Second Horseman Out of Eden m-7

by George C. Chesbro

  "What have you done to me?" he asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest with the ominous sound of distant thunder.

  "Nothing that I can't undo. Just sit still and answer my questions. If I like what I hear, I'll see if I can't scare up some nail polish remover to dissolve that glue on your ears. Where are you keeping my brother?"

  "What's the matter with you two?" Tanker Thompson said with what sounded like genuine confusion and indignation. 'Why are you so unreasonable?"

  "Huh?" The question itself, and his injured tone of voice, took me completely by surprise. "Why are we so unreasonable?"

  "Yes," the huge man said in the same indignant tone. "You wanted to make sure that Vicky wasn't going to be hurt anymore. She's not. I saw to that. Then why are you continuing to try to thwart God's will?"

  I shook my head slightly. "You're admitting you killed William Kenecky?"

  "Yes. He was the spawn of Satan masquerading as a man of God. Men of God don't abuse children like that. I love children, and so does God. God told me to kill him, and I did. Patton didn't handle that right. He should have cooperated with you when you first went to him-at least he should have told you that he would make things all right for Vicky. Because of him, the two of you could have caused trouble. He was a fool. God told me to kill him, too."

  "Jesus. You killed Patton'.?"

  "Please don't take the Lord's name in vain. Yes, I killed Patton. There is no room in God's elite for fools. Why did you and your brother keep coming and trying to make trouble after you knew Kenecky was dead? I thought you'd be pleased."

  The wind had abruptly shifted and was carrying the smoke from Beloved's wreckage in the opposite direction, out the other end of the half-finished garage, dissipating it over the ice-choked Hudson River. The flames of the wreck were dying down, and there was still no sound of sirens. It occurred to me that no one had even noticed the crash, or paid attention to the smoke; this was, after all, New York City. I released the hammer on the Beretta, lowered the gun to my lap. "You've certainly been a busy beaver, Tanker," I said in amazement.

  "I am Christ's avatar on earth in the Final Days; I am His sword, and He has empowered me to make these decisions." He paused, studied my face. When he spoke again, there was an almost childlike quality to his voice. "You know who I am, dwarf?"

  "Of course, Tanker," I replied evenly, speaking to that childlike quality, as well as his obvious madness. Tanker Thompson was not exactly what I had expected; I had anticipated having to deal with a mindless brute, and instead found myself talking to a man who sounded like he was waiting for me to ask him for his autograph. "I'm a big football fan, in a manner of speaking, and I remember when you played. It's just too bad about that nasty little racist streak in you."

  Tanker Thompson sighed. "It's true that I had evil in my heart. I killed a man because of the color of his skin, and I hated Jews."

  "You don't feel that way any longer?"

  "No."

  "Then what are you doing with the company you're keeping?"

  "It is God's will, part of God's plan for His avatar. God spoke to me in prison. I was forgiven for my sins, and it was explained to me how Jews are God's Chosen, and how they would play an important role in the Final Days. Kenecky and Patton had already prepared the way, but they did not have Jesus in their hearts. They had no further function in what is to come, and they were only complicating things; I was told to kill them."

  "Right," I said, not understanding a word he was saying, and not caring. There was only one thing I cared about at the moment. I swallowed hard, found that my mouth was very dry. "Tanker, did God tell you to. . kill Garth?"

  "No. He is to be destroyed with all the others when the end comes."

  I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until my chest and lungs began to ache. I slowly exhaled, passed a trembling hand over my eyes. "But you do have him?"

  "Yes. But why did the two of you keep coming on? God wanted Kenecky killed so that you would know that Vicky is protected. I would never let anyone hurt a child, dwarf. That's not what God wants."

  "Tanker, Garth and I kept coming because we still weren't sure that the child was unharmed. We didn't know that a decent man like you was watching out for her. Now we do, so there's no need for us to continue with our investigation; all we ever cared about was the girl. If you'll tell me where my brother is, I'll go get him and we'll be out of your hair."

  Again, the giant lifted his elbow, stared at me from under its crook. I didn't like the look in his small eyes. "You lie, dwarf," he said at last. "That's a sin. You must think I'm a fool. I'm Christ's avatar on earth; He lets me see into men's hearts, and He tells me you're lying."

  "I'm grateful to you for not killing Garth, Tanker, but I don't understand why you want to keep holding him. We're not your enemies."

  "You're God's enemies."

  "No, Tanker. It's certainly true that we don't share your religious beliefs, but that doesn't make us God's enemies. We don't care what you believe. And it turns out that we shared the same concern. It was because of us that you found out that Kenecky was abusing the girl, and then you … put a stop to it. That's all we wanted. On that piece of business, we were on the same side. That must mean we were on God's side, since you're God's avatar."

  "You don't understand."

  "Then explain it to me. Why can't you let us be? For that matter, why does Christ need an avatar on earth in the first place? It seems to me that He's been taking care of His own business quite nicely for upwards of two thousand years."

  "This is different; these are the Final Days. Satan's demons are already arriving, in human form. Kenecky and Patton were demons."

  "Then why were you working for them?"

  "I've already explained that to you. God had put evil in my heart so that the demons would come to me, think I was one of them. Even they were part of God's plan, since they had the power to bring on the Final Days. But then God cleansed my heart so that I could see that they were demons, and that He had no further use for them."

  "Do you think Garth and I are demons?"

  "No. But you're not among God's elite, either. Neither of you will be Raptured next week."

  "Next week? You believe the world is going to end next week?"

  "The world will begin to end; the battle of Armageddon will begin. These are the Final Days. I and the others will be Raptured up to the heavens to wait with Jesus for seven years. Those who are left behind, those who survive the first minutes, will be tormented by the armies of Satan. When the seven years have passed, Jesus and those He has Raptured will descend to rule the earth in His kingdom."

  "Uh, when next week is all this business supposed to start happening, Tanker?"

  "The beginning of the new year."

  "You mean Friday?"

  "Yes."

  "Got it. But after that, those of us who haven't been Raptured will be taking our lumps with Satan and his demons, right?"

  "You mock, dwarf. But you'll see. All of you unbelievers will see."

  "I don't mean to mock, Tanker; I'm just trying to make an argument. If Garth and I are going to be going through so much suffering, don't you, as Christ's avatar, think it only fitting that we should suffer together? And if the Final Days are here anyway, what does it matter if Garth and I are together? Where's the sense of hanging on to him if Satan and his demons are coming around in another five days to make us all miserable? What's the point?"

  "Neither you nor your brother will suffer at the hands of the demons, dwarf," Tanker Thompson said in a low voice that had a particularly chilling effect on me."Not everyone will be around to suffer the years of Tribulation."

  "Uh, why is that, Tanker?"

  "Because you'll be dead."

  "Garth and I will be dead?"

  "Yes. The two of you, and millions of others, will die at the beginning of the Tribulation."

  "How do you know we're going to die?"

  "Because it is prophesied."

  "All the mor
e reason for brothers to be together, no? What do you care if we're together for the last five days of our lives?"

  There was no reply, and I found myself growing even colder.

  "I don't understand what's happening, Tanker," I continued. "What's the story? Are you punishing Garth by holding him?"

  "No."

  "Then why not free him so that he and I can be together for the last five days before Satan arrives?"

  Again, there was no reply. And then I realized why I felt cold as I recalled some things a few of the zanier zealots, including William Kenecky, had spoken and written about on a number of occasions; the same things had even been alluded to by a few of the zanier politicians looking to curry favor with the religious right.

  Nuclear war with Russia, their line of insane reasoning went, could well be the Armageddon referred to in the Bible. Consequently, not only would it be moral to start such a war, but the people launching it would be carrying out an act of Divine Providence. These chiliasts believed that it was God's will that millions should die in order to bring on Armageddon and the eventual Kingdom of God on earth. These people didn't fear nuclear holocaust; indeed, they couldn't wait for the bombs to start falling.

  I could well be talking to such a man. Tanker Thompson, Craig Valley, Floyd and Baxter Small, William Kenecky, Peter Patton, and Henry Blaisdel-lovers of death, all of them, men who viewed their own and everyone else's extermination with what could only be described as a kind of sexual frenzy.

  "Tanker," I said softly, "you people are doing more than just hanging around waiting for the Rapture and Tribulation to begin Thursday at midnight, aren't you? You've got something cooked up to start the ball rolling, right? That's why you're so certain Garth and I are going to die."

  Tanker Thompson smiled, nodded. "It's God's will."

  "It's the ultimate in necrophilia, is what it is," I said tersely, feeling my heart start to pound. "What's going to happen? How many other people are going to escape the Tribulation because they'll be dead, Tanker?"

  "Many. It will be a blessing. What's necrophilia, dwarf?"

  "You killed Peter Patton. Who's in charge now? Henry Blaisdel?"

  Tanker Thompson laughed softly. "God is in charge. It can't be stopped now. Praise the Lord. Jesus is coming."

  "If it can't be stopped, why hang on to Garth? If it's God's will that the Tribulation should come, then no human should be able to stop it."

  "No human must be allowed to try. That's why I'm here."

  "Then it can be stopped?"

  "Not by you."

  "Where's Garth, Tanker? Is he where Vicky Brown is?"

  "No."

  "Where is Vicky Brown?"

  "She's safe, dwarf. I told you that."

  "She's in a biosphere somewhere around here, isn't she? Nuvironment has actually built one of those things, right?"

  There was a long pause. I didn't think Thompson was going to answer me, so his answer came as a surprise. "Not around here," he said at last.

  "The letter she wrote to Santa Claus was mailed in New York."

  "Patton told me about the letter. That was what started it all. It's how you and your brother found out about Vicky and Kenecky. . and other things."

  "Yes."

  Tanker Thompson made a low, guttural sound in his throat that could have been a curse. "The devil even uses children," he said. "I was a fool. I should have read it before I mailed it."

  "You mailed the letter?"

  The man absently nodded his shaved head, winced slightly when the motion pulled at his ears. "I didn't see how it could hurt. Vicky asked me to, and I wanted to make her happy. I was wrong; I should have been more vigilant. Satan was trying to trick both of us."

  "So you brought the letter with you to New York City from someplace else?"

  "It was in my pocket; I'd forgotten about it."

  "Where, Tanker? Where did you bring it from?"

  Thompson was silent, and I sensed that our conversation had come to an end. "Tanker," I continued quietly, "I don't like pain. I've experienced enough so that I know I certainly don't enjoy getting it, and I don't like giving it. You're not at all what I expected you to be; in some ways, I feel sorry for you, and I respect you for knowing that what Kenecky was doing to Vicky Brown was wrong. But I'm going to have to hurt you if you don't tell me where you're keeping Garth." I replaced the Beretta in my shoulder holster, leaned forward, and pushed in the cigarette lighter. I wasn't certain it would still be working, but a few seconds later it popped. I pulled the lighter out of the dashboard, looked at the glowing end.

  The prospect of what I was preparing to do sickened me-but I was damn well going to do it. I didn't have any other choice.

  "We've got as long as it takes, Tanker," I said, and swallowed hard. "Three men have killed themselves rather than tell tales out of school. Well, we know you're not going to kill yourself, because I'm not going to let you. But unless you want me to start burning off your skin piece by piece, you're going to tell me where Garth is. Then you're going to tell me what tribulations you loonies have cooked up for the rest of us, so we can put a stop to it."

  "I'm certainly not going to kill myself, dwarf," Tanker Thompson said matter-of-factly. "I'm going to kill you."

  And with that pronouncement, he yanked his right hand away from the side of his head. Blood spurted from the ragged flesh that had been his right ear. Stunned and horrified, I felt paralyzed as the huge hand, bloody flaps of tissue adhering to the palm, reached out and locked around my left wrist, began to twist. Instinctively, I stabbed at the back of his hand with the cigarette lighter. There was a sharp hissing sound, then the smell of singed flesh and hair. Thompson cried out, reflexively released his grip-at the same time as he pulled his other hand free, and ripped off his left ear with it. Screaming in rage and pain-but also with what sounded eerily like triumph and ecstasy-he reached for me with both his bloody hands.

  Moaning with terror and revulsion, I scrambled back across the seat, fell out the door onto cold concrete that was slick with oil and antifreeze from the smashed radiator. A hulking Tanker Thompson, blood welling and rolling out of the wounds on the sides of his head, suddenly appeared above me on the seat, reached down for me with hands that still had the flaps of his ears attached to their palms. I screamed and rolled away from the horror of the grasping hands, jumped to my feet, and clawed for my Beretta. I got the gun out, backed away a few steps and aimed it at Tanker Thompson's massive chest as he climbed out of the car and started toward me.

  "That's far enough. Tanker," I said in a voice that squeaked, holding the gun out in front of me with two trembling hands. "You stop right where you are, or I'm going to blow your head off."

  "God will keep me alive long enough for me to kill you, dwarf," Thompson replied in an almost casual tone. "After that, it doesn't matter. In a few days, I'll be in Paradise."

  Even as I aimed the gun at his chest, it occurred to me that the other man didn't even need God on his side in this face-off; I couldn't afford to kill him, since he was my only link to Garth. I lowered the gun slightly, took careful aim, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet hit Thompson in the left thigh, two or three inches above his knee. He cried out, grabbed his leg.

  "The next one goes into the kneecap, Tanker," I said. "Now, you just sit down right there and we'll talk this over."

  I should have shot him in the kneecap to begin with; the bullet in his leg only made him stop long enough to reconsider his strategy. He limped back to the car, grabbed hold of one of the Cadillac's hanging doors, and tore it the rest of the way off its hinges. Then he reached down and picked up the crowbar that had come flying out of Beloved's sprung trunk.

  Holding the door in front of him as a shield, trailing blood from the wound in his thigh, Tanker Thompson started shuffling toward me.

  It seemed like a good time to rethink my own strategy. I had myself a dilemma; I could, I thought, rather easily dart around the gimpy Thompson and get away-but I needed to get infor
mation out of the other man, not get away from him. On the other hand, the man with the torn-off ears was not a good candidate for cooperation. It was obvious that Tanker Thompson had a tremendously high tolerance for pain; and he didn't care if he died, as long as he could take me with him.

  Not a good situation.

  While I was doing all this heavy thinking, Thompson had continued to come forward, and I'd continued to back up-until now he'd cut off a good three-quarters of the concrete platform, and I was heading back onto a lip over the icy Hudson.

  I went down on one knee, fired two bullets at his ankles and feet, which were exposed below the door. The bullets ricocheted off the concrete, missing him. He crouched down, began shuffling forward even faster, obviously oblivious to the pain from his torn ears and the wound in his leg. I figured I had two, maybe three, seconds to make my exit, if that was what I was going to do. Watching his beady black eyes that were peering at me over the top of the door, I feinted to the left, then cut to my right. There was a corridor perhaps ten yards wide I might use to try to sprint past the car-door-armored Tanker Thompson, but a flying crowbar just might catch, kill, or cripple me if I tried that.

  Besides, I found that I didn't really want to make an exit after all, and my feelings involved more than the need to find my brother. Anger welled in me, rage at the mindless force of evil slouching toward me, evil that could kill not only Garth, but a good many other people-the evil of superstition, chauvinism, megalomania, and willful ignorance that had haunted humankind ever since we'd dropped out of the trees; all of that evil was embodied in the giant shuffling toward me, forcing me back toward the river. I stopped, braced my legs, and emptied the Beretta into the center of the car door. I knew the bullets wouldn't pass through the layers of steel, but the force of the gunfire stopped him, and even backed him up a little. And it made him duck down behind the door. When he again peered over the top of the door, what he saw was me flying feet first toward him through the air.

  It seemed I wasn't getting so old after all-or, at least, the rage, frustration, and desperation in me was sufficient to roll back the years momentarily. I hadn't flown so high, or had so much control over my body, since my headliner days with the Statler Brothers Circus, and my timing was perfect. Tanker Thompson poked his head up from behind his shield just in time to catch my heel in his jaw. His head snapped back, and we both landed on the concrete at about the same time. I landed on my left shoulder, rolled over in a somersault to absorb the force of my landing, came up on my feet, and immediately spun around.