel, meanwhile, were everywhere, along with trailers from which government officials dressed in civilian garb came and went. There was also a parade of what he believed were unmarked ambulances, either waiting to enter the village of Kusk or having already been there and back.
Finally a major in the Russian army named Krilenko, who headed up Jimenez’s escort party, walked briskly to his vehicle and leaned in toward the open window.
“I’m afraid there’s no longer anything to see, Father,” Krilenko reported. “The bodies have been removed to a secret location. I am to inform you that you have our apologies for coming all this way for nothing, and my orders are to escort you back to the airport immediately.”
Sremski responded before Jimenez had a chance to. “The Vatican’s involvement was requested, and approved, at the highest levels of the Russian government.”
Krilenko shrugged. “But now the military is in charge, a special, secret branch that answers to no one but themselves. I’m sorry. To both of you for having wasted your time.”
“You haven’t wasted our time,” Sremski said, settling back in his seat. “Because you’re going to escort us on, Major.”
“On whose authority?”
This time Jimenez chimed in first. “Pope Benedict. And God Himself, if you require an authority higher than that. I was sent here to do a job, and I’m not leaving until it is done.”
“Father—”
“Or, if you prefer, I could report what happened in Kusk to the international media, stress with them that the Russian military is taking drastic measures to suppress the truth. And I’ll be certain to mention your name, along with the existence of your special, secret branch to them, Major Krilenko.”
Krilenko swallowed hard, rotated his gaze between the two priests. “Let me see what I can do.”
* * *
The soldiers glared at Jimenez, as his vehicle was passed through the final checkpoint and entered the outskirts of Kusk. There was only an hour of light left, but he wanted to be gone from here before the storm intensified, potentially stranding him. Weather forecasting was spotty at best in this part of the world, but Jimenez knew a potential blizzard when he saw one.
The convoy rumbled on along the rut-strewn road, continuing into the town center, marred by abandoned cars strewn in all directions. Some of their windows were splattered
with blood. Others were shattered. And there were what looked like dried pools of blood staining several spots in the streets they rolled over, Jimenez left to picture the horrific scene as it must have unfolded, until he went cold, trembling, and turned his thoughts elsewhere.
Back to the investigation.
It looked like a single accident had snarled the thin traffic. But what had happened to the people who climbed out of their cars, many of the doors still open? And now that the bodies had all been removed, how was he supposed to conduct his investigation?
Jimenez noticed a computer bag sitting on the front passenger seat floor between Krilenko’s legs, giving him an idea, at least a notion.
“You supervised the removal process, Major,” he said, after flashing Sremski a glance to signal him. “Of the bodies, I mean.”
“I did,” Krilenko said, as if proud of the status that implied.
Jimenez let the major see his gaze shift to the computer bag. “But you made a video record first, I trust, to share with the proper ministries once you return to Moscow.”
Krilenko didn’t respond.
“Because it occurs to me, Major, a man who holds both the Vatican and the Russian Orthodox Church in his debt is like a man holding the lion’s share of the chips in a poker game. Isn’t that right, Father Sremski?”
“It most certainly is, Father.”
Jimenez leaned forward. “So, Major, what do you say we have a look?”
* * *
Thicker snow was collecting on the windshield, resisting the wipers’ attempts to swipe it off. The wind had picked up as well, rocking their big SUV from side to side, as it moved slowly through Kusk toward a much larger government headquarters than a town this small seemed to need. But Kusk had once been a primary command and control site for the portion of the Soviet nuclear arsenal aimed at America’s West Coast. As a result, the town boasted any number of missile silos and bunkers, now mothballed as a result of various disarmament treaties. Krilenko had commandeered the former headquarters as his command post, doubling as living quarters, given Kusk’s remote Siberian location.
He escorted Jimenez and Sremski to a third-floor office he’d appropriated for himself, and set up his laptop for them to view.
“I don’t know how long this is going to work,” he explained. “The battery is low, and we’re operating on generator power here. I haven’t even watched it myself, since I uploaded the raw footage.” He paused to look at both Jimenez and Sremski. “I hope you have strong stomachs, Fathers.”
The first footage to appear looked to have been shot in a house, and he was instantly glad for the small size of the screen. There were blood and bodies and not much more. Jimenez counted six in all: two adults and four children. The children ranged in age from approximately four to fifteen or sixteen, the oldest being a boy with knives stuck through his throat and both his eyes. The mother was a blood-soaked mess that barely resembled a human being, except for what appeared to be the handle of a bathroom plunger wedged all the way down her throat. The youngest were a set of twins, at least Jimenez thought they were twins; it was hard to tell, since their bodies had been stitched together with baling wires before railroad spikes had been hammered through one into the other. The frozen agony on their faces indicated they’d been alive through much of the process.
Jimenez stopped long enough to cross himself. He started to pose a question to Krilenko, but no words emerged.
“It happened fast and it happened throughout the village at the same time,” the major explained anyway, as if reading his mind. “The first of us to arrive entered the village in full biohazard gear, but we shed it once the air tested clean.”
The other homes and buildings captured in the videos were the same as the first. People struck down violently by co-workers, loved ones, or strangers—it seemed not to matter.
A bus that had slammed into a building in the town square where they were parked was gone now, but the shattered façade remained. The inside of that bus turned Jimenez’s stomach and almost made him gag. An even mix of men, women, and children, all returning home from work or school, the bus working its way on its daily route. The worst of the victims looking as if they’d been attacked by wolves or bears. The hands of all were covered in blood.
“Stop!” Sremski barked suddenly, pointing at the screen “Can you make that larger?”
Krilenko did, again reluctantly.
“Is that,” Jimenez started.
“Yes,” Sremski cut in, before he could continue. “That boy is holding one in each hand. He tore out his own eyes.”
* * *
“A mass psychosis of some kind,” Jimenez managed. “That’s the only thing that could explain this.” He looked toward Krilenko. “I need to see the inside of some of the homes firsthand. I need to see what’s left for myself.”
Krilenko gazed out the office window, as best he could, into the building storm. “Another hour and you’ll be spending the night here. I don’t think you want to do that, Father.”
“Take me there,” Jimenez said anyway, pointing to a house now filling the laptop’s screen. “Take me there now.”
* * *
They drove to the house Jimenez had selected, the three of them entering alone, leaving two of Krilenko’s men inside the vehicle.
Inside, blood painted the walls. Blood painted everything; pieces of bones, flesh, and brain matter splattered everywhere as well. The bodies might have been removed, but not the residue of what had happened there.
Proceeding on thinking he hadn’t shared with either Krilenko or Sremski, Jimenez casually entered the kitchen where plates of uneaten food remained on the table, indicating whatever had happened had started here.
“My glasses,” he said suddenly, pretending to feel about his pockets. “I must’ve left them in the car. Would you be so kind, Major?”
Krilenko nodded, wary but not looking too suspicious.
“Thank you, Major.”
Jimenez figured he had mere seconds, fifteen or twenty at most. He quickly moved across the kitchen and scooped up an empty mixing beaker topped with an old-fashioned tight cork. Wasting no time, he used a ladle still sitting in what looked to be a now coagulated stew to scoop up some of the contents, drain them into the beaker, and then fit the cork back into place.
Jimenez heard the heavy steps of Krilenko’s soldiers coming, as he tucked the beaker into Sremski’s vestment pocket inside his robe.
“Get this to the Vatican,” he whispered. “Now. Tell Cardinal Martenko it’s from me. He’ll know what to do with it.”
The soldiers reached the doorway and stopped, standing rigid. Moments later, Krilenko returned with no glasses in hand.
Jimenez flashed his pair to the major. “I had them the whole time. Sorry to inconvenience you.”
Krilenko brushed the snow from his heavy wool jacket, making a pile on the floor. “You need to get going, if you’re going to get out of here tonight.”
“I quite agree,” Sremski said, his insistence only partially rooted in the mission now before him.
“But I need to stay,” Jimenez said. “As I said before, Major, I came here to do a job and it’s not finished yet.”
Krilenko frowned, shook the last of the snow from his hat and the shoulder pads of his jacket. “Suit yourself.” Then, to Father Sremski. “I’ll see you get to the airport, Father, but you might end up staying the night as well.”
“As God wills,” Sremski said, turning to Father Jimenez.
* * *
The weather deteriorated in incredibly rapid fashion after Father Sremski’s departure for the airport. Even for Siberia, the conditions were harsh, well before the heart of the blizzard had even arrived.
Jimenez insisted on visiting more houses to view the effects of the mass hysteria he believed had swept through the town. His tour of the third was cut short when Krilenko received word that his vehicles were no longer able to advance through the mounting snows, and the winds picked up to near m
onsoon force.
With all attention now turned toward making it through the long Siberian night safe and sound, Krilenko ordered his entire platoon to take refuge from the storm in one of the abandoned missile bunkers, shielded well underground. They brought kerosene-fueled space heaters with them, along with battery-operated lanterns that put out enough light to chase off at least a measure of the fear they all felt of the pounding blizzard they could hear raging above them.
The next morning, though, brought the passage of the storm and, with it, a return to the surface to find the day bathed in bright, unbroken sunlight blazing down from an utterly cloudless sky accompanied by a penetrating cold. But it wasn’t just the cold; it felt as if everything that passed for life, from trees to plants to birds to even insects, was dying, freezing from its core outward. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, although the similarities he felt with Nigeria were striking. The weather there had been tropical, steamy, in stark contrast to this. But the feeling was the same, one that Jimenez hadn’t felt since looking into the face of Cambridge on the verge of his own death. He knew what he had been looking at then, just as he knew what he was sensing now:
Evil.
Something you can feel and sense, but not see. Something alive. He could feel it watching him, as huge snowplows fought to clear the streets of Kusk, so Major Krilenko could evacuate his team.
“The storm seems limited mainly to this area,” he heard Krilenko tell him, suddenly by his side. “It’s twelve degrees warmer just twenty miles away.”
“How long before we can leave?”
“It will take another hour, I suspect, to clear the roads. But there’s something you need to see, Father, and you need to see it now.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
The Adirondacks, New York; 2008
Years ago, Max and his father had occasionally spent weekends hiking and camping in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. Though they never made use of one, the pair had often glimpsed hunting cabins abandoned for the season. That’s where Max and Vicky decided to stop for the night, once exhaustion claimed them, planning to make the Canadian border the next day. After that, who knew? Neither Max nor Vicky had thought that far ahead.