by Mark Frost
The road was easy to follow and their tracks were fresh. He stopped on top of the last bluff before the road dipped down for good into the flats; another fork intersected with the road a quarter mile below, the only other one he'd come across since Skull Canyon, snaking off to the southwest.
There: Dust kicking up on the main road ahead; Frank took out his field glasses.
His first sight of the actors, five wagons rolling out of a cluster of tall rock. The last wagon had its flap open but he couldn't see any—What was that?
He swung the glasses back from the theatrical troupe and focused in: Looked like a gate across the road, this side of the wagons, about a mile off. Small cabin; telegraph lines running off, following the road ahead. Figures moving, but he was unable to pick out any details from this distance through the heat waves.
His eye caught another cloud rising from that secondary road to his left; he moved the glasses over.
Conestoga wagons, a longer string, maybe ten of them, closer than the other group, heading toward the intersection beneath his position. Drivers wearing white shirts, a second white shirt riding shotgun.
What was in the wagons?
Crates, long crates, piled high in every one.
He knew that shape.
But it made no sense; these were clearly civilian drivers. Couldn't be, could it? To be sure of it, he'd need a closer look.
Not that this was his business, he reminded himself, but if anything was going to complicate taking down the Chinaman, he had to make it his business.
Frank figured ten minutes before the wagons reached the intersection. He kicked into a gallop to the bottom of the bluff, then left the road and picked his way through the sand to the first outcroppings of rock formation. Strange shapes rising, a maze of twisted pink and white columns like a stand of petrified trees. He tied off his horse out of sight, took his rifle, and went looking for high ground.
The wagons were still a few minutes away, approaching along the main road from the left. As he advanced, he heard movement echoing ahead out of the rocks, then a rhythmic beating sound, followed by voices.
Singing?
Frank crept onto a large boulder and edged over to its rim, giving him a view of a small natural clearing set in the middle ol the formation.
A dozen of those same white-shirted people he'd spotted on the wagons, sitting in a circle in the clearing, clapping their hands and singing "Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham."
Young faces. Smiling to beat the band. Two of them black, one Mexican, at least one Indian. Half of them women. Bandoliers around their waists, sidearms. Rifles stacked against the rocks; repeaters, serious guns.
What the hell sort of Sunday school outing was this supposed to be?
Frank jerked back away from the edge when he heard a footstep scuff the dirt behind him. He turned slowly; another one of the white shirts, a blond-headed kid, barely out of short pants, patrolling the narrow passage between the rocks below, a rifle in his hands.
A pebble rolled off the boulder and hit the ground near the boy's feet; the boy stopped and kneeled down.
Frank froze; if the kid glances up, he'll be looking right at the soles of my boots. And two seconds later he'll be wearing a footprint on his face.
The boy didn't move.
Frank held his breath. What the hell's he doing? If I was his age, I'd be sneaking a smoke, trying to talk some girl out of her petticoat. The boy crossed himself—he'd been praying—stood up, smiled to himself, and moved along, away from where Frank had tied his horse.
Frank exhaled slowly, then counted to a hundred. Singing and clapping continued from the clearing, the same song, over and over again. No one in a white shirt came looking for him. He slipped off the rock and moved silently back to his horse.
This was too weird.
A strong instinct came up inside him: If you want to head to Mexico, Frankie boy, now's the time.
The wagons had progressed along the main road, level with his position now. Frank moved to the edge of the rocks, less than fifty yards away, rested his arms in a crevice, and trained his glasses on the caravan.
On the long crates in the back of the wagons.
He examined each load carefully as they passed by; yes, each bore the same stenciled stamp on the boxes that he thought he'd find: u.s. army.
Those were Winchester rifles in those crates. Standard military issue.
Hundreds of them.
THE NEW CITY
"Praise God. Hallelujah; isn't it a glorious day?"
"Thank you, Brother Cornelius; it is indeed a glorious day," said the Reverend as he stepped out of his House for the first time that day—it was already hours past noon—and onto the planked sidewalk on Main Street. He squinted against the bright sunlight; hot, dry air blasting his lungs; worrying again where he would find the energy to fulfill this day's obligations.
If only they knew what I wanted from them, thought Reverend Day, wearily looking out at the crowded street. How many would stay? How many would turn and run?
"Tell me, Brother Cornelius, has it been a good day?"
"A glorious day, Reverend. Praise the Lord," said Cornelius Moncrief, who had been waiting for the Reverend without complaint for over two hours, as he did most every day.
"I'm pleased to hear it. Walk with me a while, Brother?"
They fell silently into step together; the enormous hulking man in the long gray duster—The New City's recently appointed Director of Internal Security—slowing to keep pace with the stooped, hunchbacked preacher, his silver spurs jangling to the rhythm of his limp. Citizens in the street smiled and bowed low to Reverend Day, offering devotions as he passed; the Reverend waved kindly to each member of his flock, a blessing never far from his lips.
Terrified of me; keep up the good work.
"The love of our people is a wonder. Truly a gift from God," said the Reverend, as they left Main Street and made the turn toward the tower.
"Most truly, Reverend."
"And have I mentioned to you, Brother Cornelius, how grateful we are for all your hard labor on behalf of our Church?"
"You're too kind, Reverend," said Cornelius, feeling the same swelling in his chest that arose whenever the Reverend spoke kindly to him, as if he was about to bust out laughing or crying and wasn't sure which.
"Brother, you have returned my faith in you a thousandfold; you bring to the hearts of our Christian soldiers a fighting spirit, inspire them to take up arms with joy and great zeal, inarching forward as one, for the protection of our Flock and the destruction of our Enemies."
Tears flowed freely from Cornelius's eyes; he stopped in his tracks, too overcome to look at the Reverend or respond, bowing and nodding his head. Reverend Day watched him weep, patting a compassionate hand on the man's massive shoulder. No matter how many times I sling this line of bullshit at them, they wolf it down like a pack of starving dogs.
"There now, Brother Cornelius," said Reverend Day, chucking him under the chin. "Thy tears are like the gentle rain of Heaven, that give life to this dry and dusty plain; and flowers bloom where once there was a desert."
Cornelius looked at him, a shy little smile breaking through his tears.
Time for a taste of the Sacrament, thought Reverend Day.
The Reverend hooked Cornelius with his look and turned on the juice, pumping a few measured jolts into him; he watched carefully as the Power drilled into the man's core and went to work, warping his thoughts to suit the Reverend's needs.
A dark shudder ran through his nerves; he loved administering the Sacrament, the delicious sensation of reaching inside them, the intimacy of the contact, caressing the nakedness they so obligingly exposed. These moments of private violation through their eyes were the ones he lived for.
When he saw Cornelius's pupils glaze over, the Reverend pulled back the tendrils of the Power, folded them into place like a Murphy bed, and snapped his fingers in the man's face. Cornelius blinked, the connection broken. His eyes
rolled in his head like runaway marbles.
After years of trial and error, the Reverend had learned to regulate his congregation's exposure to the Power, entering them with the delicate touch of a surgeon; dose them correctly and they went pliant as rag dolls for days, a drunkard's grin pasted to their skulls. Give them too little and their minds gradually returned; too strong a measure and drooling into a cup became a full-time occupation. There were more than a few of those failures planted in shallow graves outside the City.
He had to walk a razor's edge with Cornelius; the man's will was strong so he required more juice than most to keep him in line, but the Reverend couldn't risk frying his nervous system. He needed this one. Cornelius had in short order transformed an undisciplined bunch of green recruits into an army; no one in town could match his leadership and tactical skill, tempered by such gleeful barbarism.
And it all took so much effort; Lord, he was tired.
Cornelius opened his eyes. Good, the man was back in his body. Now some Scripture to lead him out of the fog:
"Incline your ear and hear the words of the wise," the Reverend whispered.
Cornelius eagerly leaned down close to him.
"Apply your heart to my knowledge; I have instructed you today so that I may make you know the certainty of the Words of Truth. Hear, my son, and be wise; because only through wisdom a house is built and only by understanding is it made to last."
His eyes focusing again, Cornelius nodded slowly; complete devotion and absolutely zero comprehension.
That's right, you muttonhead, thought the Reverend, watching closely. Message received.
"So," said Reverend Day, walking ahead, back to business, "what good news have you for us today, Brother?"
Cornelius wavered a moment, found his balance, and then fell into step like an obedient cur. ' 'That troupe of actors came through the East Gate, right on schedule," said Cornelius, waving a telegram.
"When?"
" 'Bout an hour ago; should be driving into town any time."
"Isn't that wonderful?" said Day, genuinely enthused. "We can look forward to some lively entertainment. Do you realize how long it's been since I've attended the theater?"
Cornelius frowned. "No?"
Hopeless. Well, never mind.
"Welcome our new arrivals for me and invite them to dinner tonight as my honored guests."
"Sure, Reverend," said Cornelius, pulling out another telegram. "And more good news, sir; our new rifles just came through the Gate, too."
"Marvelous, Brother."
"If it's okay with you, sir, I'll have 'em sent to the warehouse so I can inspect the shipment myself."
"Yes, do that, would you? Now tell me, Brother Cornelius, does the training of our militia go well?"
"Reverend, the way our Brothers and Sisters are giving themselves over to it is an inspiration," said Cornelius, eyes misting over again.
"Fine. How's their marksmanship?"
"Better every day. And when these new rifles are handed out, it'll get even stronger."
"Good, excellent..."
Cornelius's voice caught in his throat, choked up again. "Reverend, I have never been so proud of such a fine group of young people...."
"That's fine," said Day, cutting him off with a sharp chop of his hand, weary of the man's relentless blubbering, so pathetic in a man his size.
They had reached the base of the tower, workers scattering out of his way as he passed. Day stepped into the shadows of the tower, finding relief from the sun under the only shade in sight. As he took off his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow, an electric twitch ran up the stiff length of the Reverend's spine. He recognized the signal immediately, the aura already tightening like a steel band around his forehead.
This was a bad one.
Day felt a trickle of blood flow from his nose. He turned away and covered his face with a handkerchief. Have to hurry now, not much time.
"Excuse me, Brother, I must attend to my meditations," said Reverend Day, waving his hat, shushing him away. "Off you go. Back to work."
Cornelius obsequiously struggled against tears, nodded, and trotted back toward town, glancing over his shoulder for reassurance. Reverend Day waited for his first look, waved once, then hobbled around to the side of the cathedral.
Workers scurried off as he approached. Alone, he fumbled the ring of keys from his pocket and undid a padlock securing two steel flaps cut into the dirt. He lifted a flap, dropped it to the side, and straightened to catch his breath before descending.
Handkerchief turning red in his hand, blood flowing freely.
He took the stairs down into the earth, inserted a key in the black onyx door; the lock yielded with a deep, satisfying snick. He pushed lightly; the immense panel, a marvel of construction and design, pivoted on gimbaled hinges and swung open like a gentle breeze. Reverend Day stepped into the cool air of the sepulcher, then closed and locked the door behind him.
As he stepped quickly through the octagonal foyer, sconces of steel and glass lit his way through a maze of labyrinthine passages carved from barren rock. One hand trailed along walls polished to a silky perfection, boot heels snapped sharply on black marble, following the winding path that only he knew by heart, down into the belly of the church, light growing dim, echoes of his footsteps sounding deeper.
At the second door, he applied the black stone key and entered his private chapel. In addition to Day's, only the eyes of the stonemasons and coolie demolition team who had completed this part of the work had ever seen this private sanctum; they were all buried here now, under the black hexagram mosaic on the white marble floor.
Rougher hewn than the passageways, the rock walls gave off a moist, earthy air; this was the way he wanted it, damp, musty, closer to the heart of the earth. Reverend Day limped around the edge of the hexagram, glancing up at the intricate grillwork in the ceiling, stopping to inspect one of the six small silver caskets on pedestals set at the points of the star.
He opened the casket and let his fingers caress the parchment of the ancient book inside. A folio copy of the Koran. A freshet of blood fell from his lip onto one of its pages. As his blood touched the paper the Power roiled inside him like steam in a dynamo, threatening to burst his skin. He jerked his hand away from the page before damage was done.
Yes; the room worked perfectly, just as the Vision had revealed; it amplified his Power like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
He stopped at the last casket: the only empty one.
One more book and I can complete the Holy Work. And Frederick is on his way with it now; I'll have it within days.
Colored lights flashed around the corners of his sight—ribbons of reds, greens, violets—signaling the onset of the Vision.
Throbbing in his head like a drum, blood pouring from his nose, the Reverend staggered to the center of the star, moaning softly. His hands hung freely at his sides; tingling ran down his arms and legs, horror and wonder filling his insides as the Vision came close. His gaze drifted to the corner of the room where the pit descended; the abandoned mine shaft he'd found waiting here as the Vision had indicated: black, hollow, bottomless. A gust of wind from the depths rustled his hair, its emptiness promising the consummation of his thousand darkest dreams.
The Reverend's eyes rolled back as the Vision seized hold of his muscles and threw him to the floor, legs kicking furiously, fists clenched, arms lashing out in fitful spasms, head thrashing from side to side, bucking against the floor, spittle foaming at his lips, violent, pitiable animal cries strangling his throat.
But his mind stayed clear. An explosion ripped through his center.
The Light from Below, holding him.
And through the folds of its bright embrace, even in the grip of his horrible ecstasy, rumbling from the pit he heard a whisper of the Beast.
BOOK FOUR
THE NEW
CITY
chapter 13
SEPTEMBER 29, 1894
AS THE SUN SETS
, OUR TRAIN IS CROSSING THE MISSISSIPPI River near St. Louis. We departed Chicago at noon; if we meet our connecting train without delay, the journey to Flagstaff, Arizona, will take twenty-four hours. At the station there, a chartered train will be standing by to transport us to the city of Prescott, according to our map less than sixty miles from the location of The New City. How long the ride there will take depends on factors we cannot yet determine: terrain, weather, the quality of roads. Suffice it to say we will make our way as swiftly as humanly possible, and then see what we shall see. Not quite the deluxe excursion of the West Teddy Roosevelt had in mind.
Presto has generously agreed to provide the necessary funding from his apparently limitless reserves; he has hired three private sleeping compartments for the six of us on board. We must all try to rest during this leg of the journey; as difficult as that seems, it may be the last good opportunity we have.
The others are forward in the dining car. JS remains alone in the compartment next to mine. Since his recent confession to me on the train, he has retreated steadily deeper into silence and brooding melancholy. I wish I could say he was preparing for what he senses is to come; I'm more inclined to think what we're witnessing is the slow, strangling death of a personality. Even the realization that his brother survived has not restored the same sense of purpose to him; it is a black and solitary light that burns in Jack's eyes. And after all the man has endured, I do not know how much more any soul can bear.
These three we travel with—Jack, Presto, the Indian woman Mary Williams—and the absent Jacob Stern have been given a responsibility by the common dream that remains out of their reach, one that for whatever reason Innes and I do not explicitly share. But we each have our roles to play and if mine is to act the detective to uncover their true purpose, that is more than enough. I suspect, however, that a more valuable contribution would be to find a way to return Jack to some measure of himself before the final confrontation. Without Jack at the top of his game, whatever lies ahead for these people can end only in disaster. Our time is short; there is only one card left I can think of to play.