by Bryan Smith
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She detected something in Dream’s gaze then, some subtle flicker of knowledge.
“Oh, I keep my ears to the ground, young lady. You see, I serve The Master and I am loyal to him, but my loyalty has its limits.” Her lips grazed Dream’s mouth, making the captive girl quiver. “I will weather this storm.”
She relinquished Dream. “So go, whore. Enjoy hell.”
Ms. Wickman turned away from Dream and disappeared around the corner to the landing. High heels clicked down the winding staircase, echoing like pebbles dropped down a well. Her mocking laughter was the deranged laughter of hell’s warden.
Dream, demoralized and scared shitless, slumped to the floor.
And she stayed right there until she had the shaking under control.
Her friends were dead.
No way they’d survived the night in this place. Anger began to displace Dream’s terror of the strange housekeeper. Whatever shred of illusion she’d been clinging to was irreparably tattered. She didn’t want to join King in some redeeming eternal afterlife.
What she felt for him wasn’t natural.
That was so clear now.
He’d done something to her.
Some kind of… sex magic.
Yes, he would be capable of that.
Dream tried to get a grip on her warring emotions.
It was tempting to let anger guide her actions now, but she saw immediately how counterproductive that would be. She had to remain focused on the goal. Had to
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maintain the illusion of conspiracy with King. He needed to keep right on believing she wanted to be with him.
Until he was dead.
Until they were both dead.
Defeated and devoid of hope, Dream got to her feet and returned to King’s room.
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In its true form, the house on the mountain existed in a state of stasis. The dilapidated structure consisted of matter suspended. For more than forty years, the old beams that made up the house’s sagging skeletal infrastructure did not decay. The rot that had already begun could not progress. The water stains that made the kitchen ceiling droop did not spread. In the living room, the property’s old caretaker sat on a plastic-covered sofa, his throat slit and his head cocked to the right. The perfectly preserved body had been there since January of 1960. The plastic cover and the man’s overalls were stained with blood that had never coagulated.
This house, the true house, was a kind of purgatory.
Cold, unchanging, and invisible.
It provided the framework for the illusions created by the creature that had invaded and forever changed this
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forgotten slice of land back in those final pre-Camelot days. The dimensions and appearance of the illusory house changed daily, sometimes in a subtle way, occasionally in a very drastic way. The power that created the illusions and kept the true house out of view was immense, stronger than the forces of the natural world.
The illusion was unassailable.
The true house impregnable.
Untouched by time.
Until today.
When something stirred.
Somewhere, perhaps in one of the empty upper rooms, a board faintly creaked.
A sigh was almost audible.
The sound of something very old and very tired awakening one more time.
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The gunshot knocked Cindy off her feet, lifting her momentarily off the ground. Chad knew next to nothing about guns, but this one was powerful. Cindy flopped face first on the ground and didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. The bullet had taken out most of her brain. Chad watched with slackjawed horror and disbelief as the guards retrieved their wounded colleague and departed.
They didn’t spare him so much as a backward glance.
Grief beyond his ability to contain welled out with a force that shook him, and he turned his head heavenward and wailed. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks and trickled into his mouth. Later, he wasn’t sure how long he remained there like that. It might have been only a few minutes or as long as a half hour. Cindy’s shack was one among a row of dozens. This was where the slaves lived. Their quarters. Some of them emerged cautiously from
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these decrepit dwellings to see what the fuss was about. Chad only began to recover when he became aware of their presence.
And he saw what they were seeing.
The obscenity of Cindy’s nude, unspeakably defiled body.
A shell that had until moments ago housed a vibrant, galvanizing life force. The soul of a woman who had gone to great lengths and placed herself in jeopardy to bring him safely to this place. A woman he’d known for so brief a period of time but had been well on the way to caring a great deal about. And now she just didn’t exist. The ruined home of that precious soul leaked blood and tissue on the ground. The magnitude of the loss triggered another spasm of grief, and he lurched to his feet, staggered back into the shack, and returned with a tattered blanket.
He covered her body with the blanket.
And slumped next to her on the ground. He was only half-conscious of his own nudity, but modesty was an absurd concept in the face of something so horrific. He supposed the impulse to cover a dead woman’s body was also something of an absurdity, but she deserved some slight measure of dignity, at least, so he made this little gesture. And he continued to sit there with her, feeling impotent, powerless, unsure of how to proceed. He experienced the expected thirst for revenge, but he had no idea how to go about exacting these theoretical acts of reprisal.
He later supposed he might have stayed there next to the body indefinitely had it not been for the intercession of Jack Paradise.
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Jack Paradise, not the name bestowed upon him at birth (surprise, surprise), had lived Below for fifteen years, the last nine as an emancipated slave. As an ex-marine, he should have been a prime candidate for membership in The Master’s underground police force, but Paradise made it clear he would be no one’s thug. The act of resistance should have earned him a ticket on the express train to heaven, but the great drill sergeant in the sky must have been smiling on him that day, because, hey, he was still here, in the flesh and bigger than life. Big being the key word in that phrase, since he was impressively built and well over six feet tall.
The leaders of the conspiracy had him in their sights from the beginning, and he’d assumed a leadership role soon after being recruited. He was good at things the others didn’t have a clue about, practical things like strategy and identifying which guards might be sympathetic to their cause. Jack had an outsized personality, but he was shrewd and honorable. Lazarus may have been the movement’s inspirational figure, its messiah, but Jack was its Patton. The conspiracy had eyes almost everywhere in those closing moments before the uprising began, and Jack was summoned to the scene of Cindy’s death almost immediately.
His first look at the brave woman’s ruined head made his expression grow hard.
Cords of muscle in his big arms tensed with a need to lash out at something.
But he remained steadfast.
And got to work.
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Chad, of course, had no idea who the big guy was, but he sensed he was there to help. Something in his general demeanor told him that-the stance of his body, the way his face became a slab of granite at the sight of Cindy’s body.
Chad detected compassion in the man’s eyes when he turned his piercing gaze on him. “I promise you one thing, the motherfuckers who did this will die tonight.” He extended a hand to Chad. “Here, let’s get to work.”
Chad took the proffered hand and was promptly hauled to his feet. The man then knelt over Cindy and arranged the blanket over her head and the upper portion of her body. Then he lifted her off the ground, beckoned to Chad with a tilt of his head, and carried the corpse into the shack. Chad, still numb but nonetheless intrigued by the appearance of this superhero, followed him through the door.
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The man placed Cindy gently on the mat, found a crumpled bedsheet with holes in it, and covered the lower half of her body with it. Then he took one of her lifeless hands in his, kissed the back of it, and muttered something Chad couldn’t decipher. He closed his eyes, squinted hard, and breathed deeply.
Then that steely gaze was back on Chad, focused and intent. “Get dressed, Chad. We’ve got a revolution to start”
Chad searched for his clothes.
He wasn’t surprised that the man knew his name.
That was hours ago. Chad had since learned who Jack Paradise was, and the man instilled more confidence in him than Lazarus ever could. He radiated spirit and ability. He was a compelling figure with a lot to say. Paradise advised
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him to compartmentalize his grief and anger. Not forever. Later he would see that his anger, if properly channeled, could be a useful tool. It might provide him the courage to stride brazenly into the belly of the beast.
Paradise took him back to The Outpost, where Lazarus awaited in the back room. The old singer was visibly shaken by the news of Cindy’s death. His face was puffy and his eyes were red. His breath smelled of alcohol, but the odor wasn’t as strong as Chad was afraid it would be. He embraced Chad and patted him on the back. Chad held the old man in his arms and tried to heed Jack’s counsel.
Compartmentalize.
Compartmentalize, goddamn it.
Easier said than done.
There were others in the room. More coconspirators. Two of them looked cut from the same mold as Jack. Another was a stoop-shouldered man at least a decade older than Lazarus. One was a woman Chad recognized, one of the whip-wielding emancipateds outside the sex club. And there was a young boy who looked to be about the age Chad had been when Dream intervened on his behalf so long ago. Chad felt a flash of incredulity that a kid was a member of this inner circle, but a closer look revealed eyes that reflected intelligence and sturdy conviction. The look was enough to tell him the kid was grittier than he could have dreamed of being at that age.
Jack made the introductions. “You all know who Chad is, but he’s at a disadvantage, so I’ll do the honors.”
He nodded at the woman. “This is Wicked Wanda.”
The woman’s expression was grim, her mouth a tight line.
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“Wanda and Cindy were close, Chad. Confidantes, you could say.”
He then introduced the brawny men Chad thought of as Jack Clones, and they were indeed ex-military Their names were Shaft (as in Richard Roundtree) and Joe (as in G.I.)- Shaft was an imposing black man with a gleaming bald dome of a skull, and Joe looked like a strapping farm boy from the heartland.
“This geezer here is Jake Barnes.”
Barnes chuckled. “Geezer, my eye.” His gaze swung in Chad’s direction. “Don’t let my posture fool you, boy. I’m still ass-kicking capable.”
The kid was the last to be introduced. “And this is Todd Haynes, still wet behind the ears and barely out of his diapers.” Paradise tapped his skull. “But he’s got more going on up here than the rest of us combined.”
The kid’s serious expression never wavered. “I’m a genius. That’s just a fact of IQ testing. I’m counting on you to return me to the land of higher education and government grants.” He started to smile. “And I’m as tough as any of these assholes.”
Chad believed him.
Paradise clapped his hands, a signal that the formalities were at an end. “Okay, down to business.” A grim tone entered his voice. “I know you’ve all heard what happened to Cindy, and I have the sad task of confirming it. She’s dead. Early indications are it’s a retaliation for the death yesterday of a certain vendor we all know.”
Chad groaned.
He heard a murmur of other voices.
“Elvis Kennedy had friends you don’t trifle with. He was
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a bastard, an evil pervert, but he should’ve been left alone.” He smiled, a fragile expression that wavered on the fine edge of a sad exhalation. “Cindy’s sense of moral outrage finally outweighed her good sense. Perhaps she was emboldened by her emancipation, or maybe it was the nearness of our time of reckoning that prompted her action. But we can’t know what was in her mind, so conjecture is useless.”
He sighed.
Somebody sniffled.
Chad looked at Lazarus.
Paradise continued, “We don’t need to say a lot of words about Cindy. We know what kind of person she was. Brave and honorable. Invaluable to the cause. Everybody in this room loved her, including yours truly, but we must resist the temptation to succumb to grief.”
He moved to the center of the room, where he slowly surveyed the faces of everyone present. Chad could tell he was looking for chinks in the armor, subtle hints of weakness or anticipatory jitters. When he appeared satisfied with the resolve of his compatriots, he picked up his train of thought.
“Everybody here, with the obvious exception of Chad, knows what he or she has to do tonight. We’ve prepared for this day for years.” He glanced at Lazarus and Jake Barnes. “Some of us have waited decades for this day. We’ve worked too hard and come too far to be derailed by this tragedy. Failure is not an option, friends.”
His voice dropped a few notches and his eyes narrowed. “Destiny doesn’t take time off for grief, and neither will we. Not yet.”
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Chad looked around the room and saw heads nodding. Paradise again assumed the manner of a motivator and master strategist. “The Gathering begins in a few hours. Slaves and guards from the outer perimeter will begin arriving sooner than that. Let’s be ready? His gaze fixed on Lazarus. “Ready for resurrection?” The old singer looked at the floor and sighed. He scratched the thick beard that was so much whiter than the grizzled images Chad recalled from old magazines. He drew in a big breath and exhaled it. His shoulders straightened, and he looked at Paradise. His eyes glimmered. “Yes, I’m ready.” Paradise smiled. “Let’s go over it all one last time.” And Chad began to see The Outpost’s back room for what it really was. A war room.
The time of the Gathering was drawing close. The banks of stadium lights began to dim, an approximation of the onset of night. Chad followed Wanda and Todd Haynes as they pushed their way through the milling slaves en route to the “square,” a place he was made to understand was what passed for a downtown in the hobbled-together community.
The square was a big open area between buildings. There was a platform for speakers at one end and a big tent behind it. Chad imagined Lazarus waiting in that tent, perhaps remembering what it was like to wait backstage before a concert. Since he knew the singer wasn’t in the tent, the image failed to coalesce. The old man was in a private room in one of the buildings that bordered the
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square, and he would be escorted to the stage directly from there when the time arrived for his moment in the spotlight.
There was a pit in the middle of the square. It was filled with the charred remains of previous Gathering bonfires. Chad saw slaves wheeling carts of fresh wood toward the pit, and he wondered how many of them, if any, were conspirators. That got him started examining the faces of everyone he saw, trying to decide who was a comrade in arms and who wasn’t. He’d been told that the weekly festivals were doses of uninhibited debauchery. He saw people drinking, but what he saw didn’t look like the initial stages of drunken carousing. A lot of people had bottles, but they were sipping from them. Nursing them. They looked like people who knew they had to be careful how much booze they consumed, like a bunch of designated drivers at the periphery of a massive pub crawl.
On the other hand, maybe he was seeing things that weren’t there. Maybe he’d seen one too many political thrillers in his time. In any case, he figured even a little paranoia was a dangerous thing.
Don’t assume anything, he thought.
Stick with what you know.
The rest of it’s out of your hands.
They circumvented
the pit area on the way to the platform, where they joined a growing throng of people awaiting some imminent event. Chad stood off to the side of the platform with Todd and Wanda.
“What’s happening here?” he asked them.
Wanda stood there with her arms folded under breasts, her gaze turned away from him. “What usually happens is
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Below’s version of a vaudeville act. That’s first. You get actors, if you can call them that-they’re bad-who mock the power structure in skits so puerile you’ll swear they were written by five-year-olds. Controlled rebellion. Safe pseudoanarchy. Meshes with the whole concept of the Gatherings as an anesthetic of the spirit. Then, at some point, some of Below’s weakest, most pitiful people are brought onstage for public humiliation. It’s a crowd participation affair, with a panel of judges weighing suggestions from the crowd on the best ways to abuse the poor bastards. It’s the ultimate irony. The slaves, who have long been subject to acts of casual sadism, are encouraged to find a kind of catharsis in being sadistic to other slaves.”
Chad understood now why the woman had been Cindy’s friend.
She was sharp.
He said to Todd, ?I thought you were the genius.”
The kid smirked. “I am.” He slipped an arm around the woman’s waist. “I’ve just been rubbing off on her.”
Chad gawked.
He couldn’t help it.
Below was an awful, barbaric place, was probably earth’s closest approximation of an actual hell, but where else would a kid like Todd have a chance of getting laid by the likes of foxy Wicked Wanda?
Wanda was looking at him now. Perhaps she sensed what he was thinking. “I’m sorry if I’ve been abrupt with you, Chad. I loved Cindy, and …”
