It's Not the End

by Matt Moore

  Archie calculated how quickly he could go for the Beretta tucked into his waistband, how to get behind his car for cover.

  Timothy opened the trunk and hefted out the gym bag. “Grab the suitcase?”

  “Sure,” the woman replied, transferring the case to the trunk.

  The exchange complete, she drove off. “Something’s wrong, man,” Timothy said. “I need to call Pious.”

  Archie waited in the driver’s seat, watching the street. In the rear-view mirror, Timothy stood in the shadows behind the convenience store, phone to his ear.

  Across the street, signs reading “Future Site of Leopold Towers by PureBuild” and “35-Storey Luxury Condos—All Solar Power—Deanne-Approved!” covered the front doors and vestibules of buildings. Buildings that had once been celebrated examples of the city’s architecture before Daniel changed the face of urban planning and design.

  Movement caught Archie’s eye. Behind him, Timothy dropped his phone and stomped it, then got in the car. He rolled up his window and waited for Archie to do the same. “Pious wants us at the safe house.”

  Archie started the car. “That’s not the plan.”

  “Plan’s changed. Pious said people are getting taken down. Wants to bring you in.”

  “Into what?” Archie pulled into traffic.

  “What do you think, man?”

  Archie went cold. “Why didn’t Pious tell me this?”

  “Can only use those phones for so long. But you can call him. Even give you the number.”

  Archie replayed the last few moments—the words, tone of voice, body language. Nothing made him suspect a trap. But that was the problem. Pious and Timothy really wanted him to join their insurgency against Daniel Deanne.

  Just two more things and he was done. “Did you mention the drop?”

  “Yeah. Guy who was supposed to be there disappeared. Gone. Pious described the chick he sent. Same one we met. Had little time to memorize the signals.”

  “Did he mention when I’m getting paid?” So far, Archie had only received a third of what he’d been promised.

  “Not my job. But go to the house. Talk to Pious.”

  “Tell Pious I expect to hear from him soon. Where can I drop you?”

  Timothy’s shoulders drooped. “Anywhere, man.”

  Two blocks later, Archie pulled over. A large crowd of tattooed young people stood in front of a building with extinguished neon lights announcing it as a dance club. Timothy could easily disappear. Just one more muscle boy. Archie extended his hand. “Good luck, Timothy.”

  Timothy shook. “God bless you, Saul.”

  Archie nodded at the code name Pious had given him.

  “Hey, no idling!” a young man yelled, a knock-off One Faith bracelet on his right wrist. A few others shouted their agreement—men with the same imitation bracelets, women with fake One Faith headbands.

  Timothy got out, his size silencing the hecklers.

  Archie pulled away, feeling a twinge of regret. He couldn’t say he liked Timothy or would call him a friend, but he’d been a solid partner—never late, never out of place, never unfocused. But he’d finished the job. Timothy’s safety wasn’t Archie’s responsibility anymore.

  Getting on the highway, Archie watched his mirrors and tuned into the local news station. The anchor gushed about the gala in two days where Daniel would reveal his proposal for a unified world currency. Daniel claimed it would allow developing countries to buy green technology. Green technology developed by one of Daniel’s companies—PureRun, PureBuild, PureGrow.

  He took a different exit than the previous night, watching a pair of headlights follow him down the ramp. Archie turned left. The other car—a lime green PureRun SUV—went right. Probably nothing, but he took his time winding through the slum that had been a middle class suburb only a few years ago. Tents and makeshift shacks filled the parks and playgrounds. Refugees from condemned downtown buildings that couldn’t meet Deanne standards sat on sidewalks and benches with nothing to do and nowhere to go while gangs of Disciples patrolled among them.

  Pulling into his apartment building’s underground parking garage, the anchor’s admiration of Daniel faded to static.

  In the elevator lobby, a notice taped to the wall bearing the One Faith logo stated that to reduce electricity, residents who lived below the sixth floor must take the stairs. Anyone who caught a neighbour using the elevator inappropriately was to report them to building management. “Do it for Daniel,” the notice concluded. Archie considered ripping it down, but didn’t know if he was on camera.

  He climbed to the third floor, checked that the paperclip he’d closed between the jam and the door hadn’t moved and entered his small studio apartment. Like in the apartment he’d left, the still air held on to the day’s heat. He threw open a window, scanning the people on the electric tram platform between him and the building across the street. No one paid him any attention. Below, he noted a cyclist locking a pedal-converted Harley to a light post across the street, then sitting on the steps of the closest building. There were plenty of pedal-converted Harleys around the city, symbols of true commitment to Daniel’s One Faith, but Archie mentally noted the coincidence with the man at the drop.

  After putting a fan in the window, Archie peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and threw it onto the pile of laundry spilling from his closet. He turned on his computer and went to the fridge. Finding only moldy pizza and a half-empty bottle of ketchup, he returned to his computer, which glowed with the desktop picture of Daniel during the “our great moment of history” speech. Face impassioned, eyes skyward, hands held up with fingers splayed, he’d given it three days after the near-Earth object 2017 KT1208 had fallen from the sky. In seconds, it had incinerated tens of thousands in northern Venezuela’s Orinoco Belt—the heart of the country’s oil production—left a twelve-mile wide crater and sent enough ash into the sky to block out the sun for three days. Seismographs around the world had recorded the impact, which the media had dubbed “Scythe” for the Grim Reaper’s weapon of choice. Others—like Pious—called it “Star Wormwood,” the great star of Revelation 8:10 that would fall to earth during the End Times. Just one more element Pious and his group had shoehorned into their belief that Daniel was the Anti-Christ.

  Archie had just arrived in Venezuela as part of a relief effort when Daniel had given the speech. He’d never known about it until he’d returned five months later. Even now, the picture stung with the same anger, bitterness, and guilt of when he’d first learned how things had changed while he’d killed his way through the South American jungle. The picture reminded him that if he hadn’t been a coward all those years ago, the speech—and everything that followed—never would have happened.

  At last, he’d done something about it.

  Done.

  Just like Timothy had said.

  So why didn’t he feel some sense of accomplishment? Because Pious and his group would be caught—or worse—before they could use the guns. Just another failed rebellion. But men like Pious and Timothy believed dying while opposing Daniel got them to the front of the line at the Pearly Gates.

  Yet paying his bill didn’t seem to be something Pious believed in, so Archie needed a new job. A message from Mai, the project manager at NuCleen, told him she had nothing new. No word either on Esteban, the project manager she’d replaced when he’d gone missing.

  He logged into two anonymous e-mail accounts he used for less legitimate work and opened a message from V!@GRA L!0N. The mishmash of random words and characters, meaningless to anyone who didn’t know the cipher, instructed Archie to meet Pious tomorrow morning at 9:30. It gave an address and instructions for how to knock on the back door.

  Maybe Pious had the money.

  Archie deleted the message and headed for the shower.

  The blackened landscape changed into the dark apartment. Shrieks of pain transformed into the electric tram rattling by outside, its lights flickering against the bare walls.

&
nbsp; Archie shot up, catching his breath. Random after-images flashed across his mind—

  —filthy townspeople fighting their way through concertina wire, automatic weapons fire mowing them down, his rifle finishing the ones who got too close—

  —buzzards circling, waiting for the screams to fade so they could land and feed—

  —the old man, eyes forever wide in surprise, just wanting something to drink—

  —Daniel behind the podium, hands moving to emphasize every point: the corruption of the Venezuelan government, billions earned from fossil fuels and its record of ignoring international standards on pollution reduction. He’d gone on for an hour without a script, enthralling the crowd of reporters gathered on the steps of PureRun’s headquarters. The sunlight had played off the silver in his curly hair and goatee, a green shirt and blue jeans instead of a suit, as he demanded verification that humanitarian aid was really going to help those affected. Or, he suggested, was it being put toward rebuilding oil production? On and on—not winded, not sweating, never a non-sequitur or digression. Passionate but never angry, forcefully laying out his rationale for halting all international aid without resorting to hyperbole or dogma.

  Until his conclusion: “This”—he’d jabbed a finger downward—“is our great moment of history. Here we will see if those backwards thinkers who rape this planet for profit can sustain their actions or if they will collapse into the fires of history. Let Venezuela go it alone!” The applause had been thunderous.

  Already well-known for his companies and environmental activism, the speech put Daniel on the front page of every major newspaper, the lead story of every network and main image of every news site. Some agreed with him, calling him a hero for speaking truth to a corrupt government. Finally, they cheered, someone had brought scope to the environmental movement—the price of thousands of lives now to save billions later. Other reviled him, calling his callousness beyond measure. Yet Daniel sought out his detractors, demanding interviews. Face-to-face, he brought even his harshest critics around to his belief that personal, spiritual, and environmental salvation were one.

  Then came Hollywood stars and music icons seeking his wisdom. Hours after Daniel entered their homes, these celebrities emerged professing devotion to his One Faith. Millions attended rallies across the country and around the world led by Disciples. Originally just organized groups of concerned citizens pushing for environmental responsibility at the grassroots level, the Disciples became Daniel’s emissaries, espousing the One Faith belief that they would be the ones to save future generations. They would do it to save the world. They would do it for Daniel.

  Only a week after the speech, the President realized he could not stand against the growing populist tide—to say nothing of contradicting one of his major contributors—and urged other world leaders to halt aid to Venezuela. They had agreed, Archie would learn, having no real concept of just how horrible the situation was or would become. Archie envied them their ignorance.

  As Archie became a more efficient killer, Daniel called on governments to pass legislation restricting industry and transportation, and the mandatory adoption of new technologies—technologies only available from his companies—to counteract environmental damage.

  By the time Archie had arrived home, Daniel’s Disciples were recruiting in twelve countries, including Venezuela. Daniel’s companies received exclusive government contracts.

  A year after that, people lived in fear that neighbours were snitching on their recycling habits or Disciples would feel a porch light had been left on too long. Random highway checkpoints seized old cars. Homeowners received fines because an infrared scan revealed insufficient insulation. People from all walks of life bought up One Faith bracelets and headbands to show their devotion to Daniel’s faith of spiritual salvation through environmental purification.

  And just last year, Esteban and others like him began to vanish because they published research proving Daniel’s technology wasn’t as efficient as he claimed.

  It all came back to the speech, Archie had concluded. Without it, waves of workers and supplies would have followed him, bringing stability. Hundreds of thousands in Venezuela might have been saved. People wouldn’t live in fear. And Archie might still be the idealistic engineer who wanted to do his small part in making the world a better place.

  He thought about his Beretta. How it felt in his mouth—its oily taste, the impossibly hard barrel unyielding against his teeth.

  Words from Jimenez, the man who’d kept him alive in the jungle, came to him: “Do what it takes to survive today. Wake up tomorrow. Repeat.” He’d said it when they’d stopped for the night after shooting their way out of the base and making it to the hills above the valley. Some of them were sobbing uncontrollably, other vomiting. Others, like Archie, just stared blankly into the ink-black darkness.

  There’d been eleven of them that night. Only four made it back home. They’d survived by being cold and doing what needed to be done, killing their way through each challenge to live long enough to commit another unspeakable act of violence.

  The urge to call—to finally confess—struck Archie. He’d never said a word during those five months crossing to Colombia, afraid the others would turn on him. But through the fog of sleep Archie remembered Jimenez had ignored his own advice and eaten his gun six months ago. At least, that was the official explanation.

  “Hey, let go!”

  “Shut up and get on the ground!”

  The commotion drew Archie to the window. Across from him, a cop spun a teenager face-first to the surface of the tram station.

  “You think that crap is funny?” The cop kneeled on the kid’s back, cuffing him.

  “Yeah,” the kid shot back. “And pretty accurate.”

  The cop hauled the teen to his feet, turning him toward an oversized plastic-enclosed advertisement for Daniel’s PureGrow crops. Devil’s horns adorned Daniel’s head. “Defacing Daniel is paramount to terrorism!”

  “‘Paramount,’ right,” the teen said. “Careful you don’t scuff your jackboots.”

  The cop’s reply was lost as he marched the kid down to street level.

  Below, the Harley has been replaced by an overloaded shopping cart. A shape lay curled up in the nearby corner of the stairs and building. Other than that, the street was empty.

  Archie got back into bed, knowing sleep was a long way off.

  A cluster of Disciples milled on the next block. Archie watched them, waiting for the light to change.

  The morning talk shows buzzed about the massive sweep of eco-terrorists the night before, including two NuCleen executives, a Congressman from Wyoming and an Australian MP. “It’s not an overreaction,” the Attorney General explained. “A strong environmental policy is the cornerstone of a strong national security policy.” Daniel had said the same thing—verbatim—seven years ago during his speech at the Democratic National Convention.

  The light turned green. Passing, the Disciples jeered him. A bottle shattered on the passenger window. Buying a PureRun would attract less attention, Archie knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  A few streets later, Archie found the address. A chain-link fence stretched across the front of the crumbling white stucco house’s yard. A tall, wooden fence topped with razor wire lined the other three sides. Bars covered the windows and front door.

  Archie kept going, circling the block. Houses here were mid-sized, most with fences ringing three or four sides of the property. Metal bars or plywood sheets covered doors and windows. Yellow grass grown long and wild hinted at vacant homes.

  Older homes, Archie concluded. Too recent to be grandfathered against Deanne regulations, but old enough to make retrofits too expensive. Easier to just abandon them.

  He parked at the curb, chambering a round and clicking off the safety before getting out. A pair of white-haired retirees a few houses down watched him silently from their front porch. Other than them, the street was deserted. Archie entered a g
ate at the mouth of the narrow driveway and followed it to the backyard. He mounted three steps to a rickety porch, faced the metal back door and knocked using the rhythm described in the e-mail. The door opened a crack, wide enough for two gun barrels to emerge: one at head level, one at his knees. He’d had guns pointed at him before, but it wasn’t something he’d ever get used to. He kept his panic in check, gauging if he could make it off the porch and out of range before they could get a bead on him and knowing he couldn’t. “The Viagra Lion asked me to come.”

  The door opened wider and he stepped inside. Before his eyes adjusted to the darkness, hands seized him, spinning him against a wall. A gun barrel pressed into his back just below his left shoulder blade, aimed at his heart, pinning him in place.

  “Hands up.”

  Archie obeyed. Hands frisked him, found the pistol and clicked on the safety.

  After a few moments, the voice said: “Turn around.”

  Archie turned, hands still raised, and water splashed his face.

  “Do you renounce Satan, and his servant Daniel Deanne, and all their works?”

  Archie blinked water from his eyes. In the sunlight bleeding through cracked windows shades, he could make out a tall, wiry woman with a crew cut and wearing fatigues. She grasped a flask in one hand and stood off balance on a prosthetic leg. Flanking her were two men armed with MP5 submachine guns.

  Archie said: “What—”

  The three tensed. The two men—teenagers, really—brought their guns up.

  Archie put his hands out. “Whoa, wait—”

  “The answer they are looking for, Saul, is ‘I do renounce them in the name of Jesus Christ.’” Pious stood in a doorway, dressed in black and wearing his clerical collar.

  “I do renounce them in the name of Jesus Christ,” Archie repeated.

  “S’okay, guys,” the woman said, touching the two boys’ shoulders. They lowered their weapons and returned to chairs by the back door. Turning to Pious, the woman said: “He’s clean.”

  “Thank you, Joan,” Pious replied, stepping into the kitchen. The skin under his eyes was puffy, a few days’ stubble clung to his face.