Triskellion 3: The Gathering

by Will Peterson

  Adam nodded grimly, fighting to dispel the image of his father suffering simply because of them.

  Being tortured for information he didn’t have.

  “Dad’s pretty tough,” he said, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Isn’t he…?”

  On the other side of the room, Gabriel was still channel-surfing, fascinated by the bizarre array of contrasting images that flashed in front of his eyes every few seconds. Cartoons, sports and adverts. Lots of adverts. He stopped flicking when he saw a face he recognized, heard a lilting voice. A caption appeared on the screen: THE GATHERING IS ONLY DAYS AWAY!

  He turned towards the twins. “Hey, it’s those people we saw at the airport.”

  But Rachel and Adam were not listening.

  “We need to find him,” Rachel was saying. “We need to get Dad.”

  “Find him where?”

  “Wherever they are.”

  “Go looking for them?” Adam sounded horrified.

  “You heard what Gabriel said. Aren’t you sick of running and hiding?”

  Gabriel was on his feet now, throwing open drawers: looking for something.

  “We’re going to find Dad,” Rachel said firmly to Adam. “And we’re going to end this.”

  Adam sat on the edge of the bed. His features settled, hardened themselves into an expression of determination. He nodded at Rachel. “So where do we start?”

  Rachel gathered up the letter and photograph from the bed in front of her. “She left us these for a reason,” she said, waving them. She read part of the letter again. “Like she said; we need to go back to where it all began.”

  Gabriel had found what he was looking for. “Move over,” he said, pushing between them and laying the huge map he had found in a drawer out on the bed.

  He ran his finger slowly across it until he came to the place he was searching for. A small town in the middle of the desert that was home to an air force base in New Mexico. “There,” he said.

  Rachel nodded. “Alamogordo…”

  Eighteen thousand kilometres away it was early morning in Australia, and at Perth Airport Brett Harkness was starting to sweat. Laura Sullivan’s oldest friend, a man she had known since high school, was shaking his head and wondering aloud why he always did whatever she asked him to do; how he always let himself get badgered into doing such crazy things. An hour before it had sounded like a reasonable enough idea, like it would be a good laugh, but now…

  “Relax,” Laura said, seeing the worry on his face. “If we get caught, just tell them we talked you into it.”

  “You did talk me into it.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be such a pushover.”

  Kate laughed, but she was every bit as terrified as Brett was. Only Laura seemed truly calm, sizing up the cops and airport staff that seemed to outnumber the passengers lining up to go through the security checks by about three to one.

  “We’re just a couple of girls off to Europe on holiday.” She touched Kate’s arm. “OK?”

  “OK,” Kate said. She caught the eye of a cop near the metal detector and looked away quickly. Had he recognized her? She knew that by now her details would have been circulated to every force in the country and perhaps beyond. She was a wanted murderer and the first thing the police did when they were on the lookout for a killer on the run was to watch the ports.

  She was doing just what they expected her to do.

  Laura handed Kate her passport. She could see how worried her friend was. “Firstly they’re looking for ‘Debbie Crocker’ and you’re travelling on Kate Newman’s passport. And even if they have got a picture, your new look’s bound to fool them. So don’t worry.”

  Kate nodded and ran her fingers through the hair that Laura had cut and dyed blonde the night before. She knew the risk she was running – the risk that Brett and Laura were running on her behalf – but if there was the smallest chance of getting Rachel and Adam back, it was worth it.

  “You ready, mate?” Laura said, turning to Brett.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Brett took a deep breath. “You owe me one, Sullivan.”

  “Let’s go,” Laura said.

  The line of passengers moved forward, and they walked casually towards the metal detector. Ahead of them a family began loading their hand luggage on to the conveyor belt, moaning all the while about taking off their shoes and belts and arguing about whether the wife had any liquids in her handbag.

  Laura leaned close to Brett and whispered, “Time to check if you’ve got anything dangerous in your bag.”

  Brett nodded and carefully lowered his small backpack to the floor. He checked to see that no one was looking and then reached inside and slowly drew something out. Pretending to tie his shoelace, he laid the object down at the feet of the woman behind him. She was too busy brushing her hair to notice – when she did notice, the scream made Brett jump, even though he knew it was coming.

  “Snake!” she screeched, pointing and trying to push her way out of the line.

  Brett stepped back theatrically and made sure his voice carried: “Bloody hell; that’s a taipan!”

  The name of the most venomous snake in Australia was enough to get everybody’s attention, and the panic spread quickly. Passengers scattered and screamed, and half a dozen cops came running towards Brett, who had begun trying to pick the snake up.

  The cops began to shout. “Don’t be stupid!” “Get away!” “That thing’ll kill you…”

  The fact that the reptile in question was Brett’s own pet, a harmless grass snake called Kevin, was just about the only thing keeping Brett calm. He continued shouting, while all around him cops drew their weapons and told people not to panic. All this caused enough of a distraction for Kate and Laura to slip, unseen, through the security cordon and begin walking quickly towards the gate.

  A woman fainted when Brett finally picked up the snake and held it aloft. “Hang on,” he shouted. “My mistake! Crikey, the bugger looks like a taipan, though…”

  The cops holstered their guns and turned away, muttering and shaking their heads. Passengers began to shuffle back into line around him, and through the sea of faces staring disapprovingly at him, he could just make out the figures of Laura and Kate disappearing around a corner towards their plane.

  He saw Laura turn back and nod her thanks.

  “Yeah, you owe me big time,” he said.

  A giant white statue of a man stretched his arms out as if to welcome them to Pennsylvania Station. It was a simple sculpture, primitive and bold, yet somehow it diminished the fussy classical façade of Penn Station behind.

  It was a bright morning, and Rachel and Adam felt rested after spending the night in one of New York’s plushest hotels. They were also very full, having eaten a breakfast that would have fed a family of four for a week. Gabriel had grudgingly enjoyed the surroundings at the Waldorf, but had been relatively uninterested in sleep or food.

  He walked into the crowded ticket office at the station and up to the front of the queue without anyone noticing that he had jumped a line some twenty people long.

  He came back with tickets for Rachel and Adam as far as Cincinnati, Ohio: the first leg of their journey out of New York.

  Voices echoed across the vast atrium of the main station, fighting with electronic announcements. Above the cacophony, one announcement was coming through clearly: “Ezekiel One! The time is now! Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. Prepare yourselves for the day…”

  Rachel, Adam and Gabriel pushed through the crowds to find a group of people similar to the ones they had seen at the airport. They were gathered around a stand with the banner of the Triple Wheel over their heads.

  “It’s those Triple Wheel guys again,” Adam said. “They give me the creeps.”

  Rachel was approached by a woman with a leaflet.

  “Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock,” she said, wagging a finger from side to side like a pendulum. “Are you prepared for the Gathering, young lady?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rache
l said.

  Gabriel stood next to her protectively, and a man from the group of Triple Wheelers, seeing the potential for a couple of converts, came and joined them. Gabriel took the leaflet the man was holding and read it.

  “Do we have some converts to the Triple Wheel, Sister Sarah?” the man asked.

  “I hope so, Brother John,” the woman said, smiling blandly.

  “Tell me about the Triple Wheel,” Gabriel said.

  “Glad you asked, young man,” Brother John said, with a greasy smile. “The Triple Wheel is what the prophet Ezekiel saw come to earth. Pastor Crane likes to think of it as three hoops of energy that spin across one another like a gyroscope, creating a greater energy than can be found anywhere on earth. And it was in the Triple Wheel – what some call Ezekiel’s Wheel – that the first Travellers came to earth. Isn’t that right, Sister Sarah?”

  “Amen, Brother John,” Sarah said.

  “And who do you think these Travellers were?” Gabriel asked.

  “Pastor Crane says they are the ancestors who came to help humankind,” John said, “and make us greater than the apes. The pastor is a direct descendant of those ancestors.”

  “But Pastor Crane says that we are a disappointment to them,” Sarah added; “that we have messed with the world they helped us create, and so they are coming back… Coming back for the Gathering.”

  “And what will they do when they get here?” Rachel asked.

  “Pastor Crane says we will be saved. They will know him as their leader on earth, and the bad will be destroyed.” Sarah clasped the Triple Wheel brooch on her cardigan. “Amen.”

  Adam was starting to get impatient. He tugged at Rachel’s sleeve. “C’mon; we don’t have time for this… We’ve got a train to catch.”

  The man called John saw an opening. “You’re right. We don’t have time. Where will you be at the Gathering, young sir? Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. The time is now.”

  Adam pulled Rachel away, and Gabriel followed.

  “What a load of bunk,” Adam said.

  Gabriel shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know. I think they may be on to something.”

  “Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.”

  Pastor Crane wagged his finger at the make-up girl.

  “The pastor likes to do his own make-up,” Brother Jedediah said. “And only I am allowed to touch his hair.” He wrung his hands and gave her a humourless smile.

  Crane waved away the girl who was trying to dust him with powder. Her displeasure was clear. She went off to speak to the director of the TV show, to complain about their guest who was compromising her professional status.

  Brother Jedediah closed the dressing-room door behind her and locked it. “Hair’s looking good, Pastor,” he said.

  He teased a few candyfloss strands across the scar tissue at the side of Crane’s ear and primped up the front to give it more volume. In another life Jedediah had been a hairdresser, and Ezekiel Crane’s wig was his greatest achievement.

  Crane poured a good slug from a bottle of vodka into his Dr Pepper and took a swig while Brother Jedediah snapped the top off a vial and filled a syringe with a clear liquid. Crane took the syringe from him and stabbed it into his own neck, just above the collar of his silk shirt. He made a grunt and then let out a long breath.

  “Let’s get this show on the road, Jed,” he said.

  The TV presenter gave Ezekiel Crane the kind of patronizing introduction he was becoming used to.

  “We’re live here today on Channel Six, and we’d like to welcome Pastor Ezekiel Crane, who thinks that the world as we know it is about to end in just a few days…” The presenter turned to the camera and gave a barely perceptible wink and a cynical smile to the TV audience – just enough to let them know that he thought Crane was a crank. He turned back to Ezekiel Crane.

  “So, Pastor Crane, what should we be looking out for? A big explosion? An invasion of little green men?”

  Crane swivelled in his chair. He crossed his legs and made a temple of his fingers, pressing them to his lips. He said nothing, and the dead air on TV was torture to the presenter for whom a nanosecond of silence was too long.

  “Perhaps we’re going to see flying saucers in Central Park?” the presenter continued.

  Silence.

  “Or is this more of a religious cult? The second coming?”

  Silence.

  The presenter was losing his composure. Live broadcasts were always risky, but you could usually rely on guests to speak. He was perspiring under the hot studio lights and his deep tan make-up was beginning to run, leaving marks on his white collar. Crane’s unwavering stare made him wriggle in his seat. He tried another tack.

  “Well, maybe Pastor Crane is trying to communicate with us using his thoughts. I read in your book, The Triple Wheel, that in the future we will all be able to communicate without speaking. Is that right?”

  Silence.

  The presenter thumbed through the book, looking for something else to say, but in his panic he could find nothing. He looked stumped.

  And then Crane spoke.

  “Thank you for your kind introduction, and now you have got your prejudices out of the way, perhaps you will listen to what I have to say.”

  There was a whoop from the studio audience and one or two “Amens” from the Triple Wheelers among the crowd. Crane had them all in the palm of his hand. He got up from his seat and, walking over to the camera, put his face close to the lens so it would fill the screen of the viewer at home. He wagged his finger from side to side.

  “Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. The time approaches,” he said. “For those of you with a brain, listen to what I have to say. Believe and follow, for that way salvation lies. Touch the screen of your TV and repeat after me… Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock…”

  The studio audience repeated the mantra while, across the country, people in their thousands found themselves touching their screens and repeating Crane’s words.

  “The hive hears my voice and I know each one of them. They follow me. This will be your last chance not to be left behind and be a martyr of the tribulation,” Crane continued. “When the trumpet sounds and the swarming happens the Gathering will have begun, and those that follow me will be saved.”

  There were more shouts and whoops from the audience. The director was telling the presenter through his earpiece to let Crane continue. And all across the country people were switching to Channel Six, as if guided by some collective hysteria.

  Crane grabbed the edges of the camera and spoke close, sweat beading on his upper lip. His voice began to tremble a little with fervour. “I am calling the faithful remnant out of the lying corrupted cities and false TV ministries. Only the hive will escape when the swarming begins. Where will you be for the Gathering? Your time is running out. Ezekiel One. Amen.”

  Crane was pouring with sweat. There were screams of “Amen” and “Hallelujah” as he dropped to his knees, and a woman collapsed, her body racked with spasms, foam drooling from her mouth.

  Crane grabbed the camera and pulled it to him. “Tick…” he said in a trembling voice. “Tock.”

  The director of the Hope Project shook his head at the mass hysteria developing in the TV studio. He watched as Crane was led away by his faithful sidekick and the presenter tried hopelessly to bring the studio back to order.

  He switched the screen off. This Crane guy certainly had some good tricks. The director had become quite mesmerized himself from the comfort of his own office. He recognized some of the basic hypnosis tricks – but the way Crane put himself across and hijacked TV shows to his own ends was masterful.

  And there was another thing; something that gnawed away at the back of his mind. A familiarity about Crane that he couldn’t put his finger on. Nothing specific, but something in the man’s gestures and his walk and his tone of voice… However, there were more pressing concerns at the forefront of the director’s mind. Strange data was flooding in from the Astronomical Research centre in Alamogordo…

 
; Meredith came in from the next office, interrupting his thoughts. Her smile told him she had good news. “The kids are here,” she said.

  “What – here in New York?” the director snapped sarcastically. “Here in the building?”

  Meredith reddened. “Er … not right here, right now, but they’ve been in New York. They’ve just taken a train to Cincinnati, Ohio, sir. We’re on it.”

  “Excellent,” the director said. “Make sure there’s a welcoming committee for them.”

  Their train pulled into Cincinnati, Ohio, just after three in the afternoon. It was a typical spring day in Midwest America, bright and crisp, and although Gabriel showed no sign of feeling the cold, Rachel and Adam pulled on the hooded fleeces and leather jackets they had bought in New York. They shivered in unison as they walked from the train along the platform and out into the vast brightly lit concourse.

  They had spent the long train journey planning out their route: a more or less straight line that ran through Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana, on through the central states of Missouri and Oklahoma and finally into New Mexico itself. They had decided that they needed to break the journey up and, more importantly, to vary the methods by which they moved from state to state. They would use rail and road and travel alternately by day and night in an effort to stay one step ahead of the forces they felt sure would be on their tails every step of the way.

  “Keep them guessing,” Gabriel had said. “Plus it’s more fun and I’ve always wanted to see America.”

  Thinking about her father and what he might already be going through, Rachel had been in no mood to be light-hearted. “We’re not on vacation…” she’d said.

  Cincinnati station was busy.

  For some the rush hour seemed to have begun early with commuters moving purposefully towards platforms – in a hurry to catch trains home to the suburbs. Meanwhile, those who had enjoyed a long lunch in one of the station’s many restaurants hurried the other way, out on to the street. Students hung around near the exit, and a gaggle of tourists gathered in the centre of the main concourse, looking around and taking pictures, while their guide struggled to be heard above the noise of announcements and a busker singing operatic arias over a backing tape.