Hell on Earth

by Dafydd ab Hugh

  Arlene and I would find out soon enough.

  8

  As we were led through the streets of SLC, I allowed myself to hope that Arlene and I had lucked out by landing here. If I were still a praying man, I’d burn candles and say a few Ave Marias that we wouldn’t find a spidermind sitting in the Mormon Tabernacle . . . which loomed closer and closer, obviously our destination.

  The people in the street gave us a wide berth as we passed, but they didn’t act unfriendly—just cautious. No one acted like an idiot. I hoped it stayed that way.

  Suddenly, a man on a big motorcycle roared over to us and stopped a few inches away, kicking up dust. He wore a business suit. “Hey, Jerry,” he said.

  “Hey, Nate,” said Jerry. “Folks, this is my brother, Nate. I’d introduce you, but I don’t know your names.”

  “Now, Jerry,” said Albert, “you know better than that. The President of the Twelve hasn’t interviewed them yet. They should give their names to him.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sounds like they know your names already,” said the man on the cycle, taking off his helmet. These guys were twins.

  Although Arlene kept her promise about not discussing theological matters, she leapt into any other waters that gurgled up around us. “That’s a bad machine,” she said.

  Nate proved to be his brother’s brother: “You like this?” he asked with a big grin.

  “They have good taste in guns,” said Jerry, spurring them on. Albert groaned.

  Nate was on a roll: “BMW Paris-Dakar, 1000 cc’s . . .” He and Arlene went on about the bike for a few minutes.

  Part of me wanted to strangle the girl; but another part appreciated what she was doing. Putting the other guys at their ease is a critical strategy. There were a lot more men in the street than women, but our captors—hosts?—remained respectful and polite in Arlene’s presence. A very civilized society.

  “ . . . and the glove compartment can hold five grenades!” announced Nate, topping off his presentation.

  “That does it,” said Albert. “If these nice people are spies, why don’t you just give them mimeographed reports?”

  In the short time we’d been prisoners, I’d learned that there was no genuine military discipline here. I had mixed feelings about this. The good thing was that I couldn’t believe these casual people had been co-opted by the invaders. They still talked and acted like free men. Very loquacious free men!

  As far as getting their president to cooperate with us, it could go either way. In the land of the civilians, the Marine is king . . . or a fall guy. I was impatient to find out which.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Nate. “I have a message for you. The President hasn’t returned yet.”

  “You should have told us that right off,” said Albert peevishly. “We’ll take them to Holding.”

  We entered the Tabernacle. It was nice and cool, with a fresh wood smell that was clean and bracing. The floors were highly polished. You wouldn’t notice anything different from the world I’d left on a court-martial charge that now seemed to belong to a different universe.

  Arlene wasn’t the only one with a lot of reading under her belt. I didn’t know a whole lot about the Mormons, although I knew a bit more than I told her—but I’d read the Bible all the way through, enough to recognize things the Mormons took for inspiration from what they accepted as the earlier Revealed Word.

  In addition, the nuns taught a little about comparative religion, probably so we’d be better missionaries. I remembered that God was supposed to have given Moses directions for the construction of the Tabernacle. The structure was to be a house constructed of a series of boards of a special wood, overlaid with gold, set on end into sockets of silver. In other words, it wasn’t Saint Pete’s, but it was no Alabama revival tent either. The Mormons adapted the idea for a permanent standing structure.

  Right outside the Tabernacle were some more conventional office buildings. We entered one, and were led into an office by Albert. “I’ll bring you something to eat and drink,” he said. I was hungry and thirsty enough to settle for bread and water. A minute later Albert returned with bread and water, then left us alone.

  “Damn,” I said; “I was hoping for a more splendorous galley.”

  I walked over to a small table, and picked up the sole object on it: the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. I felt puckish and decided to tease Arlene a bit. I thought she’d pushed the envelope too much, encouraging the more talkative of our captors.

  “Bet you can’t remember all the books in here, Arlene.”

  She gave me that look of hers. “Will you bet me the next decent weapon we find?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Okay,” she replied, and rattled them off: “First and Second Books of Nephi, Jacob, Enos, Jarom, Omni, the Words of Mormon, Book of Mosiah, Alma, Helaman, Third and Fourth Nephi, Book of Mormon, Ether, Moroni. You’re not getting out of this, Fly. I get first pick on the next piece!”

  “Damn!” I said, thoroughly impressed.

  “Watch what you say near a holy place.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” came a third voice. Albert had rejoined us without knocking.

  “Don’t you knock?” asked Arlene.

  “As soon as you’re no longer prisoners,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t think you’re spies for the demons.”

  “We call them aliens,” I said. The medieval terminology didn’t bother me when Arlene and I were using it to distinguish the different kinds of monsters. It seemed very different when talking to a deeply religious perseon. These things from space could be killed. They were created by scientific means. In no way should they be confused with immortal spirits against which all the firepower in the galaxy would mean nothing.

  “I understand,” said Albert. “Would you mind telling me who you are and how you came to be here?”

  “Won’t the President ask us that?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why should we tell you?” asked Arlene.

  “Because I don’t have to be as cautious, and I’m a fellow soldier.”

  “So you should tell us about yourself,” I said.

  “In time. You don’t have to tell me anything either, but you should consider it.”

  “Well,” I said, thinking on my feet, “if we talk to one Mormon, we should probably talk to the leader.”

  Albert laughed. “We’re not all Mormons here,” he said. “Just most of us.”

  “Oh?” I said, unconvinced.

  “Uh, I am,” he cautioned. “Think about it. We’re fighting the common enemy of mankind. We don’t care if you’re Mormons. We care that you can be trusted.”

  “Makes sense,” admitted Arlene in a tone of voice so natural that I realized she’d been subtly mocking them before.

  “I’m of the Church,” continued Albert, “but Jerry and Nate are Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “I thought they didn’t fight,” said Arlene, surprised.

  “They are not pacifists, but neither are they of the Latter-Day Dispensations,” he said as warning bells went off in my head. I prayed I could count on Arlene’s promise to keep her trap shut . . . but she pressed her lips pretty tight.

  “Latter-day what?”

  Albert was more succinct than his friends: “They believe all the world’s governments are works of the devil. They won’t fight their fellow man at the command of a state. But they can fight unhuman monsters until Judgment Day.”

  “I get it,” I said. “Draft protesters in World War Two—”

  “But volunteers for this,” Albert finished.

  “What do you mean by, uh, ‘dispensation’?”

  He laughed. Apparently we’d fallen into the hands of someone lacking in missionary zeal, for which I was grateful. “The United States Constitution was ordained by God. That’s why we didn’t like seeing it subverted. We never know if a governmental person is good or bad unti
l we see where his loyalty lies. But you two made a wonderful impression on the Witnesses; I think you’ll do fine with the President. If you change your mind about chatting with me, you will find me easily enough.” He left us with the promise we would see the President soon.

  Three hours later we were led to the office of the President of the Twelve. A clean-shaven, elderly man with pure white hair, a dark tan, and a tailored suit got up from behind a walnut desk and rested his hands on his blotter. He kept his distance. He had a judge’s face, carved in stone. If we were assassins, he was giving us a clear shot at him. But Albert and Jerry continued to baby-sit, fingers on triggers.

  Mexican standoff. He sized us up. We did the same to him. He reminded me of a senior colonel in the Corps, a man used to giving orders.

  Finally, he coughed. “I’m the President here,” he said.

  “You make it sound like President of the United States,” I said.

  He didn’t seem to mind. “Might as well be,” he said, “under the circumstances. Who are you?”

  We gave him name, rank, and serial number. Being a gentleman, I let Arlene go first. Then he asked the sixty-four-trillion-dollar question: “How is it you come to be here?”

  Arlene laughed and let him have it: “Fly, here—that’s his nickname—Fly and I single-handedly kicked the spit out of the entire Deimos division of the alien demons. They moved the Martian moon into orbit around Earth, but we cleaned their clocks.”

  The leader of the Mormons said, “This is a time for mighty warriors. We have many prophecies to this effect. In the Book of Alma there is a verse that I find indispensable for morale:

  “Behold, I am in my anger, and also my people; ye have sought to muder us, and we have only sought to defend ourselves.”

  He smiled, pausing before continuing.

  “But behold, if ye seek to destroy us more we will seek to destroy you; yea, and we will seek our land, the land of our first inheritance.”

  “Those words were spoken by Moroni. We must gird our loins for battle against the ultimate enemy. At such times as this even women must be used in a manner unnatural to them. Do you know how much Delta-V is required to move a moon, even one as small as Deimos? Why should I believe you?”

  I blinked, nonplussed by the change in subject. Glancing quickly at Arlene, I saw she was controlling her reaction to the “unnatural” crack, her face impassive. Good girl!

  “We, ah, fight the same enemy,” I said.

  “This is what you purport. You also claim to have hopped out of orbit and landed on your feet. Pray that we may prove both to our satisfaction. Until such time, we must be careful. If what you say is true, you will be able to demonstrate this to us on a mission. Only then, if you earn our trust, will you”—he pointedly stared at me, ignoring Arlene—“be allowed access to our special wisdom. The audience is over, and good luck to you.”

  I worried that Arlene might say something stupid when I saw her mouth open and the danger sign of her eyebrows rising faster than any rocket. Hell, I was worried about myself. But we were ushered out of there without any disasters.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Albert, leading us back to our room, accompained by Jerry, “you just flunked spy school.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t imagine a spy would concoct so ridiculous a story and annoy the President so thoroughly.”

  I said nothing; privately, I thought that was exactly what a spy might do. It worked, didn’t it?

  We felt tension leaking from the corridor, like air escaping from the dome on Deimos. At least the President was taking some kind of chance on us. He didn’t realize how big a chance he’d taken talking that way to Arlene.

  “We belong to the brotherhood of man,” Albert said. “If you think you have problems now, just wait until people begin believing your story. Then we’ll start treating you like angels!”

  9

  I guess they believed our story, somewhat at least. Fly and I were left alone at last when that rugged stalwart, Albert Whatever, scurried off on some errand.

  Fly gestured me close. “We really should report in,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Report in? To whom?” A good question. If the country were as devastated as we’d been led to believe, there wasn’t much of a military command structure left to report to anybody.

  If . . . I saw at once where Fly was coming from.

  “How much do we really know about these guys?” asked Fly, confirming my cognition. “Whose side are they on?”

  “You’d have a hard time persuading me they’re demon-lovers,” I said.

  “All right . . . maybe. They’re patriots. But are they right?”

  Wasn’t much I could say to that. Fly had a point . . . as patriotic and pro-human as these Mormons might be, they still might be wrong about the extent of the collapse. “You’re saying they could be deluded by their apocalyptic religion.”

  He raised his brows. “Mormons aren’t apocalyptic, Arlene. I think you’re confusing them with certain branches of Christianity. I’m only saying that they’re pretty cut off from information . . . the whole government might look like it’s collapsed from this viewpoint; but maybe if we contacted somebody somewhere else, in the Pentagon or at least an actual Marine Corps base, maybe we’d get a different picture.”

  “All right. Who, then?”

  “Chain of command, Arlene. Who do you think we should contact?”

  I’m always forgetting about the omnipresent chain. Usually, all I see are enlisted guys like me, maybe one C.O.—Weems, in our case. I’m not used to thinking of the Great Chain of Being rising above my head all the way up to the C-in-C, the President of the United States. Guess that’s why Fly makes the big bucks (heh) as a noncom, while I’m just a grunt.

  “Um, Major Boyd, I guess. Or the great-grandboss, Colonel Karapetian.”

  “Hm . . . I’m betting this is a bit above m’lord Boyd’s head. I think we should take this up with God Himself: the colonel.”

  “I agree completely. Got the phone number?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the next problem. Surely in a facility this size, there has to be a radio room somewhere, wouldn’t you think?”

  We did a lot of thinking over the next hour; we also did a lot of quiet, careful questioning, staying away from those obviously “under arms,” questioning the less suspicious civilians instead. But what we mostly did was a lot of walking. My dogs were barking like Dobermans long before we found anything radio-roomlike.

  The “compound” actually comprised a whole series of buildings, different clumps far away, and included a large portion of downtown Salt Lake City. There were other buildings and residences all around, of course; SLC is big. Well not compared to my old hometown of L.A., of course, but you get the idea.

  “The compound” might include two buildings and not include the building in between them; it wasn’t defined geographically.

  However, we quickly discovered we were restricted to a small, two-block radius surrounding the Tabernacle. An electrified fence cut that central core off from the rest of the facility (and the rest of the city); guards patrolled the fence like a military base; there were even suspicious pillboxes with tiny bits of what might have been the barrels of crew-served weapons poking out, and piles of camouflaged tarps that might conceal tanks or Bradleys. And the guards were as tight about controlling what left the core as they were about what entered.

  I saw a lump that looked suspiciously like an M-2/A-2 tank, state of the art; I turned to point it out to Fly, but he was busy staring at the tall office building at our backs. “What’s that up top of that skyscraper?” he asked.

  “Skyscraper? You’ve lived in too many small towns, Fly-boy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What’s up top there? That metal thing?”

  “Um . . . a TV aerial.”

  “Are you sure? Look again.”

  I stared, squinting to clear up my mild astigmatism. “Huh, I see what you mean. It could be, but I’m not
sure. You think it’s a radio antenna, right?”

  “I don’t know what they’re supposed to look like when they’re stationary, only what they look like on the box we carry with us.”

  “Well, you have an urgent appointment, Fly? Let’s check it out.”

  “Sure hope they have a working elevator,” he said, surprising me; I thought after our experiences on Deimos, he’d never want to look at another lift again.

  There was an armed guard at the front entrance of the building, which was a mere fifteen stories tall . . . hardly a “skyscraper.” The rear entrance was barricaded. The guard unshipped the Sig-Cow rifle he carried. “Ayren’t you the two unbelievers who claim they stopped the aliens cold on Deimos?”

  “That’s we,” I said, “Unbelievers ‘R’ Us.”

  Fly hushed me. He always claims I make things worse in any confrontational situation, but I just don’t see it.

  “The President sent us on an inspection tour,” said Fly with the sort of easy, confident lying I admired so much but could never pull off. “Supposed to ‘familiarize’ ourselves with your SOPs.” He rolled his eyes; you could hear the quotation marks around familiarize. “As if we haven’t had enough military procedures for a lifetime!”

  The guard shook his head, instantly sympathetic. “Ain’t it the truth? Few weeks ago, you know what I was? I was a cook at the Elephant Grill, you know, up at Third? So what do they make me when the war breaks out? A sentry!”

  “You know this building well?”

  “Well, I should! My fiancée worked here. Before the war.”

  “Look, can you come along with us, show us the place? I come from a small town, and we don’t have buildings this size. You’re not stuck as the only guard, are you?” There were no other guards in sight; I’m sure Fly noticed that as well as I.

  “ ’Fraid so, Corporal.”

  “Fly. Fly Taggart.”

  “I’m afraid so, Fly. I can’t leave. Look, you can’t get lost. It’s just a big, tall square. See the Tabernacle there? Anytime you get lost, just walk to the windows and walk around until you see the Tabernacle. You can’t miss it.”