Second Horseman Out of Eden m-7

by George C. Chesbro

  "Shit," I said. "That's reinforced Plexiglas. It's going to be a bitch to break."

  Garth took a deep breath, gripped the handle of the fire extinguisher with both hands, and swung again-with the same results. I grabbed his wrist, looked at his watch: it was 11:11.

  "Come on," I said, tugging at my brother's sleeve. "We don't have time for this. We're going to have to look for the front door.''

  "No," Garth replied curtly as he took McCloskey's automatic out of his pocket and slipped off the safety catch. "We could waste time looking, make just as much noise going in there as here, and possibly warn them. Let me see if I can't weaken the shield with a bullet or two."

  Garth fired two bullets, spaced closely together, into the Plexiglas. I knew that the thickness of the shield would undoubtedly muffle the sound, but I still winced each time the gun went off. Again he smashed the steel cylinder into the plastic, just below the two holes; and again. A slight crack had appeared, but the material still held firm.

  His watch read 11:13.

  Garth raised his gun again, but I grabbed his arm and shoved Frank Palorino's revolver at him. "Here, use two from mine. We don't have any spare ammunition, and neither one of us can afford to have an empty gun."

  Garth nodded, pocketed his automatic, and used the revolver to fire two more shots into the Plexiglas, just below the first two. Then he banged the end of the fire extinguisher into the center of the rectangle formed by the four holes. The material cracked further-and parted. Three more whacks, and there was a hole big enough for a man to crawl through.

  "Up, up, and away," Garth said, crouching slightly and cupping his hands together at the level of his knees.

  I tucked the revolver, which Garth had given back to me, in the waistband of my jeans, took two steps backward, then ran forward, jumped, and planted my right foot in Garth's cupped hands. He gave me a moderate heave, and I sailed head first through the opening in the Plexiglas, prepared for the shock of landing on what I assumed would be hard-packed sand.

  Wrong.

  So much for relying on scale models, I thought as I landed in foul-smelling muck that almost immediately closed over my head as it began sucking me down. I fought against the slime, struggling to right myself, and finally felt my feet touch bottom. I stood up, found myself in blackish-brown mire that came up to my shoulders, gagged when I sucked in a breath. It seemed I had landed in the swamp-which was virtually a cesspool.

  Something was definitely rotten in Eden; or it was Eden itself that was rotting. Blaisdel, Peter Patton and Company had missed an equation somewhere.

  I checked my waistband to make certain the revolver was still there. It was-not that it was going to be much use, except maybe as a club; the firing mechanism would be hopelessly fouled with the lumpy slime.

  "Watch out!" I called through cupped hands, shuddering as I felt-or imagined I felt-something large, cold, and slimy slither across my back. "Forget the floor plan! It's a fucking swamp!"

  Garth's head and shoulders appeared above me in the opening. He looked down at me, frowned. "You all right?"

  "I'm all right, but my gun has to be fouled. Watch out for yours."

  Garth nodded, then raised the automatic over his head and jumped into the mire beside me. Taller, and with more leverage, Garth was able to wade more easily through the muck, and I didn't object when he grabbed my arm and dragged me after him across the surface toward higher ground seventy-five yards or so away.

  Blaisdel and his people had dreamed of building themselves the ultimate greenhouse, I thought as I gazed into the distance, and my first impression was that they'd wound up with the ultimate shithouse. I wondered how the people living there could stand it. The fetid air hanging over the swamp could not be that much better anywhere else in the biosphere; it was humid and cloying, and felt like wet wool in the lungs. The "sky" above Eden-the same sickly, dim green glow we had seen outside-was, I presumed, supposed to give some psychological satisfaction so that Eden's inhabitants would not be depressed by utter darkness in the absence of the sun, moon, and stars; I would have preferred darkness. It was hot-too hot-and I suspected that the inevitable greenhouse effect induced by the coated Plexiglas was considerably greater than the designers had anticipated, and would eventually become unbearable. Eden was no place to hang out during any Tribulation; Eden itself was a tribulation.

  Perhaps a half mile away, the "sky" seemed to lighten and ripple slightly, and I suspected this might be a reflection from Eden's "ocean." Unless the whole biosphere had been redesigned, the living quarters would be in a separate arm or wing constructed on higher ground near the shore of the ocean.

  Further in the distance, barely visible, there was what appeared to be a heavy mist hanging like a diaphanous curtain from the ceiling to the ground. That would be the rain forest.

  Somewhere in this vast, artificial, rotting world a machine was ticking away, preparing to send a signal that would trigger explosions that would kill tens of millions of people. Eden, indeed. Leaders like Blaisdel, William Kenecky, and Peter Patton, abetted by followers like Tanker Thompson, the Small brothers, Hector Velazian, Billy Dale Rokan, and Craig Valley, had always suffered their patently insane obsessions and superstitions, along with a desperate need to inflict their obsessions and superstitions on everyone else. I had always believed that at the bottom of every political and religious zealot's heart was a death wish. They were, in every sense of the word, enemies of humanity, creators of hell on earth, infecting generation after generation down through the centuries, their lineage of paranoia, hatred, and terrorism going all the way back to the dawn of humankind's tenure on earth. Henry Blaisdel and William Kenecky had presumed to go to the head of the class, and Garth and I had only minutes left to stop them.

  We reached the edge of the swamp, scrambled up a bank of mushy ground that rose at a sharp angle, squatted down on the crest of a hill, and looked around us. The transmitter was obviously not in the swamp area we had just come through, and the light was too dim for us to see anything but large, general features on the ground. There was no time to search randomly through the biosphere, which meant that we were going to need help-and we needed it right away. Covered with slime, we began to jog at a fairly good clip in the direction of the living quarters. There were a number of filthy streams draining into the swamp; most we could jump over, but one we had to ford. Garth took care to hold his automatic high over his head, keeping it dry.

  As we ran, we constantly scanned our surroundings; there was no sign of anything that resembled a transmitter.

  The ground gradually rose and became firmer as we approached the area where the light above us was paler and shimmering. And then we reached the shore of the "ocean"-a sizable expanse of water that was perhaps a half to three-quarters of a mile wide, and about as long. Here the air was even heavier, and sweat ran in thick rivulets down our bodies as we gasped for breath. We took only moments to try to catch our breath, then headed along a narrow pathway by the retaining wall, toward a soaring archway that-we hoped-would be the entrance to the arm containing the group's living quarters.

  At the edge of the arch we stopped, bent over double, and struggled to suck air into our lungs.

  "What time is it?" I gasped.

  "What difference does it make?" my brother replied, shaking his head. "Let's go."

  We stepped around the edge of the archway and, keeping low, sprinted twenty yards to the edge of an orchard of sere, withering trees with remnants of fruit on them that was, like everything else in Eden, rotting; here, too, the air was tainted, sickly sweet. We hurried through the orchard, stopped when we came to the edge of a wide dirt road that ran the length of the area. Across the road were a number of cottages, all a uniform color that might once have been white, but was now gray.

  In front of the cottage almost directly across from us was a red tricycle.

  We could have only a few minutes left.

  Millions of people. .

  And in, on, Eden, at any
moment, bombs would start to fall. .

  But there was nothing to do but keep going.

  Again keeping low, we sprinted across the road and into the shadows between two cabins, pressed up against the side of the cabin with the red tricycle in front of it. Once again we were gasping for air in the tainted atmosphere of Eden.

  As we crossed the road I had caught a glimpse of Eden's place of worship-a church, or an obscene parody of a church, with a gray-white gabled front and a twisted swastika for a cross. The sight of the structure, placed here as it had been in the model, gave me a perverse sense of hope.

  Houses of worship were the places where worshipers placed effigies of their gods, and the only real god these people worshiped was death.

  "Did you … see … the church?"

  Garth nodded, and from the expression on his face I could tell that he was thinking the same thoughts I was: the bombs would have to start falling at any moment. Indeed, I could hardly believe that the bombing run had not begun already. The alternative-that the planes had not been able to get into the air, and that at that very moment a radio signal was being sent that could ignite nuclear holocausts-was almost unthinkable.

  I continued, "Do you suppose the transmitter could be in there?"

  "I'm going to check it out."

  "I'll go with you."

  "No. At least you may be able to save the girl. You try to find her, then get her to someplace safe, if you can."

  "Garth-"

  "There's no time to argue, Mongo. Go get the child-and be safe."

  And then he was gone, his running, mud-covered figure disappearing into the darkness of the shadows surrounding the cottages as he headed toward the swastika-crowned church down the road.

  I sidled along the edge of the house, darted around the corner, went up the single step, and tried the front door. It was open. I eased myself into the darkened living room, quietly closed the door behind me until only a sliver of light was coming through, then looked around-and started.

  Across the room, on a table set next to a half-closed door from which flickering candlelight emanated, the luminous dial of a clock radio glowed.

  It was 10:10 in Idaho, Mountain Time.

  In New York, the new year had already begun.

  Mr. Lippitt's planes were too late.

  Unless the radio transmitter was keyed to Mountain Time, and Lippitt had somehow found that out. But how could he?

  All moot questions, I thought as I moved to the doorway, mud-filled revolver in my hand. I paused to clean some of the slime off the metal, hoping to make it at least look threatening, then peered around the edge of the door.

  In the center of the room a young couple was kneeling in front of a small, makeshift altar on which a swastika-cross was flanked by two crimson candles. Both the man and woman were dressed in hooded white terry-cloth robes. I put the gun back in the waistband of my jeans, next to my spine, then stepped into the room.

  "Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Brown," I said quietly. "I have to talk to you."

  Both the man and woman whipped their head and shoulders around. They were young, fresh-faced, and attractive, probably in their mid-twenties. The man had close-cropped brown hair, and the woman's hair was a reddish-blond. Their eyes were filled with shock, fear, and alarm.

  "Who are you?!" the man shouted as he leaped to his feet. "What are you?!"

  "My name is Robert Fred-"

  "Demon!" the man screamed as he leaped at me. "You're a demon!"

  So much for the easygoing approach. I hit him in the stomach as he reached down for me, then followed up with the barrel of my gun against the side of his head. He went down, and stayed down.

  "Mrs. Brown," I said quickly, "please listen to me! If I meant harm, I could have killed your husband just now. But I didn't. I didn't even hit him that hard; he'll be all right. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want you to listen to me."

  I paused, put the gun back in my waistband and smiled tentatively-but the woman's almost childlike face remained frozen in shock and horror that I felt almost as a physical blow. She was, I realized, thoroughly terrified of me-not because I was a mud-covered intruder who had startled her, or even because I had cold-cocked her husband with a very large and nasty-looking gun.

  The woman was speechless with horror because she believed me to be a demon.

  "I'm just a man, Mrs. Brown," I continued in a quiet voice that I hoped she would find soothing. "You are Mrs. Brown, aren't you? Vicky's mother?"

  "You're one of them," the green-eyed woman said in a weak, quavering voice. Then she closed her eyes, threw back her head, and raised her arms in supplication. "Oh, Jesus, please take me to you now. Please take me now."

  "Mrs. Brown, your daughter wrote a letter to Santa Claus. The letter was mailed in New York City by Thomas Thompson, and my brother and I wound up with it because of a certain Christmas tradition that's followed in New York. I'm no demon; I'm a private investigator who just happens to be a dwarf, and right now my brother and I are trying to save a few lives. Did you know that your daughter wrote a letter to Santa Claus a few weeks ago?"

  The woman stopped her mumbling, lowered her head, opened her eyes, and stared at me. Then, for my efforts, I got a tentative nod.

  "Did you read it?" I continued.

  She shook her head.

  "Your daughter was being sexually abused by William Kenecky. He was raping her, and he was doing it frequently. Did you know that?"

  The green eyes clouded, and the color drained from the woman's face. "What. .? What are you saying?"

  "All right, you didn't know. Kenecky was molesting Vicky, Mrs. Brown-raping her, and worse. She was afraid to tell either you or your husband because Kenecky had her convinced that she wouldn't go to heaven with you if she did."

  "It's a lie," the woman breathed. "Reverend Kenecky has gone on ahead, so he's not here to confront you. What you say can't be true."

  "Mrs. Brown, just how do you think Reverend Kenecky 'went on ahead,' as you put it?"

  "God took him in a blinding flash of light. Mr. Thompson told us about it. Reverend Kenecky was Raptured ahead of all the others. It's a very great honor."

  "Thompson killed him, Mrs. Brown. He killed him because he knew Kenecky was a child raper, and because he thought that by killing Kenecky he could keep my brother and me from finding this place-which, by the way, doesn't seem to have worked out so well. The air here smells poisonous."

  The woman slowly, reluctantly, nodded. "Eden is wrong; it was not meant to be. I don't understand why the reverend said we should be here. If we are not to be Raptured, then it must mean that we were meant to die, to go to God now to wait for the end of the Tribulation. You're right when you say that Eden is poisoned. It is another sign. We do not want to suffer at the hands of the demons, so we're all going to God in a little while."

  "Huh?"

  "Please let us be."

  "What do you mean, you're 'going to God in a little while'? Who's going to God?"

  "All of us. It's been agreed that we should all die by our own hands. It doesn't make any difference, because we'll all be resurrected when Jesus comes to establish His kingdom on earth. That's only seven years away. In the meantime, God will take us to His bosom and we will be spared the agonies of the Tribulation."

  "You're all going to commit suicide?"

  The woman's silence was her answer. A chill went through me, and I shuddered.

  "Are you going to kill Vicky, too?"

  The woman tilted her head slightly and stared at me. She seemed genuinely puzzled. "Of course," she said at last.

  "Do you think I would leave my own daughter behind to suffer seven years of Tribulation, to be torn by the claws of demons? Armageddon is about to begin."

  "Please listen to me very carefully, Mrs. Brown. Armageddon could begin in a little while-not because God or Jesus wants it, but because Kenecky and a man by the name of Henry Blaisdel wanted it. There are hydrogen bombs, and-"

  "It's God's will. A
ll but white, born-again Christians will be sent to hell anyway. What difference does it make if kikes, niggers, and mud people die now or later?"

  Hearing the words from the young, attractive, innocent-looking woman shook me, and I involuntarily took a step backward. I wondered if she sensed how afraid I was of her, of the poison in her mind that had, in a few short years, corroded her rationality and morality.

  "I'm no demon, Mrs. Brown," I said, struggling to keep my voice even. "There aren't any demons outside now, and there aren't going to be any demons outside after midnight. What there's going to be is a whole lot of death and destruction if we don't stop what's been set in motion. But we are going to stop it. You know about the radio transmitter, and you know where it is; if you don't, your husband does, because he's been looking after the place. One of you is going to tell me where it is, and then we're going to shut it down. Then we'll see if we can't talk some sense into the rest of the people in here. If you kill yourself, it will be for nothing. Armageddon isn't coming, Mrs. Brown; just a new year."

  "Lie," she hissed, and suddenly hatred glinted in her green eyes. "You are a demon! Satan sent you!"

  "Lady, those hydrogen bombs aren't going to go off in any event, because this place is going to be leveled to the ground before the signal is sent. So let's do us all a favor and-"

  "Demon!" she screamed. It was her last intelligible word, as she suddenly threw her head back again and began to babble at the top of her lungs. Saliva flew from her lips, dripped down her chin.

  There'd already been a good deal too much shouting, as far as I was concerned, and the woman's sudden, very loud fit of glossolalia wasn't helpful to either my nerves or the situation. "Sorry, ma'am," I said as I stepped quickly across the room and clipped her on the chin. The speaking in tongues stopped, and she collapsed to the floor.

  I went back into the other room, walked over to the clock radio, which now read 10:50; I reached out with a trembling hand, turned it on.

  The radio was tuned to a country radio station, which was playing a Hank Williams tune. I slowly turned the dial, got light classical music, a talk show, a New Year's Eve party, a news report on local weather conditions.