Project Antichrist

by Pavel Kravchenko

  Why was he given the detonator? Anyone could have pressed the button. One of them could have pressed the button. So why him? Was it a punishment of some sort? Or was it the opposite, an initiation? He couldn’t honestly say which of the two he would prefer. Actually, he would probably prefer the former.

  More so now, since he’d seen the girl that was to be his “prize” when this was over. “Slim, dark hair, just the way you enjoy them,” they’d said. Later he saw the girl and it was the same one he’d talked to that day on the roof. Sure, this one was likely human, but still…

  He felt a shudder coming on and switched hands. He looked over his shoulder at the tan-colored telephone on the green desk. Silent. Dead. Maybe Whales decided not to come after all.

  Maybe he wouldn’t have to press the button. What if he pressed the button and nothing happened? What then? Suddenly a terrifying idea occurred to him that he would be somehow to blame.

  Maybe they expected him to fail. Maybe it was he, Millard Fillmore, and not Whales who was being set up. The car was almost at the gate. Still nothing.

  Switching the hand again, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his coat.

  Nonsense. He was losing his mind. Better not to show it around them. He wished the damned thing would ring already and be over with.

  In the next instant, it did. He saw a guard, he wasn’t sure who, come out of the guardhouse. The car rolled to a stop at the checkpoint. He froze with his mouth open, then whirled around to stare at the telephone, as it continued to ring. Years seemed to have passed.

  He was suddenly certain he was late, that he did fail. He thought about it for so long he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do. Color drained from his face.

  “Shit,” he whimpered and squeezed the button and his eyes shut at the same time.

  * * *

  The explosion clove the car into spinning fiery halves, tore the roof off the guardhouse and tossed dishwasher-sized pieces of reinforced concrete wall into the sky above the Tomb. Orange and black flame snapped outward in a chainsaw circle then rose in a bubbly, seemingly liquid sphere. The steel gate, twisted and mute because of the tremendous blast, bounced across the sparingly filled parking lot into the first floor windows.

  In an instant it was over, fire turned to smoke and silence reigned in long seconds it took the debris to begin their return to earth.

  None of it touched the four Guardians any more than did the fates of the humans in the car and gatehouse. They’ve seen millions of humans die and would see more. A million of dead humans deserved sympathy. Two, or five… meant nothing. Humans died easily. A dead Sobak, on the other hand, was an event so rare and significant that four of them had been sent.

  They stood cloaked, scanning the countryside around the building in all directions, even as debris crashed down around them. A moment later the two posted on the corners above the façade saw him.

  A blur against the white field.

  The traitor.

  The murderer.

  The one they’d been sent to wait for and capture. He glided away straight across the field, already aware of them. He moved much faster than a human, but it was obvious he was hurt and not fast enough to escape the Guard. There weren’t many who could outrun the Guardians in perfect health.

  The front pair touched the snow together, followed closely by the other. They started the pursuit wide and began to spread wider, maintaining the perfect square formation that continued to expand. They could have taken the shortest way and forced the traitor to make a stand early, but they needed him alive, and time was nothing but a meaningless human concept. Nor did they clutter their minds with estimates of the traitor’s identity. There were not many choices, and it would be revealed soon enough. He had already been caught. In the end, they would have him surrounded. None were capable of breaking out of the Guard’s Square once they were inside. Not even the Rebel himself.

  * * *

  “There’s been an explosion,” the old man reported.

  His green-eyed superior regarded him over the knot of intertwined, manicured fingers. Outside the window behind his back holographic billboards illuminated the gloom of a New You City morning. He pressed the button to close the shutters.

  “You seem disappointed,” he stated.

  “I liked his show, sir.”

  The younger-looking man frowned.

  “Is there no doubt he was in the car?”

  “It will take some time to recover and identify the body parts. I am told there were four victims total. The doctor, however, had been instructed to signal only if he was.”

  “Is there a chance he lied? They could have found out. Forced him to switch sides?”

  “There’s always a possibility. However, I am uncertain Whales and his friends could have frightened Dr. Coughlin more than we did.”

  The Chief Administrator fell silent. The old man was right, he knew, and yet… something was wrong. Whales had evaded both the police and the Seekers. It was hard to believe he would just walk into a trap.

  “What of the rogue Sobak?” he finally demanded.

  “One has been spotted retreating from the site immediately after the blast. The Guardians are in pursuit as we speak.”

  “Where did he come from? Was he in the car?”

  “It wasn’t specified. From the description of the explosion, however, I doubt even a Sobak could have been mobile, if he had been inside the vehicle at the time.”

  “Why wasn’t he detected before the blast, then?”

  The old man paused. “I cannot say. Perhaps he was.” He studied his superior’s face.

  “You suppose the doctor could have been deceived instead of frightened, sir?”

  “They can change shapes.” The Chief Administrator unclasped his hands and placed them carefully, palms down, on the desk. His assistant was thoughtful. It was a possibility. A strong one.

  “Even if the doctor was tricked by the rogue, it still wouldn’t explain why the Guardians didn’t detect him sooner. The car would not have concealed—”

  “That’s true… But something is wrong. I can feel it.”

  As though to confirm his feeling, the old man tilted his head to the right, hand rising. His superior stared at him. Another transmission was coming in.

  “There’s been a disturbance at the Waukegan facility,” the old man finally said. His boss waited. “Just before the explosion at Long Grove. Someone was trying to escape on the shuttle train with a hostage. It appears the security personnel have apprehended the subject. They are transporting him presently to the Long Grove compound.”

  “Order the Guard back to the Tomb,” the Chief said abruptly. The older man’s eyebrows climbed.

  “Order the Guard, sir?”

  “We have jurisdiction here. They know that.”

  “When it comes down to our people—”

  “Don’t call them that.”

  “—we do. In this case, however, we are talking about them pursuing a possible murderer of one of their own. With all due respect, we aren’t even sure—”

  “Enough! You’re right as always. But we must do something. Can you prevent the broadcast? Or at least hold it until we make sure?”

  “The materials have already been distributed. We could try and contact—”

  “No. It won’t do.” He turned away, staring into the gray shutters. “How could they not have seen that?”

  “They didn’t care, sir. They wanted the traitor. Whales was never more than an afterthought.”

  There was another pause. Finally, the Chief Administrator turned, green eyes flashing.

  “I want the human guards to keep to their posts. I want this thief and the hostage both detained. Double the prisoners’ security. No one leaves the building until our men get there. Two squads. I want the best. Search the building, including the tunnels. If Whales is found alive…”

  “Understood.”

  “And those with him.”

  “Done.” Th
e old man turned to go. His boss’s voice halted him in the doorway.

  “After Whales’s death has been confirmed, kill the prisoners.”

  “But the Sobak wanted them.”

  “They’re human aren’t they? You said it yourself. Afterthought. Our people.”

  * * *

  The creeping hill, one of about fifteen grotesquely conspicuous mounds bulging out of the plain, hunched right above the road. The layer of dirt was thick, but even with the dirt and the fresh chemical carpet they called lawn and dwarf trees and snow, the smell remained. Buried under the dirt, the hills were enormous piles of waste. Human waste. Also buried there, although not as deep, was the beacon. From the shadow under the huge placard that read, “Rolling Hills Homes, Eco-friendly And Affordable, Coming Soon,” he saw the black edifice in the distance.

  He waited, despite the stench. He waited, motionless, centered, calm, because he was the Seeker. The stench would not affect the scent he followed. It only fueled his fury.

  The explosion surprised him. He saw the fireball rise, saw the shockwave rolling across the fields before the sound of the blast reached him. Then, moments later, he saw the traitor, fleeing from four of the Guard.

  It was the one, he had no doubt.

  The Guard were coming on wide. They were going for capture, not kill. Mechanically, he calculated the distance, angle and speed. He could intercept. He could cut in front, link with the Guard, and the chase would be over. He could look the traitor in the eyes and know he avenged a Sobak’s death. A Seeker’s death.

  Yet he didn’t move. His gaze traveled back to the black building, a cloud of black smoke now above it.

  His target did not pass him by. There’s been an explosion, and now the traitor was trying to escape, but neither of the thirteen cars that had driven up that road since he arrived left the matching trace. If it had been his target they meant to destroy in that explosion, they had failed. The human was still alive. And he’s coming to the black building, he suddenly knew.

  He looked back across the field at the chase. He had lost his chance. The traitor was beyond his reach now. No matter. Four of the Guard would not let him escape. His target, on the other hand, had evaded certain death twice. There would not be a third time.

  He descended half the slope, then leaped over the road, landing in a snowdrift under a tree on the other side. The road had been blocked by several humans who stopped their cars immediately after the explosion and presently stared and pointed at the cloud of black smoke rising into the sky. Behind them, lines of cars grew quickly, and so did the noise. All those involved were too busy shouting to pay attention to a snowdrift that suddenly exploded, spraying white powder in the lower branches of a nearby spruce. He wouldn’t care if they weren’t.

  As he started towards the smoke, he remembered his order not to kill the human. A Seeker obeyed, but now they thought the human was already dead. His order applied only while the target was still alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  After Ted, we found ourselves alone for a while. Which was good, because I didn’t think I could handle another encounter with someone who knew Dr. Wright. I had been worked up enough even before hearing about the Antichrist on the radio. Paul had laughed, but he probably would have laughed if the captain of the firing squad preparing to execute him had a wart on his nose or something. To me it didn’t sound all that funny. In fact, it wasn’t funny at all. By the end of the conversation with the security guard, I sweated so much, my high-tech make-up began to itch.

  Once out of Ted’s sight, I scratched my face gently as we navigated the empty passages of Freedom Corp. offices in Waukegan, following the shortest way down. The way I had memorized from the map provided by Bogdan, who seemed to have a three-dimensional blueprint for every Freedom facility on the continent. I had no idea how he had come to obtain them. And all he would say about it was, “That’s what I do.”

  Our destination was Sub-Level 3. Rumor had it the guard posted at Sub-Level 3 was not from Ted’s temp agency. I doubted Ted even knew of the Sub-Level 3’s existence. But it was there, and, according to the map, the shuttle train was there too. Dr. Wright must have taken the train a time or two. The ceramic card we’d gotten out of his briefcase worked on every door we passed.

  At the end of a winding steel stairway, the plain white door marked “S-3” opened into a waiting room, equipped with enough lounge chairs and magazine tables to accommodate about fifty people. There were monitors in the walls and something like a bar counter, for god knew what occasions, in the corner to the right. Presently, the room was empty, aside from the white-clad security guard in the glass booth by the single door on the opposite side.

  As we entered and advanced across the room, chatting loudly about new golf clubs, the guard got up, placed a white helmet on his head and casually pointed a sub-machine gun at us. The helmet’s black visor concealed everything but his chin. The sight of it was almost as distressing, as that of the gun in his hands. We were forced to switch to plan B, and me distracting the guard while Paul knocked him over the head had been a pretty shaky plan A to begin with.

  We kept walking, loud, confident-looking, and clueless. I contemplated grabbing the guard’s weapon, but that plan also failed before it started. When we were about ten feet away, the guard said abruptly, “That’s far enough. Another step and I open fire.”

  “Fire?” I echoed incredulously. “Surely you know who I am…”

  “Shut up.” He lifted the weapon. “You, with the gun. Pull it out and lower it to the floor. Slowly.”

  I turned to Paul. “The gun?” was all I could muster. Our trip was over. And we hadn’t even reached the place. “Jeffrey? What is he talking about?”

  Paul gave me a sour look. I turned to face the guard, stepping in front of Paul for a moment. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake. This is Jeffrey Sloan. He’s been my assistant for six years. I can assure you—”

  “Out of the way!” the guard shouted, and suddenly an arm was wrapped around my neck. Pretty damn tightly, too. Something cold pressed against my temple.

  “Drop the gun or I’ll blow his brains out!” Paul yelled, pressing the barrel farther into my skin. The metal case I’d picked up from the garage together with the make-up kit fell on my foot. I didn’t even have to act scared. Sure, it was my friend behind me. But when the barrel of a real gun, from which someone has been shot to death, by the way, is pressing into your head, suddenly nothing is certain. Don’t be a fool, I reassured myself. He’s not going to shoot you. What if he gets scared, and his finger slips? I stared at the guard’s visor, silently appealing for help.

  “Like hell I will,” the guard replied a year later. He took half a step back into the glass booth, leaving only the gun and half of his helmet outside. I was willing to bet the glass was bulletproof. Thoughts raced through my head. One of the more coherent ones was: Oh, no. He must have seen that episode of “Barlow and Warden.”

  “I’m not joking!” Paul shouted.

  “Put the gun down, turn around and get on the floor. Now!” The guard sounded dead serious, but he still didn’t open fire.

  “I am going to count to three…”

  “Don’t put your gun down,” I whimpered to the guard. “He’ll kill us both.”

  “Shut up, Doc.” Paul tightened his grip around my neck, and I started feeling a little short of breath. “Listen. No one needs to die here. I got what I came for. Now I just need to get on the train.”

  “Like hell you are,” the guard said, stern as ever, but I imagined he didn’t sound entirely resolved.

  “What?” I breathed, eyes dropping towards the case on the floor. “You mean… You made me carry it for you? You son of a—”

  “One more word out of you, and someone might die after all,” Paul said with a nudge of steel to my head. Grimacing sincerely from pain, I noted the tiny camera filming us from the top of the door.

  “I give you one last chance…” I heard the guard.

>   “He’s got nowhere to go,” I mouthed the words, hoping he could read my lips. “Please.”

  There was a long pause, at the end of which the guard’s gun clattered to the floor. I almost passed out from relief.

  “All right, push it towards me with your foot,” Paul ordered.

  The guard complied.

  “Good. Remove your helmet, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  “You got nowhere to go,” the guard said when his helmet was off. He was bald and wore a bearded sneer. “The train won’t help you. It doesn’t go to Union Station.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Paul said, pushed me aside and squeezed the trigger. Both, the guard and I ducked. The first bullet took a chunk out of the white wall, revealing gray concrete underneath. The second smashed the camera, casting a rain of glass and plastic over the guard’s hunched shoulders. The guard turned around slowly, face as white as the wall, aside from a thin trickle of red that escaped from a cut on his forehead, getting lost in the bushy left eyebrow.

  “Yes, you’re still alive. Turn back around and get on your knees,” Paul commanded. When the guard, breathing loudly through his nose, turned away and lowered himself slowly to the floor, Paul winked at me, hid the pistol and picked up the discarded machine gun.

  “You don’t even know what kind of trouble you’re in,” the guard was saying. “When they catch you—” He didn’t finish what promised to be an interesting phrase. Paul walked up to him and slammed the stock of the submachine gun into the back of his head. The guard fell face first to the floor. For a moment, I thought he was dead.

  In the silence that followed, I heard a distant but urgent chatter coming from the white helmet. I strained to understand what was said; I suddenly was very curious.

  “We have to hurry,” Paul said, startling me into senses. “Running late already. Plus the damned camera.” He gestured at the helmet with the gun. “Want me to shoot that thing?”

  “No!” I exclaimed, adding in a softer voice, “just leave it for now. Change clothes with him.”