by Jeff Kirvin
"I call today for nothing less than open rebellion. A revolution for a New America, based once again on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. This tyrant and his legion of demons can't stand long against the combined will of 250 million Americans fighting for their freedom. Americans fought for their rights once! Now we must do it again! We will be free!"
At that moment, right on cue, the National Guard began to dispel the crowd with tear gas and riot troops, as they were ordered under the terms of the martial law decree. As the cameras filmed on and the news networks helplessly transmitted the scene to the rest of the world, the government of the United States attacked its common citizens, lending weight to Phillips argument. In less than an hour, the seats of government around the country found themselves under attack by angry citizenry.
The revolt had begun.
The WNN technicians finally found the source of the feed splice and restored control over their broadcast. Ignoring the pre-broadcast chaos around her, Susan sat behind her anchor desk and furiously wrote her own copy, a scathing condemnation of what Phillips had done. She was interrupted by Richard, one of the stage managers.
"Susan, you got a phone call."
"I'm a little busy, Rich,” she said without looking up.
"Yeah, I know, but he said it was urgent, a matter of life or death. Said his name was Harold Preston."
Susan finally looked up. What could her old editor want with her now? “I'll take it in my office,” she said as she got up and rushed off stage.
"Line two!” Richard shouted after her.
Susan reached her office and picked up the phone. “Harold?"
"Susan, thank God I found you,” he said. “You need to get out of town immediately."
"What? In case you hadn't noticed, it's turning into a pretty busy news day. I have a broadcast to do."
"No you don't, if you want to live. Susan, I just got a tip. Phillips is scared of you. He realizes that you are the most significant threat to his little coup going off. If you don't get out of Washington right now, he's going to have you killed, and make it look like the demons are responsible."
Susan sat down in her chair with a thud.
"Susan?"
"I'm here, Harold. Listen, are you sure?"
"Get out. Now.” He hung up. That, or the line was cut. Susan couldn't be sure anymore.
She prepared to leave Washington while she still could. Before she left, she had a quick chat with her producer. They weren't going to get her off the air without a fight.
Betrayals
Hell wasn't quite what Daniel expected. No fire or brimstone, just a white, utilitarian sparseness and lots of metal. The elevator faced a long vertical shaft where Daniel presumed the missile used to be. He wondered why they kept it that way. Walking up to the metal railing, he looked down and saw more than twenty levels that appeared the same as the one he was on. Behind him and around the shaft were dozens of doors that most likely led to whatever Hell was built to house. In a place four times larger than the Pentagon, he had no idea where to even begin looking for Satan.
Lucy didn't share his indecision. As soon as they were all off the elevator, she took off at a run down the corridor. Jack moved to follow, but Daniel put his hand up. He could still see her as she ran around the open ring by the railing. Almost directly across from him, she shouted “Asbeel!” and took off down a side corridor.
Oh, Hell, Daniel thought. You should have seen that coming a mile away. When are you going to start acting like a leader?
"I really wish she hadn't done that,” Paul said.
"You and me, both, Paul,” Daniel answered, then turned to face what was left of his team. He found Paul's grenade launcher pointed at his chest.
"What the hell are you doing?” Daniel demanded.
"My job,” Paul said. “And she just made it so much harder. And my name isn't Paul. It's Hakael. Of the Grigori."
Lucy ran aimlessly, searching every corridor. Much to her surprise, she found no demons at all, just one empty hallway after another. “Asbeel!” she yelled over and over. “Show yourself, coward!"
"Ye don't need to shout, lass,” called a voice she knew too well. “I'm right behind you."
Lucy whirled around and found herself face to face with the demon that haunted her dreams.
"Asbeel's the name,” he said with a smile. “And who might you be?"
"The Grigori?” Daniel asked.
"An elite group of demons answering only to Satan,” Hakael replied. “Before your interference, our purpose was to spy on other demons and report to Satan on who could be trusted. I used my cover as an FBI agent to watch Zagam during your little escapades."
"Which would explain why his files didn't mention you,” Jack said.
"Precisely. After Zagam's death, Satan decided to have me keep my cover and try to join the DTF. My assignment was to act as a member of your team unless you actually made it to Hell. Then I was to stop you. As I'm doing now."
With no warning, Heinrich brought his grenade launcher up and fired at Hakael. The demon managed to dodge the direct impact, but the concussion in the enclosed space knocked them all off their feet.
Daniel, it knocked over the railing.
Daniel fell. He'd fallen past several levels already and was picking up speed. He couldn't quite get a grip on another railing, and thought he'd rip his arms out of socket if he tried now. I didn't expect to die like this, he thought.
Then, suddenly, he wasn't falling anymore. After he'd recovered from the sudden deceleration, he realized he hadn't hit bottom; he'd been caught. He looked up at the face of the demon that had saved him. The demon was tall, with angular facial features and bright blue eyes. His black hair was swept back from his forehead, and his perfect teeth were bared in a charming smile.
"Daniel Cho, I presume,” said the demon as he lowered Daniel carefully to the floor. “The infamous leader of the Demon Task Force. Pleased to meet you at last."
Daniel sat and stared, trying to catch his breath.
"Ah, but you don't know who I am,” the demon continued. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste."
... And Into the Fire
Washington D.C. burned, the flames rising high into the night.
Three factions had been engaged in steady combat for hours: those in favor of Phillips’ call to revolt, those violently opposed, and the National Guard, who just wanted everybody else to go home. Many of the city's landmarks and symbols of power were under attack, and bit by bit the National Guard was overwhelmed. At the eastern end of the Mall, the Capitol Building was under siege. Leading the assault was Timothy Phillips himself. He had “liberated” a tank through some Guardsmen sympathetic to his cause, and he was using it to lead the charge up the Capitol steps.
"Freedom!” he cried as the driver guided the massive war machine up the marble steps and into the lobby of the building itself. The mob poured in after them, and began the violent task of dismantling the building from within.
And Washington burned.
President Walter Thomas honestly didn't know what to do. He'd never imagined that out of all the possible crises he'd have to face during his presidency, the most trying would be the open revolt of his own people. Third World countries did it all the time, sure, but Americans weren't supposed to do that sort of thing.
At least, not anymore.
"Mister President, we've got to go."
Thomas turned from watching the carnage through his Oval Office window and saw Pete Mitchell, the head of his Secret Service detail. The White House was in darkness, and he was supposed to have been evacuated quite a while before. He just couldn't leave. “In a minute, Pete. In a minute."
He looked back out the window and watched the fires dance into the night. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he didn't know what to do, that he wasn't even sure how all this happened in the first place. It was all spinning out of control so quickly...
Disgusted, wi
th the riot or himself he couldn't be sure, he turned away from the window. “Pete, let's go."
Pete was no longer there.
"Pete?” he called.
"Gone, Mister President,” said a voice in the darkness.
"Who's there?"
A lone figure stepped out of the shadows and approached him, a man Thomas had never seen before. “Who are you?” the president demanded.
"A friend of a friend of a friend,” the man replied. “Quite a mess you've got here."
"I don't know who you are, but—” Thomas reached for the phone.
"I wouldn't bother,” the man said, bringing his hand gently but firmly down on Thomas's, pinning it to the receiver. “There's nobody there."
For the first time, the gravity of his personal situation began to close in on Thomas past the haze of what had happened to his job. “Who are you?” he asked again.
"An ally of your enemy, in a sense. For a few more minutes, anyway."
"What happens in a few more minutes?"
"You won't have any enemies."
Fighting off the cold tendrils of fear that had a death grip on his spine, the president hastily grabbed a letter opener off his desk and slashed out at the stranger. In the dim firelight seeping through his window, he saw the blood quickly disappear as the wound healed up.
No one heard the President of the United States scream.
Chaos reigned.
Over the course of one night in Washington, the government of the United States fell to ruin. The president, vice president, most of the cabinet and congress were either dead or vanished. Most of the halls of power, the power which had ruled the planet for fifty years, had been destroyed. The chaos and destruction spread across the nation, aided by pictures in living color provided by the media. The United States found itself divided again, this time between people that wanted a Phillips’ New Order, and those that didn't. Though it had taken civil war years to tear the country apart a century before, Americans at the end of the millennium were a much faster-paced bunch; what had taken years in the age before airplanes and electronic media could now be accomplished in a single night.
And by morning, the United States of America as the world had known it would cease to exist.
Phillips was beside himself. Everything had gone better than he ever could have possibly dreamed. Yes, it was shame about the people that died in the rioting, but omelets, broken eggs and all that. You couldn't stand in the way of progress.
He stood across the river at the Iwo Jima Memorial, safely away from most of the rioting, but with a nearly perfect view of the Mall. The gravestones of Arlington National Cemetery stood to his right, in mute protest of what he'd done.
He didn't care. The door was open, facing him with undreamed of opportunities. Not only would he be the obvious choice to lead now, but he'd be leading a country of his own making, living by his rules. He was completely, totally, in charge.
"Enjoying yourself, sir?"
He turned momentarily from the view and noticed John approaching from the car. He was glad. He needed someone to watch him gloat. He spread his arms wide, including the panoramic view. “Look at what we've done, John. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
The younger man craned his skinny neck to take it all in. “Beautiful. Yes, it most certainly is."
"Yes,” Phillips continued. “And by morning, it will all be mine."
"Oh, I seriously doubt that, Senator."
Phillips cast a questioning look at his aide. “What did you mean by that?"
Before Phillips could react, the much smaller man reached out, lifted him off the ground, and tossed him easily into the metal base of the memorial.
John Williams approached Phillips, no longer looking the part of the dutiful aide. “What I meant,” he said, his voice deeper, harsher, “is that now that your purpose is fulfilled, I see no reason to tolerate your presence any longer.” Williams lifted Phillips by the neck and held him off the ground. His fingers were as hard, and as immovable, as steel.
"What?” Phillips choked, still unbelieving.
"Even now,” Williams continued, “I can't believe that a backwoods idiot like yourself rose to such a position of power. Democracy at work, I suppose. But for you to have one of the very demons you railed against as your closest, most trusted advisor, and never have the slightest inkling of it, well now that's just pathetic. We played you, Senator. Up to this moment, your plans and ours coincided, and we gave you all the rope you needed with which to hang yourself. You see, chaos is our business. While we certainly appreciate all your help in bringing down the government the whole world revolved around, we can't allow anyone to actually fill that vacuum of power. We'd be right back where we started."
Phillips’ eyes widened until it seemed they'd pop from their sockets as the full realization of what he'd done sank in upon him.
Still holding Phillips with that terrible, immobile grip, “Williams” glanced back at the fires rising off the Mall. When he turned back to look at his puppet/tool/victim, Phillips could see the total lack of humanity in his eyes. “So while we thank you for your efforts in our behalf, I don't think we'll be needing you any longer.
"You're fired."
With a crack of bone and nervous tissue, the dreams and aspirations of Timothy Phillips came to an end.
Loss
"Ye can drop the phony Irish accent,” Lucy said to Asbeel, “I know who and what you really are."
"Fine,” the demon said reasonably, and without a trace of accent. “What do you plan to do about it?"
Lucy smiled a very unfriendly smile, then tossed a grenade at the demon.
Heinrich and Jack found Hakael much harder to take down than they would have anticipated. For one thing, he not only knew all their moves and tactics, but he was armored as well as they were and he knew the layout of Hell far better than they did. Several times already they thought they had him, only to lose him down a side corridor at the last second.
"Getting tired yet, boys?” the demon asked.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Heinrich responded by launching another grenade. Again the demon deftly avoided the brunt of the explosion.
Jack wondered where the other demons were. They'd chased Hakael nearly all the way around Hell's first level, and he was the only demon they'd yet seen. Where were the others?
"Come now, gentlemen,” Hakael taunted. “After all of my people you've destroyed so quickly, so cleanly, you're having such trouble with little old me?” The demon backed into yet another side corridor.
Heinrich made a move to follow. “Stop!” Jack shouted. When Heinrich turned to question, Jack said more quietly, “It's a trap."
Heinrich looked disgusted. “Of course it's a trap,” he said. “We're in Hell. This whole place is a trap.” After checking that no demons were actually in sight, the young German knelt. “But with God's guidance and protection, we will rid the world of Satan and his minions once and for all.” He made the sign of the cross over his heart.
Heinrich then stood, looked into Jack's eyes, and ran off after Hakael, yelling at the top of his lungs.
Ah, Hell, Jack thought. That kid's gonna be the death of me. He ran after Heinrich into the unknown corridors of Hell.
"Satan?” Daniel asked, getting to his feet.
"One and the same,” the demon replied, bowing slightly. “I'm very pleased to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you."
"Likewise,” Daniel said as he whipped out his grenade launcher and prepared to fire.
The demon kicked out faster than Daniel thought possible and knocked the launcher over the railing and into the abyss. “Please,” he said, “let's try to keep this civil."
Daniel had a few hand grenades left, but he was sure they'd prove just as useless one-on-one against Satan as his launcher had. He didn't know what to do, other than play along until reinforcements arrived.
"Come with me,” Satan said. “There's something very interesting on television you might want to
see.” The leader of all demons turned and walked away. At a loss for anything else to do, Daniel followed.
Satan led Daniel into a room lined with television screens. The demon's hand was poised over a button on the arm of the only chair in the room. “Watch this,” he said.
Satan pushed the button and all the screens flared to life at once, though silently. On screen after screen, Daniel saw pictures of warfare, rioting and destruction.
"Disaster movie marathon?” he asked.
"Listen,” Satan said. He pressed another button.
Audio now joined the video feed. Daniel concentrated, but he was only able to pick out bits and pieces from the cacophony.
"...Capitol Building utterly destroyed..."
"...President Walter Thomas found dead in the Oval Office..."
"...Tokyo stock market crashing through the basement..."
"...Russians on the move into Eastern Europe..."
"...riots in Los Angeles making previous riots look like picnics..."
"...thousands dead in Washington tonight..."
"...Iraqi troops have re-entered Kuwait..."
"...vice president dead..."
"...chaos reigns in what's left of the United States tonight..."
Satan pushed a button, and all the screens went black and silent once more. The demon walked over in front of Daniel and flashed a dazzling smile. “We've won."
Lucy had used all but one of her grenades, but nothing had worked. The demon that killed her brother was still breathing, and there was seemingly nothing Lucy could do about it.
"So you're one of the mighty DTF,” Asbeel taunted. “Really, from all the press you people get, I expected better."
"Sorry to disappoint,” Lucy quipped as she looked for an opening to use her last grenade. She kept it hidden from view, so the demon wouldn't know how many she had left.
"You're so much like your brother,” Asbeel went on. “Such a young, idealistic fool. He never stood a chance, you know. He was too reckless. A family trait?"
