The Christ Clone Trilogy - Book Three: ACTS OF GOD (Revised & Expanded)

by James Beauseigneur

  “It is you, those who hear my voice and have joined with the rest of Humankind, who will perform the miracle. And you will see for yourself why Yahweh fears you!

  “Humankind must be free to achieve its destiny. It was not mere chance that Professor Harold Goodman found the cells on the Shroud from which I was cloned. I have come into the world to act as the catalyst that Humankind may achieve its destiny. But it’s not my place to carry Humankind into the New Age. Rather, each of you must go of your own accord and under your own power. And each of you must participate, for though we each must carry our own weight, we must all go together as one family.

  “All of us have lost friends or family over the past few weeks,” Christopher said, drawing his address to a close, “and it’s understandable that there should be a healthy release of anger. And if much of that anger is directed at me, well then, so be it. I am well aware of the calls for my resignation and that many of you listening may hate me as much as you hate Yahweh for what has befallen you. But before you abandon the path that has brought us this far, realize that the plagues are not and have never been the result of animosity between Yahweh and myself. This began long before I was elected secretary general and declared the beginning of the New Age. The plagues that afflict us have a simple and undeniable root cause: After thousands of years of stagnation, evolution has brought Humankind to the brink of a transformation that will take all who embrace it as far beyond the narrow confines of the present human form as Humankind is now above the simple one celled amoeba!

  “Join me for this final battle against the Cult of Yahweh and together let us forever throw open the door of the jail of evolutionary stagnation that has held us so long! Thank you, and good night.”

  It wasn’t there.

  Decker had watched carefully, but the speech left him still uncertain. Whatever it was he had hoped to see wasn’t there.

  What had he hoped for, he now wondered. Before the speech, he had thought he could look Christopher in the eye and instinctively be able to interpret his true motivation. Now that seemed an embarrassingly naïve assumption. He had known Christopher for twenty-three years. If he still had doubts after that long, how could he possibly expect to get a true read of the man now, simply by watching him on live-net?

  As far as the speech itself was concerned, Decker considered the delivery first class. Apparently the public agreed. Christopher had stressed actions over words and said he expected the words of his address to convince few, but within fifteen minutes, insta polls showed his approval rating jumping to 21 percent. The speech was inspiring, and if Christopher did what he promised — if the three signs were given and there were no more plagues — then he might once again have the world’s support.

  There was only one problem: The evil people of Petra who Christopher described in his speech were not the people Decker had seen there. They were not “maniacal, intolerant, narrow minded fanatics.” Yes, they had a very different view of the world. And because of their belief in Yahweh and their trust in the KDP, many of them might even support the raining down of plagues for what they wrongly but sincerely believed to be the greater good of the very people who suffered. But Decker could not believe that any of the people he had met there would “cruelly call down plagues upon the Earth, as if for their amusement,” as Christopher had said.

  Christopher obviously didn’t understand. Granted, it might seem to some like a fine point to try to argue in light of the suffering that had occurred, but Decker had to do something. He thought of Rhoda, young Decker Donafin, Tom Jr., Rachael, and Charlie the “jailer,” and the many others he had met. The battle that Christopher had described would leave them all dead.

  He had watched the speech to discover Christopher’s true motives. Now that no longer mattered. Whether Christopher was the embodiment of good or the epitome of evil, Decker couldn’t sit still and let the people of Petra be killed. His course was set for him. He had to return to Babylon.

  Chapter 17

  Home Free

  Decker walked through the dark, nearly abandoned halls of the UN Secretariat Building. It was late, and nearly everyone had gone home. Christopher would be there though; somehow Decker knew it. Opening one of the mammoth mahogany double doors that led to Christopher’s spacious reception area, he was surprised to see Jackie Hansen still there.

  “Come on in,” Jackie said, as she preceded Decker into Christopher’s office. “He’s waiting for you.” Jackie seemed placid in an almost surreal way. She said nothing of the fact that he had been gone for so long, and nothing in her voice hinted that she was at all surprised to see him now.

  As he walked into Christopher’s office, he felt a chill and it seemed strangely dark, much as the halls had been. The air had a musty smell. He guessed that the heat and other plagues had taken their toll on the building’s environmental systems. But there was more. Something . . . everything seemed wrong.

  He looked around him and saw no one. He had somehow lost sight even of Jackie, as though she had simply vanished. Looking about, he sensed movement to his right and turned to see the high back of Christopher’s chair turning away from him.

  “Christopher?” he said.

  There was no answer. He heard only what seemed like a slurping sound: the struggling air conditioners, he thought, or perhaps the plumbing. He approached the desk and called out again. Still, there was no reply.

  As he neared the spot, he reached for the back of the chair, but suddenly recoiled in horror as he came face to face with his worst possible fear.

  It was Christopher. At least it was Christopher’s face. But he wasn’t at all as Decker remembered him. His eyes were cardinal red, the specific hue of which differed not one shade from the sticky liquid which trickled from the corners of his mouth and matted the hairs of his normally neatly kept beard. His skin appeared somehow scaly and iridescent. His teeth, jagged and sharp, dripped pink with saliva and blood. His fingernails were long and clawlike.

  Jackie Hansen stood naked before him, deep gashes in her flesh revealing the tracks of Christopher’s claws where he had torn away her clothes. Blood ran freely from bites of flesh taken from her thighs. She smiled serenely, and in her eyes as she looked down at Christopher was an unmistakable look of love. Decker struggled not to vomit.

  “What do you want?” Christopher growled, spitting out his last morsel of bloody flesh as he jumped to his feet, shoving Jackie to the floor.

  Decker turned and ran in terror, but Christopher charged after him. He looked for the door, but in his panic he simply couldn’t find it. He looked desperately for a way — any way — out, but there was none.

  He ran like a man possessed, dodging and trying to stay ahead of his pursuer, but it was impossible. The younger and stronger Christopher stayed right on his heels. He seemed to anticipate every move Decker made. Struggling to keep going and surprised he had lasted this long, he began to believe that Christopher was toying with him like a cat with a trapped mouse.

  Then suddenly, he spotted a window. It was open, but it was fifty-nine floors down. Still, he had to get away. Christopher was so close behind him he could feel his hot, foul breath.

  With all his strength, Decker lunged for the open window just as Christopher reached out and caught the leg of his pants with his extended claws. Razor sharp, the nails dug deep into his leg, tearing long bloody furrows through skin and muscle and scraping across the surface of the bone.

  But it wasn’t enough to slow his momentum. Free of Christopher, Decker looked below him to his chosen alternative: certain death.

  Desperately, instinctively, he tried to grab at the air to slow his fall, and inexplicably his hand found something solid.

  It was the seat in front of him.

  He was still on the plane, headed for Babylon.

  It had all been a dream, but he was covered with sweat and his heart pounded as hard as if it had been real. He was exhausted.

  Decker unfastened his seat belt, stretched, and walked to t
he restroom. He needed to get up and let the thoughts of consciousness — and perhaps a splash of cold water on his face — purge the dream from his mind. A few moments later, when he returned to his seat, he found that he hadn’t been entirely successful in this because the dream — though exaggerated like a carnival mirror in its form — was nonetheless a reflection of the real fears he bore.

  He shifted from side to side, adjusted his seat, added a pillow, removed a pillow, adjusted his seat again. He was very tired, and probably still several good nights of rest away from full recovery from the effects of the last plague. He needed to sleep, especially now, to be prepared to confront Christopher about Petra.

  When he finally found a comfortable position and his mind began to relax, he thought back to the dream and how absurd it had been. He hadn’t had a nightmare like that since he was a kid. Nonetheless, he thought as he slipped closer to unconsciousness, he should be prepared to defend himself. The obvious means was a handgun, but he couldn’t buy one because he didn’t have the mark. Perhaps a knife. A large kitchen knife should be sufficient. Getting it in past security might be difficult, but . . .

  Decker opened his eyes abruptly and sat up straight in his seat.

  Is this how it was with Tom? he trembled. Had Tom had a similar dream that led him to kill Christopher?

  Then another thought struck him: Was this just a dream at all? Or had it been planted in his mind by the KDP, like a time bomb waiting for this exact moment to go off — to set him off?

  And if this failed to have the desired effect, would there be others? Had the KDP planted other dreams, other thoughts, other visions?

  When he got to Christopher’s office, would he see things as they really were or would reality be hidden behind a mask fabricated by those who wanted Christopher dead? What monster, he wondered, had Tom seen standing there on the dais the night he shot Christopher?

  And what was it that now drove Decker to go to Christopher, just as the KDP appeared to be losing power? Was it really to try to spare the lives of those in Petra, or was it to murder the savior of Humankind — a man who was like his own son?

  Was he just a pawn, again playing out the role of Judas, and believing it was his idea, when in reality he had no choice?

  It didn’t matter.

  Whether it was his own idea or one that had been planted by the KDP, he had to go.

  Decker wasn’t even sure if he truly controlled his own will, but to the extent that he did, he made one vow. Under no circumstances would he bring a weapon, any weapon, or anything that could be used as a weapon, with him to Christopher’s office. Even if his worst fears proved true, even if Christopher appeared to be or really was a green scaly demon, Decker vowed he would do nothing to harm him or even to protect himself.

  It was an easier decision than he would have thought.

  If he was wrong about Christopher, then he couldn’t allow himself to do anything against him. And if he were right, then he would just as soon die anyway.

  Monday, July 13, 4 N.A.

  Babylon

  Decker’s plane arrived at King Nebuchadnezzar International Airport six minutes ahead of schedule. A limousine was waiting, ready to take him wherever he wanted to go. It would have been all too easy to tell the driver to take him to his apartment, but he knew what he had to do and there was no use delaying it.

  He took a deep breath. “The UN Secretariat Building,” he told the driver.

  Slipping the bandage from around his hand, Decker placed his right palm on the identipad and stared at the retinal scanner beside the door of the executive entrance to the Secretariat Building. “Decker Hawthorne,” he said clearly.

  “Verified,” a soft female-sounding electronic voice responded, as the lock clicked and the door opened.

  Apparently no one had thought to tell the UN security system to search the World Health Organization’s database for UN executives who hadn’t received the communion and to restrict their access to the building.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hawthorne,” the guard inside the door said cheerfully.

  “Good evening,” Decker responded, a little startled. He had been through that door a hundred times, at all times of the day and night, and had always been greeted as cheerfully as tonight. What startled him was that it was the same. He had been so certain that somehow it would be different, as it had been in his dream.

  The building was brightly lit with just the right level of shadow, and the air was refreshingly cool in contrast to the arid Iraqi night. Though it was nearly 7:30 p.m., a few employees and guests were still in the lobby, in the elevator, and walking down the halls as he made his way to the top floor and Christopher’s office.

  Finally he arrived at the entrance to the offices of the secretary general. He had been away for longer periods on UN business and always returned with a feeling as though he had never really been gone. That much at least was different; now as he stood outside the dark wood double doors, he had the strange sense that he should knock.

  As he stood there going over again in his mind what he was going to say, suddenly one of the doors opened. His heart seemed to stop in anticipation of seeing Christopher coming through the door toward him, and then start again as Jackie Hansen appeared. She was rushing off somewhere and was startled to see an unexpected face.

  “Decker! How are you?” she said as she recovered her composure and wrapped her arms around him. Even with a large bandage on her cheek, she was a beautiful woman. The effect of the communion had continued its work and she seemed even younger and more vivacious than when he had seen her last, a little more than a month before.

  “I’m fine,” he answered, as he returned the show of affection.

  “Oh, Decker. We need to talk, but I’m late for a class. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he shrugged.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you then,” she said, and hurried down the hall.

  “Is Christopher in?” he called after her.

  “He’s in his office,” Jackie called back.

  Decker walked quietly across the carpeted floor toward Christopher’s door. This was it. There was no turning back. He knocked on the door. There was a pause. “Come in,” came a faint, welcoming call from deep inside the large office. Decker opened the door. Christopher looked up to see who was coming to see him this late in the evening. Suddenly the look in his eyes went from mild curiosity to rapturous joy.

  “Decker! Oh, Decker, am I glad to see you!”

  Decker stood expressionless as Christopher came to greet him with a long, firm hug.

  “You don’t know what it’s been like around here without you. Debbie Sanchez is very competent, but she’s no Decker Hawthorne when it comes to dealing with the press. I am so glad you’re back!”

  “I . . . uh . . . I’m glad to be back,” Decker answered, not sure what else to say.

  Christopher released his hug and backed up to get a better look at him. “So, how have you been?” he asked, almost absent mindedly. “Oh,” he said, as though he had just recalled the plagues and all that had happened in the past few weeks. “I’m sorry, Decker. Here I am just thinking of how happy I am that you’re back. Are you all right?”

  “I’m . . . I’m fine, I guess.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

  “Well, it’s been a tough few weeks.”

  “Indeed,” Christopher nodded. “Your time off turned into an ordeal to be endured. At least you’re still alive,” he said gratefully. “Here, come sit down.” Christopher motioned toward a sitting area near the windows with a view of the hanging gardens. These weren’t the windows Decker had jumped from in his dream, and they were, of course, closed because the windows in the UN complex of buildings weren’t made to open.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Christopher asked, starting toward the wet bar.

  “Uh . . . just water,” Decker answered as he sunk into one of the comfortable armchairs. He wanted so much just to forget abo
ut the last few weeks and accept Christopher’s warm welcome and go on about his life. But by now the images of Rhoda Donafin and her family and the others in Petra were burned into his memory. He had to complete the task that had brought him here.

  “I need to talk to you about your decision to march on Petra,” he said resolutely.

  “Sure. But later,” Christopher answered, as he returned with a glass of ice water, handed it to Decker, and then sat down across from him. “First, tell me how you’ve been.”

  “You need to reconsider your decision,” Decker insisted.

  “It’s late,” Christopher entreated. “You’ve been away for over a month. A lot has happened. Do we really need to have a policy discussion right now?”

  “Yes,” Decker persisted. “Please.”

  “It’ll be a month before the first phase of deployment even begins. Why is it so important that we discuss it right this minute?”

  “Because it’s wrong,” Decker responded bluntly.

  Christopher raised an eyebrow, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “Decker, this wasn’t a decision I rushed into. The Security Council has been pushing me to do this since the plagues first began.”

  “Well, tell them you won’t do it,” Decker interrupted.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I agree with them,” he said. “I didn’t at first. You know I’ve always held out hope that the KDP and their followers would join us. I’ve done everything I could to get them to listen to reason.”

  “Have you?” Decker didn’t intend for the question to sound like an accusation, but it did.

  Christopher seemed surprised and a little hurt. “Decker, stop. I can understand the public losing their faith in me, but will you abandon me, too?”

  “I haven’t abandoned you.”

  “Look, I don’t like having to deal with Petra any more than you do. But it has to be . . .” Christopher stopped in mid sentence as his expression suddenly changed to disbelief. Getting up from his seat, he crossed over to Decker, took hold of his forearm and tore away the bandage that covered the back of his right hand. Decker didn’t resist.