by Erik Carter
They stowed their guns and brought out tear gas canisters. The lull in their return fire brought a reinvigorated attack from the snipers, which squeezed the men against the wall tighter. One of the SWAT team was struck in the calf and screamed out.
One by one the team began to toss the gas canisters, which clanked on the ground and the brick of the perimeter wall. Gas streamed out with hissing puffs. White clouds formed at each end of the wall, starting small and quickly growing in size. The bullet barrage stopped, and Dale could hear the snipers coughing.
The SWAT team handed out gas masks.
“Blow the damn gate,” Taft yelled as he put his mask on.
Dale put a gas mask to his face.
Two SWAT team members darted out to the gate and quickly affixed small discs about three inches across to each side of it. The men ran back to the wall, and one of them took out a bag with a radio detonator.
“Back!” the man said.
Everyone took several steps away from the gate.
He pushed the button, and the gate exploded with a terrific crash. Dale felt his stomach pulled toward the gate for a moment, and he stumbled forward to keep his footing. Shards of metal and brick flew out in all directions, and large chunks of it clattered across the street beyond.
When Dale uncovered his face, there was a smoky, dusty, destroyed area where the gate once stood.
He called out to the other men. “Come on!”
They ran into the factory. The man running next to Dale dropped to the ground. Whooshing noises came from all directions. They’d run right into a fresh gun assault. Spencer’s men had been waiting for them.
After what had been a ten-second reprieve, Dale found himself again in the confusion of high adrenaline and flying lead. Everyone around him scattered to the various buildings, seeking cover. Dale threw his gas mask aside and headed for a small building to his right that was elevated off the ground. It wasn’t the greatest cover, but in the split second that he had to decide, it was his best option.
Taft and a couple SWAT members had scrambled to a building just in front of Dale. One of the men yelled out to Taft. “Sir, we have to use live ammo.”
“Use it, goddammit!”
Though Dale hated the idea of using live bullets against mind-controlled people, in a situation like this, with flying death screaming all around, there was little choice. He held his Model 36 in front of him and dropped to the ground to check the space beneath the building. It was clear. He got on his hands and knees, crawled under the building, and went toward the front.
A couple of Marshallites with pump-action shotguns stood in the doorway of a building several yards away in front of the large warehouse. They weren’t shooting but standing like sentries. The buildings funneled in that direction, which meant that as the SWAT team progressed to the warehouse, they’d walk right into a death trap.
The ground beneath Dale was muddy, and it seeped into his clothing. He did his best to stabilize himself and took aim at one of the men with shotguns, zeroing in on his left shin.
As his finger tensed around the trigger, there was a sharp sensation in his right shoulder. His gun fired just as he dropped it. The bullet struck the building above him, and chunks of wood drizzled down upon him.
Someone grabbed him and dragged him into the open. Standing over him was one of the Marshallites. Three inches from Dale’s face was a rifle barrel.
Chapter 54
The people screamed again at another burst of automatic gunfire, this one even closer. Spencer raised his hands.
“Children. Children, please. Do not be alarmed,” he spoke into the microphone before him. “This is the moment I’ve been warning you about. Have I not told you that the fascist American government would close in upon us? The time is here. They have come.”
He looked out upon the faces. They sat in those chairs, just as he had told them, huddled with each other, looking to the south side of the building where the gunshots were coming from. Despite a full-out gun battle happening just on the other side of the stamped metal wall, they stayed exactly where he told them. This was the sort of power that Father had only dreamed of.
When the whole world came crashing down upon the CAE, a number of Father’s supporters fled. The reality of the moment coupled with Father’s insanity made them snap to. Father hadn’t owned those minds. But now that Spencer was the Father, he had done things better. These people were under his complete control, and unlike Glenn Downey, all of Spencer’s followers would go with him to the death.
The ones he had sent out into the real world to be puzzle pieces for his mind games with Brad Walker were weakest of them all. They would gladly kill themselves if Spencer asked. Three of them had done just that. It was going to take a bit more coercing with the majority of them, though. Asking someone to kill oneself could easily snap them out of their trance, as had been the case with Father. So he was going to need to take a shrewder, more calculating approach with the rest of them.
The children were crying, and the families held each other. Their wild eyes looked up at him, pleading for leadership in this most dire of situations. He would provide it. He would offer them a solution. He would do what Glenn could not.
They looked foolish sitting there in their old-fashioned clothes. They were dirty. They hadn’t bathed in the six days since he’d taken them from the village. What kind of a mind would be so weak that it would turn over its entire self to one idea? To one man? This wasn’t the kind of mind the world needed. He was doing the world a favor by erasing them.
“Do not be afraid. Parents, calm your children. Be quiet. This is not how we, as enlightened minds, free of all social constructs of this perverse world, this is not how we shall perish. We are not capitalists. We’re not socialists. We’re above all that. But for that we have been punished. Remember that there are people in this world who are suffering this very moment. They’re suffering in ways you’ll never know because you’ve had Father to provide for you. Haven’t I led you in the right direction? Has Father ever steered you wrong?” He raised his hand.
They shook their heads. No.
“Then you must trust me now.”
They watched him intently. Their eyes never wavered. He could do whatever he wanted. He felt his own power coming out of him like a light, something that would radiate out from the warehouse and touch the very skies. He knew that Brad Walker was out there in the gunfight. And he wanted to show him his light.
The time had come to fully exercise his power.
“Reach under your chairs and bring forth the meal I’ve provided,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to eat it. This isn’t suicide. It’s revolutionary protest.”
Chapter 55
Dale yanked the barrel out of his face just as the man fired. The roar of the shot crushed him. Instant deafness. Cold mud splattered his face. The gravelly smell of gunpowder burned his nostrils.
His hand was still on the barrel. He yanked on it, using it as leverage to topple the smaller man, who fell directly onto Dale. The tape recorder smashed into Dale’s back. The Marshallite gripped Dale around the throat. The man’s strength was disproportionate to his small stature. His fingers were powerful pistons, each trying to bore out its own cylinder into Dale’s neck.
Dale looped his leg under one of the man’s legs. In a move reminiscent of junior high leg wrestling, he used his weight to pull himself on top. The pistons released their mechanical grip on his neck. Dale gasped for air.
The Marshallite was beneath him now, facedown in the mud. Dale pulled back a big, square fist and whacked it across the back of the man’s head. But it didn’t work. The son of a bitch was still conscious. The man kicked his leg upwards, caught Dale in the balls. Dale’s guts rose to his throat. He rolled backwards.
The Marshallite got to his feet. Dale tried to stand, slipped in the mud, and fell on his ass.
Something shiny on the ground a few feet away. His gun. He reached for it, but the Marshallite’s boot came crashing d
own on his wrist. Jolts of pain shot through Dale’s arm. His fingers flailed out like a dying insect.
The Marshallite dropped a knee to Dale’s chest. Dale cried out. The pistons shot for his neck again. Dale reached out and stopped them. Their hands were interlocked. As their muscles quivered in deadlocked competition, their bodies began to squirm closer to the metal briefcase, which he’d dropped at some point earlier. It was inches from him.
A bullet struck the building beside them. For just a moment the other man released his grip. That was all the time Dale needed. He scrambled for the briefcase.
The Marshallite leapt at Dale, but Dale already had his hands around the handle of the briefcase. He swung it like a golf club, catching the man in the jaw. There was a sickly crack that can only mean a broken bone.
The man collapsed.
Dale took two deep breaths. He put his fingers to the man’s neck. There was a pulse. Dale exhaled. A blow like that could have killed the guy.
Dale retrieved the Marshallite’s rifle. He pulled back the bolt, cleared the round, and released the magazine. He tossed the cartridge and magazine into the darkness and grabbed his Smith & Wesson.
He went to the corner of the building, his gun held at chest level, and looked to the back of the factory. There was the warehouse, a line of light tracing the outline of its large, sliding door. That was where Spencer would have the people.
And that’s where he had to go. It was time to face Spencer.
The men with the shotguns were gone, but bullets hissed through the air all around him. Getting to the warehouse was going to be a challenge.
Just as he was about to skirt his way along the perimeter of the factory, he noticed something at the front of the warehouse, illuminated by the light coming out of the door—half a dozen metal drums lined up along the wall. Their lids were gone. He had seen barrels like this before in a similar situation—when he went with government officials to the aftermath of the Collective Agricultural Experiment tragedy.
He’d seen the barrels Glenn Downey used to mix his poison.
Spencer wasn’t taking the Marshallites to South America. He was going to follow in Glenn’s footsteps.
Dale sprinted toward the warehouse.
Chapter 56
Spencer looked down at the bowl sitting on the podium in front of him. It wasn’t quite like the bowls that the dozens of other people facing him held. His had the pudding and the vodka, but it lacked the cyanide.
One of the hippie-ass things that the Marshall Village sold at the Dayton Farmer’s Market, aside from produce, was handmade jewelry. The man in charge of the jewelry-making had been a licensed jeweler in the outside world. When Spencer managed to take over the entire village, he used this man to his advantage. For months he had received small shipments of potassium cyanide, which was legal for the use of cleaning jewelry. Soon he had enough to make his special food.
The trick was to get the poison palatable. As much as any of these people were believers, Spencer knew that if the taste of cyanide touched the tongue, if a person really got the taste of death, then they would snap to. Just as some of Father’s followers had. The poison had to be a tolerable experience, even a pleasant one. Thus Spencer mixed his cyanide into large amounts of pudding, sugar, and vodka to help numb the senses.
He held his bowl aloft.
“This is not something to be feared. This is not an evil. This is liberation. Very soon the government will be here. They will come for your children. The gunfight out there will soon spill into this space. And when it does, is that how you want to die? Do you want to die at the hands of an imperialistic regime? They’ll take their machine guns to you. They will rape your children and gun them down too. They’ve done this before. We’ve seen it. They did this in Vietnam. They did it in South America, Africa. They’re afraid. Don’t you see? They fear a group of people less than one hundred and fifty strong. A group that wants nothing more than to live their lives in peace. But that’s how afraid they are of anyone who knows, anyone who has caught on to their game. Don’t die like that. Die like I will. Join me in this revolutionary protest.”
Spencer actually did believe everything he had just said. With all his heart. And, in a sense, he truly did feel that he was liberating these people. But he wasn’t trying to help them. Minds that weak were beyond help. He was trying to help himself, a true victim of Western imperialism, and they were just one more tool to achieve that end.
He dipped his finger in the pudding and stuck it in his mouth. He showed the crowd the clean finger. “There is no taste. There is no pain. It’s just one more meal.”
Spencer had tried a tiny amount of the real concoction earlier that day. In truth, there was a taste. Slight, but it was there. A bitterness.
“Raise your bowls with me.” He held his bowl at chest height. Everyone facing him did the same. He loved that, when the whole group did exactly as he said, in unison, like troops marching. It thrilled him every time.
“Now. Now is the time—”
There was a loud screech of metal from the back of the room. The door pulled open.
Brad Walker darted into the warehouse.
What perfect timing. What unbelievable, beautiful timing.
Chapter 57
Dale burst through the doors and quickly assessed the situation. A group of people was seated facing a podium on a wooden dais. They were holding small bowls of what looked like chocolate pudding. Spencer stood before them, gazing out at the crowd.
At the sight of Dale, a good half of the people stood up, rage twisting their faces. They approached him. He didn’t raise his gun, not yet. If he incited something here, he was facing certain death.
The missing Marshallites. He’d finally found them. Despite the fact that they looked ready to lynch him, Dale felt a wave of relief not quite like anything he’d experienced before in the BEI.
While the Marshallites were wearing their anachronistic clothing, Spencer was in a long robe, something like a Catholic priest would wear. The sleeves were wide and billowed out below his arms. He shouted at his followers.
“Children. Sit!” Spencer’s voice rang out through speakers on either end of the dais. “Do not get up and face this man. We are not like them. We will not face confrontation like them. We are a peaceful people. Sit.”
Those who had been standing went back to their seats. Every face in the room was turned around and looking at Dale, and each of those faces wore either an expression of wrath or fear. Most of the men looked like they could pop out of their seats at any moment. They began to jeer at him.
Government dog.
Come here, military man. See if I bend to your tyranny.
Kill him.
“Silence,” Spencer commanded from his podium. “Be peaceful, children.” The crowd quieted. “Did I not tell you? They are here. He is the first. This is indeed one of the government men. He is one of those who have come to end our journey. But, please, trust in me as you have before. I will handle this. Gabriel, please take his weapon.”
An angry-looking man in the back row with a wide face and an even wider chest stood up and walked over to Dale. He’d never been in a situation before where he needed to turn over his Chiefs Special, and when he handed it to the man, he felt naked and alone.
“Thank you, Gabriel.” Spencer said.
The man walked away.
Spencer looked directly at Dale. “You can just drop that briefcase of bogus money right where you are.”
The kid even knew about the fake cash. Dale put the briefcase on the ground.
“Now, my child, join me at the altar,” Spencer said.
There was a rumble of protest from the Marshallites.
“Children, remember, trust my judgment.”
Dale hesitated. Given the circumstances, he didn’t have much choice. But he knew what was about to happen in this building, why all the people were holding clay bowls full of a dark brown liquid. Whatever purpose Spencer had in bringing Dale to the fro
nt, it had something to do with killing all these people.
“Child, I remind you,” Spencer said, still looking right at Dale, “every soul in this room wants to tear you limb from limb. I implore you, join me at the altar.” His look was bland and seemingly peaceful—just the sort of look one expects from a robed figure standing behind a podium that faced a group of followers. In Spencer’s eyes, though, Dale could see more, a sinister, dark look with just a bit of cocky indignation aimed directly at Dale.
He had little choice but to listen. He walked down the center aisle toward the altar. The Marshallites’ heads turned and followed him as he walked by. He took slow, purposeful steps. The smallest action could incite these people. They quivered with hate as he walked by. He saw their lips move. He was a man wearing a steak suit strolling through the tiger den.
Dale stepped onto the dais. The plywood squeaked beneath his weight. Spencer stood twenty feet away. The spotlight that was focused on him made his white robe shine and gave his whole visage the clean, unnatural look of an actor on a stage. Spencer waved his hand toward the podium, beckoning Dale forward.
Dale walked slowly across the dais, and when he got to the podium, Spencer put his arm around him, resting his hand on his lower back.
Spencer looked out onto the audience. “This man is one of them. It is true. But he is also another son of creation. Thus I am willing to give this man a chance, a chance to explain their intentions. For, as I have done with you, I will treat him with mercy.”
The Marshallites applauded. There were some cheers.
Spencer turned off his microphone.
“What are you doing, Spencer?” Dale said.
“You came just in time, Brad. We were just about to have a little refreshment. Look.”
Dale turned.
Everyone in the audience was holding their bowls of the brown goop. Even after the shock of his entrance, even with the continuous sound of gunfire outside, even with the thought of their own impending death, many of them smiled.