Brimstone

by Douglas Preston

  Harriman shivered involuntarily. This guy was good.

  "I don't care if you're an investment banker on Wall Street or a migrant worker in Amarillo, death has no prejudice. Big or small, rich or poor, death will come for us all. People in the Middle Ages knew that. Even our own forebears knew that. Look at old gravestones and what do you see? The image of winged death. And like as not the words memento mori: 'remember, you will die.' Do you think that young fellow ever stops to think about that? Amazing: all these centuries of progress, and yet we've lost sight of that one fundamental truth that was always, always the first thought of our ancestors. An old poet, Robert Herrick, put it like this:

  "Our life is short, and our days run

  As fast away as does the sun;

  And, as a vapour or a drop of rain

  Once lost, can ne'er be found again."

  Harriman swallowed. His luck was holding. This guy Buck was a personal gift to him. The crowd was swelling rapidly, and people were shushing their neighbors so they could hear the man's quiet, persuasive voice. He didn't need a Bible—Christ, he probably had the whole thing in his head. And not only the Bible—he was quoting metaphysical poets as well.

  He carefully reached over to his shirt pocket and pressed the record button on his microcassette recorder. He didn't want to miss a word. Pat Robertson with his Pan-Cake makeup couldn't hold a candle to this guy.

  "That young man isn't stopping to think that every day he spends out of touch with God is a day that can never, ever be reclaimed. Those two young lovers aren't stopping to think of how their deeds will be held accountable in the afterlife. That woman loaded with shopping bags most likely never gave a thought to the real value of life. Most likely none of them even believe in an afterlife. They're like the Romans who stood blindly aside while our Lord was crucified. If they ever do stop to think about the afterlife, they probably just tell themselves that they'll die and be put in a coffin and buried, and that's it.

  "Except, my brothers and sisters, that is not it. I've held a lot of jobs in my life, and one of them was a mortuary assistant. So I speak to you with confidence. When you die, that is not the end. It is just the beginning. I’ve seen what happens to the dead with my own eyes."

  Harriman noticed that the crowd, though growing all the time, had fallen utterly silent. Nobody seemed to move. Harriman realized he, too, was almost holding his breath, waiting to hear what the man would say next.

  "Perhaps our important young man with the cell phone will be lucky enough to be buried in the middle of winter. That tends to slow things down a piece. But sooner or later—usually sooner—the dinner guests arrive. First come the blowflies, Phormia regina, to lay their eggs. In a fresh corpse, there's a population explosion of sorts. That kind of population growth—we're talking half a dozen generations here—adds up to tens of thousands of maggots, always moving, always hungry. The larvae themselves generate so much heat that those at the center must crawl out to the edges to cool before burrowing back in again to the task at hand. In time-lapse photography, it all becomes a boiling, churning storm. And, of course, the maggots are only the first arrivals. In time, the fragrance of decomposition brings a host of others. But I see no reason to trouble you with all the details.

  "So much, my friends, for resting in peace.

  "Perhaps, then, our young fellow with the cell phone might decide cremation is the way to go. This leaves no corpse behind to be violated, over slow years, by the beetles and the worms. Surely cremation is a quick, a dignified end to our human form. Aren't we told as much?

  "Then let me be the one to tell you, my brothers and sisters, no death is dignified that befalls us outside the sight of God. I've witnessed more cremations that I can count. Do you have any idea how hard it is to burn a human body? How much heat is required? Or what happens when the body comes in contact with a six-hundred-degree flame? I will tell you, my friends, and forgive me if I do not spare you. You will learn there is a reason I do not spare you.

  "First the hair, from head to toe, crisps in a blaze of blue smoke. Then the body snaps to attention, just like a cadet in a parade review. And then the body tries to sit up. Doesn't matter that there's a casket lid in the way, it tries to sit up all the same. The temperature rises, maybe to eight hundred degrees. And it is now that the marrow boils and the bones themselves begin to burst, the backbone exploding just like a string of Black Cats.

  "And still the temperature goes up. A thousand degrees, fifteen hundred, two thousand. The eruptions keep on, rattling the retort oven like gunshots—but again I will refrain from naming just what is exploding at this point. Leave me only say that this goes on for as long as three hours before the mortal remains are reduced to ash and fragments of bone.

  "Why have I not spared you more of these details, my brothers and sisters? I will tell you why. Because Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, who never sleeps in his tireless pursuit of corruption, will not spare you, either. And the fires of that crematorium burn far cooler, and far briefer, than the fires to which that important young man's soul is surely destined. Two thousand degrees or ten thousand, three hours or three centuries—these are nothing to Lucifer. These are but a warm spring wind passing for the briefest of moments. And when you try to sit up in that burning lake of brimstone—when you bump your head on the roof of hell and fall back into that unquenchable flame, burning so hot it surpasses all powers of my poor tongue to describe it—who will hear your prayers? Nobody. You already had a lifetime to pray, tragically squandered.

  "And that is why I am here, my friends. Up in that beautiful building, towering so high over our puny heads, Lucifer showed his face to this great city and seized the soul of a man. A man named Cutforth. Revelation tells us that in the End Days, Lucifer will openly walk the earth. He has arrived. The death out on Long Island, the death right here: these are but the beginning. We have been given a sign, and we must act. And act now. It is not too late. The crypt or the crematorium urn, the maggot or the flame—you must all of you understand that it makes no difference. When your soul is laid bare before the judge of all, what will be your account? I ask you to look into yourself now, in silence; and in silence to judge yourself. And then, in a little while, we will pray together. Pray for forgiveness, and for the time still upon this earth, and in this doomed city, in which to find redemption."

  Almost mechanically, without taking his eyes from Buck, Harriman slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and called the photo department, speaking very softly. It was Klein's shift, and he understood exactly what Harriman wanted. No caricature of a Bible-thumping preacher here. Just the opposite. Harriman would make the Reverend Buck look like a man the readers of the Post would respect: a man who seemed the most reasonable, thoughtful person alive.

  And if you heard him speak, you might believe it yourself.

  Harriman slipped the phone back into his pocket. This Reverend Buck might not know it yet, but soon—very soon—he was going to be page one news.

  { 52 }

  The night was humid and fragrant. Crickets trilled in the close darkness. D'Agosta followed Pendergast along an abandoned railroad track between squalid-looking concrete apartments. It was midnight and the moon had just set, lowering a velvety cloak over the city.

  The tracks ended, leaving only the railroad grade, which was crossed by a sagging chain-link fence running off into darkness on both sides. On the far side of the fence lay blackness, with just the faintest outline of large trees silhouetted against the night.

  Following Pendergast, D'Agosta turned and walked along the fence for a few hundred yards until they reached a cluster of trees. In the center was a tiny clearing, carpeted with dead leaves and old chestnut burrs.

  "We'll prep here," said Pendergast, setting down the bag he'd been carrying.

  D'Agosta put down his own bag and took a few deep breaths. He was glad he'd begun working out after the chase through Riverside Park but wished he'd thought of it sooner. Pendergast didn't even seem winded.
/>
  Pendergast stripped off his suit, folding it up into neat packets which he stowed in his bag. Underneath he was wearing black pants and shirt. D'Agosta stripped down to a similar costume.

  "Here." Pendergast tossed D'Agosta a jar of face paint, taking another for himself, and began blackening his face with the tips of his fingers.

  D'Agosta began to apply the paint as he examined the perimeter fence. It looked about as low-security as you could get: rusty and leaning, with numerous rends and tears. He took off his shoes and pulled on another pair Pendergast had supplied him with: black and tight-fitting, with smooth soles.

  Pendergast slipped out his Les Baer and began applying blacking to the gun. D'Agosta winced; it was a hell of a thing to do to such a beautiful firearm.

  "You need to do the same, Vincent. A single glint, no matter how small, would be all their spotters need."

  D'Agosta reluctantly removed his weapon and began blacking it.

  "Undoubtedly you are wondering if all this is really necessary."

  "The thought had crossed my mind."

  Pendergast tugged on a pair of black gloves. "The fence, as you've surely guessed, is deceptive. There are several rings of security. The first is purely psychological, which no doubt is one reason Bullard chose this site to begin with."

  "Psychological?"

  "The site was once Il Dinamitificio Nobel, one of Alfred Nobel's dynamite factories." Pendergast checked his watch. "One of the great ironies of history is that Nobel, who established the Nobel Peace Prize, made his fortune with what at the time was the cruelest invention in human history."

  "Dynamite?"

  "Exactly. Seventeen times more powerful than gunpowder. It revolutionized warfare. We're so used to mass killing, Vincent, that we've forgotten what war was like with only black powder, cannon, and bullets. A terrible thing, to be sure, but nothing like what it would become. Now a single bomb, instead of killing two or three, could kill hundreds. Shells and bombs could blow up entire buildings, bridges, and factories. With the invention of the airplane, bombs could level entire city blocks, burn cities to the ground, murder thousands. We tend to focus on the terror of nuclear weapons, but the fact is, dynamite and its derivatives have killed and maimed millions more than the atomic bomb ever did, or probably ever will." He slipped a clip into his weapon and quietly racked the slide.

  "Right."

  "Alfred Nobel had a patent on modern warfare. At the height of his success, he had hundreds of factories all over Europe making dynamite. These factories had to be built on large campuses like this one, because no matter how carefully they handled their materials, once in a while it went off, killing hundreds. He sited his factories in impoverished areas which would provide an endless source of desperate, expendable workers. This factory was one of his largest." He swept his hand toward the darkness beyond the fence.

  "Nobel might have gone down in history as a thoroughly evil man had not a curious thing happened. In 1888 his brother died, and the newspapers of Europe mistakenly reported his brother's death as his own. 'The Merchant of Death Is Dead,' ran the headlines. Reading his own obituary shocked Nobel deeply, and made him realize how history would see him. His reaction was to establish the Nobel prizes—including the famed Peace Prize—as a way to redirect what would certainly have been the dreadful judgment of history on his life."

  "Seems to have worked," muttered D'Agosta.

  "Which brings me to the point. By the time this factory closed, hundreds of people had been killed in explosions. On top of that, many thousands had been devastated by some of the chemicals used in the manufacture of dynamite, chemicals that affected the brain. As a result, this is a cursed place. It is shunned by the locals. Except for the visits of a caretaker, the area saw no human beings until Bullard bought the property seven years ago."

  "So Bullard's letting the rep of the place handle security for him," D'Agosta said. "Clever."

  "It's a clever deterrent, at least for the locals. Nevertheless, there will be security, and probably quite sophisticated security at that. I can only speculate as to its nature—my inquiries, as you know, have not been fruitful. But I have a few tools that should aid us."

  Pendergast removed a haversack from his bag and slung it over one shoulder. Reaching back into the bag, he removed several pieces of aluminum tubing and fitted them together, affixing a small disc to one end. He approached the fence, slowly moving the device back and forth. Reaching the fence, he bent down, sweeping the ground before him carefully. A small red light glowed faintly on the small disc.

  Pendergast rose, stepped back. "As I suspected. There is a sixty-hertz alternating electromagnetic field, indicating electric current."

  "You're saying that fence is electrified?" D'Agosta asked. "That old thing?"

  "Not the fence itself. A pair of sensor wires are buried just inside to alert security if anyone passes over them."

  "So how do we deactivate it?"

  "We don't. Follow me."

  Stowing their bags in the thicket, they crept along the fence until they reached a weak spot, where several large holes had been crudely patched with baling wire. Pendergast knelt and, with a few deft twists, unwired the largest. Then, carefully extending the detector through the hole, he scanned the ground inside the fence. Numbers glowed from a tiny LED screen on the disc.

  He withdrew the device and, reaching for a stick, carefully scraped away the leaves and dirt, exposing a pair of wires. Then he repeated the process at another spot a few feet away, exposing more wires. Reaching into his haversack, he retrieved a pair of alligator clips mated to tiny electronic devices. He attached one of these clips to each end of the wire.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm using these clip-and-capacitor components to reduce our electromagnetic signature to that of a seventy-kilogram wild boar and its mate. They are common in this area, and no doubt Bullard's night security detail is plagued by boars roaming the fence line. Now, quickly."

  They crawled through the hole, Pendergast swiftly wiring up the opening and removing the clips. Then, with another stick, he filled the holes and covered them with dead leaves. Finally, he pulled a small spritzer bottle and misted the disturbed ground. An acrid smell reached D'Agosta.

  "Diluted boar urine. Follow me."

  The two ran parallel to the fence for a few hundred yards, crouching low, until they reached a heavy thicket. As quietly as possible, they crawled deep inside.

  "Now we wait for security to investigate. It will be a while. Regulate your breathing and stay calm. They'll be coming in with night vision and infrared, no doubt, so stay low and don't move. Since they're already assuming it's a boar, their search will not be long."

  Silence fell. It was utterly black in the dense thicket. D'Agosta waited. To his left, Pendergast remained so motionless, so silent, that he seemed to disappear completely. The only noise was the faint rustle of wind, the occasional call of a night bird. Three minutes passed, then five.

  D'Agosta felt an ant moving on his ankle. He reached down to flick it away.

  "No," whispered Pendergast.

  D'Agosta left the ant alone.

  Soon he could feel it crawling over his shin, exploring with short, herky-jerky movements. It worked its way down to his shoe, where it began trying to dig into his sock. When he tried to think about something else, he realized his nose had begun to tickle. How long had they been still? Ten minutes? Jesus, remaining motionless like this was harder than running a marathon. D'Agosta could see absolutely nothing. A cramp had come up in his leg. He should have taken more care to seat himself comfortably. He longed to move. His nose was itching fiercely now, all the worse for his not being able to scratch it. More ants, emboldened by the investigations of their scout, began to crawl over his skin. The cramp in his leg grew worse, and he could feel his calf muscle twitching involuntarily.

  Then came the faint sound of voices. D'Agosta held his breath. He could see the distant gleam of a light, almost obscured by leave
s. More voices; a burst of static from a walkie-talkie; some desultory conversation in English. Then silence returned.

  D'Agosta expected Pendergast to give the all-clear, but the FBI agent said nothing. Now all of his muscles were screaming with pain. One of his legs had gone to sleep, and the ants were all over him.

  "All right." Pendergast rose and D'Agosta followed, hugely grateful, shaking out his legs, rubbing his nose, slapping away the ants.

  Pendergast glanced at him. "Someday, Vincent, I will teach you a useful meditation technique, perfect for situations such as that."

  "I could use it. Talk about agony."

  "Now that we've bypassed the first layer of security, on to the second. Keep directly behind me and stay in my tracks as much as possible."

  They moved through the woods, Pendergast still scanning with his device. The trees thinned and they emerged into an overgrown field. Beyond stood a row of ruined buildings, enormous brick warehouses with peaked roofs and vacant doors. Vines crawled up the sides, sprouting off in dark heads that nodded and swayed in the heavy air.

  Pendergast consulted a small map, and they moved toward the first warehouse. Inside it smelled of mold and dry rot; their footsteps, even with the silent shoes, seemed to echo. They passed through a far door into a gigantic square surrounded by buildings. The cement of the square was riddled with cracks, through which thrust dark vegetation.