Comes a Horseman

by Robert Liparulo

  Scaramuzzi caught Brady’s eye, pointed at the body, and said, “Could have been you.”

  He turned and disappeared into the corridor, the click of his heels fading with each step.

  83

  Alicia wept into her hands, raising her face only to curse Scaramuzzi. Brady sat beside her on the cot, rubbing her back. He held his fingers to his nostrils, preferring the odor of sweat and skin to that of vomit and blood. One good whiff of the air would have him adding to Alicia’s mess.

  “The old man amazed me to the last,” he said, trying to distract her. “He just had to tell us what it was like.” He cringed when he heard his own words. But he could not stop there; maybe there was hope of extracting his foot from his mouth. “What dying was like. ‘It’s what you’d expect.’ He must have seen the pearly gates, huh?”

  Alicia’s convulsions trailed off. She sat silently, her hands covering her face. When she looked at him, her eyes were red, her cheeks wet, but it was not sorrow shaping her expression, but disbelief.

  “I said the wrong thing,” he admitted apologetically.

  She stood, held out one finger, indicating, Hold on a minute.

  She went to the cell door. She reached through and fumbled with the keypad. Three beeps sounded. The lock mechanism clanked, and the door snicked open an inch.

  Brady rose. “What the . . . ?”

  Her lips pressed together, and he realized she was trying to smile and hold back tears at the same time. He stepped forward and took her in his arms. Cheek pressed against his chest, she said, “‘It’s what you’d expect.’ Not death, the combination. He kept his promise to you.”

  “But what was it?”

  She leaned back to view his face. “Antichrist? A guy who thinks he’s clever and funny?”

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe you just have to know guys like that the way women get to know them. Come on.” She stepped through the door, averting her face from Ambrosi’s corpse.

  “You’re not going to . . . ?” Then it dawned on him. “Six-six-six.”

  She smiled, thin and strained.

  Shaking his head, Brady reached out and took her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They jogged into the tunnel on their right. Brady had used it earlier to reach Alicia; perhaps he could backpedal his way out. He didn’t hold out much hope without the CSD.

  “I’ve tackled these tunnels before,” he told her. “I was lost for two hours.”

  “We have to try, Brady.”

  The passageways to the left and right appeared less hospitable than their own—impossibly narrow, flooded, emitting foul odors. Everything looked different not viewed through the CSD’s optics. Finally, they came to a lighted tunnel and took it. Another lighted passageway on the right—Brady turned into it and stopped. Alicia turned the corner, bumped into him, and peered around him.

  They were in a chamber of some sort, boxes and crates and bags stacked all around the edges. A man was bent over a box, applying shipping tape. He looked up at them.

  “Hey!” he yelled. He dropped the tape dispenser and reached for the small of his back. He was too far away for them to rush him.

  “Back! Back!” Brady said, reversing and pushing Alicia into the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of the man pointing a pistol. He moved out of the threshold as a loud report roared out of the chamber and rolled like thunder through the tunnel. Another sharp sound snapped behind him—the bullet had hit the wall near his head.

  “Stop!” The man sounded American. He would be directly behind them in the tunnel within seconds.

  “Turn!” Brady said. “Now!”

  Alicia arced into a wide but jet-black passageway.

  The gun fired again, and stone chips blasted off the wall, stinging Brady’s cheek. He made the turn. The man would be as sightless as they were here, but he’d probably shoot blindly into the dark, Brady thought.

  “Turn again,” he instructed.

  “I can’t see anything!”

  “Run your hand along the left wall. I’ll cover the right.”

  Instinctually, each held out the opposite arm as well until they clasped each other’s hands.

  The pistol roared behind them: Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Brady heard a slug zing past his ear.

  “Brady?” Alicia called. Terror in her voice.

  “Here!” he said and yanked her into the tunnel he’d found. It was equally lightless but narrower. They ran single file. If their pursuer fired into this tunnel, he could not miss.

  The wall on the left kept pushing in on them as the tunnel bent right. Light drifted into view—an illuminated tunnel a hundred yards ahead. Suddenly, shadows flitted on the back wall of the approaching tunnel and shouts from a half dozen people drifted toward them. Brady braked hard.

  “Go back,” he whispered harshly.

  “But the guy with the gun—”

  “He’s only one,” Brady said. “There’s a small army the other way.”

  He heard her spin and dash away.

  “Alicia, wait!”

  He darted after her.

  “What?” she called back.

  “Hold your arms straight out in front of you, head-high. Both of them. Run as fast as you can.”

  Their pace picked up.

  “Get ready,” he whispered behind her.

  He heard the man’s footsteps and breathing two seconds before Alicia collided into their pursuer. Both let out heavy grunts. Brady crashed into Alicia’s back, using his weight and momentum to give her the advantage, in case her outstretched arms had not done the trick. They tumbled onto the floor of the tunnel, rolling and pitching. Brady was up almost before he was down.

  “Alicia!”

  “Here,” she said, rising beside him.

  “Where’s—”

  “I’m stepping on his chest. He’s out.”

  “Get his gun.”

  From down low: “Can’t find it.”

  He dropped to his knees, panning his palms across the floor.

  Noises from other pursuers came to them. A flashlight beam skittered against the curve of the tunnel wall.

  Brady’s right hand hit metal, which danced away from him.

  “Got it,” he said. “Come on.”

  They reached the lighted tunnel where the man had first shot at them.

  Alicia turned left, away from the cell they’d occupied, far in the other direction. She slowed before a lighted portal on her left. She peered in. Nothing. It was a passageway similar to the one they were in.

  “Straight,” Brady said, and she did not hesitate.

  Thirty seconds later, voices pranced ahead of the humans making them—Brady and Alicia were heading directly into another search party.

  They spun in unison and jogged back to the lighted passage they had passed. They darted into it. The two groups of pursuers would meet in about twenty seconds and realize where their prey went.

  “Take the next lighted tunnel,” he said.

  They passed three black tunnels before reaching one with a string of stingy bulbs tacked to the ceiling. Stepping into it, they slowed to a walk, which allowed them to catch their breath and listen for pursuers.

  “Sound gets distorted down here,” he told her. “It’s really hard to pinpoint it.”

  “I noticed.”

  He looked at the pistol in his hand. Glock 21—same as the one he trained with and carried on the job, except this fired .45s. Its bullets were larger than the 9mm bullets he was accustomed to. He stopped and ejected the magazine. Empty. He pulled back on the slide: a bullet popped out. He slipped it back into the chamber.

  “One bullet,” he reported.

  “Make it count.”

  A gunshot rang out, and a bulb above them exploded. They turned to see a woman with a rifle taking aim. She was at least a hundred yards away, past the tunnel from which they had emerged.

  Brady and Alicia dropped to the ground. The rifle fired. The bullet gouged out a chunk of wall above Ali
cia’s head.

  The shooter walked toward them.

  “Crawl as fast as you can,” Brady said. He scurried behind Alicia, moving backward to keep an eye on their pursuer.

  The woman took aim. Brady watched her close one eye. He raised the Glock and sighted down its barrel, aligning her head between two iridescent dots.

  Three people burst into the tunnel from a side passage, between the woman and him and Alicia. Four more joined them. They seemed confused about which way to turn. Two spotted the riflewoman and dropped into a crouch as their own weapons came up on her.

  “Hey!” someone yelled, and Brady thought it was Rifle Lady, ticked that a group of morons spoiled her shot.

  He spun, saw nothing but Alicia’s backside and the bottoms of her shoes. He scampered after her.

  A chorus of voices rang out behind him, representing a host of nations: “Erhalten Sie sie!” “Tiro! Tiro!” “Déplacez-le des secousses!”

  Someone fired a shot.

  They rounded a corner and leaped to their feet. The voices bounced past them. The tunnel opened into a huge corridor or hall, at least three stories high and so long neither end was visible. Fluted columns lined both walls. Stone spandrels arced from the top of one column to the next in line, all the way down the hall. From as far as Brady could see in each direction, amber glass bowls, like giant contact lenses, hung from the ceiling by thick chains. Fire crackled in each bowl and cast the entire hall in a bright, flickering yellow glow.

  Tall double doors were centered in the wall between each column. Alicia ran to one, tugged at it. It did not budge.

  Brady tried a different door, same result.

  They ran down the corridor, moving past each other, trying doors.

  Voices reached them from behind and ahead.

  “Look for another tun—,” Brady called as the door he tugged came toward him with the shriek of a dying bird.

  “Alicia!” he said, turning to find her. She was at his side. Together, they pulled the doors open.

  “Come in!” bellowed a familiar voice.

  At the end of a long, carpeted aisle, Luco Scaramuzzi stood behind a stone altar, beckoning to them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “we have guests!”

  84

  In the corridor, their pursuers found them. Coming from both directions, two groups of at least a dozen people each, every one armed with a knife or pistol or rifle, converged on Brady and Alicia. They had no choice but to accept Scaramuzzi’s invitation. They moved quickly into the room. It was a cathedral, intricately carved from the bedrock under Jerusalem. Even the pews on each side of the aisle were stone. Two hundred faces were turned to Brady and Alicia. They stopped halfway to the altar. The armed militia crowded the threshold behind them. Their voices faded as voices do in churches.

  Brady rotated around, catching sight of armed guards on balconies in the four corners of the cathedral. Without hesitation, he raised the pistol and took aim at Scaramuzzi.

  Breaths pulled in, firearms cocked. Several men in nearby pews rose to their feet, ready to spring.

  “Wait!” Scaramuzzi called. He raised his arms like a televangelist healing his broadcast audience. He was wearing a white robe. The sleeves hung down like angel’s wings. This mockery of worship—its location, its “minister”—felt wrong to Brady. It called to mind Hieronymus Bosch’s depiction of black mass, and the thought sickened him.

  “Who brings these persecutors?” he continued. “Is it my father? Is it Satan?”

  Gasps and ripples of applause from the congregation.

  “A challenge, perhaps? A test? Father, has my time of trial and triumph come?”

  He glanced around the room. A smile creased his lips.

  Brady risked his own glimpse of the crowd. They were transfixed, overwhelmed by the spectacle before them. Scaramuzzi was playing them perfectly. This was precisely the show they wanted. Regardless of the outcome, Scaramuzzi would spin it in his direction, and they would love him. The beast Ambrosi had described—with the malice of Hitler and the power of nations—was taking shape before their eyes.

  An absurdity pushed its way into his mind: Could Scaramuzzi have planned this all along? Could he and Alicia have been prodded and herded to this place at this time, carried on a current of Scaramuzzi’s design?

  Keeping his arms high, Scaramuzzi stepped around the altar.

  “You see, my beloved, these intruders know who I am. They recognize me!”

  Brady called out, “Tell your guards to drop their weapons!”

  Scaramuzzi nodded. “Of course.” He made a vertical gesture with his hands, as though fanning the congregation. After some hesitation, weapons all around them clattered against the floor. The men in the balconies leaned their rifles against the balustrades.

  “You see?” Scaramuzzi said calmly. “See how I embrace my destiny?”

  All Brady could see was Scaramuzzi’s head lined up in the pistol’s sights. He felt the trigger under his finger.

  Pull the trigger, he thought. End it here.

  The end of everything: Scaramuzzi . . . Alicia . . . himself. He knew that before the gunshot blast faded away, the mob would be on top of them. They would tear the two of them apart.

  He did not want that for Alicia. He did not want that for himself. He truly wanted to see Zach again. And he wanted to know what Alicia felt like in his arms.

  His finger eased off the trigger.

  “We’re leaving,” he announced and took a step back.

  Scaramuzzi said nothing.

  He wants us to leave.

  He’d given his fans the drama they sought. He’d say his mercy spared his enemies . . . or his father, Satan, told him he had passed the test, that he had stood up to his enemies and survived . . . he’d tell them something that would solidify their faith in him and grant him more power.

  Brady took another backward step. Alicia moved with him—close, her hand on his shoulder.

  A latch clanked and a door off to Brady’s right creaked open. Everyone’s head turned, including Scaramuzzi’s. Brady moved just his eyes and caught sight of three men standing in a doorway. The one in front was short and stocky, with bushy eyebrows and a full head of silver hair. He recognized him from Ambrosi’s scrapbook—Niklas Hüber. The Asian man beside Hüber was . . . Ah, he could not remember the man’s name, but his picture had been beside Hüber’s. Behind them stood a tall black man. He had not been pictured in the scrapbook, but Ambrosi had said his information on the current Council of Watchers was incomplete. These newcomers quickly assessed the situation. Deep frowns etched into their faces as they focused their attention on Scaramuzzi.

  “This test is mine!” Scaramuzzi’s voice resonated in the big chamber. He gazed past the gun into Brady’s eyes. “‘And I saw one of his heads as if it had been slain, and his fatal wound was healed. And the whole earth was amazed and followed after the beast!’”

  Brady’s stomach tightened. He was quoting from Revelation. It was the passage that many theologians say describes a fatal head wound Antichrist suffers, from which he miraculously recovers, sealing his ascension to world power.

  Is he suggesting I . . . ?

  Keeping his eyes locked on Brady’s, Scaramuzzi bellowed, “Listen to me, all of you! These intruders are sent from the father to demonstrate my power, my identity! Let them shoot me—”

  The congregation erupted with shouts of “No!” and “We won’t!”

  Scaramuzzi continued: “Let them shoot me, for it is written that they will. And it is written that I will rise again. And all will know me!”

  The noes turned into cheers.

  “If they shoot, let them go. If they don’t . . . kill them.”

  Silence.

  “Agreed, my beloved?”

  No one replied. He was asking more than many of them could promise. Shoot the savior and go free? Blasphemy!

  “I will come back,” explained Scaramuzzi, “and take my revenge. They are mine.”
>
  This the congregation understood. Applause and cheers welled to a deafening volume. Then it quelled, like a breaker rolling off the sand, back into the surf.

  “So,” he said softly to Brady, “fulfill my destiny.”

  Beside him, Alicia whispered, “Do it.”

  In his mind, he saw himself pulling back on the trigger, putting a bullet in this lunatic’s head.

  His finger was paralyzed.

  This was wrong. Scaramuzzi was unarmed. Killing him this way was murder.

  Shoot! he scolded himself.

  Brady was not cut out for unprincipled action. He had been wrong to think he could do whatever it took, regardless of the law, regardless of morals. The end does not justify the means! Three days ago, when he had taken aim at Malik, he wasn’t ready to recage the beast he felt stirring inside. Now he was.

  The beheadings . . . Zach . . . the attack on Alicia . . .

  He had every reason to shoot. Why couldn’t he?

  He had heard about soldiers who were well trained, both physically and psychologically, to kill, but found they could not—even as their enemies tried to kill them. What a time to find out.

  “Brady?” Alicia whispered.

  Brady saw Scaramuzzi’s forehead glisten. A lock of hair was quivering. He was trying to play it cool, but his nerve was starting to crack.

  “Do it,” Scaramuzzi said, almost inaudibly.

  Brady’s aim lowered slightly. Centered between the sights was Scaramuzzi’s neck . . . then his chest . . .

  Someone gripped his wrist. Alicia, reading his thoughts. Her right hand rose and took hold of the pistol. She tugged and then wrenched it from his hand.

  She aimed it at Scaramuzzi.

  He squinted at her, and for a moment, the cloud of insanity seemed to disperse away from him. Sheer terror flashed on his face.

  She fired.

  A hole appeared above his left eye. A red mist burst from behind his head. Filigrees of gore instantly appeared on the back wall. Scaramuzzi snapped backward, falling on the altar. A second later he was back up, standing as though only by habit. A trickle of blood leaked from the hole in his forehead, pooled in his brow, and dripped onto the white robe over his heart. He teetered and fell forward. His head struck the floor with the crack of a sledgehammer. A dark halo of blood fanned out under his head, slow as syrup.