The Electricizers were in complete control of the bodies they currently inhabited but were still able to access the memories of their hosts, making it that much easier for them to acclimate to modern times. Absolom imagined how lost they would have been without the ability to understand the world to which they had been returned--a world full of cell phones, the Internet and automatic transmissions.
Using a search engine, he was able to call up information on the red-skinned abomination that had been recorded in the eyes of his mechanical agent. Relief flooded him when he learned that it wasn't actually Satan that had attempted to foul his plans, but the world's foremost paranormal investigator. The creature was known as Hellboy, and he worked for an organization called the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense.
"Fascinating," Absolom whispered, finding multiple references for the group.
The BPRD existed to combat threats of an unearthly nature. He wondered briefly if he and his band would be perceived as such--as the enemy. Of course they would be. There would be little difference between this Bureau and the rabble that had set his barn afire.
They wouldn't understand.
The images from that day so many years ago filled his mind, and his heart began to hammer inside his chest.
"Never again," he hissed, remembering how they had died, only to be reborn in the here and now--all except for one.
Absolom pushed back from the computer, the memory of Mary Hudnell's absence still painful. "Why isn't she with us?" he wondered aloud, though he doubted that his savior was listening. "Why wasn't she given the same chance as the rest of us--to carry out your wishes?"
He thought of her belly, full of life, full of promise, and nearly broke down into tears. With that memory still searing his brain, his fingers returned to the keyboard, typing in the name of his missing disciple. The woman intended to be the Madonna of their god.
There were multiple historical sources of information about the Hudnell family and their shipping empire, with nary a mention of Mary and her fate, but then something caught his attention.
It was an article from the Evening Item, Lynn's daily periodical. The story had been published on September 16 of the previous year and concerned a special birthday celebration for Mary Elizabeth Burchett, last surviving relative of the great Hudnell shipping family. He called up the article and his breathing stopped.
Is it possible? Can it actually be? he thought, quickly scanning the words on the screen.
Mary Elizabeth Burchett was the last of the Hudnells, one of the founding families of Lynn...married late in life...the two had no children...Mrs. Burchett had turned one hundred years old that day.
The age isn't right; she would have been well past one hundred years, but...
He scrolled down farther to find there was a picture of the old woman. Black-and-white, and quite grainy, sitting in front of an enormous cake, its surface covered in burning candles. Absolom leaned in close to the monitor just to be sure. The photo showed that she was bedridden, surrounded by what appeared to be medical staff. The old woman's ancient face was illuminated in the light from the candles.
A sound from behind him interrupted his search, and Absolom turned to see Annabel Standish standing in the doorway. The slightest hint of displeasure was ignited in him as he noticed the heavy red makeup applied to her young cheeks, her thin, child's lips painted to appear wet and full. She looked like a whore, but at that moment nothing could suffocate his growing excitement over what he had uncovered.
He was about to speak, to tell her his news, when she beat him to the punch.
"We can't...I can't deal with it anymore, Absolom," she stamped her tiny foot upon the floor. "Qemu'el has abandoned us, and you say that we're going to complete our mission, but you give us no explanation of how. We're down in that filthy, dirty basement all day and night working on projects that you say will help us to change the world but..."
He had already sensed the beginning of unrest in his disciples and knew that it was only a matter of time before they chose to confront him. Absolom was surprised that they had chosen Annabel. He would have imagined they'd pick the dog.
"Calm yourself, sister," he interrupted, the forcefulness of his words stopping her in midsentence. "Your concerns are justified, but you need worry no longer. Our mission is on track; it will only be a matter of time before we bask in the heavenly light of our lord and savior."
He watched as Annabel's expression became confused. She didn't understand how close they were. Absolom himself had had no idea until a moment ago.
He laughed at her confusion, pushing his chair back and gesturing toward the computer monitor.
"She's alive," he said, feeling a joy the likes of which he had not experienced since he first heard the voice of his god.
The little girl moved closer to see what it was that filled him with such excitement.
"The Madonna," he said to her, pointing to the computer screen. "She still lives."
Chapter 8
T he angel of destruction stirred.
From within the womb of darkness Qemu'el sensed that its time was again drawing nigh.
Qemu'el and his brethren, Duma and Za'apiel, a host of three, had been created by the Almighty as a fail-safe. The fearsome Archons' sole purpose was to eradicate God's failures, to wipe away the Creator's mistakes so that creation could begin anew. In each of them was the power to wipe away entire civilizations, whole planets...galaxies. Combined, they could return everything to nothingness.
Return it all to the darkness.
They were God's destroyers, and yet their might had never been tested. Deemed no longer necessary by a loving Creator, Qemu'el and his brothers had been placed within a prison of shadow, devoid of life or substance, meant to sleep in peace until such a time when their unique talents might be needed.
But Qemu'el refused sleep.
From within the confines of his entrapment, the Archon seethed. Za'apiel and Duma accepted their fate, succumbing to the pull of somnolence, but Qemu'el defied the Creator. He managed to tear a hole--just the tiniest of rips--in the fabric of time and space, so that he could watch the development of the Creator's prized puppets.
Accursed humanity.
The more he saw, the more his anger grew. Here was a species that did not deserve the wonders their Lord had bestowed upon them. Murder, poverty and war, the befouling of the planet itself; these were not the faithful creatures that the Almighty believed them to be. They were a blight, a pestilence, defying His wishes at every turn.
The Creator was blind to this, smitten by humanity's supposed charms. With every passing millennium the angel watched, anticipating the call. He expected to hear the voice of his God, ordering the Destroyers forth from their murky prison and unleashing them upon His failure. How Qemu'el longed to see their cities crumble, the tortured faces of the human race turned up to the heavens in desperate prayer as the skies were turned to fire, and they were expunged from the world--a horrible mistake erased, never to be heard from again.
But the Creator's voice was silent, and humanity continued on with its desecration of His holy gifts as Qemu'el watched and waited patiently for a time when he would be given the chance to wipe it all away.
Now that time was drawing near.
Qemu'el forced himself to contain his excitement, for he did not wish to disturb his brothers' sleep. If they had any idea as to the machinations that he had set in motion, they would surely rouse themselves from their slumber and attempt to stop him. And the Destroyer could not allow that to happen. He had waited too long for this moment.
Visions of what he would do to the world again filled his thoughts, and for just a moment, the angel dwelled upon the repercussions of his actions. How would the Almighty react? The Destroyer wondered, but the imagined cries of the hurtful creatures as they suffered their end filled him with such great anticipation that he did not dwell upon the Creator's response. After all, this was why He had made the Archons.
T
his was the Lord's work.
She should have died that night.
The dream--the nightmare--of what had happened was upon her again, and she saw the killers as clear as day; men, women and children, bearing weapons and fire.
The fools. If only they'd taken the time to fully understand what the band was attempting. Their god was ready to be born, to take humanity by the hand and escort it to a special place at his side. But they did not understand that all the world would benefit. They had been blind to the wondrous gift that the Electricizers were preparing for them.
She remembered the quiet moment before the violence. Every time she dreamed it the silence grew longer and sometimes, in the dream, she actually believed that this time the horror would not come, and that the man that she loved would convince the rabble that what was about to happen was a gift from Heaven.
But it came. It always came. The sound of gunfire, the choking smell of the barn ablaze.
She didn't even recall climbing from the birthing chair--as if some primitive survival instinct had kicked in, overriding her desire to stand by the side of the man she loved. The next thing she knew, she was in the cold, dark woods, the sounds of violence chasing her away, urging her to escape.
The future of the world growing inside her.
Mary Hudnell should have died that night, but her god had had other plans.
Alarm bells rent the air.
Rosalyn's eyes went to the monitors set up before her, checking her patient's heart rate and respiration. They were both elevated, but this wasn't unusual. The old woman was probably dreaming again.
Rosalyn Tillis had been with the Burchett family since graduating from nursing school, acting as the personal nurse to Mrs. Mary Burchett in her declining years.
She rose from her seat at the workstation in the grand hallway of the Burchett estate, her rubber-soled nursing shoes muffling her footsteps as she walked the long corridor down to her patient's room. How many times have I made this trip in the last month alone? The outcome was usually the same; the old girl having just awakened from a dream, her vital signs soon returning to normal. Well, as normal as they were going to get.
Rosalyn reached for the doorknob and felt that odd tingle of apprehension as she always did. She wondered if there would ever come a time when that would pass. When the old girl is finally dead and gone, a flippant voice answered in the back of her mind, and she quickly silenced it. She felt bad for the woman, she really did. Alone in this big old house, the only company her personal secretary and a nurse, the only big excitement coming when the doctor made his monthly visit. It just proved that no matter how much wealth one obtained, it could never buy happiness or health.
She turned the brass knob, watching her distorted reflection in its polished surface as she entered the room. The machines were chiming in here as well, and the nurse quickly went to them, again checking the readings before silencing their warning alarms.
From the looks of her bed it had been the dream, for the woman always kicked away her blankets and exposed herself in the throes of her nightmare.
Even after all these years, Rosalyn still found herself staring.
The old woman's body was skeletally thin, her arms and legs little more than flesh-covered sticks, but her stomach was round and protruding, as if bulging with life.
She'd had dozens of tests ordered by several different physicians over the years, and the doctors had all concluded one thing--hysterical pregnancy. There was nothing physically wrong with Mary Burchett, nothing growing inside her to make her abdomen bulge so. Odd as it might sound, her body believed that she was pregnant, had been pregnant, for the last seventy years or so.
Rosalyn had heard all kinds of stories about long-lost lovers old Mary had had before Mr. Burchett came along, and how it was but one love that caused her body to react in such a bizarre way.
Mary Burchett's eyes fluttered slowly open, her gaunt face turning toward the nurse as she readjusted the controls on one of the monitoring machines.
"Another bad dream, dear?" Rosalyn asked the ancient woman in her kindest tone. She really did feel bad for the old girl.
Mary swallowed dryly, a click in her throat sounding as loud as the snap of bony fingers. Rosalyn picked up a pitcher of ice water and poured some into a glass. Lifting Mary's head slightly, she helped her to drink.
Her nightgown had risen up over her stomach, and Rosalyn found herself staring at the old woman's abnormally distended belly. It really does look as though she's pregnant.
And then she watched it move, the flesh writhing as if something was actually alive beneath it. Rosalyn blinked in disbelief. It's gotta be a trick of the light.
Mary muttered something, and Rosalyn tore her eyes from the old woman's swollen stomach.
"Mrs. Burchett, I..." she began.
"That's quite all right, Rosalyn." Mary Burchett smiled wearily at her nurse, spidery hands reaching to pull her nightgown down over the taut, swollen flesh. "You can go now, I'm fine."
And so Rosalyn did, politely smiling at her employer as she turned away. Her gaze went to the woman's distended belly one last time, searching for signs of movement before she moved hurriedly toward the door.
Mary Hudnell moaned as she lay in her bed, the multiple machines attached to her frail body registering her life signs and the effects of her discomfort.
The presence inside her was stirring; showing more signs of life now than it had exhibited in over eighty years. Her hand went to her belly, caressing the swollen expanse of her stomach through the cotton of her nightgown. The stretched flesh was warm to the touch and growing increasingly warmer.
"What is it?" she asked, moving skeletal hands blotched with age over the bulbous surface. "After all these years, what has excited you so now?"
The essence within her roiled, as if in response, and she gasped aloud. Mary looked down at her belly, both horrified and delighted by the sight of her stomach, the flesh moving as something within writhed.
"Is everything all right, Mrs. Burchett?" Rosalyn's voice crackled over the intercom beside her bed.
Mrs. Burchett. She'd never really gotten used to bearing his name. Even though they had been married for well over thirty-five years, she was never comfortable with it. Robert Burchett had been a good man, a good husband, but he had been forced to exist in the shadow of the one true love that had been taken from her.
"Just a little discomfort, Rosalyn," Mary answered, spindly fingers upon the intercom device hanging from her bedside. "Nothing to concern yourself with."
Her mind was filled with terrifying imagery from that night so long ago, the people of Lynn attacking the barn where the Electricizers were about to advance mankind to its next evolutionary step. She would have died with them, but the presence inside her would not allow it. She had prayed to the god inside her--oh how she had prayed--for her love to be unharmed. Mary closed her eyes, remembering his handsome face. How long did she hold out hope that he would come back to her, to begin again, and this time, complete the ritual that would change the world? Many a night she had dreamed of his return, even going so far as to begin preparations for his arrival, but it wasn't to be.
A brisk knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Mary called out with permission to enter. A heavyset man wearing a blue blazer and gray dress slacks stepped gingerly into her room.
"Yes, Stewart?" The man had been her personal assistant for the last ten years.
"I hate to bother you, ma'am," he said from the doorway, as if afraid to come closer.
She waved his apologies away. It had been days since she'd last seen the man. As her condition continued to deteriorate, he came around less and less. Probably eager for me to hurry up and die, she thought.
"There are people downstairs, a family that wants to meet with you. I told them you weren't well, and that--"
"A family?" she asked, painfully lifting her head from the pillow. "Why in hell would a family want to see me? Probably looking for a handout," s
he suggested with disgust. "Send them away, and if they won't go, call the police."
The feeling inside her was suddenly excruciating. The machines around her bed beeped and chimed in response to her pain, and Rosalyn was suddenly there, pushing Stewart aside to get to her.
"Stewart, wait!" she called weakly, and the man returned to the doorway.
"Yes, Mrs. Burchett," he asked attentively.
"This family," she wheezed.
The nurse tried to slip an oxygen mask over her face, but Mary swatted it away.
"Did they tell you their name?"
The pain started to subside, but she suspected it could very easily return.
"Yes, yes they did. The father said for me to tell you that Absolom Spearz was here. He seemed to think that his name would have some meaning for you."
The machines went wild again as Mary felt her ancient body surge with vitality. She tore away the wires and tubes, ripping an intravenous from her arm amid furious protests from Rosalyn.
"Mrs. Burchett, please!" the nurse cried.
But Mary did not listen, hearing only the name of the one man she had ever truly loved reverberating in her ears, a man who was now waiting to see her. A man who had at last returned, as she always dreamed he would.
At last.
Absolom heard the screech of his name and turned toward the study. He and his brood had been ordered to wait within the dark room, its walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, while Mrs. Burchett's assistant went to see if the woman was feeling well enough to speak with him.
At first it didn't even appear that they would be allowed through the front door of the expansive dwelling, but he had an especially persuasive way about him that came in quite handy at times such as this. You could charm the birds from the sky, his Sally used to say, but he had to wonder if this talent was yet another gift of being touched by god.
He heard his name called again, only this time closer. There was a commotion, the sound of somebody quickly approaching, and he strolled toward the door. His disciples were now standing as well, awaiting the arrival of the one who cried their leader's name.
The God Machine Page 12
