by Penn Gates
The sound Janet makes is somewhere between a cry of pain and a laugh. “It was me who rescued him. Ezra was locking George in the basement to keep me from seeing my fiancé.”
The girl is wild-eyed now. “I have lost my innocence - my home - my family - and now the man I was to marry!”
Lisa stands and puts her arms around Janet and gives her a tentative hug. “George has also had more than one shock,” she says gently. “Maybe give him some time to come to terms with all that’s happened. He’ll come around after he’s thought it through.”
Janet is not encouraged by Lisa’s words. “I am not so sure about that. George is always instructing everyone around him about the rules - as he learned them as a child.” She changes direction suddenly. “It is understandable that he does this. His father always believed that his oldest son was destined to become a preacher - maybe even a bishop. This is what George has been raised to be.”
Lisa winces at the cruel irony of that statement, but keeps her opinion to herself.
There’s a faint tap on the door, and Marcelli sticks his head in. “Holden wants to see you. He said it was important.”
Lisa sighs. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?” she asks Janet. “Are you hungry? Tony can get you something to eat.”
Marcelli steps just inside the door. “I’m happy to do whatever I can - if that’s okay with you, miss.”
Janet stares at him suspiciously for a few seconds, then nods.
“Be back soon,” Lisa says. “And Tony?”
“What?”
“Just where is Holden, anyway?”
CHAPTER 6: A Whole New Level Of Crazy
The winds pulls at Lisa’s hair as soon as she pushes open the double doors carved with Native American totems. She steps out onto a huge slab of sandstone at the top of three steps and finds herself beneath a portico. Its roof rests on stacked fieldstone pillars which match the chimney. Before Geezer, this was the area where guests dropped off their luggage.
On the far side of the area marked “guest parking” is The Whale, aligned perfectly with the front of the lodge. Lisa feels a rush of gratitude that her precious lab is safe, and available to her again. That feeling is immediately superseded by apprehension. Coat collar turned up, hands jammed in his pockets, Corporal Holden is pacing back and forth impatiently. Snowflakes swirl around him, like a swarm of angry gnats.
Catching sight of her, he stops abruptly. “How’s your patient doin’?” he calls.
Lisa takes her time navigating the steps, which have developed a sheen of ice since last night. “She’s doing okay,” she tells him as she reaches his side. “Why are we out here? Is there something wrong with the lab?”
A gust of bitter wind whips a long strand of hair across her face and Holden fights the urge to reach out and brush it out of her eyes. “There’s a situation that needs to be taken care of,” he says, trying to regain his focus. “I thought you might want to meet the creep who caused all the damage.”
Lisa shudders inwardly. “I’ve just gotten a lot of the story from Janet.”
“And I want to hear all the details,” Holden tells her. “But, come on - don’t you want an up close and personal look at the architect of insanity?”
Lisa admires the creativity of the label he’s just slapped on Ezra, but is fairly certain he would see any compliment she might offer as evidence of condescension. She’s never quite figured out the squad’s idea of humor - some sort of unspoken rule that the only correct response to a clever remark is to shoot it down or try to top it.
She only realizes Holden’s been waiting for an answer when he shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says and walks away. His words are carried back to her on the wind. “Don’t wimp out on me now, doc.”
Lisa knows a challenge when she hears one. She follows him down a gravel path leading to a large, flat-roofed building with extra high garage doors.
“Brace yourself - we’re about to enter an alternate universe,” he says, opening a human-sized door.
It’s like walking into midnight. Even the smell of motor oil and lubricants is pitch black. At the rear of the building, a glimmer of light seems to shift and waver. Without pausing, Holden heads in that direction, leading her down a narrow aisle between pieces of large equipment, some with tires almost as tall as she is.
Whatever she’s expecting to see, it’s not that odd, robed figure standing in the center of multiple flashlight beams aimed at him by the soldiers surrounding him. He looks like a malevolent spider in the center of a web of light.
One of the guys reaches back and pulls a tall, gangly figure from the shadows. A sudden shove takes George Shirk by surprise and he stumbles into the lit area.
“Give him a punch, pal!” his tormentor urges. “He’s got it comin’!”
“Nein!” George protests. “This is not our way. We must forgive our enemies.” He tries to step out of the circle, but the muscular soldier pushes him back.” Don’t be a pussy,” the man sneers. “Smack the bastard!”
“No one may touch me!” the robed man interjects in a sonorous voice. “I am protected by the Almighty from non-believers!” His stringy hair flagellates his shoulders as he gestures vigorously.
Silent until now, a couple of the other guys take up the chant. “Do it! Do it!”
Miraculously, George’s agitation disappears. He stands motionless, his long arms hanging loosely against his sides. He seems ready for martyrdom - but he can’t quite hide the look of desperation on his face.
“What the almighty fuck is going on?” Corporal Holden bellows as he steps from between two snow plows.
The chanting instantly stops.
Into the silence Ezra - the bishop - says clearly, “I am His Chosen One. You will not keep me imprisoned for long.” A thin fringe of beard flutters on his chin as he throws back his head, mesmerized by something only he can see.
“Blasphemer,” George Shirk whispers.
The bishop lowers his head - although his upturned eyeballs don’t immediately follow. When he gets them under control again, he looks directly at the Mennonite boy and thunders, “You are doomed to everlasting fire!”
George begins to tremble violently. Lisa wonders if it’s from fear - or anger. She knows his religion teaches pacifism, but how could he not want to punch the loathsome creature in front of him, over and over? She knows she’d like to.
Lisa realizes she’s never seen Holden furious, unless the Jimmy Diggs incident counts - but that was mostly an act to make a point. At this moment, there’s not a trace of the easy-going humor that’s smoothed over more than one argument in the squad. He looks lethal.
“What the fuck were you thinking when you brought this kid down here?” Holden says into the tense silence. His gaze flicks around the circle, making a mental list. “Peterson, you dumb prick, I’ll deal with you later,” he says to the soldier who’s just shoved George. “And FYI - you are in for a world of hurt.” He points a finger. “You - Jones. Take George outside, and don’t let him out of your sight until the doc and I come talk to him.”
With George out of harm’s way, Lisa’s attention returns to the bishop. She studies him dispassionately. His movements seen jerky and uncoordinated to her, as if he’s suffered some nerve damage. He’s still spotlighted by flashlight beams, and she notes his pupils are dark pinpoints embedded in pale, almost colorless, eyes.
Spittle glistens at the corners of his mouth as he says ecstatically, “St Peter’s chains fell from his wrists and the door of the prison opened - it will be the same for me.”
His speech has taken on a strange, hypnotic cadence. Lisa wonders if he will begin speaking in tongues - the gibberish that some claim to be the language of the angels.
“I guess He musta taken a wrong turn somewheres,” Diggs sneers. “Looks like you’re on your own, pal.”
“Sacrilege!” the pasty little man howls.
“All right - chill.” Holden seems to have recovered his usual detachment. “We’re not
here to discuss Digg’s lack of piety - that would be too long a conversation. Let’s talk about your transgressions, Oh Chosen One.”
The strange eyes fasten on Holden. “I am blameless in the eyes of the Lord,” the self-appointed bishop insists. “All I do, I do in His name.”
“You and your men are guilty of attempted kidnapping and assault. Those are crimes, shit head.”
“George Shirk is the guilty one!” Ezra shrieks. “It was he who stole my handmaiden - granted unto me by the Lord God Himself!”
Suddenly Lisa can barely stand to look at him. His large mouth and full lips remind her of a bottom-sucking fish. The thought of what else he might have done with that mouth makes her gorge rise.
“The woman is mine!” Ezra declares, warming to his subject. “Within her body I will plant the seed of a priestly caste which shall rule the New Jerusalem for a thousand years.”
Not any more, you bastard! Lisa thinks, just as Holden’s fist flies out and connects with the bishop’s jaw. The paunchy body teeters backward and hits the floor with the wet thud of a slab of raw bacon. And then all hell breaks loose.
From somewhere beyond the circle of light, angry voices begin calling, “Schweinehund Englischer!” Metal rattles against metal as the bishop’s men try to break free from the bulldozer they’ve been chained to.
“Nice punch!” Brady chortles.
Everyone begins to talk at once until a shrill whistle from Holden interrupts. “Peltz, Diggs - secure the prisoner. Keep him as far away from his band of merry men as you can get him - and then go see if you can convince those assholes to shut up.”
For the first time, he glances at Lisa, who looks a little stunned at the palpable air of violence filling the garage, large as it is. “Let’s you and I go check on George.”
He takes Lisa’s arm and steers her through the dark maze of machinery. She’s trembling with disgust and outrage - He probably thinks she’s scared.
As soon as they’re in the fresh, cold air, he lets go. “Breathe,” he says.
“I’m not in shock,” she tells him. I’m just so angry I want to kill him!”
“I know,” Holden says. “Take a sec to get the stink of that bastard out of your nose. You’ll calm down.”
Lisa concentrates on sucking oxygen deep into her lungs.“From what Janet told me, and what I just saw - I’m almost certain Ezra was struck by lightning,” Lisa says, reverting to scientific observation to get her feelings under control. “But that - in there - that was - I don’t even know what that was!”
“Don’t care what it was,” Holden mutters. “He doesn’t get a free pass to hurt a young girl like that.”
“Of course not,” Lisa says, and then finds she’s at a loss for more words to describe what’s just happened or how she feels about it. She’s exhausted, almost unable to move.
Holden studies her face. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you go on up and visit with The Whale? You two have been apart for a whole day.”
When Lisa starts to protest, he adds, “I can handle George. In fact, that conversation is probably better between just us guys.”
“Check out the generator, will you?” he calls to Private Jones. “The doc wants to use the lab for awhile.
He turns back to Lisa. “We’ll talk some more later.”
CHAPTER 7: Difficult Decisions
Inside The Whale, all is sterile and white - a place where facts rule, not opinion. And certainly not emotion. Lisa slides to the floor in the right angle between two counters. The images of the past half hour keep replaying in her mind, impossible to erase. She needs to replace them, instead, with something that makes sense. In desperation, she starts rummaging through her mental library of scientific literature for anything she might have read on people struck by lightning. There isn’t much.
She does know, for instance, that the pathology of lightning is called keraunopathy - and there are - were - only a handful of specialists in the field. Although God knows if there’s a single one alive now. And there hadn’t been a lot of hard data, either. Even the National Weather Service’s collection of cases had been gleaned from newspaper reports. Strike victims themselves were the main source, giving detailed accounts of the medical injuries they had sustained and the after-effects they’d continued to suffer.
From her admittedly cursory observation of Ezra, Lisa thinks he may be suffering from a spectrum of neurological injuries. Ocular nerve damage accounts for the eerie eye-rolling, and he seems to be having auditory hallucinations - which he believes to be the voice of God speaking to him. Lisa regrets she wasn’t able to examine the red marks under the surface of Ezra’s skin. The medical terminology is a mouthful: arborescent erythema or keraunographic markings. But they’re more commonly known as Lichtenberg figures - caused by an electrical surge through the body that bursts the network of small capillaries beneath the skin.
Analytical thinking eventually restores a bit of equilibrium, and Lisa tries to focus on the world as it is, not as she wishes it still was. Which makes her think of George Shirk. Will he be able to accept the new reality eventually? It doesn’t seem likely at the moment.
Janet is a different story. The Mennonite girl is a survivor - although that doesn’t mean she won’t be scarred for life by what happened to her. Lisa wonders how deep her feelings are for George. He’d probably been quite an attractive catch in their never-changing, traditional way of life. But when the world became one of madness and violence, that same young man had failed Janet miserably.
For the first time it occurs to Lisa that her own fiancé’s response had been shockingly similar to George Shirk’s. When disaster struck, Roger’s first impulse was to run and hide. True, he’d asked her to join him, but still - he’d left her to find her own way. Isn’t love supposed to be blind, not just to a lover’s faults, but to danger when that loved one is threatened? Why hadn’t Roger come to her, no matter what her reasons were for staying?
Lisa sighs and struggles to her feet. She actually does feel much better. Corporal Holden has a way of guessing what lifts her spirits. And that implies he knows a lot more about her than she knows about him.
BUTANE LANTERNS ARE scattered around the lobby. Their blueish light contrasts with the wavering, rosy glow cast by a roaring fire. But Holden isn’t sitting in front of the fireplace with the men who are off-duty. He’s struggling with the problem of what to do with the self-styled prophet and his followers. In the world before Geezer, he’d never thought much about capital punishment. When he did, it was pretty clear to him that murderers ought to pay with their lives. The gray area in that equation had never crossed his moral radar.
Now he’s come face to face with what to do with someone so crazy and obsessive there’s no telling what he’s capable of. There are no rules about executing possible murderers. Neither rape nor kidnapping is a capital crime, but it’s not as simple as locking these yahoos up somewhere for 10 or 20 years.
When he spots the doctor coming through the double doors, he heads straight for her. “Can we talk?”
“I’m starving,” she says. “Can’t it wait ’til I grab a bite?”
He rummages in the side flap pants pocket of his BDUs and holds up a protein bar - part of a discovery made at a convenience store months ago.
Lisa’s eyes narrow. “I thought those were long gone.”
“It’s my job to see that we have emergency supplies,” Holden answers cryptically. He takes the stairs two at a time and leans on the log railing of the balcony.
Lisa wants that chocolate peanut butter bar - badly. She climbs the same stairs, although much more slowly, and she's breathing hard by the time she reaches Holden.
“Been a long time since you climbed stairs,” he comments.
“I could say the same to you,” Lisa points out.
“Yeah - but I do push-ups every morning.”
“I’ve never seen you do that.”
After a year of traveling with the doctor in close quarters, Holden re
cognizes the slightly combative look she gets when confronted by anything that hints of a challenge. Maybe it’s being the only woman and her need to keep up with a bunch of soldiers. Or maybe it’s why she made it through med school and beyond.
Hoping to head off further discussion of physical fitness, he has a burst of inspiration. “While you’re still sleeping, I’m exercising - but while you’re in The Whale burning the midnight oil, I’m asleep.”
He glances at Lisa, who’s looking at the energy bar he’s idly twirling in his fingers. “Listen - we’ve got to get rid of these prisoners.”
Lisa remembers Holden’s expression when he’d casually knocked Ezra to the floor. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can’t drag ‘em around with us,” he says.
Because you can’t just shoot them,” she cries. “They haven’t committed a capital offense.” When he doesn’t respond, Lisa adds, “And disgusting as he is, the bishop was struck by lightning. More than likely, it scrambled his brain.”
Holden’s vague intention to discuss the finer points of capital punishment with the doctor vanishes. Her immediate assumption that he wants to execute them tells him all he needs to know about her opinion of him.
“Not really what I had in mind,” he says with a frown.
She looks surprised. “What then?”
“If we dump ‘em in the middle of nowhere without their horses, it’s as good as a death sentence.” He pauses to think it through. “Our only other choice is to escort the bishop and his men back to Lancaster.”
“But I’ll give ‘em fair warning,” he says through clenched teeth, “If they come back here again, we’ll shoot on sight.”
“That sounds fair,” Lisa says.
“Hell - it’s more than they—”
The sound of hammering from below, magnified by the cavernous lobby, interrupts their conversation. Lisa looks down at the squad, their camo uniforms out of place in the luxury of the decor.
“What are they doing? It sounds like they’re tearing the place apart for firewood.”
