by Alan Rodgers
Herman Bonner was talking, now, speaking cryptically with an accent that was unplacably alien. Strange, senseless talk — something about . . . Rapture, and something else about an Apocalypse to come. What was all of this? And why would anyone want to kill the whole world? Luke shook his head, trying to clear it.
There was only one way to find out what it was all about, he decided. The way to find out was to ask.
He stepped out, into the aisle, and shouted, so that the man would hear him so far away.
“Herman! Herman Bonner!” And the man stopped dead in the middle of his speech.
The crowd went silent, too.
And he looked afraid.
“Why do you want to destroy the world, Herman? I don’t understand.”
And Herman Bonner went white as a sheet, and his jaw hung slack for a long moment. And finally he said into the microphone, “This is a heathen — an infidel. Kill him if you can. Be certain that he does not escape us.”
And suddenly there were angry bodies everywhere rising out of their seats, coming toward Luke, and before anything else could happen the dream went black, blacker than night.
And there were words.
West. West toward Kansas, and beyond the lake of fire.
And Luke woke. And waking, he knew what he had to do.
³ ³ ³ ³
BOOK THREE
The Voice of Armageddon
WEDNESDAY
July Twentieth
From the Good News Hour,
broadcast on The Voice of
Armageddon Television Network,
7:00 a.m., Wednesday, July 20.
This morning, unfortunately, my Good News Hour friends, the news is not as Good as we’d like it to be. The truth is, in fact, that it’s not good at all. Sinister things are happening in this world you and I share, and it is perhaps time for all good Christians to be putting the affairs of this life in order. If those words sound discouraging, take heart: It’s a better life that waits for you on the far side of the Rapture.
Cut to a tape of Vice President Graham Perkins, recuperating in a hospital room.
Not all the news is bad, my friends: The Vice President of this nation has been found, alive and well, and he’s now safely in the arms of good, God-fearing Christians. As you all know, this nation has been without a leader for most of a week now, since our beloved President Paul Green died in a tragic aviation accident. Mr. Perkins suffered grave abuse for several days at the hands of left-wing terrorists, but with the help of the forces of righteousness he managed to escape from their hands. The Vice President is recovering from his injuries quite rapidly, and is expected to be well enough to take the oath of Presidential Office early this afternoon.
That historic ceremony will be televised live from the revival center here in Lake-of-Fire, Kansas. At the moment it’s scheduled for two o’clock, but that may change, depending on Mr. Perkins’s condition.
And in Washington this morning, more violence: two low-level members of Congress held a news conference to assert their supposed claim to the Presidency and Vice Presidency of the United States.
Footage of a mob attacking a podium; if one looks closely it’s possible to see that the rioters all wear arm bands emblazoned with a cross, a circle, and a dove.
The two pretenders were quickly and spontaneously put in their place by an angry crowd of righteous Americans.
In the sodomistic State of California, where the ongoing crisis has as yet had no direct effect, business has ground to a halt. People aren’t showing up for work — or very few of them are.
Where is everybody, you ask?
Well, the truth is, no one’s sure. At first it was suspected that the people had evacuated the cities, as they had in most of the Northeast and Midwest. That doesn’t seem to be the case — rural areas aren’t being overrun; desert resorts aren’t reporting much more business than they do during the height of the tourist season. And in cities like Los Angeles consumption of power and water are at ordinary levels.
So where is everybody?
Cut to a shot of a bearded man with blood-shot eyes and greasy, stringy, shoulder-length brown hair. In the foreground is a microphone bearing a circle of cardboard marked with the symbol of a cross, a circle, and a dove. If one looks closely it’s possible to see that the side of the microphone still bears the embossed-plastic ABC logo.
Where is everybody? the man asks. Where the bleep do you think everybody is? It’s the end of the world. They’re all out getting high, getting laid — partying. It’s all one big orgy out here, man. What do you geeks think about that, huh?
Return to studio.
Shades of Sodom and Gomorrah, eh, my Good News Hour Friends?
We’ll be right back with more Good News after this message from the Reverend George.
³ ³ ³
BBC shortwave broadcast
15.070 mHz.
13:00 UTC, Wednesday, July 20.
This is London calling.
The nuclear disturbance in the atmosphere has cleared enough today that we’re beginning to receive scattered reports from the United States on the amateur bands, and the news we’re receiving is nothing short of incredible. Literally, as it happens: the reports are more than a bit hard to believe.
We have badly confirmed stories, to begin with, of dead persons reanimated — stories that would be discounted completely if not for the fact that there are so many of them.
Religious fanatics — apparently zealots of the same stripe as the nation’s late president — are on the move throughout the States. A group that calls itself “The Voice of Armageddon” has commandeered the ABC radio and television network, at gun point. And earlier today, when the American Speaker of the House and President Pro-Tempore of the Senate held a news conference to announce that they were reorganizing the nation’s government, an angry mob, apparently made up of people from the same organization, tore the two quite literally limb from limb. In process, several reporters attending the conference were also killed. Reporter Jim Burns, who covered the event for the BBC, is now in critical condition in a Washington-area hospital.
It’s rumored that these radicals will be announcing a provisional government of their own some time late today, which may explain the recent incident in Washington. We do have confirmed reports that they’ve managed to get control of at least a portion of the US nuclear arsenal.
The American military is still keeping a low profile, as it has throughout the crisis. The Pentagon has a deep-seated tradition of bowing to civilian authority, and with no such authority available to defer to, it’s been unable to act — or unwilling to do so. And what of American forces in Europe and Far East? Here in Britain and on the continent they’re keeping an even lower profile than they are in their own country; all American soldiers have been confined to their bases since last Friday, when two young men on an overnight pass were found by an angry crowd, doused with gasoline, and burned alive.
In Asia, it’s another story altogether. Late Monday evening the communist dictatorship in North Korea launched an attack on the South, intending to take advantage of the confusion. The Americans stationed there and their South Korean allies have been fighting tooth and nail to repulse the invaders; other Asian nations, afraid that they, too, will be attacked, are treating their American bases with considerable reverence.
The Canadians still aren’t having much luck with their attempts to close off their border with the United States. The Canadian government admitted today that while they’ve managed to keep the border crossings shut in the more developed parts of Ontario and Quebec, refugees are still getting through from the US in great numbers — in the west, principally, but in eastern Quebec and the Maritime provinces as well. The rumor in Ottawa is that the border will reopen officially in a day or two if tensions continue to ease.
In other n
ews, the French Premiere spoke in public today, without incident — which marks the first public appearance of a head of state in the EEC since the current global crisis began.
Currency markets reopened in Bonn, London, and Tokyo today, to light trading. Officials in New York hinted that that city’s financial markets may reopen before the end of the week.
There is, as yet, no verifiable news from Russia. All reporters and foreign personnel are still being held in “protective custody” at the Hotel Intourist; they have been allowed to use the telephones, but only to make monitored calls to their embassies and nations of origin. All foreign embassies are similarly quarantined.
At the United Nations today Secretary General William San Juan called on the United States to provide increased security personnel for UN headquarters in Manhattan. New York City officials were quick to point out that in spite of all the disorder in the city, the UN and the area surrounding it has been relatively quiet. Former New York mayor Edward Koch added that he didn’t think the UN was important enough to draw much attention during a real crisis. The American State Department, which has been answering its telephones since Monday, refused to comment —
³ ³ ³
Chapter Twenty-Eight
LAKE-OF-FIRE, KANSAS
The Reverend George Stein turned off the monitor abruptly. He’d heard enough, and more than enough; there wasn’t anything substantial in the BBC report that hadn’t been in the network news from CBS and NBC. None of it was pleasant to hear. It needed paying attention to, anyway; and he’d gone to no small trouble to be able to listen to it. Radio signals didn’t travel well here so close to the Lake of Fire that the missile had created. Just the opposite, in fact. If they hadn’t managed to get control over that satellite, had it picking up signals and beaming them down, there’d be no way to receive any news at all, bar the telephone.
George Stein was sick of the news. He was sick of the news and uneasy and since last night a lot more than that; since last night he’d begun to be afraid. Not terrified. Not scared out of his wits. Honestly, plainly worried and afraid. Something was wrong, dead wrong. Things were happening that Herman Bonner had never told him to expect. And even Herman himself had seemed surprised at them.
And just a week ago things had been so . . . controlled. Controlled and orderly and down to the smallest detail happening exactly as Herman had said they would.
Except for Paul’s death. Paul’s death was the one event that had seemed to surprise Herman.
Still: Herman was a genius. There wasn’t any question of that. Still wasn’t — not even now. Genius or not, though, things were happening that put a deep unease on Herman’s face. The way that creature — Herman’s ersatz Beast — was walking cross-country straight toward them — and at such a pace! Nothing could keep a pace like that for days on end, without sleep or rest to speak of. It wasn’t possible. Nothing made of flesh could do it. And yet the Beast was doing it, and so was the man with him. It wasn’t hard to track their progress; Herman had planted a homing device in the core of the Beast’s thigh bone when the thing had still been in its infancy. That was how they’d found it days ago, when they’d wanted footage of the Beast for television.
There were things about that creature that had bothered George Stein right from the start. The effect it seemed to have on people in its immediate vicinity, for one. Herman had told him to expect that, it was true. Not like that, though. Not so strong. That town . . . the whole damned town. Acting like children would the first time they’d set eyes on Santa Claus. It was enough to shake at the core of George Stein’s faith. How could a thing that had that effect on people be evil? How could he call it evil?
Well, it wasn’t evil. Or at least there was no reason to think it was evil. Not necessarily, anyway. It was just some poor dumb beast that Herman had grown in his lab to help them get the upper hand on the end of the world.
Herman had told him about that years ago. The end of the world — Armageddon, the Apocalypse, the Rapture, all those things in their turn — were coming. And soon. Anyone with half a lick of sense in his head knew that; certainly no one had needed to tell George Stein. Or Paul Green. Paul and George had been especially close in those days, back when Herman had come into the church. They’d been together that Sunday afternoon, drinking coffee after church in the quiet room behind the chapel.
And Herman had said, the forces of the Beast are out there. Planning. Waiting. Setting snares large enough to trap the world.
There wasn’t any debating that. It was patently and obviously true.
We need to do planning of our own, Herman had said.
And Paul had said, of course we need to. We do that. Why else do we spread the word?
Herman had frowned. Yes. It’s good. Yet it’s not enough.
George had felt his left eyebrow arch with skepticism.
And Herman had nodded. Yes, yes — listen to me. A thing that’s done to you is beyond your control. Can any good Christian afford that? Can we allow the world to run amok? No. To carry the day of the Apocalypse we must own it. To own it we must make it before it is created upon us.
A beat. Two beats, three; and the brilliance of it had sunk through to George. Paul Green’s face, across the table, was almost aglow.
The Battle of Armageddon was like any other war, George realized. It would belong to those with the initiative to fight it. To wait here passive and quiet in Kansas would be to sign away all title to this world and the next.
It had gone on from there for the better part of twenty years. This last week the moment of realization had come to them . . . and now —
Now something was wrong. Herman’s plans, Herman’s so-prefect plans that never faltered — the plans were beginning to show flaws.
Paul was dead in a freak accident.
This strange creature was coming for them.
That man in New York — the one who’d sent Herman’s hackles on end when they were taking over the network — who was he? And how had he managed to get into the revival hall last night to ask Herman that cryptic question — in front of the entire flock? Fifteen thousand people, when you counted all of those who’d been watching over the church’s closed-circuit relay. And before anyone could set hands on him, he’d disappeared. It almost seemed unnatural. Almost, hell — it was unnatural. George Stein had seen enough unnaturalness in his life to recognize it when he came across it.
Then there was that poor man Herman had managed to turn up in Washington — the Vice President, Graham Perkins. He’d somehow managed to live through an experience that no man should have to survive, and he needed serious psychiatric help. He certainly didn’t need to be taking on the responsibility of the presidency. But here they were, about to use the man to assert a claim to legitimacy when they set up the provisional government. George was about to use him. He was feeling pretty sick with himself about that.
And there were hints everywhere that his own organization — his organization and Herman’s — was doing things . . . that George didn’t approve of. Evil, violent things that he couldn’t possibly abide. There was no one in the entire organization who could authorize things like that — no one but Herman.
George shuddered.
And worst of all, George realized, was the fact that he was beginning to lose faith.
How could they incite so many people to riot against that poor, dumb, and innocent beast? There was evil there, and George knew that he was at the heart of it. Or so close to the heart that the distinction wasn’t worth making.
Maybe it was time to ease up and back away. Maybe they were wrong — maybe they’d been wrong all along. He’d said as much to Herman not two hours ago, at breakfast. Herman hadn’t taken the suggestion any too well. Well, to hell with him, then. George was the one in charge, here, not Herman Bonner.
He glanced at his watch. Fifteen more minutes and he’d be on the air. It was t
ime to touch up his makeup, straighten his tie; there was no way he could go in front of the camera looking this disheveled.
He stood, noticed himself in the mirror —
And felt ill looking at himself. How could he let himself be involved in business like this — much less stand at the center of it?
What he ought to do was go out there in front of the camera and take this whole business apart once and for all. On the air, live, admit to some of the horrible things he’d done. Even if there were a couple dozen nuclear missiles here on the base they’d renamed Lake-of-Fire, none of it would last long once it’d been exposed to the light of day.
Six minutes; it was time to head out to the studio. He was just turning to leave when he heard the knock.
“Hello? Come on in; it isn’t locked.”
“Good morning, George.” Herman again, with his strange, unplaceable accent.
“Morning, Herman. What can I do for you? Only got a minute — I’ve got to get out there and get to work.”
“Forgive me, George,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his beige-corduroy jacket. He didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. “I’ve worked too long, too hard toward this. I can’t allow you to undo all my efforts now.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Herman? I’ve got to go. I’m on live in —”
Herman was taking a gun out of his breast pocket. A sleek black pistol with a silencer.
“No,” he said, “you’re not going on. And certainly not live.” Smiled like a hungry snake. “Good-bye, George.”
And George Stein died.
³ ³ ³
Chapter Twenty-Nine
NORTHWESTERN KENTUCKY — APPROACHING THE FREE BRIDGE AT OLD SHAWNEETOWN
Mostly as they walked Ron wasn’t thinking at all. Not that he was numb or tired or even just losing interest; more it was as though the rhythm and the pace of the walk were a song that absorbed all of him. On the few occasions when he did drift far enough away from the song to think, he was amazed. Three days, three solid days of walking, with only a single stop back in Tylerville, Tennessee — and even then they’d only stopped for an hour or three. No food since that one meal. And he wasn’t tired, and he wasn’t hungry, and he actually felt better than he had in his entire life.