The Last Mayor Box Set 3

by Michael John Grist

  "Your audience is waiting," Janine said, her voice whispery with transparent passion. She gave Lara a little shove in the small of the back. "Lead on."

  Lara led on; a stately, measured stride.

  She wore no shoes. She wore only a gossamer white gown Witzgenstein had brought for her, concealing nothing. The gravel was warm, then the hastily cropped grass was damp and cool. She couldn't turn her head, but she couldn't miss the eager faces circling the dark, looming pyre, mixed in with blank-eyed children in the thick embrace of the dark. They carried burning torches, lighting the bloodlust in their eyes.

  Witzgenstein's bridle of control was strong in the air, lying thickly upon each person, though it wasn't a seed on barren ground. Lara could feel a part of each person reaching up to meet her touch, and it scared her. This was something that had always been inside them, something barbaric and primal but already there before Witzgenstein ever tapped it.

  Her guts turned to acid. She walked on slowly, with every stride perfectly measured out for her; the gait of a woman walking to her willing death, responding to the needs of her people. She tried to move her head, searching her peripheral vision for her children, but as she grew closer it was hard to see anything but the dark levels of the pyre.

  "Steady now," Janine said quietly. "They're here, but you won't see them. Don't shame yourself further, Lara. Let it be."

  Let it be. How could she shame herself further?

  She moved forward, up to the edge of the pyre, where Witzgenstein stopped. The crowd fell silent, as Lara set her bare foot on the lowest plank of the pyre, on the first crude step. They gasped. They couldn't believe it was happening either.

  The edge of the wood was sharp and hurt her heel, but that pain was nothing compared to what was coming. It was hard to imagine how bad it would be, hard to think through the fear. It was all happening so fast.

  "You don't have to do this, my child," Witzgenstein said from behind, loud enough to be heard by all. "Please. The great God forgives, even those such as you."

  "This is my forgiveness," Lara answered, not her own voice, and took her second step. She teetered briefly, almost losing her balance, and the crowd 'ahhed'. Every step was a tease, now. The lust in the air felt medieval, dark and cruel. Witzgenstein's touch only lay lightly atop it, riding a surge from within. They wanted this. They needed this.

  More steps. She climbed on broken wardrobes, on ancient chopped logs left drying for a decade, on fence slats and sawn loading pallets, climbing the great pyre. Upon this she would burn. It stank of gasoline. At the top the air was heady with the gas smell, and she felt light-headed.

  No ropes will be necessary, will they?

  Witzgenstein's voice came in her head. It wasn't really a question.

  Hold the stake, there's my girl.

  Lara's body did as it was told. There was a narrow platform constructed in the wood for her to stand on. Her back pressed clean against the stake and her hands wrapped behind it. None of it felt real now, like she was locked in a nightmare that she would wake from at any moment.

  But it was real.

  She felt the scrape of the stake's cut branches through her thin gown, pressing against her skin. She felt the rising burn in her cheeks as the shame rose up. She saw the faces she knew circled in a glowing nimbus of torchlight, leering with some nameless thrill. She saw Cynthia. She saw Alan.

  This was it. The air was thick with emotion, ready for a cleansing storm. This was something all her efforts at community building had never offered in New LA. Her coffee shop the John Harrison had made people cry, had offered a gentle bandage of kindness, but it had never satisfied this aching need for violence and revenge.

  In New LA they'd never punished anyone like this, not even Julio. They'd never humiliated anyone. When justice had been done, it had been done in careful measures, sensitively, certain not to breed more violence.

  This was the opposite of that, and the people responded on an unconscious level, like peasants watching gladiators die in a Roman coliseum. Two thousand years had passed, and they hadn't changed at all.

  In the face of that her fear slipped, making room for grief. Tears leaked gently down her cheeks, and down below Janine nodded approvingly. This was the moment of transcendence, after all. They would believe it was shame, or perhaps heavenly forgiveness. Witzgenstein could turn these tears to whatever purpose she wanted.

  In truth, she wept for them. For what lay in their futures, what Witzgenstein would lead them to, and do to them, and all the ways she would sicken their minds. It was an easy thing to fall backwards, it just took a pyre and a leader willing to watch it burn. People could be bonded in rage without a moment's thought, worked like clay into any shape desired.

  So these people would be worked. Lara saw their civilization spreading out into the future, marked with the red bridle steering them down a bloody path. So Witzgenstein would reshape them until she found the perfect form to serve her bitter, damaged heart, and then lock that system into stone; turn it into a religion, make it a matter of faith, and punish all who would not obey.

  She and Amo had always tried to appeal to something higher; to build something better, calling on the parts of their people that aspired to make a world in line with the highest ideals of the United States, with liberty and justice for all. Not an authoritarian dystopia, not a dogmatic religious state.

  Pretty thoughts.

  Witzgenstein said.

  They will go unsung.

  Then her own voice rang out abruptly, as Witzgenstein pulled her strings from within.

  "My name is Lara of the New USA, and I make this confession of my free will."

  The crowd hustled closer to hear. They craned and shoved each other to see her beautiful, sacred face.

  "Stop this, Lara," Witzgenstein called, "I beg you."

  But Lara did not stop. She went on, launching into a long recitation of all the usual lies: the murders Amo had committed that she had covered up, the way they had manipulated every person in New LA to follow their satanic bidding, their long-plotted destruction of Janine Witgzenstein's good name and subsequent exile, leaving their people unprotected and exposed to the dark excesses of Amo's dreams, how that in turn had led to the destruction of New LA, as punishment from a righteous God above.

  Witzgenstein began to weep. It was a captivating performance, scored with the soundtrack of Lara's confessions.

  She confessed to numerous sexual deviancies; the same ones Witzgenstein had confessed to her. She spoke of her unnatural desires and witchcraft; her unseemly skills, the ways she had poured poison into people through her coffee shop 'brews', her mind-control that posed as displays of caring. It was laughable, but the people weren't laughing. Their eyes bugged. Their jaws tightened. Where before some had been uncertain, they now worked themselves into fountains of outrage.

  They were ready, like a tinder keg, for the spark.

  And the spark came.

  It wasn't just one torch, but all of them. The first was thrown from somewhere at Lara's back and others followed; dozens, perhaps half of everyone present, driven to become part of this cornerstone of the new world.

  The gasoline caught all around her with a flood of gusting whuffs, sending orange flames flickering up through the lower reaches of the pyre. The heat was instant and ferocious, forcing a slick of sweat up through her skin that made the gown cling to her body. Yells came from below, insults, calls for shame. In seconds she felt herself wilting against the stake, her legs becoming greasy and thin.

  Bitter smoke poured up to engulf her, the fire raced upward, and she stood there in the midst, waiting for the worst to come. The true pain wasn't there yet but could only be seconds away.

  Hold your breath

  Came Witzgenstein's voice, and Lara felt her lungs suck in a breath.

  I can't have you dying from smoke inhalation. We need the screams to be real, Lara.

  She already would have collapsed, if not for Witzgenstein holding her up. Her
legs bowed and her shoulders sank but Witzgenstein held her up. Already she couldn't think for the heat, pressing down like the demon's fist. Sweat streamed into her eyes and thickened with the smoke, mercifully obscuring this new world of ogling faces. Bright red flames leapt around her like teeth, like jaws closing in, and throughout only one detail from the South Lawn remained clear; Janine Witzgenstein's eyes, as hungry as the fire, sucking this moment down.

  Thank you for this.

  She said.

  Thank you for all you've done, Lara. Now let the people see God's forgiving love.

  The red bridle slipped a little, and finally the scream building in Lara's chest was released.

  She screamed, then smoke rushed into her lungs, and she screamed again. She felt the people recoil, then lean in, pumping like a bellows, raising the flames higher and faster until they were everything, a suffocating soup that broiled her body inside and out. Her arms fell limp by her sides, no longer able to clutch the stake, and she wavered, held up only by Witzgenstein's will.

  She drifted and screamed, as figures whirled in the flames and smoke; Anna in the mountains surrounded by monsters, Amo in a room with a dead man and a great black eye, but these were quickly swallowed by the flames.

  No one's coming to help you, child. This is the end.

  The first lick of fire touched her foot, and any remaining sense was driven from her mind. She screamed. The fires bit higher and at last the bridle pulled away, leaving her alone atop the pyre, with nothing to reach for and no one to help, and begging for someone to come.

  But nobody came, because there was nobody left.

  Then somebody did.

  Something shifted beneath her on the line, surging hard in a burst of electric purple that charged straight up to her, battering a clear path through the bridle and ramming head first into Lara's body.

  Come, little sister.

  Said a voice she recognized, then she was flying up and out through shifting gray images in the smoke, lofting a second in the air before falling and hitting hard at the edge of the pyre, snapping blazing branches and rolling away over the grass.

  The crowd exhaled. The fire burned on. The purple blaze died and Lara coughed.

  She was on fire still, still burning. She rolled and thrashed at her body, at her hair, putting out the flames even as she struggled for breath, there on the close-cropped grass, in full sight of all. The pain was all over her, sinking down through the layers of her skin into lasting, permanent damage, but there was no time for that now, there was only time for-

  She lifted her head, and the crowd lurched back. She could barely see them for sweat and smoke, but their faces didn't matter now, her exhaustion didn't matter, what mattered was the line and she saw that as clearly as she felt the fire's touch. Around them the bridle was broken, torn by the purple blaze, chopping away their lust at the head, now replaced by a surging fear.

  Of her.

  In their eyes she was the devil; flung from the depths of the fire, blazing but somehow alive, naked and burnt black and utterly unforgiving. She couldn't stand; every fiber of her body wanted to lie down, to pant, to vomit, to shudder and weep, but she forced herself onto her knees. Swaying, she searched their blurred faces for the only one that mattered.

  Witzgenstein.

  Her eyes marked her out. Staring, white, so perfect, like alarm bells in the night. She couldn't believe what was happening, didn't understand it and felt the same fear as the rest, too stunned to re-build the bridle.

  Lara drew on that fear, sucking it down just as Witzgenstein had sucked the strength out of her, and used it as a crutch to stand. The burnt gown slipped away, leaving her raw and naked before them. The crowd broke at once, crying out in fear. Some staggered back, falling over each other in their panic, while others turned and fled. She was an apparition. She was a demon.

  She reached out on the line and stopped them in their tracks. There could be no escape from this. This had to happen now, and they would get what they wanted.

  At last Witzgenstein reached out with the bridle, seeking to snap it back into place over her people, but Lara was already there. The fingers of her mind wove a net out of pain, fear and horror, and laid it over them all. The stitching was tight and seamless, growing more perfect with every passing second. Witzgenstein lashed out with hammer blows but the net absorbed them, flexing easily and bending back into shape.

  Witzgenstein's eyes flashed in disbelief and she redoubled her assault, but Lara just redoubled her weaving of the net, sewing the bridle directly into it, so her strength pulled not only from the crowd but from Witzgenstein herself.

  Cynthia gave everything she had to it. Frances and Alan and George drove it onward. So Lara's legs became firm beneath her, her gaze cleared and the pain numbed, and she turned with the fire at her back, pointing at each person as they were forced into the net.

  Witzgenstein screamed out her frustration, thrashing against the links growing round her in the net, but Lara just used those screams to wrap her up tighter, spinning silk like a spider around a fly, until the crowd was silent, and the line was still, and the only noise came from the roaring fire.

  Lara stood alone, surveying these people. The words came without thinking.

  On your knees.

  They knelt. Only Witzgenstein remained standing, her face torn with rage and frustration. With one touch on the line, Lara smoothed that expression out. Then she reached into Witzgenstein's mind, into her body, and started her walking forward.

  A slow, stately pace.

  Janine screamed defiance inside her own head, but Lara didn't let a speck of it show. Those who tried to turn their faces away, she forced to look. The men, the women, the children.

  Please, have mercy.

  Witzgenstein called inside, but Lara stitched those words into the net and made them part of her strength.

  The first step into the fire was a raw pain that almost dropped Lara where she stood, but she held on. Witzgenstein howled inside, but outwardly was as silent as a saint. Let this be part of the story, a cornerstone for them all.

  A second step.

  She climbed, and Lara was with her every step.

  How?

  Witzgenstein howled silently, driving that one thought through the agony as the fires burned her alive.

  How, Lara, how?

  She reached the top and stood like a candle, lighting their way forward. Lara felt every second of it, in the thick of the raging flames as Witzgenstein's perfect skin crisped and her beautiful blonde hair blazed, consumed by the pain. When she could take it no more, she pulled away, and Witzgenstein collapsed.

  Lara did not.

  She stood in the midst of her people, naked, unashamed, looking round at their horrified faces. Tears lay on their cheeks. This was not what they'd wanted. This was not the release they'd hoped for.

  She circled the pyre, taking long strides and looking into their eyes, hammering this lesson in. She could light the fire too. She could stand above and wield the lash. She could take their fear as well as their love and use it as a bridle to whip them forever.

  She stopped before Frances.

  The woman was shuddering. She knelt in a muddy patch of her own piss. Lara lifted her chin, forcing their eyes to meet. The question came naturally, as she thought back on the purple flash on the line that had saved her life.

  "Where is Crow?"

  Frances stammered. She couldn't get the words out, so Lara helped her, reaching in and soothing the fear for a moment.

  "G-Gone," Frances answered, babbling despite Lara's calming touch, too deep in her terror. "Already g-gone."

  Lara let her chin drop, feeling something change. She reached out on the line, looking for Crow, but he wasn't there, or only the tiniest spark could be found, as if he was very far away.

  But he wasn't very far away. Lara saw it now, and felt it. She turned back to the fire. The heat was blistering. The stake at the top was barely visible through the maelstrom. Witzgenst
ein was gone, melted down into the wood.

  And Crow was there with her.

  "You burned him," she said softly.

  Frances choked on her own tongue. The truth was right there on the top of her mind, but she couldn't get it out.

  They'd put him in the middle of the pyre. Two for one, gagged and bound, reducing the minority load.

  They'd lynched him.

  She turned back to Frances. Her face was livid and blotchy with fear. She tried to beg.

  "Put your face in the mud," Lara said. And Frances did.

  "Deeper," Lara said, and so Frances did. So deep that she couldn't breathe.

  Lara waited. Frances' legs twitched, then went still. It didn't take long.

  After that, Lara gazed into the flames for a long time. Perhaps she'd heard him, now, she thought. As she was screaming, he'd been screaming too. Below her, already halfway there. In the race to die, he'd won, and then-

  She had no answer for what came next.

  He'd broken the bridle. The purple flash of him had come like a lightning strike, hurling her out. She couldn't argue with the truth. Crow was dead. Crow had saved her. Now Crow was gone.

  She gazed into the pyre until it stung her eyes and the heat scalded her face, until she saw Witzgenstein's bright white eyes in the flames, and heard again Witzgenstein's dying plea in the crackle and roar of the fire.

  How, Lara? How?

  18. CLICK

  I click and click and click until my eyes go dry and my head twinges and there's a deep, throbbing crick in my spine, then I click some more.

  James While lays out everything.

  I finally see the shape of the SEAL, this many-headed hydra that for so long has controlled my life. I understand what the Multicameral Array was for, and the Logchain, and even the Apotheo Net, but I come away from it all with the one most important question remaining, the same question James While searched for in vain.

  Who did this?

  I leaf through pictures of Olan Harrison's spread-eagled corpse in his Alps research lab, the moment the trail was lost, and try to pick it up again, but the trail is cold. The images are gory, hate-filled, worse than anything I've seen before. I've seen death before, but not like this. Salle Coram died swiftly in a spray of blood. Dr. Ozark was eaten by a demon. I shot Masako and left her crawling over the ice for the demons to reach. In Julio's pit they suffered horrors, but none so abhorrent.