The Nameless Dead

by Paul Johnston

  The Soul Collector didn’t care. She would be fighting to the end and she would take Matt Wells with her. That idea was all that kept her going.

  Gordy Lister was standing at the edge of the space between the barns. A timber merchant had put the buildings up years back and there was a clearing of about a hundred yards outside. That made the place easy to fortify and, in recent weeks, the Master’s miniature SS had put listening devices in the open ground. Anyone trying to approach except by the single track that led to the main gate would be spotted and hunted down. The first of the Antichurch faithful had already arrived and had been assigned one of the barns. They were surprisingly normal-looking people, though you wouldn’t want to take them home to Mom. They had the faraway eyes and hair-trigger temper of all religious lunatics.

  Not for the first time, Gordy wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into. Working for Rothmann, Jack Thomson, as he called himself at the newspaper, had been a gas: no two days the same, plenty of cash, the rush of wielding real power. Back then he hadn’t realized how cracked the boss was, but the attack in the cathedral had put him right. He should have hit the road weeks ago. Maybe he would, after this ridiculous rite was over. On the other hand, he also wanted to know who had killed his brother, and the Master was the most likely person to find that out. The Englishman Matt Wells knew more than he was letting on. Then again, the Englishman was about to beat the black guy’s head in and only a fully qualified zombie would do that.

  Gordy Lister had turned his head from the men standing round the inverted cross, but at the last moment he couldn’t resist and turned it back as Wells raised the baseball bat and swung it with wicked force.

  Twenty-Three

  I let out a great yell as I heaved the bat toward Quincy’s head. Since he was hanging upside down, it was more like a golf shot than a baseball swing, but I’d never played either sport so I was improvising. Fortunately the sound I made didn’t provoke Quincy into moving, so the metal bat thudded into the vertical under an inch from the side of his cranium. The wooden cross shook from the force of the blow, and nerves tingled all the way up my arms. I bent over, breathing heavily, and wondered what would happen now.

  There was silence for longer than was comfortable. I straightened up slowly, letting the bat drop to the ground to show I wasn’t interested in strike two. I must have been programmed not to carry out the execution in full.

  ‘Very well,’ Rothmann said, moving closer. ‘You are willing enough, Matt Wells. We will continue your treatment after the Antichurch’s great annual rite, at which your presence is required.’ He gave me an encouraging smile.

  I mumbled thanks, but my concern was what he would do to Quincy.

  ‘Leave him where he is,’ the Master said to the guard. ‘He will be needed later.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but there wasn’t much I could do. Two more denim wonder boys came up and were ordered to take me to the ‘old barn.’ That turned out to be a small building on the other side of the open space. The planks on its sides were buckled and its frame was uneven, but there were bars all over the windows. I was shoved inside and the door locked behind me. Solitary confinement.

  There was a bed with a thin mattress in one corner of the confined interior, a large plastic bottle of water next to it. I walked around, checking the windows and walls—although the latter looked flimsy from outside, they were solid enough. Breaking out would make a lot of noise and I imagined there were guards in the proximity. The roof beams were too high for me to reach, even when I stood on the bed, and the dusty concrete for a floor ruled out digging. It looked like I’d be staying put.

  I lay down on the bed and tried to get some sleep. My mouth was dry and the metallic taste lingered. I had no idea what drugs had been pumped into my system, but at least I was being given a break from the indoctrination process. I looked at the water bottle and decided against drinking, even though I was thirsty. The chances were the contents weren’t pure and I didn’t need any more of Rothmann’s pharmacological concoctions.

  I closed my eyes, but they were immediately filled with visions of the lost woman and child. I jackknifed off the bed and gazed around desperately, needing some thing to take my mind off them. The pain was too much to bear, and even the thought that I might be able to make Rothmann pay didn’t help anymore.

  Then I saw it. The book was leather-bound, the brown cover like stained wood. I hadn’t noticed it before because it was in what I realized was a specially constructed wooden holder by the door, only the top couple of inches protruding. I went over and took it out. It wasn’t long before my fingers began to twitch as if they had touched some kind of nerve agent. An inverted cross had been cut crudely into the soft leather.

  I opened the book and read the title: The Antigospel of the Lord Lucifer, as licensed by the Master of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. The paper quality was good and it looked recent, although there was no date or publisher. As I flicked through the text, it became obvious that no respectable publisher or printer would have allowed their name anywhere near it. There were section headings such as ‘Sacrifice of Unworthy Humans to the Lord Lucifer,’ ‘Children’s Blood as an Unholy Sacrament’ and ‘The Rite of Rape.’ It seemed incredible that an intelligent man like Rothmann would buy into such a crock of shit.

  I turned to the section called ‘The Master’s Word’ and began to realize that something strange was going on. Although the print and format were uniform, the style differed greatly between paragraphs. The majority were written in clumsy, old-fashioned language, with a lot of manipulation of New Testament phrases. So, the Master ‘walks the fields of ruination, glorying in the light of the underworld’ ‘whosoever wishes eternal life, let him know that the kingdom of hell is at hand and the powers that be are ordained of Lucifer’ ‘Glory be to Lucifer Triumphant, on earth confusion, and evil will toward unbelieving men,’ and so on. But other parts seemed more modern, both in language and content: ‘Anyone who doubts the Master’s word will live to regret it’ ‘disobedience and ill discipline will be punished severely’ and even, ‘the Master’s faithful servants must always be obeyed’—that struck me as a reference to the brainwashed killers Rothmann and his sister had created.

  I read on and it became clear that, among the various subtexts, was one stressing the infallibility of the Master, which was written in contemporary English. There were references to what seemed to be a previous regime—‘the false leaders’—who had diluted the Antichurch founder Jeremiah Dodds’ ‘fiery words, forged in the cauterizing cold of the white North.’ I took that to refer to Maine, where the cult had been founded. At least, that was what Mary Upson had told me after I escaped from Rothmann’s camp up there. It seemed that followers of the ‘false leaders’ disputed this, saying that the Antichurch had been born in the ‘broken, burning South.’

  The Antigospel was about as clear as a muddy brook at midnight, but meaning was less important to the faithful than the symbolic power of the language. It did seem clear that there had been more than one faction, but that Rothmann’s side was in charge now. I almost felt sorry for his opponents, even though they were crazy devil worshippers. I had the strong feeling that the current Master had consigned many of them to the inverted cross and human sacrifice—which made me think about the imminent annual rite. I had heard vehicles arriving regularly, accompanied by shouts and cries of greeting.

  Toward the end of the book was a list of the great rites—Beltane, All Souls’ Night and so on. Most of the description seemed to be standard satanic claptrap involving obscure folk beliefs and perversions of Christian services, with a lot of violence and death thrown in. The current Master seemed as enthusiastic about that as his predecessors and opponents, stressing that ‘Lucifer is at His most triumphant when his followers engage in human sacrifice and mutilation.’ The annual rite, on ‘the eve of the liar Jesus Christ’s birthday,’ was the Antichurch’s greatest festival, the one that brought most glory to Lucifer. The c
limax, which definitely bore the mark of the Rothmanns, was a ceremony called ‘self-coffining.’

  I had a bad feeling about that for two reasons. One, my watch had been taken and I was unclear about dates—I suspected today was December 24th. And two, even reading the word self-coffining made hairs all over my body stand up and sent electricity sparking across my brain. I knew that coffining was part of the indoctrination process, but this sounded even worse. Had I been conditioned to take part in some sacred suicide pact?

  Abaddon had parked in a clearing over three miles from the location she had been given and set off through the woods. The Crockett National Forest wasn’t as thick as some she’d seen and she made reasonable time through the undergrowth. At least there were fewer insects here. The ground was drier and the air didn’t have such a mephitic stench as the swamps farther south. It was late afternoon when she got her first sight of the cluster of buildings called Big Barns. There looked to be clear ground all around, meaning she would have to wait until dark to cross it. She scanned the area through binoculars, noting potential danger points.

  She sat against a tree trunk and went through the rucksack she’d been carrying, drinking some water first and then eating two apples. A chill was coming down over the trees and she put on the black waterproof jacket tied round her waist. Checking that the Heckler & Koch machine pistol was ready for use, she put three extra clips in her pocket and slipped the pistol inside her belt next to the flashlight. That left her laptop. She considered sending a message to her employer, but decided against it—there would be time enough after the attack. Besides, she would need to work out what to tell the company. Her brother would help with that.

  Abaddon thought about Apollyon. Their father, the fifth leader of the Antichurch, had given them the names, the Hebrew and Greek alternatives for ‘the angel of the bottomless pit,’ according to Chapter 9 of the Book of Revelation. That was the only book of the Christian Bible afforded even partial credence in the cult. Until the Enemy had stolen the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant’s name, Abaddon and Apollyon had been heirs to the throne. Their father had died a year ago and now they were going to take back what was rightly theirs. The businessman Jack Thomson had claimed that he knew nothing of the Southern branch of the cult, saying that he was following the Antichurch set up by Jeremiah Dodds in Maine.

  Trouble was, Jeremiah had fallen out with his brother Jasper, the real founder of the cult, in 1847. They had grown up in Atlanta, in the house her brother still lived in, though he didn’t use the Dodds name anymore. Jasper realized Jeremiah wanted to be leader and threatened him with violence if he persisted. That made Jeremiah tremble, so he up and left for Maine, where his version of the Antichurch was taken apart by the FBI after the attack on the President.

  But Jasper had been smarter. Just as bloodthirsty as his brother, he was much more careful. Using profits from his brewery, he established links with the Klan and other supremacist groups, ensuring the cult’s safety as well as providing it with a steady stream of members. There was no shortage of victims, either—originally they had primarily been blacks, but recently the Antichurch had become an equal opportunity killing machine. Abaddon’s professional activities had been a useful source of funds as well as expertise, though Apollyon was no slouch when it came to violence: he just preferred to spend more time playing politics in Georgia, constructing the image of a trustworthy family man and conning people. The Lord Lucifer must have been very proud.

  Looking out across the open ground through her binoculars, Abaddon noticed small, uneven sections. Landmines. There would be intrusion sensors of one kind or another, too, she was sure of that. She didn’t care. She had enough grenades to cause a major diversion. When the guards came running out, she would observe their access route and then mow them down.

  Besides, the fools inside would be busy with their heretical version of the annual rite. Apollyon and she had agreed that they would mark their joint leadership with a ceremony on the eve of the New Year.

  That year would be dedicated to the Lord Lucifer Triumphant, who would surely be delighted with the blood that was about to be spilled in his name.

  They came for me when the last of the sunlight had gone from the skylight in the small barn’s roof. I was sitting like Buddha, concentrating on empting my mind of superfluous material. I hoped that would include any more triggers Rothmann had planted in my subconscious, because I was going to make a move during the rite. At the very least, perhaps I would manage to do Rothmann some damage before his boys got to me.

  As it happened, one of the pair who came for me was a young woman—just as unyielding as her male comrades and her blue eyes were icy.

  ‘So, how’s it going for you guys?’ I asked, trying to shake them up. ‘Looking forward to the human sacrifice?’

  They didn’t even glance at me as they latched onto my upper arms and pulled me from the barn. The space between the buildings now contained several vehicles, ranging from top-of-the-range off-road giants to rusty old pickups. There were more guards around, though most were heading in the same direction as we were.

  I was taken to a door that opened at the young woman’s triple knock. I found myself in a kind of multi-sex dressing room, except I’d forgotten the dress code—the faithful at Antichurch rites were naked. An undressing room, then.

  Fortunately, I was allowed to keep my clothes. Perhaps I had to be formally inducted by Rothmann before I was allowed to join the pale-skinned masses—and pale-skinned was what they had been in Maine.

  I was led down a narrow passage and out into what was obviously the assembly room—the interior of a large barn. There must have been fifty people in there, standing naked and in total silence. My nostrils filled with the high smell of butchered flesh and I looked at the walls. All were hung with animals that had recently been killed, their blood and entrails staining the wood and the floor below. Some were small—dogs, raccoons, rabbits—and others bulky—cows and pigs. There were even birds—hawks with their wings stretched out—and an alligator with its jaws pointing downward. The place was a charnel house in the making.

  I was put in a chair at the front with guards holding a shotgun on either side, both dressed. That cut down my room for maneuver substantially—I had been considering lashing out at their bare groins. I could only hope they would be distracted by the proceedings. I looked to the front and was immediately distracted myself. There were three inverted crosses standing up from heaps of stones. Quincy was hanging from the one on my left, and a woman with her head in a sack was on the right. Both were naked and bore the signs of beating. The central cross was empty, but beside it was a coffin, its lid propped on one side. I felt my mouth go dry. Who was the box meant for?

  Suddenly the faithful started screaming and wailing. The noise was deafening and I looked to my right. Even though I’d seen the masks before, when I’d been in the camp in Maine, they still made me jerk back in horror. The tall man who had appeared first, naked and with a large erection, had the head of a hyena, the pelt a greasy orange shade and the jaws studded with vicious teeth. He was slashing left and right with a short whip. To his rear came a figure in a black cloak with the head of the ugliest gargoyle imaginable, the features crushed and twisted and the eyes bulging, as if it had been pounded with a heavy hammer. The pair moved onto the raised platform in front of the inverted crosses.

  Hyena-Head faced the faithful. ‘In the beginning was the Master’s word,’ Rothmann’s voice cried, ‘and the Master’s word was Lucifer!’

  The crowd went even wilder.

  Twenty-Four

  Rudi Crane was at the top of the control tower of the Hercules Solutions facility known as Cedar Fort, fifty miles south of Columbus, Ohio. Although night had fallen, he was watching the exercise below with thermal optic glasses. His instructors had set the Arab troops a pretty straightforward task—the storming of a sparsely occupied bunker—and so far they were making quite a mess of it. The swarthy colonel to his left was puffing a
nd blowing in disgust. Crane would have liked to see him take command on the ground, but that wasn’t the corpulent officer’s style. Only blanks were being fired, which was just as well—live rounds would have reduced the attackers to a handful.

  Swinging the binoculars to his right, Crane picked up the faint glow of lights in the distance. The nearest town, not much more than a general store and a few rundown houses, was nearly ten miles to the west. On the other sides, the fort was surrounded by Wayne National Forest. His contacts in the Pentagon had provided Hercules Solutions with access to different kinds of terrain in and around the forest, making Cedar Fort the world’s most attractive destination for armed forces and police departments requiring specialized training. That access was still guaranteed, despite the government’s cooler approach to the company. The men in suits had to react to public pressure, largely stirred up by busybodies and unelected organizations. Deep down, they knew how essential the company was to national security.

  The crackle of automatic weapons fire died down. Rudi Crane looked back at the compound below. Smoke was drifting over a lot of immobile forms. The Arab troops had been told they were all dead.

  ‘Exercise over,’ a clipped voice said in his earpiece. ‘Attackers neutralized.’

  ‘Your men are enthusiastic,’ Crane commented to the colonel, who was struggling to contain his rage.

  ‘They have disgraced the uniform of our country,’ the heavy man said, stamping the floor with one of his highly polished boots. ‘I will send them back immediately.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Colonel. Give us three days. I guarantee they will improve beyond recognition. But you must turn them over to my people for the whole of that time.’