by Steve Alten
“Who are you to preach to me? We both know why you went to Iraq — you were looking for a target… an enemy combatant, someone you could line up in your crosshairs and blow away, reaping sweet revenge. We gave you that opportunity, Sergeant, and this is how you repay us?”
Shep gazes upon the multitude of mottled brown faces staring at him in silence. “You’re right. No one forced me to go. It was my decision, I wanted justice… revenge. I killed innocent people, convinced that God was on my side… until I took my first life. My actions never brought justice, they only brought more pain and suffering. I allowed my anger to tarnish my soul, and the blame is all mine.”
Another burst of luminescent light appears, this one a spark that ignites directly below the raft, illuminating the faces of the dead. Instead of fading, the light rises, circling Colonel Argenti like a hungry shark.
The clergyman senses the supernal being’s approach. “The Angel of Death! Don’t let him take me, Shepherd… in the name of all that’s holy—”
“It’s time, Colonel. It’s time you and I both reaped what we’ve sown.”
“I am an ordained minister… an ambassador of Christ our savior!”
The light circles closer, its luminous energy shearing the cassock and undergarments from the clergyman’s body. Philip Argenti screams as his naked form suddenly heaves out of the water onto the raft. His lifeless limbs thrust forward, his dead hands somehow managing to hook themselves around the lapel of Patrick Shepherd’s coat. “I… am a man… of God!”
“Then go to Him.” Wielding his mangled prosthetic arm like a scythe, Shep slashes Argenti's throat. The colonel flails backward, the gash in his neck spurting black ooze as he plunges back into the water—
— the spectral glow dragging him below the frothing surface with one final, sizzling flash of light.
A thousand Iraqi faces — men, women, and children — close their eyes and sink beneath the corpse-littered surface… satisfied.
Wild-eyed, Patrick Shepherd stood in the raft, slashing his steel appendage through the empty fog-ridden night.
“Stop him! He’ll slice through the raft!” Francesca held on to the sides of the roiling vessel, commanding her husband to act.
Virgil reached for Shep’s right hand, squeezing it. “Son, it’s all right. Whatever it was, it’s gone.”
Shep shook the vision loose. Confused, he allowed Virgil to guide him to his seat. The old man turned to Paolo. “He’s all right. Continue on.”
“No… this is all wrong. We’re disturbing the holiest of the holies. We shouldn’t have come—”
Francesca took her husband’s hand. “Look at them, Paolo… they’re all dead. Your son, on the other hand, he wants out.”
“My son…” Returning the oar to the water, he paddled in the direction of the crowd noises.
Virgil placed a hand on Shep’s shoulder. “What did you see? Was it the Reaper?”
“No. I saw people… victims of warfare. They rose from below… only—”
“Go on.”
“Only I didn’t kill these people. And yet, somehow I felt responsible for their deaths. There was a detached sense of familiarity to everything. Like a bad déjà vu.”
“Accepting responsibility for your actions is the first necessary step in reconnecting with the Light.”
“You’re not hearing me. I didn’t kill thousands of people.”
“Maybe you didn’t kill them in this lifetime.”
“Virgil, I already told you, I don’t believe in the whole reincarnation thing.”
“Whether you believe in it or not doesn’t make it any less true. Our five senses cause us chaos — the misperception that there are no connections. In fact, everything is connected. Déjà vu is a past incarnation experienced by the present. Whatever you did in your prior lives, I suspect that this may be your last chance to make things right again.”
“Make what right? How am I supposed to know what to do?”
“When the time comes, you’ll know. Trust your gut, your instinct. What does your intuition tell you?”
“My intuition?” Shep looked to the south.
The fog thinned as they neared the reservoir’s shoreline. Half a mile away, the night was aglow with the orange haze of a thousand fires.
“My intuition tells me things are about to become a lot worse.”
PART 4
Lower Hell
Sixth Circle
The Heretics
"And we our feet directed tow'rds the city, after those holy words all confident. Within we entered without any contest; and I, who inclination had to see what the condition such a fortress holds, soon as I was within, cast round mine eye, and see on every hand an ample plain, full of distress and torment terrible."
— Dante’s Inferno
December 21
Central Park
Manhattan
4:11 A.M.
(3 hours, 52 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
Their arrival at the southeastern end of the reservoir had presented the journey’s next hurdle, for the fence separating the jogging track from the southern retaining wall offered no exit point or weak link. Paolo continued paddling, following the stone barrier as it circled to the west. Francesca’s light finally revealed a break along the wall — a small boat ramp — the incline partially blocked by a large flatbed truck.
Climbing out first, Paolo dragged the bow of the raft up the cement ramp, then helped his pregnant wife out of the boat.
The truck’s rusted metal flatbed was tilted at a thirty-degree angle to the reservoir, stained in frozen blood. Francesca wrapped her scarf across her face. “They must have used the truck to collect the dead, dumping them right into the water. Why would they do such a thing?”
Paolo peered inside the window of the empty cab. “The more important question is, why did they stop?”
“The plague must have spread so fast, they couldn’t dispose of the dead quickly enough.” Shep searched the night sky. “We need to keep moving, before another drone tracks us down.”
They continued on, following a snow-covered bridle path, the bonfires glowing somewhere up ahead.
Central Park West
4:20 A.M.
David Kantor made his way south along Central Park West. Gun drawn, he moved in the shadow of stalled vehicles. Cloaked in darkness, he was surrounded by death. It was slumped in the cars and sprawled on the sidewalk, rained from apartment windows to mangle awnings and decorate snow-covered lawns. Every fifteen seconds, he paused to make sure he was not being followed. The paranoia allowed him to stretch his hips and lower back, already aching from hauling his life-support equipment. I’ll never make it to Gavi’s school like this. I need to find another way.
He rested again. His stifling face mask collected a pool of sweat. Pulling open the rubber chin piece, he emptied the excess, his eyes locked in on the bizarre buildings on his right. The Rose Center for Earth and Space cast a diamond-shaped void against the lunar-lit heavens. The Museum of Natural History blotted the night like a medieval castle, its drawbridge guarded by the bronze statue of President Theodore Roosevelt on horseback.
The sight of the Rough Rider brought with it a memory of his youngest daughter’s first visit to the facility. Gavi was only seven. Oren had come along, too, David’s son insisting they skip the train and drive into the city so the boy could listen to the Yankees game on their way home. The day germinated in David’s mind.
Checking the periphery in his night scope, he jogged up the museum steps to the sealed main doors, arguing internally whether he was wasting valuable time.
The doors were locked. He looked around again, determined he was alone, and shot out one of the plate-glass doors with his sidearm.
The museum was dark inside, save for the fading glow coming from an emergency light. David moved quickly through the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall, the deserted entry unnerving. Diverting past the Rose Gallery space exhibit, he searched for a visitor si
gn he knew was posted somewhere in the dark corridor up ahead.
“There.” He followed the arrow to the parking garage, praying for a small miracle.
The spots reserved for motorcycles were located just past the handicapped row. His heart raced as the beam from his light revealed a Honda scooter and a Harley-Davidson, both vehicles still chained to their posts. He contemplated hot-wiring the scooter, but worried that the vehicle’s engine would draw the attention of the military.
Then he saw the ten-speed bicycle.
Central Park
4:23 A.M.
The bridle path ran past Summit Rock, the highest elevation in Central Park, before descending into a forest valley. Ahead was Winterdale Arch, a twelve-foot-high sandstone-and-granite underpass buttressed on either side by a retaining wall that extended east and west through the park. Illuminating the underpass were a dozen steel trash barrels, their contents set ablaze.
Beyond the fires, guarding the entrance of the granite tunnel, were a dozen men and women. Self-appointed gatekeepers. Heavily armed. Each wearing a fluorescent orange and yellow vest removed from the back of a deceased construction worker.
A procession of people milled about outside the guarded portal — families, lost souls, streetwalkers, displaced businesspeople, and the indigent — all waiting to be allowed to pass through the Winterdale Arch.
Paolo turned to Virgil. “This is the only way through, unless you want to risk the main roads again. What should we do?”
“Patrick?”
Shep continued watching the night sky, anticipating another aerial assault. “We’re safer in a crowd. Let’s see if they’ll allow us through.”
They approached the last person in line, a big man in his mid-fifties. Despite the frigid temperatures, he was wearing a ski vest over a tee shirt, his bare arms covered in tattoos of the United States Marine Corps. The words: Death Before Dishonor were emblazoned across his upper right biceps. He was holding a woman wrapped in a blanket. From her stiffness and body position, Shep could tell she had cerebral palsy.
“Excuse me—”
“Welcome, brothers, welcome sister. Have you come to witness the glory of God?”
“What glory is there in so much suffering and death?” Shep asked.
“The glory comes from the Second Coming. Isn’t that why you are here?”
Paolo pushed in, his eyes wide with excitement. “Then this really is it? The Rapture?”
“Yes, my friend. The twenty-four elders have assembled. The Virgin Mother herself is said to be inside the park walls, preparing to grant immortality to the chosen among us.”
Paolo crossed himself, trembling. “When the plague was first announced, I had a feeling… How do we get inside?”
“They’re bringing us up in small groups. They need to determine who is clean.”
“We’re clean.” Paolo pulled Francesca to his side. “No plague, you can check us.”
The big man smiled “No, brother, by ‘clean’ I am referring to the soul. Everyone must be escorted inside, at which point the worthy will be separated from the heretics. No sinner shall be granted access by the Trinity.”
Shep looked to Virgil, who shook his head.
“What about the plague?” Francesca asked “Aren’t you afraid of being contaminated?”
“Sister, it was Dis that summoned Jesus’s return.”
“Dis?”
“The disease,” the woman said, straining to adjust her blanket so she could see. “Vern, explain it to them the way Pastor Wright explained it to us at the mission.”
“My apologies. We’re the Folleys, by the way. I’m Vern, this is my wife, Susan Lynn. We flew in Saturday night from Hanford, California, for a two-day medical conference. We were scheduled to fly home this afternoon, only they shut down the city before we could leave. We wandered the streets for hours, somehow ending up at the mission.”
“It was God’s will,” Susan Lynn chimed in.
“Amen. When we arrived, Pastor Wright was telling hundreds of people that he had just spoken with the Virgin Mother. She had incarnated herself as a Christian woman. The Virgin told him that Manhattan had been selected as ground zero for Revelations because of all its wickedness.”
“What made him believe she was the Virgin Mary?” Francesca asked.
“There can be no doubt, sister. Pastor Wright actually witnessed a miracle when the Virgin cured the infected. Seeing the pastor, the Holy Mother instructed him to gather his flock in Central Park for the Rapture, that Jesus would be coming before the dawn. The Virgin would determine who would be saved and who would be cast out into Hell.”
Paolo turned to Virgil, tears in his eyes. “Then it’s true, this is the End of Days.”
The old man gave him a wry look. “There is spirituality, Paolo, and there is religious dogma. The two are rarely compatible.”
Vern’s expression darkened. “Stay your tongue, old man. Any words perceived as blasphemy may burn you and your flock.”
“It’s time!” A bank security guard wearing a fluorescent orange vest waved his handgun at the crowd. “Single file, stay together. If the Furies ask you a question, answer honestly. Each of you will be instructed where to go once you reach the amphitheater.”
The crowd jostled one another, several pushing past Shep to secure their place in line. “Vern, who are the Furies?”
“It’s Judgment Day, fella, and the Furies are the judges. All three Furies are women personally selected by the Virgin Mary.”
“But what is the Furies’ purpose?”
“To administer the Lord’s vengeance. One of the guards told me they’re especially hard on anyone who raped or killed women and children. Once the Furies begin their process of vengeance, they won’t stop, not even if the guilty party repents.”
The crowd moved quickly through the arch, the armed detail signaling for Shep and his entourage to join the line.
Paolo pulled Shep aside. “No hallucinations. You need to find a way to control yourself. Francesca and I must be among those chosen for salvation.” Before Shep could argue, the Italian and his pregnant wife fell in line behind the Folleys, trailing the couple through the Winterdale Arch.
Shep and Virgil looked at one another before joining the moving herd. They passed through the granite tunnel, following the bridle path up a steep slush-covered hill, accompanied by a howling wind that bit deep into their exposed flesh.
Patrick was operating on autopilot. His feet were numb from the cold, his legs moving just enough to keep pace with the faceless bodies in front of him. He felt lost, physically and spiritually, as if he had been transported into a waking, disorienting nightmare.
This is a wasted effort, an intentional walk before the manager visits the pitcher’s mound, takes the baseball, and pulls you from the game. Just lie down now. Lie down in the snow and the cold of night and die. How bad can it be?
“Ow… damn it!” Lost in thought, he had walked headfirst into an immovable object. It was a bronze statue, Romeo caressing Juliet in a loving embrace. Shep stared at the immortalized figures, his heart yearning again for his soul mate. Was that supposed to be a sign?
“Let’s go! Keep moving!”
The path circled through pitch-darkness, sending hands to grope the brick facing of a large building. Another sixty feet, and the forest suddenly yielded to a spectacle of religious fervor gyrating across the Great Lawn.
The assembled were everywhere, their numbers revealed by the glow of tangerine flames dancing from a thousand torches. It was an orgy of faith — forty thousand lost souls — all competing to gain entry into Heaven. Some scrambled atop the timeworn crags of Vista Rock, others pushed forward in random tides of desperation, drawn to the base of Belvedere Castle, the Gothic mansion rising above an undulating sea of humanity… the modern-day equivalent of the Israelites waiting for Moses’s return from Mount Sinai.
The building Shep and the others had just circled was Delacorte Theater. The horseshoe-shaped arena
that had once hosted Shakespeare in the Park now served as the pit for a raging bonfire. The remains of a large vinyl banner hung over the amphitheater stage, its city of n.y. presents disney on ice message purposely torn to read:
city of dis
Situated on a blanketed perch of rock, silhouetted by the crackling bonfire that raged warmth at their backs were three women, each clad in a black robe taken from the quarters of a circuit court judge.
The “Fury” seated on the left was Jamie Megaera. Five-foot-one-inch tall, endowed with a thirty-eight-inch D-cup, the twenty-five-year-old single mom had given up custody of her daughter three years earlier to pursue an acting career in the Big Apple. The closest she had come to performing onstage was dancing nude from the birdcage hanging from the strip club where she worked.
Jamie’s identical twin sister, Terry Alecto, was seated on the right. As a high-class prostitute, Terry earned three times more money than her sibling, $500 a trick. Like her sister, she was also separated from her family, her husband serving a nine-year prison sentence for promoting the prostitution of his wife (Terry having been a minor at the time of his arrest). The twin had no qualms about her line of work. In fact, she saw herself as providing a service, just like the local hairdresser or manicurist. She had had sex three times since she first noticed the swollen buboes on her neck.
Situated between the twins was sixty-five-year-old Patricia Demeule-Ross Tisiphone.
A product of alcoholic parents, Patricia had married when she was seventeen and spent thirty-nine years in an abusive relationship. Her daughter was addicted to pain pills, brought on by the suicide of her husband. Her sister and best friend, Marion, had moved in with Patricia after finally divorcing her own alcoholic husband, who had physically and verbally abused her since she was twenty. The two elderly women had been subletting an apartment to the twins, having “adopted” the girls as granddaughters.
