The Exterminators

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “Yes, they do,” Klaus said. “And now that you have done your part for your country, we have to consider disappearing again. Our lives may be in danger.”

  Bob looked at his friend with sympathy. “I haven’t seen you this gloomy in years.” He tilted his head. “You haven’t stopped taking your antidepressants, have you?”

  “You know I stopped three years ago,” Klaus said. “This is not depression. This is paying attention. I have said this from the beginning. Our names are out there. And now that we have spent time with the dark suits and their additional paperwork, the odds that Miguel DeJesus Riviera will discover the truth falls in his favor.” Klaus sat up and looked at Bob. “And how do you think that will make him feel?”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The four couples sitting in Joshua Treadwell’s living room that night were scrubbed pink and pure and they gave off the fresh mountain scent of a quality fabric softener. The wives were soccer-mom dressy, lightly tanned, and perky. The husbands were new-country-club-member casual, earnest, and they all managed to look as if they had come straight from the barber.

  Mrs. Treadwell, a chipper blonde with platinum highlights, served tea, fruit juice, and the high-fat, low-carb snacks everyone loved.

  It could have been a book club gathering and, in a way, that’s exactly what it was.

  One of the men, Charles Browning, touched his finger to a line on a page of his book and said, “So I think we all agree that the seven heads of the beast refers to seven hills.” He looked at everyone to receive the affirmation he desired, then continued, “But the hills aren’t literally hills.” He held his finger up to make the point. “They’re nations.”

  Joshua Treadwell smiled and said, “Exactly.”

  Everyone nodded as a happy murmur of consent spread through the room.

  Mr. Browning counted the nations on his fingers. “Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Libya, Jordan, and Egypt.” More nodding ensued, prompting the man to continue, “And of course the ten horns are ten kings, one each for the seven nations plus the three who were subdued by Arafat.”

  “The little horn,” someone added. “The eleventh king.”

  “Of Palestine,” one of the men said as he also wrote something in the margin of his Bible.

  “Yes.”

  “And his death brought us that much closer to the Rapture,” Mr. Browning said.

  “Wait, wait, let’s back up,” a woman named Cynthia said. She turned to a different chapter and verse. “I’m sorry, the covenant of Daniel 9:27 was between Arafat and Rabin, right? That was the Oslo Accords?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Treadwell said, smiling like a saint.

  “Okay,” Cynthia said. “I’m with you now, go on.”

  It was like this every Wednesday night when the Treadwells met with half a dozen of their closest friends, men and their wives with whom they attended services. But they all agreed this was their favorite night of the week. It was an evening of fellowship, prayer, and lively discussions about Scripture. They belonged to the United Family of Calvary Church, a booming congregation of some fifteen thousand. And, like everyone else in the United Family of Calvary Church, the Treadwells and their friends also belonged to a smaller group from the congregation.

  None of them would have been able to say where the idea started, but they would all agree that the small group dynamic worked. One of the problems for large organizations—corporate, military, political, or religious—is how easily they can lose control over the rank and file. If you’re simply one of a group of ten thousand, it’s very easy (and tempting) to freeload. And for organizations that depend on the financial participation of its members, freeloading can be a killer. What large organizations needed was a way to compel and enforce participation in everything from tithing to volunteering, and what they found was that having lots of small groups within the larger group accomplished this.

  The theory is that while it’s easy to hide in a crowd of ten thousand, it’s impossible to hide in a group of six. The success of this small group theory has been proven over and over, from communist and terrorist cells to AA. In short, it turns out that forming tightly knit groups of like-minded people, in pursuit of a common goal, and having them meet in one another’s homes where they can find acceptance in their ideas and friendship among peers turns out to be a powerful way to control people and direct their actions.

  No one understood this better than the folks running the United Family of Calvary Church. They’d jumped on the small group bandwagon years ago and flourished. The United Family of Calvary Church was a dispensationalist congregation that embraced the doctrine of nineteenth-century Irish-Anglo theologian John Nelson Darby, who proposed that a literal reading of the Bible offered “rediscovered truths” and a detailed chronology of the impending end of the world.

  “If I just might add something,” Mrs. Browning said, nibbling on one of the low-carb treats. “When the Lord speaks of the Abomination of Desolation in Matthew 24, he isn’t referring to Daniel 9:27.”

  “Right,” Mr. Browning said. “That’s just a play on words.”

  “Exactly. But my point is that the Abomination does not fall within the seven years of Daniel 9:27.”

  The discussion over the meaning of the seven hills and the eleven kings seized their imaginations for another ten minutes before they agreed that those nations collectively composed the beast of Revelation 13, at which point Joshua Treadwell read verse 16, “And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads.”

  “Wait, I’m lost again,” Cynthia said with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. If we’re saying that the second beast of Revelation 13 is Mahmoud Abbas, what’s his mark?”

  “The mark of the false prophet,” Mr. Browning said. “The one who maintains the legacy of Arafat. The mark came during the election for president of the Palestinian Authority when voters were forced to put their right thumbs in the indelible ink that lasted forty-eight hours.”

  Treadwell offered a reassuring nod and said, “It was applied to all, no matter what economic status they held, right? So both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand. See?”

  “Oh, sure, of course. That makes sense,” Cynthia said. “How did I miss that?

  “And,” Mrs. Treadwell added, “a vote for the false prophet, or the second beast, brings eternal damnation.”

  “In effect, such a vote is akin to selling one’s soul.”

  “Got it.”

  Joshua Treadwell glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late.” He shared a smile with them and said, “What do you say we pick it up here next week?”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  If you create an insect nearly four feet long, weighing eighty-five pounds, and capable of speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour, people will stare in amazement. If you attach a machine gun to four of its six legs, they’ll point and tell others about it, especially if sparks shoot from the barrel and it smokes. And that was the idea. You had to look at such a thing, and when you did, you saw “B&K’s All Natural Pest Control” along with the 800 number in bold lettering down the insect’s abdomen.

  The truck wouldn’t have been Mary’s first choice but Bob had taken the Volvo to L.A., Agent Parker had rented a compact at the airport, and Father Paul’s Impala had 169,322 miles on it when the odometer gave out a year ago. So Mary figured that the truck with the big bug perched on the crew cab was the best way to get the four of them down to Los Angeles.

  Standing in the driveway with the gun in her hand, Mary was dealing with some anger management issues. She was furious for having put herself and Katy, and, by extension, Bob and Klaus, in danger. She gestured angrily with the P99 and said, “Make sure that knot’s tight.”

  Father Paul was too we
ak to struggle as Agent Parker tied his hands with the nylon cord. Still, he protested, “I am not an assassin.”

  “Padre, you can sing that song until Jesus comes back,” Agent Parker said. “But that duffle bag we found in the trunk of your car tells a different story.”

  Father Paul leaned against the truck for support. “I can only tell you the truth. I cannot make you believe it.”

  “That’s what I keep saying,” Agent Parker said, nodding at Mary. “I’m with the CIA. That’s the truth, but it’s a hard thing to prove. You can’t just call my office and have them confirm it.” He shrugged. “I was in her shoes, I’d be suspicious too.” Parker figured it was best to play along with Mary, since all he wanted was to be taken to Bob and Klaus in the first place. This just made it easy. This way he wouldn’t have to hold Mary and Katy hostage to make Bob and Klaus show themselves, which had been one of the possibilities he’d been forced to entertain.

  Katy locked the duffle bag in the truck’s tool box. “We don’t have enough rope for him,” she said, glancing at Agent Parker.

  “Use those plastic cable ties in the garage.”

  “You don’t have to tie me up,” Agent Parker said. “I’ll be a good boy.”

  “Hey.” She wagged the gun at him. “It’s just as easy to pretend you’re with the CIA as with the church.”

  After Katy zip-tied Agent Parker, Mary took his phone and punched in a number. “Hi, honey, it’s me. Oh, I borrowed somebody’s phone. No, everything’s fine. Yeah, got your messages. Sorry I didn’t call sooner but listen, we’re coming to L.A. Hmmm? Oh. Well, something’s come up.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  It was two in the morning when Joshua Treadwell steered the black van off Los Feliz Boulevard up into the Hollywood Hills where the skinny winding streets were the only things crazier than the price of real estate. Four-thousand-a-month dog kennel apartments next to million-and-a-half-dollar handyman’s dreams too low for a view. Snaking through all the street-parked cars, (garages long ago having been turned into desperate third bedrooms) Treadwell passed two-million-dollar 1,800-square-foot magical writer’s retreats and three-million-dollar custom entertainer’s delights. Closer to the top were the five-million-dollar trophy properties and finally, at the end of the road, the seven-million-dollar gated Spanish style estate he was looking for.

  Treadwell circled the cul-de-sac and pulled to the curb, facing downhill for an easy exit. He killed the engine and sat in silence for a few minutes, looking down on the twinkling lights of the L.A. basin. He thought about II Kings, Chapter 19, Verse 35: “And it came to pass that night, that the angel of the Lord went out, and smote a hundred fourscore and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses.”

  Treadwell’s goal tonight was modest by comparison, intending to smite just one instead of 185,000. But he felt like an angel of the Lord, and he believed in his heart that if the experiment worked outside the controlled lab environment, smiting 185,000 was well within his grasp.

  His will be done.

  Treadwell moved to the back of the van and opened one of the lock boxes, removing a Transgenic One Ro-bug. He powered it up and set it aside. He slipped on a pair of heavy duty gloves before opening a second lock box from which he removed a plastic container about the size of a shoe box. Inside were fifteen weaponized spined ambush assassins.

  A moment later a hatch next to the transmission opened under the van and a small ramp extended down to the asphalt. The Ro-bug moved quietly down the ramp followed closely by the glistening green-black insects, hissing and muscular, the rigid spines circling their prothorax, each with a dark red ring at the base.

  Treadwell eyed the monitor inside the van as he toggled the remote control. All systems were go. When the insects began to wander off in different directions Treadwell pushed a button on the remote unit, releasing a few molecules of the follow-pheromone. The effect was instantaneous; the transgenic insects twitched and hopped, returning to the pack, seeking only direction. The Ro-bug whirred over to the dry gutter, then turned and led his platoon of assassins up the cul-de-sac.

  At first the only sound picked up by the bug’s listening device was the pulsing chirp of field crickets (Gryllus pennsylvanicus). But twenty feet up the road it picked up the soft padding sound of something approaching. Treadwell turned the Ro-bug and saw a coyote creeping across the street. It came to investigate, mangy and curious. The coyote stopped suddenly about two feet away, bared its teeth with a low growl then turned and trotted back into the hills.

  Thirty feet later, the thumb-sized bugs turned up a paver-stone driveway, crept under the security gate, and on toward the house. There was a half moon and the skies were clear. The monitor displayed a Lynchian vision of the world as the bugs entered a patch of turf grass, dew droplets forming on the blades, refracting the moonlight. A moment later they emerged onto a flagstone patio that looked like the surface of Mars. Treadwell rotated the Ro-bug until it faced the sliding glass door, wide open, gauzy white curtains lilting in the breeze like a soft southern accent.

  When a few of the assassins began to wander in different directions again, Treadwell released more of the pheromone, bringing them quickly back to the pack, their muscular forearms twitching with obedience. The Ro-bug navigated the tracks of the sliding door, leading the pack onto the cool sherbert-orange saltillo tiles of the living room.

  Inside the house the sensitive listening device picked up new sounds. Animal sounds. Grunts, groans, and coarse breathing.

  Treadwell rotated the joystick for a 180-degree scan. A moment later the Ro-bug turned to move down the hall. The bugs followed like a pack of eight-legged wolves, hungry and unafraid.

  At the doorway to the master bedroom Treadwell stopped the Ro-bug and scanned the space. Seeing movement, he zoomed the lens until the sins filled the screen. He couldn’t tell who was who or what was what or even if it was hetero or homo. But it didn’t look like the sort of behavior intended to make children. This was pure self-gratification. Action not serving a higher purpose. Deviant. He disapproved.

  Still, Treadwell lingered, waiting to see what abominations these people were capable of, what they might do next, from what angles they would do it, what sorts of sounds would they make as they did it. How deep a grave would they dig?

  He watched until he was satisfied. The LED of the clock on the bedside table glowed 2:48 A.M. as the couple writhed on the California-king-size mattress perched on a sleigh-bed frame, three feet off the floor.

  Treadwell guided the assassins to the side where the sheet reached the ground.

  The Ro-bug’s treads couldn’t gain traction on the steep incline, so Treadwell directed it away from the bed, raised the abdomen to a 45 degree angle, and triggered the cockroach-pheromone release. The transgenic assassins alerted, their chameleon eyes turning all at once toward the sweaty congress, itchy with anticipation. It was time to eat.

  Their spined tarsi easily grabbing the fabric, they climbed. On top, they spread out, circling the writhing bodies. They waited until, a few moments later, the pair collapsed in exhaustion. They crept forward in the heat and musk that followed. Their twitchy clubbed antennae hovered and swayed over pulsing skin, seeking the blood closest to the surface.

  “Oooo, that tickles,” a woman said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “What the…Jesus!”

  “Ohmigod, get ’em off!”

  Treadwell could see the bodies moving again, desperate and frightened. Heard their screams choke off as the venom swelled their throats to gagging, then to death.

  After the bodies grew still and the bugs gorged themselves, another release of pheromones called them back to the floor where they found their leader and followed him back into the California night.

  Chapter Th
irty-nine

  Father Paul thought the effects of the fasting were upon him. He heard the voices of angels, or perhaps saints, telling him what he must do. You must wait, they said. Wait. Then he heard another voice and realized it was his own, saying that he had to pee again.

  Agent Parker shook his head. “You got a bladder the size of a cannelli bean.”

  “I’m an old man,” he said. “Just wait, you’ll see.”

  Mary glanced in the rearview mirror. “Can’t you hold it? We’re only an hour or so from L.A.”

  Glancing down at his lap Father Paul shook his head sadly.

  “Out of curiosity,” Katy said, “isn’t it hard to be an assassin if you have to pee every thirty minutes?”

  They pulled into the rest area at Castaic Lake. As Mary instructed, they did the same drill every time. The two men went together into one restroom while either Katy or Mary waited outside with the gun. Katy went in this time. Mary was standing by the water fountain reading the California Department of Fish and Game’s warning about rattlesnakes when she felt the sure grip of Agent Parker’s hands on her arms, pinning them to her side. “Easy now,” he said, quickly reaching around into her open purse. He took the gun and stepped away. “Just relax.”

  Looking past him, Mary saw the only other car in the rest area pulling back onto I-5. It was pointless to scream, so she said, “How did you get loose?”

  “I told you, I’m with CIA. Cable ties aren’t that tough, trust me.”

  “Trust you? The last guy who said he was with the CIA tried to kill my husband.”

  Thinking about the various betrayals he had suffered at the Agency Agent Parker said, “Yeah, well, I understand your skepticism.”

  Father Paul stepped out of the restroom wearing a deeply satisfied look. He walked toward Mary and Agent Parker but stopped when he saw the gun. “What’s going on?”