by Jeff Kirvin
“Let’s not kid ourselves, people. These godless monsters were successfully blending into the human population centuries before this country was even founded. They know how to disappear. Hell, your best friend could be a demon and you’d probably have no idea until it was too late.
“That’s why we need new laws in this country. The liberal lawmakers that came before me saw to it that the hands of the law enforcement agencies are so tied with red tape and due process that by the time we think we know about a demon, he’s had time to disappear again. These inhuman monsters are a clear threat to the public’s well-being, but we’re not allowed to do a blessed thing about it.”
The camera cut back to Susan. “While many think the legal changes proposed by Senator Phillips are too extreme and in clear violation of the Constitution, most of the people questioned in a poll earlier today agree that the demons are a significant threat that the government is not properly prepared to deal with.
“In other news…” Susan went on with her nightly telecast, bantering lightly with Bob as they went down the list of the day’s stories. However, as soon as Keith yelled, “And we’re clear,” the practiced smile fell from her face.
During the newscast, one of the production assistants had slipped her a note. It was from Sal Peterson, her favorite journalism professor from college. Peterson had shaped much of her journalistic style, and she felt she owed much of her success to his instruction. Although she still sent him Christmas cards, she hadn’t actually spoken to him in years. There wasn’t much informational content to the message. Just his name, phone number and the word “Urgent!” underlined. What could he want?
Susan excused herself from the set and made her way back to her private office. After shutting the door, she sat down behind her desk and dialed the number on the note. Peterson picked up after the second ring.
“Hello?” The tension was almost louder than his actual voice.
“Sal? It’s Susan. I’m returning your call.”
“Susan, thank God it’s you,” he said. She heard the relief in his voice. “Have you heard the news?”
“Which news?”
“I’m under indictment. They say I’m some kind of demon sympathizer, in league with them. They’ve suspended me from the university pending the investigation, and I’ve started getting threatening phone calls.”
“My God, Sal, what happened?”
“There was a demonstration last week at the university. A bunch of kids were protesting the DTF, on the basis that their policies show a complete disregard for our laws of due process. It’s something I’ve been worried about, that one of these alleged demons that they shoot first and ask questions later will turn out to be human, so I joined in. They got me on stage and I gave a little speech about the Bill of Rights. The next morning I’m in the dean’s office being asked to leave until this can all be worked out.”
“My God, Sal, that’s terrible.”
“Tell me about it. Look, Susan, I just wanted you to know. I didn’t call for you to bail me out or anything. I think I can handle this myself. I just want you to look into this, see if it’s happening to other people, you know? If it is as widespread as I think, get the word out. People listen to you, and you’re probably one of the few people that could speak out against this insanity without being called a demon yourself.”
It was true. Susan’s past accomplishments put her pretty much beyond suspicion, or so she hoped.
“I’ve got to go,” Sal continued. “My wife just walked in the door, and she looks pretty upset. Look into what I told you, okay, Susan?”
“Sure, Sal.”
He hung up.
Bewildered, Susan gingerly put the phone back in its cradle. She had, of course, heard about this sort of thing happening, but this was the first time it had happened to someone she knew.
Susan turned out the lights in her office and walked out the door. Stagehands and cameramen waved at her as she made her way to the exit, and she smiled politely and waved back. Her new apartment (much larger than her old one) was walking distance from the studio, and she was soon outside in the chill winter air of Washington D.C.
As she looked around, she noticed that the city had grown quiet. For as long as she could remember, Washington had been a place of bustling excitement. People worked as many different schedules as one could imagine, and the streets of the nation’s capitol were always full of someone going somewhere.
But not tonight. As Susan walked the five blocks from the tiny studio to her apartment, she saw maybe three people. The more she thought about it, she realized that she’d seen fewer and fewer people out at night over the last six months. People were afraid. Day or night, Susan didn’t think it mattered to the demons, but people were clearly unwilling to venture out as much as they used to in Washington, something that struck Susan as almost funny. Before the Revelation, Washington had been one of the country’s most violent cities. What had really changed?
When Susan got into her apartment, she slid the deadbolt shut (couldn’t be too careful, after all), turned on her computer and got on the internet. She had some research to do.
The Hunt Begins
Daniel stepped off the elevator on the twenty-third floor of the United Nations building in New York City. The entire floor was dedicated to the DTF. His team was still in the hotel, as Daniel’s orders had been to come alone. In his high collared, cobalt blue dress uniform, Daniel walked up the corridor to the office of Marie Motumbo, the leader of the Demon Task Force. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The outer office was spacious and tastefully decorated. As always, Doris Klein, Marie’s secretary, sat primly behind her desk. Daniel couldn’t be sure that she had legs. “Daniel,” Doris said warmly. “Marie’s expecting you. Go right in.”
Daniel continued into the inner office, the citadel from which Marie Motumbo coordinated the global fight against the demons. The room was decorated colorfully yet tastefully with art from her homeland of Nigeria. Daniel’s eyes focused, as always, on the ceremonial spears and shield mounted on the wall. They told volumes about their owner’s warrior spirit. Marie sat behind a massive oak desk, pouring over some paperwork. She stood when she saw Daniel, rising to her full six foot five inch height.
“Colonel Cho, welcome,” she said in a deep contralto as she extended her hand, which Daniel promptly shook. “Please, sit down.”
Marie Motumbo was an unconventional but highly practical choice to lead the Demon Task Force. Herself a Colonel in the Nigerian Army, she’d had decades of practice running down fugitives and criminals. Shortly after the Revelation, Nigeria was nearly free of all known demons, quite a few of them dispatched by her personally. When the UN went looking for someone to head up the DTF, all fingers pointed to her.
They both sat, and Marie leaned back in her chair to study Daniel. “I’ve been reading your progress reports,” she said in nearly unaccented English. “Your team has the highest success rate in the DTF, an accomplishment I attribute largely to you.”
“Thank you, but my team deserves as much credit as I do.”
“I’m sure they do. I didn’t bring you here for a pat on the back, Colonel. Have you read the papers recently?”
“Not much, ma’am. Just here and there.”
“Well look at this,” she said, tossing a newspaper in Daniel’s lap. “The CEO of Chrysler stepped down last week amidst charges that he was either a demon himself or in league with them. He denied the charges, but the public pressure and plummeting stock prices forced him to resign. After the fact, it was revealed that the people making the original allegations had strong financial connections to Ford, but nobody seemed to care.
“Things are getting ugly out there, Daniel. The paranoia in your country is rising to levels unseen since the Red Scare. In other parts of the world, my country, for example, hundreds of people are lynched on a daily basis for the mere speculation that they might be demons.”
“Spirit of Salem,” Daniel said. The
phrase had become a popular graffiti epitaph in particularly intense areas. Even Daniel and his team had been accused of being “witch hunters” by the more liberal media, who were then generally accused of being in league with demons. It was a vicious cycle.
“So you have been paying attention. While I think we can both agree that the removal of the demons is of paramount importance, we can’t very well tear the world apart doing it. So you’re being reassigned.”
Daniel sat bolt upright in his chair. “What?”
“Calm down, Colonel. You and your team are doing so fine a job, I’m giving you a special mission. If we keep going the way we have been, it could be years before the demons are completely wiped out. We can’t afford to get one here, one there anymore. So you’re going straight to the source.”
“And that would be?”
“Hell. You’re going to Hell.”
Daniel was speechless.
“We’ve heard rumors that the demons have a stronghold somewhere, that Satan and Beelzebub have taken refuge there. We believe that if you find this Hell, we can destroy it, Satan and Beelzebub, and thus cut the head from the snake. Your mission is to locate Hell, verify Satan’s presence and if possible, destroy him. We’ll do the rest. With any luck, this will be a crippling blow to the demons, and we can restore some semblance of order before the world tears itself apart.”
Marie Motumbo sat back in her chair and picked up her paperwork, signaling that the meeting was over. Daniel left quietly, deep in thought.
“We’re going where?” Paul asked.
“Hell, Paul. Satan’s stronghold, wherever that is,” Daniel replied.
When Daniel arrived at the hotel and broke the news about their new assignment, he’d expected … he really didn’t know what he expected. Surprise, maybe, excitement. His team had other ideas.
Mostly Paul. “What’re we going to do, just walk up to Satan’s door and say, ‘Here we are’?”
“Something like that. Of course, we have to find the door first.”
“Hey, amigo,” Roberto yelled from behind his computer, “betcha when all those people in your life told you to go to Hell, you never thought you’d really go, did you?”
“Bite me, ‘Berto.”
“Enough,” Daniel said, and they quieted.
“Jack? Any ideas?”
Jack hadn’t said a word since Daniel notified them of the new mission, and to be honest, Daniel had no idea if he was in favor of it or not. He just knew he never wanted to face Jack across a poker table.
“Yes, sir, I have a few. First thing I’d try is to capture and interrogate a demon. They’d have to know the location of Hell.”
“Good idea,” Daniel said. “We can start looking for—”
“This is ridiculous!” Paul exclaimed. “What we’re doing now is fine, we don’t need to traipsing off on some wild goose chase like a bunch of—”
Before Paul could get out another word, Jack was up and in his face. “Do we have a problem, Major?”
Paul could see there was only one right answer to the question. “No, I suppose we don’t.”
“Good,” Jack said, straightening Paul’s uniform, “because the Colonel has a new mission for us, and that’s what we’re going to do. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Daniel made a mental note to thank Jack later. The last thing he needed to worry about was dissension in the ranks.
“Well,” Daniel said, “if there are no further questions, let’s get to work.”
He Who Would Be King
Texan Senator Timothy Phillips sat in his San Antonio hotel room and waited for John to call him. Phillips was back in his home state to give a keynote speech to a group of area businessmen. He made many such public appearances, as they gave him the means to spread the word about his cause.
Which was, of course, himself.
Tim Phillips was a survivor. The last of six children to a Dallas city worker who never made much above minimum wage, Phillips had to struggle for everything he ever had. Starting from buying his own school supplies in junior high with the money he made mowing lawns, he eventually managed to put himself through not only college, but law school as well. He worked the most menial part-time jobs imaginable, but he got his degree, passed the bar, and got a job in the Dallas District Attorney’s office. After years of laboring as an assistant D.A., Phillips finally made District Attorney. He amassed a stunning record of convictions, and he had the position of power and authority that he’d always been denied as a child.
But it wasn’t enough. After more than fifteen years as a prosecuting attorney, Phillips ran for public office, a seat in the Texas state legislature. Tall, imposing, charismatic and with an impeccable service record, he won by a landslide, and ran for the U.S. Senate four years later, an election that he again won easily. Phillips became a force for change on Capitol Hill, his booming voice often heard on the Senate floor vociferously arguing for the rights of the common working man. His public life was untouchable.
His private life was a different matter. Phillips was, simply put, a megalomaniac. At the age of fifty-three, he was still single because he had never felt it was worth the distraction from his advancement to settle down and start a family. His insatiable lust for power insured that although he was a U.S. Senator, one of one hundred men that made the laws for the most powerful nation of Earth, he still wasn’t happy. He wanted more.
When the news about the demons broke, Phillips knew he finally had his opening. As a lawyer and student of history, he knew quite well the kind of power the Red Scare had bestowed upon Joe McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover. He saw in the Demonic Crusade the potential to give himself similar power, by giving people something universal to be afraid of, something he could blame on his rivals.
There came a knock on his door. John Williams, a young, slightly built black man and Phillips’ aide, poked his head in the door. “Senator, they’re ready for you.”
“Thanks, John,” Phillips said as he rose from the hotel room couch and walked out the door, following his aide down the hall and into the conference room of the hotel. John Williams had been his aide since his first term in the Senate, and he was one of the few people Phillips trusted. The young man had made many sacrifices for his boss, something Phillips appreciated, even if he never said it.
Phillips took his place behind the podium and stared out at the sea of faces. Most of these San Antonio high rollers had contributed heavily to his last campaign, and he knew what they expected him to say.
“Gentlemen, I wish I could stand before you today and tell you how well we’re doing. I wish I could tell you that we live in the greatest country in the world, and that we’re the luckiest generation ever to walk the planet.
“I wish I could tell you these things, but I can’t. It just wouldn’t be right. The truth is, gentlemen, that we have a problem.
“The greatest threat to ever face mankind is walking our streets, and we aren’t doing anything about it. The UN’s so called Demon Task Force is an undersized, ill-equipped joke, and the liberals on Capitol Hill are making sure the regular police and army have their hands tied.
“They could be anywhere, even now. Your neighbor, your dry cleaner, a derelict on a street corner. The demons have had six months to blend back into human society. That ain’t a tough task for an immortal monster that’s been hiding among us for millennia. Anyone you meet could be a demon, and not only would you not know it, but even if you did you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“Based on the number of demons exterminated in the last six months, a number inflated by the demons that refused to go into hiding before they were destroyed, the best estimate for the DTF to wipe out this scourge is eight years.
“Eight years. More than enough time for most of these demons to disappear completely, to establish new identities, to continue their eternal assault on mankind. We can’t afford to wait while the opportunity to end this slips through our fingers.
“I�
��m sure y’all are aware of the Demonic Emergency Act, a bill I proposed that would help us end this, a bill that was just voted down. The bill would have allowed local law enforcement to engage in demon hunting, and it would have revoked a demon’s right to due process, preventing the godless monsters from clogging up our court system. We need legislation like this to rid ourselves of this threat, but it’s going to take a grass-roots movement to get it passed. You know I’ve always been a defender of the common man. Now it’s time for the common man to defend the world.
“I need each and every one of you to take up arms with me. I need you to champion the life and liberty of every human being. Together, we can end the demonic threat once and for all!”
The room erupted into standing applause. Phillips smiled and waved, gave the thumbs up and walked out of the room. He headed for the hotel lobby, where he knew John would have his bags packed and waiting. The money pouring out of the pockets of those businessmen, even though Phillips had been careful not to ask for it directly, would go a long way towards lobbying his cause on the Hill.
Phillips believed maybe half of what he’d just told that room of fat-cat businessmen. He did believe that the demons were the greatest threat mankind had ever known, and he did believe that the DTF and U.S. government were ill-equipped to deal with them. The rest was mostly rhetoric designed to whip the audience into a paranoid, yet patriotic, frenzy. In cases like tonight, it was designed to get people either scared or enthused enough to spend a lot of money. It usually worked.
Phillips was a man with a plan. If he could raise the level of paranoia and distrust in the country high enough, he could have any public official that got in his way impeached for merely the hint of demonic ties. If he played his cards right, he might even get the president himself booted out of office, and Phillips, as a man obviously beyond demonic influence, would be the obvious people’s choice to take the job.
