Project Antichrist

by Pavel Kravchenko

  “Might not be over yet,” he suddenly said, pointing to the right. Approximately three hundred feet in that direction a military plane appeared and assumed parallel course. On the left, another fell in formation.

  “They won’t let us leave the city,” Brome said. “Quiet now.” He flipped a switch.

  “Brighton, this is Brome. Do you read?”

  “Like a book,” a dry voice replied. “About time you decided to tune in.”

  “What’s with the boys on my wings?”

  “A formality. They’ll escort you straight to HQ. The welcoming committee here is anxious to see what you’re bringing.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. ETA two minutes.” With that he turned the radio off.

  “You’re dropping us off at the FBI?” I inquired politely, as soon as he did.

  He thought about it.

  “Seemed like a safe enough place, but now I have a bad feeling about it,” he finally said. “Call it a hunch. Don’t know what else to do, though. I really didn’t think they’d call in fighters. If you have a plan, let’s hear it within the next thirty seconds.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Whatever it was they were acting weird about would have to wait. But how was I, having just woken up, supposed to come up with…?

  I opened my eyes and saw it.

  “There,” I shouted, pointing.

  “What?”

  “There, land us right there.”

  Iris looked at me with a curious expression on her face. Even Paul was stretching his neck to see what I was pointing at. Neither of them understood, but Brome did.

  “You sure?” he asked, turning to face me.

  “Let’s do it,” I confirmed. He studied my face for a brief moment, nodded and turned away. Taking a sharp left-sided dip, the helicopter plunged towards the white “H” painted on the roof of a 90-story, double-horned skyscraper.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Christie Lane had seen her share of weird. Like that new security guard down in the garage who kept staring at her eyes. Or like when they killed Malcolm Tenner on that episode of “Barlow and Warden.” Or the couple of days of weirdness, when Luke Whales was a fugitive from justice.

  But even though it was barely ten in the morning, today had already swept the awards for the weirdest ever. And it was a Wednesday, of all things.

  It started with the Pope on TV, creeping the cakes out of her with the Antichrist talk. If ever there was a good time to start censoring the news, she had said to herself, it was now. Then, as if the Antichrist wasn’t enough for the ratings, Luke Whales went and drove a car full of explosives into some place, with himself still in it. Where the first news caused like a massive depressive murmury gloom over the studio, the part about Whales sent people running back and forth through her waiting room, and James Cornwell rushed out all red and ran up to her and stood there, panting and squeezing her shoulder and shaking his head. She cried a little and eventually he went back to his office, but then, to top it all off, Whales himself walked in an hour later!

  Since no one was getting any work done, anyway, she was absorbed by the News Special, on which Jack Moore followed Whales’s progress, as it was masterfully reconstructed from clues, offering commentary in his rumbling voice. The black car marked “LW” just reached the Freedom Corp facility on the map. The fateful spot was the end of the itinerary, which had started at Whales’s downtown condo at around four in the morning, passed through some doctor’s office across the river and took the audience to the scene of a break-in at Whales’s ex-wife’s suburban home, where, thankfully, no one was hurt. Jack Moore watched in silence as the black car on the map reached the imaginary gateway and turned into a ball of orange digital fire. The image spoke for itself. The map zoomed in and the horrific footage of the explosion started to play.

  At that moment the door opened, and Whales strolled right in, dressed like a mortuary assistant, or an angel without wings, and carrying a huge pistol.

  “Hey, Christie,” he said, despite being repeatedly blown up on the screen. “Is Jimbo in?”

  Without waiting for an answer — which wasn’t coming any time soon, anyway — he went into Mr. Cornwell’s office. Christie was so impressed that it never occurred to her to dial police or some other agency that dealt with… that. About two seconds later Whales and Mr. Cornwell both reappeared in the waiting room, Mr. Cornwell, seeing his friend resurrected, even redder than before. Whales pointed a gun at her, inviting her to join them.

  “For Christ’s sake, Luke,” Mr. Cornwell was mumbling.

  Christie stood up from her chair, straightening, placing one hand on the chair’s back and tossing a curl off her forehead with the other. “Are you going to kill us, Luke? Is that it?” she asked indignantly.

  “Of course not,” he replied with a grin. “You know I always liked you, baby.” And Christie began to cry, because he was lying. He had always hated her. He would definitely kill her. Probably on TV.

  “For Christ’s sake, old sport.”

  The ghost ushered them to the set, where the rest of the staff had already been herded together and seated. Two men with guns watched the crowd from the darkened rear. Instructing Christie to join the others, Whales took Mr. Cornwell to the middle of the room. The murmurs hushed.

  “Hi guys!” Whales said cheerfully. “Good to see you. I even missed some of you. As we all know, there’s been a little misunderstanding this morning. I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by and set things straight. For that I’ll need a camera, sound and lighting crews. It won’t take long. The rest of you will just watch from here until we’re done. You can’t get out, because we jammed the elevators and barricaded the stairs. But there’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise. Besides, Jim says it’s OK for you to help me out. Right, Jim?”

  Mr. Cornwell gave the slightest nod.

  “All right, folks. Let’s get moving.”

  No one even thought of resisting. The technicians went to workstations without hesitation. Some of them grinned as they passed beyond Mr. Cornwell’s sight; not a few of those grins dropped when they saw her looking, though. Several staffers openly went to shake Whales’s hand or slap his shoulder, probably to make sure he remembered they were his friends. Tiffany from Make-Up had the audacity to flirt, chirping something about being offended he didn’t need her services.

  “I wish I had more time,” he told her and she flittered away like a perfect little butterfly.

  Soon, the crew signaled they were ready. Whales climbed in the seat behind the host’s desk. His desk.

  “Jim!” he called out. “I want this out there. Live. Right now. Paul! You know how these things work. Would you go with Mr. Cornwell and help him?”

  One of the two gunmen came forward and motioned for Mr. Cornwell to lead the way. He was in his early thirties, well-built, blond, but not really attractive. He looked wounded. His right arm hung in a sling.

  “Long time no see, Jimmy,” he said, grinning. Mr. Cornwell hurried to the booth, gasping for air.

  A voice came over the speakers. “We’re ready.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  The seconds blinked away slowly. When the clock wound down to zero, the theme from the show began to play. Whales looked started for a moment, then laughed and began to speak. Christie turned to watch on one of the screens.

  * * *

  “Thanks for that, buddy. “ Whales said, chuckling. “I’m sorry, folks. I thought it was funny that after a morning I had something as simple as a lame musical theme from a lame old show could still startle me. Then I realized how you must feel, when the most interesting news program in years is suddenly cut off, and the same guy who suicide-bombed a lab not two hours ago is having a good laugh right on your TV screen.

  “But yes, it’s me, Luke Whales. Before those of you who are especially sharp-minded have an ‘A-ha!’ moment: No, this is not a pre-recorded suicide note. We are broadcasting live, and I mean right now live, from ou
r Chicago studios. Some people got together to help me, but we didn’t have time for a script.

  “This show will be short and without commercials, so let’s get down to business. I am not going to tell you the whole story. Just a couple of self-evident truths for you to ponder.

  “Truth number one: I did not drive a car full of dynamite into a building. I didn’t blow myself up; didn’t blow anyone up. Never handled explosives in my life. What you saw on the news, what experts said, that footage, that was all fabricated. Fake. First Luke Whales is a murderer, then he’s a suicide bomber. Where it all came from, and how it got out so fast, I’ll leave for the networks to explain. But what you have to understand right now is that all of it would be true, if I didn’t manage to show up at the studio this morning, and there were people out there putting a whole lot of effort to make sure I didn’t.

  “Which brings me to the second point. Yes, I did stop taking the pills, but no, I did not go crazy immediately after. Sure, I might look strange to you right now in someone else’s uniform and no make-up, but that is too long of a story for this show. I assure you, though; I never had a clearer head. Recently I learned some things (from an expert, by the way, whom I… who was no able to make this show) about the antidepressants manufactured by Freedom Corp., the pills I have been, and you are taking. Yes, I did say ‘You are.’ Those of you who thought it was just good old Luke Whales in ads and you, once I thought so too. But there are more of us than you can imagine. According to the expert I’ve just mentioned, the number is about three times what you hear on TV. You understand? One in four. You really are not alone. Remember that.

  “Anyway, back to the pill. There’s this new chemical that they add now. I don’t know what it’s called, nor do I care. But that new additive is what makes the medicine so effective. What it does is make you react to the world in a different way. Doc’s words for it were: ‘It makes the world a better place.’ But I think that was one thing he was wrong about. Probably because he never tried the pill himself.

  “Now, by ‘the world,’ I don’t mean the sky and sunshine and the trees and your backyard and your pet and your children and everything you love and live for. That’s not the world. That’s you. ‘The world’ is what’s being fed to your from the screen. That’s what the new chemical in the pill makes you accept. It helps suppress the moodiness, the nausea, the outbursts, the general feeling of something just being wrong, your head feeling wrong, the desire to spit or to laugh or to cry, in short, all of those things you felt when you watched your TV before the pill came. It allows you to function in a society where three quarters of the population don’t need the pill, but it doesn’t make the world a better place. It doesn’t eliminate the cause, only the symptoms. There’s no happiness. It fills you with the indifference of a machine, but under it you are still pissed, and you’re scared, and you’re lonely. You still know deep down inside that something is wrong. But those who feed you the pill and those who feed you the world make you believe that something is wrong with you. They make you believe the pill is the only reason you are not making things worse.”

  “It worked well for a while, but now it looks like either the pill or the TV is failing. It looks like some people are beginning to reject both. My case is famous, but it’s probably happening a lot. That’s why the prescription police was created. To add a little bit of fear to the equation. To give the pillmakers the time they need to improve the medicine. To give the mass therapy people time to fix up the signal. I’ll let you decide if you want to give them that time. You know enough, even though you don’t feel like you do. Just be sure you understand: stopping the pill will definitely not make the world a better place. But maybe it will be a truer place.”

  He paused.

  “Now, my third and last point. Don’t support the troops. Ooh, I can feel that shudder running right down your spine. So I’ll say it again. Do not support the troops. Don’t enlist. Dodge the draft if you have to. Stop the war. Stop pretending that killing people while following orders of a man you elected is noble. You want to protect your country? Protect it here. At home. Don’t help them make it worse. Even if you’re told those people hate you and want to attack you. Give them the benefit of a doubt. Remember the footage from earlier? Take a hint. Don’t believe everything the analysts say on TV. Question what you’re told, and if the answer doesn’t make sense or they call you un-American or your question is treated as though it doesn’t exist, ask it again, louder.”

  “On that cheerful note I, Luke Whales, am done. Thank you for your time. Perhaps you’ll see me again, although it’s unlikely. My show is now officially over. Good day.”

  He bowed and got up from the chair. No music followed. The cameras simply turned off.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  No one clapped. I took it as a good sign, because they always used to clap when the shows ended. At the same time, the feeling of a couple dozen stares, averted as soon as you turned to look, was unsettling. It was as though questions “What just happened?” and “What now?” hung in the middle of the set like twin piñatas, and none of those present at the party wanted to take a bat to them. Even I, the host, the birthday boy, wasn’t overly eager to raise that bat.

  Sure, I’d jumped in the seat eagerly enough, caught up in the excitement of successful rescue and forthcoming revenge, but the question of what to say had never truly entered my mind. I would make sure everybody understood I was alive, I’d known that. The rest of it, though, simply poured and kept pouring until it was done. And although I believed all I’d said to be true, I could not recall a time or place when those ideas could have been coherently formed. In short, I didn’t blame the crowd for feeling weird.

  The atmosphere reminded me of my awakening in the helicopter. I couldn’t dwell on it, though, just like I couldn’t dwell on the soreness in my shoulder. There remained a matter of eluding the cops, who would have by then already surrounded the building.

  Of course, escaping from the studio wasn’t the only problem left. There was also a small quandary of what to do after that for the rest of my life, but at least I still had a life. Thinking about what to do with it could wait.

  “So what now?” Paul, who had returned with Jimbo in tow, asked in a hushed voice. I grinned and clapped his healthy shoulder. Good old Paul. You could count on him to swing the bat. Behind him Jimbo’s face was the color of his once-starched shirt.

  I didn’t immediately answer, because the immediate answer “Now we have to get out somehow” wasn’t what Paul wanted to hear. He knew we needed to get out, thank you very much. His question was about how we were going to do it, and I presently had no idea.

  But then my wandering gaze stumbled on Tiffany’s cherubic face, and one idea occurred to me. Hell, I thought, it worked once.

  “Mr. Cornwell! Jim! Let me borrow your phone for a second, old sport!” Everyone jumped and stiffened at the sound of my voice. Jim pulled out his cell and hesitantly handed it over.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’ll be brief.” He nodded. I dialed 911.

  It took a little while to get through the human robot operator, but finally there was a click and a vaguely familiar voice reverberated in my ear.

  “This is Special Agent Brighton, FBI. What do we have, Mr. Whales?”

  “How are you, Special Agent Brighton. What we have is a little over two dozen hostages held by an unknown number of gunmen on the seventy-seventh floor of the CBN building. What we need is to resolve this without anyone getting hurt.”

  “That seems easy. Since you obviously had nothing to do with the act of terror at the Freedom Corp. facility, the only crime you are presently known to have committed is illegal broadcasting. Something that someone with your means should be able to if not shake off, then receive light sentence for. Now, taking hostages is a lot more serious. Frankly, I don’t understand the point. Surrender immediately and no one will get hurt.”

  “I wish it were that easy, Special Agent Brighton.”

  �
��It is.”

  “I am not going to argue with you. Here are my terms. Hear them without interrupting, if you will. I will surrender, but not to the police or the FBI. Don’t ask me why. I have my reasons. I want a Secret Service helicopter on the roof of this building in thirty minutes. When they—”

  “Secret Service? Why in the name of—”

  “Shut up and listen, Brighton. When they arrive, I want a camera up there, which will broadcast them displaying proper identification to this studio here. When I confirm it, I will send the people down in elevators immediately, excluding only my friend James Cornwell. He will accompany us to the roof, where we will surrender him and ourselves to the Secret Service custody. Now, questions?”

  “Why Secret Service?”

  “I don’t trust the local authorities, Agent Brighton. Some strange things have been happening to me; let’s leave it at that for now. Secret Service protects the president. I think it’s adequate for them to protect me.”

  “We can’t get them here in thirty minutes. Secret Service is stationed in D.C.”

  “I’m sure there’s a safe house of some sort in Chicago. You have thirty minutes. My gunmen and I are tired, nervous and scared. I don’t know if we could keep ourselves under control for longer than that.”

  “Fine. Let me talk to Brome.”

  “Don’t waste your time, Agent. Find my president’s men.” I hung up and handed the phone back to Jimbo. He took it absently, staring at me.

  “Luke, why me?”

  “It’ll be fine,” I told him. The crowd looked livelier now. Things were clearer. They’d already forgotten my monologue. This was more exciting.

  Iris and Brome stood together in the rear, watching me. They heard the conversation too; I’d spoken loudly enough to make sure of that. I gave them a thumb up and scanned the crowd until my eyes located Tiffany. Wearing my most charming smile, I motioned for her to come closer.