All Bad Things

by inXile entertainment

  “Friends,” James King says on the screen, his blond, moussed hair as still as a helmet as he bobs up and down in his seat, “today we are going to talk about the real end times. Not just what the Good Book says, but real, absolute, no–shit end times.”

  This is different from the other tapes Samson has watched. At about this point King would take callers who would ask him about the Rapture, or his assistant Mindy, a woman with hair almost as shiny and blond as King’s, would come on and talk about how the Women’s Libbers were going against “God’s plan for the weaker sex.”

  “Friends, there is a reckoning coming. In the waning days of this century, there will be a calamity the likes of which no one has ever seen. Brother will turn against brother, nation against nation. The bombs will come a–crashing down and lay waste to this world like the stinking Sodom that it is.”

  “Hey,” Samson says. “You think he—”

  “Quiet. I want to hear this.”

  “In the darkening days of 1998,” King says, punctuating each point with a fist slapped into an open palm, “the missiles will fly, the bombs will drop, and everything we know, every dark and stinking sinner, every whore and whoremonger, every sodomite, every devil, every sick and perverted nightmare will be wiped clean from the Earth in a storm of fire and radiation that will sweep across the globe!”

  “Holy shit,” Cyrus says, grabbing the tape case and rubbing dust off its cover. “This tape’s from 1996.”

  Samson sits there slack–jawed. “He called it. He called the Apocalypse.” Everybody knew when the bombs fell, when the missiles flew. Even now, seventy–five years later where there were no schools or lessons or teachers to teach them, people learned that the sky turned dark with ash and fire in 1998.

  “And this is how it should be,” King says. “This is how it’s meant to be. The world is sick with sin, and the only cure is fire and blood. You know that I won’t let you be swept up in this plague of fire and ash. Some of you will be called up by the Rapture instead. God will call you home before the flames burn everything to the ground. But some of you, some of you will be left behind to finish God’s work. Not a punishment, but an honor. He will call upon you to bring fire and retribution to those who refuse to be saved. And I, your Shepherd, will show you the way.” King leans forward, spreading his hands. “But we’re going to have to prepare. Bunkers and food and weapons with which to do the Lord’s work, and as you know, those things take money—lots of money. Which is why I want you to call the number on your screen right now. The end times are coming, my children. And only your dollars can save those left behind.”

  Samson and Cyrus stare at the screen, dumbfounded, as numbers flash by and the announcer shouts about credit cards and toll–free numbers. Samson had always heard crackpots going on about how God had made the Apocalypse happen, but he never paid attention to them. What did they know? How could they be any more privy to God’s plan than anybody else? After all, wouldn’t they be in the shit, too?

  But this was different. This man had predicted the end years before it actually happened.

  “Put in another tape,” Samson says, his voice quiet. “I wanna know more.”

  –3–

  “It is not enough that God show you the True Path. It is up to you to walk it.” – James King, Hour of the Church Triumphant, Season 2, Episode 18

  They spend the next week watching the tapes. As the episodes go on, King gets more and more specific. Washington, D.C., would fall first, then Moscow, New York, Paris, Leningrad, London, Los Angeles, Miami, Detroit. Cities would topple like dominoes, their streets running red with blood. Riots and looting would destroy the world’s economy, and the righteous—those who have given themselves over to God’s plan—would prevail.

  “These will be the people who take up arms as God’s soldiers,” King says,. “They will be the True Chosen who will carry the world back into the light of righteousness. People like you. The Unbelievers will mock you, they will call into question your resolve, but God’s light will show you the way. The bombs will fall and the bodies will stack up, but you will remain unscathed so long as you adhere to God’s plan.”

  “I heard that’s exactly what happened,” Cyrus says.

  “From who? Crackpot Billy down in Pershing Square?” Though Samson knows there’s a truth here, he’s still doubtful. But he doesn’t know if that’s the doubt of someone who knows better, or the doubt of one of King’s Unbelievers.

  “The end is right around the corner, sinners,” King says. “Maybe as soon as tomorrow. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow morning to a world changed by fire and radiation.”

  “You mocking me?” Cyrus says, a dangerous edge in his voice. Samson isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or to the television.

  “Nah,” Samson says. “Just not sure is all. I mean, he says the whores are all gonna burn. You and me, we been to whores. You even got sweet on one of ‘em once. Hollywood’s loaded with whores. And what about them druggies he always talks about? You and me, we done that horse pebbles shit. Everybody does.”

  “Will you be worthy of God’s plans?” King says, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “Will you repent and be right with the Lord when the bombs fall tomorrow?”

  “You sayin’ we’re not worthy?” Cyrus says.

  “I dunno,” Samson says. He watches King as he rails against homosexuals, pounding his desk with a fist.

  “Maybe we’re God’s Chosen,” Cyrus says. “Maybe we’re supposed to bring King’s words back to the world. That’s why we found this place. We’re here to spread the gospel. Remember when the power came on?”

  Samson chuckles. “Yeah. You were scared.”

  “Fuck you, I was not scared. Surprised, maybe. But you remember what you said? You said it was a miracle. I think you were onto something. This whole place is a miracle. God’s plan. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we found this place.”

  Samson thinks hard. Did he say it was a miracle? He doesn’t remember. “So what? How does that mean we’re the Chosen Ones? Maybe we’re just here to give it to the Chosen Ones, let them spread the Word.”

  “I know you got your doubts, Sammy,” Cyrus says. “But I think this is the real deal. I think this is why we’re here.”

  “Put in another tape,” Samson says, as King fades away and the credits roll. He doesn’t want to keep talking about it. He knows Cyrus is right about one thing, at least: Samson does have doubts. Samson has always had doubts. He’s been looking for answers his whole life. And now that one might be staring him in the face, he can’t bring himself to believe in it.

  “There isn’t another tape,” Cyrus says. “That was the last one.”

  “Can’t be. How many we been through?” Samson counts back, he’s memorized every episode. Knows the answer before Cyrus says it.

  “Couple hundred tapes, two, three shows on each. This is the last one. Did you hear what he said about the bombs? How they were gonna fall tomorrow? I think he was right about that. I think they fell the very next day and that’s why there’s no more tapes.”

  Samson sits back, stunned. “You really think that?”

  “I do. And I really think we’re the Chosen Ones. How about you, Samson? You think you’re a Chosen One, too?”

  Samson says nothing, but deep in his heart he knows the answer is no.

  ***

  “Samson,” says a voice. He feels someone shaking him awake. “Samson, we need to talk.” At first Samson thinks it’s Cyrus, but as he comes out from the haze of sleep, he recognizes the voice. It doesn’t have the scratchiness he’s grown used to, the warble of bad speakers, but he knows it just the same.

  “Reverend King?” Samson says, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up from his tangle of blankets on the studio floor.

  “Call me Jim, Samson,” King says, sitting cross–legged in his blue suit on the floor. He smiles with teeth so white they seem to sparkle in the darkness. “We’re friends, after all.”

  “Are you
real?” Samson says. “Is this a dream?”

  “No dream,” King says. He stands, reaches down for Samson’s hand, pulls the larger man up to his feet.

  “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be,” Samson says.

  King laughs. “Height means little to the Lord,” he says. “Beneath God’s gaze, we are all equally judged.”

  “You said that in season three, episode twenty–seven,” Samson says. “When you were talking about that basketball player.”

  “I did. You’ve got quite the memory for that sort of thing.”

  “I remember the important stuff,” Samson says. “Not much on reading and writing, though. Can’t seem to get a handle on that.”

  “That’s all right, Samson. Cyrus over there, he does plenty of reading and writing for the both of you. You know why I’m here?”

  Samson shakes his head. He’s still having trouble with the idea that King is standing in front of him. It doesn’t feel like a dream, but then dreams usually don’t.

  “I’m here because you have doubts.”

  “Oh no, sir. I—”

  King stops him with an upraised hand. “I know you don’t doubt me,” he says. “You know what I say is true. I can tell. In your heart of hearts, son, you know that mine is the Word of God, the Almighty. You’re no Unbeliever like those sodomites and catamites out in Hollywood. But I know you have doubts about yourself.”

  Samson looks at the floor. He can’t bring himself to meet King’s eyes. The shame burns in him like hot coals. King touches his chin and Samson looks up at him. King is suddenly taller, towering over Samson, his head brushing the ceiling of the studio, a heavenly light glowing all around him.

  “Do not doubt yourself, Samson. I know you have done sinful things. Things you don’t believe can be forgiven.” King’s voice booms in Samson’s ears. “But the way to wash those sins away is to follow God Almighty and enact his plan for the Earth. For you are one of the Chosen. You and Cyrus will carry my words to the far reaches of the world, you will bring the Faithful into the fold, and you will lay waste to the Unbelievers. The sinners will fall beneath your hammer as you smite them in God’s name.”

  Samson is crying, tears running thick tracks through the grime and dust on his face. All his doubts are washing away in the light coming from King’s glowing form.

  “You will be my champion,” King says. “You will be my voice.”

  Samson is heaving with huge, wracking sobs. He has never felt so complete, so right. Finally, he has a purpose. He falls to his knees, his hands in prayer, King’s words burning deep into his soul.

  “You will spread my Word across the land,” the Reverend says. And he tells Samson what he wants him to do.

  ***

  “Get up,” Samson says.

  Cyrus rolls over, looking up at Samson towering over him. There’s something different about him, but he can’t put his finger on what. Like he’s got a glow about him or something.

  “What’s got you all riled up? Something on fire? There looters in the tunnel? Swamp water risin’?”

  “No,” Samson says, and that’s when Cyrus figures out what’s different. Samson’s smiling.

  In the years that Cyrus has known him he can only remember a handful of times he’s seen the huge man smile. And every time it ended badly.

  “I thought you said you weren’t gonna do no drugs no more, Sammy. Remember last time you got into all that Salt? Hollywood wouldn’t let us in for three weeks after what you did with them whores.”

  “This is better,” Samson says. “I saw Reverend King.”

  “You what? You found another tape?”

  “No. I saw him. Here, in the studio. He came to me last night and told me his plan. You were right, Cyrus. We are the Chosen Ones. He wants us to spread his Word to the rest of the world, build a great army for God and wipe the Earth clean of the Unbelievers.”

  Cyrus stares up at Samson, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He had hoped Samson would go for the whole Chosen Ones bullshit, but he never thought he’d take it this seriously.

  The idea that they could start a cult using the teachings of James King had hit Cyrus about a week ago. There were lots of cults in L.A. after all, though “gang” was probably a better word for them. Cyrus figured that if they could get one going, they could pull in some people, maybe make them do the looting and scavenging for them. Hell, if they got some of those whores from Hollywood to join, Cyrus could be neck deep in as much pussy as he wanted.

  He’d been trying to subtly nudge Samson into thinking he’d come up with the idea himself ever since — dropping hints, playing up the “miracle” of finding this place. Play it up like it was Samson’s idea. He was always easier to maneuver when he had the illusion of being in charge.

  Of course, subtle didn’t always work on Samson. He wasn’t stupid. Just not much of a thinker. His plans didn’t go past figuring out his next meal. Cyrus was getting ready to ditch subtle and come right out and tell Samson his plan. To hell with having him think it was his own idea.

  But then subtle went and won out anyway.

  Cyrus smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Okay. We can do that. What are we doing?”

  Samson tells him, and the more he talks, the more Cyrus realizes that this might be much bigger than he ever thought possible.

  –4–

  “And God said unto them, ‘Take my teachings and spread them across the land. Those who believe will follow, and those who do not will fall beneath my vengeance.’” – James King, Hour of the Church Triumphant, Season 4, Episode 27

  Samson hasn’t been out of the bunker in three weeks. He pulls at the dirty white smock Cyrus made for him, a silver cross on the front made out of duct tape.

  They talked about the plan for three days before Samson said he was ready. It’s a simple one, really. Go out and spread the Word. He’s memorized a really good sermon and he’s itching to try it out. After that, though, it’s a little muddy.

  Samson’s been struggling with what to do if the Word isn’t accepted. He knows what James King wants, knows he can do it, but he’s still hesitant. There’s something about it that makes his gut feel hollow. He’d prefer if Cyrus were with him, but the little man said he wasn’t up for the long walk. And besides, he had to do all the hard work of writing up the sermons so he could teach them to Samson later. Samson thinks Cyrus is just being a lazy asshole, but he didn’t argue the point.

  They figured it’d be best to skip the gangs at first. The Echo Park Locos probably won’t like hearing the sermons, and though Samson forged an uneasy truce with them when he killed nine of their best three years ago after they jumped him, he doesn’t want to kick that particular hornet’s nest. Yet. He can still feel the chunk of the bullet in his scalp from the last time.

  So it’s over to one of the camps in the hills of Silver Lake. There’s one they’ve traded with. Small group, twenty people. They might listen, they might not, but if they don’t, he’s not likely to get shot in the head.

  He makes his way west, following the ruins of Sunset Boulevard, then north to the Silver Lake reservoir. It hasn’t been full for as long as Samson’s known about it—the scummy swamp water spread through so much of Los Angeles never made it up into the hills—but everyone still calls it the reservoir. When there’s a really heavy rain, it fills up with radioactive water that no one goes near. The smell of poison and rot are too strong for even the hardiest survivors.

  At the bottom of the hill Samson crosses himself just like he saw James King do on the videotapes, his fingers brushing against the shotgun shells in their bandolier. He follows it up with a check on the twelve–gauge slung over his shoulder, the sledgehammer on his back, the Bowie knife strapped to his forearm. Once he’s ready, he heads up the hill.

  The camp is quiet. Ragged men and women, thin from little food, sick from unnamed diseases. Samson steps out from a blasted–out house at the top of Angus Street, and the ones still mobile enough to care freeze when they see him.


  Samson clears his throat. “And the Lord said, ‘Lead not into temptation the lambs who you would take under your protection, for I am the Shepherd and I—’”

  “Who the fuck are you?” a woman says, stepping out from behind a plastic sheeting lean–to, her rifle in a grip that tells Samson she knows how to use it.

  “I’m here to spread the gospel of James King,” he says. “To show you the path of righteous—”

  A rock flies from the side and bounces off Samson’s forehead.

  “We don’t need your kind here,” a filthy boy says, picking up another rock.

  “Malcom, you cut that shit out,” the woman says. “But he’s right. We don’t need your kind here. Don’t need no preacher bullshit. Get plenty of that already.”

  “I’m different, ma’am,” Samson says. “I bring the Word of God’s Prophet, the Reverend James King. He foresaw these troubles, saw the bombs coming, saw the hardships we’d all be facing when the judgment day came.”

  “Yeah? Then how come he didn’t do anything about it?”

  Samson’s ready for this one. His answer is straight from season four, episode nineteen. “Because it was God’s plan. God wanted us hammered into something stronger, something better, and the only way to do that is through hardship and perseverance. You have raiders come by, right? Try to steal your food?”

  “Of course we do. And we fight ‘em off, just like we’ll fight you off if that’s what you’re thinking of doing.”

  “No, ma’am,” Samson says. “I’m here to spread the Good Lord’s Word and, should any of you fine folks like, have some of you join our new Church.”

  She laughs. “A church? You want us to join your church? And I suppose you’d be sitting at the top eatin’ the best food and getting handjobs for your trouble. Is that it?”