Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  What drives your need to prove your balls are always the biggest in the room? You are short. Is that it? Or is it just vanity? The cameras, always the cameras, on the lookout for another YouTube moment to join the horse riding, the motocross jumping, the deep sea diving, the mountain climbing, the bear wrestling … If only Russia knew that the bear’s claws had been removed, its teeth filed and its ass shot full of drugs. And wouldn’t they also like to know that the rumors are true - that you are not averse to conquering women in much the same way. You like them dead to your touch, so say the whispers.

  You asked no more questions, so I put my head back and closed my eyes and then we were spinning and the world was on fire …

  General Yegorov stared up at the broken figure on the cross and a hidden smile spread across his lips. And now I am sure there is another video of you to join all the others on YouTube.

  Forty

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  President Petrovich is a wonderful person. The nasty rumors about him are fake news. He could easily be an American.

  “Accompany the captive back to the cave,” Al-Aleaqarab instructed Thalib. The Scorpion left them and strode down the hill, occasionally sliding on the loose surface, aware of the cooling desert air on his skin and in his nostrils. It was like a drink of cool water – refreshing. The doubt he had felt earlier was gone, replaced now with a sense of Allah’s will and the certainty of his own destiny. The President of all Russia, the persecutor of Muslims in so many lands, was so utterly within his power that he had crucified the man in the manner of the minor prophet Jesus Christ, and this was now being shown to the world. He tingled at the thought. These images would surely goad the Crusader armies to come and fight. And when they did, General Yegorov would help him defeat them. What of his own army of the faithful? Was it massing still? His doubt about this had faded too, replaced now with an eagerness for news. His plans had been hurriedly formed once the bounty of the Hind had been discovered and secured, the pieces fitting together with a perfection and purpose that suggested divine intervention. Who else but God could create such opportunity for him to exploit? Would Allah then desert him? No. He shuddered with the joy of it.

  A sudden twinkle of vehicle lights across the plain below caught his attention and lifted the Scorpion from his reverie. Men on guard duty ran to rocks providing the best combination of protection and lines of fire. The vehicle was on its own, approaching from the east. Al-Aleaqarab climbed a bluff and watched the vehicle’s progress. It turned toward their position, the headlights turning off and then on again several times. It could only be his two fighters returning from Al Hasakah. News! The Scorpion jumped from the rock and hurried to meet them, the night carrying snatches of the noise of a surging engine climbing the ridge.

  “You are early,” he said when the driver’s door opened.

  “Yes, Amir. We drove quickly. We knew you would want the video uploaded as soon as possible,” said the tall one whose name was Jalil.

  “And we wasted no time returning, Amir,” the short Arab said as he got out and released two bleating goats tied to a rail in the pickup’s bed.

  “Your name is Imad,” the Scorpion told him.

  “Yes, Lord. I am humbled that you would remember.”

  Al-Aleaqarab was also surprised that he could recall it, the man having done nothing memorable in battle.

  “It is incredible, Lord,” Jalil enthused. “Twitter, Facebook and all the news services speak of nothing other than the End of Days. The words of Allah, sublime and mighty, are on everyone’s lips. Inspired by your deeds, the faithful in every country on Earth are waging war on the kafirs, killing them with trucks, bombs, knives. In America a train was derailed, killing many; the children of kafirs are also being slaughtered. There is much fear and panic that their empty, godless world is collapsing. The kafir media have also begun to talk of the signs and the coming of the Antichrist. Cities all over the word are discussing measures should there be a nuclear attack.”

  Al-Aleaqarab worked hard to keep his rapture hidden. “What of the armies of the faithful? What talk of the Crusaders committing their forces?”

  “Amir, Russia blames America for the capture of their president,” said Jalil. “There is much conflict. The whole world is aflame. Thousands upon thousands arrive every day at the borders of Turkey, Jordan and Lebanon, a flood of true believers drawn from the four corners of the Earth, ready to fight and wash away the stain of Rome. There is much talk of you also, Amir. They say, as we do, that you are the Mahdi who will defeat the Crusader. They wait for you to lead them. They wonder when the Antichrist will appear.”

  “You have not answered my question. Will the armies of Rome meet us on the plains of Dabiq?”

  “I feel there is no doubt of this, Lord,” Jalil replied. “Certainly once they see the fate that has befallen their Caesar.”

  This wasn’t what The Scorpion had hoped to hear. He was after confirmation that America, Russia, Europe – the West – was sending armed men and machines to do battle at the place appointed by God. But then surely the video his men had just uploaded would goad them to fight. A warm glow of triumph spread through Al-Aleaqarab’s limbs. “What is the attitude in Al Hasakah?”

  “This city is one of many that is behind us, Amir. Without question.”

  “Did you talk to anyone there?”

  “No, Amir,” said Jalil.

  “Then how do you know the city has pledged itself to the caliphate?” he asked the short fighter whose name had again slipped from his memory. “You tell me.”

  “Graffiti, Lord,” the short one assured him. “It is everywhere in praise of the deeds of the Mahdi.”

  “Graffiti is written in protest. If the city is with us, then why do they write graffiti?”

  “I do not know, Amir. We talked to no one – saw no one.”

  “What about in the Internet café. There was no one there?”

  “Everyone was asleep, the café closed,” Jalil assured him with a sideways glance at the short one.

  Something was not right about this. The Scorpion could sense it. Had he not survived countless attempts on his life from the Americans, the Russians, and any number of ambushes and skirmishes? “What of the owner of the Internet café? Did you not see him?”

  “The hour was late,” Jalil said. “We broke in. No one saw us.”

  “And these two goats?” he asked motioning at the animals leashed to the short one with old rope.

  “We stole them, Lord.”

  The Scorpion noted the unease of both men. The short one, his eyes in particular displayed … was it guilt? Certainly this guilt had nothing to do with the goats – the men had always taken whatever they needed, be it animals, comfort or slaves.

  “Jalil,” he said to the tall Arab who had done much of the talking.

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “You have done well. You may go.”

  “Yes, Lord.” Jalil turned and motioned to his friend. “Imad, let us –”

  “No, I said you may go. Imad, it is you I wish to have some further words with.”

  The Scorpion noted Jalil’s reluctance to leave. And Imad’s nervousness had increased markedly. He wondered what might be the cause of it.

  Forty-one

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Once you are dead, you are dead. Don’t even think about coming back. That would be very bad.

  Deputy Ignatius Folkstone cruised at thirty miles an hour down the darkened backstreet of Macon, Georgia, not thinking of anything much in particular. His shift began at 6 pm, but while it was now closer to dawn than to midnight, he was feeling reasonably fresh. Certainly that’s what Deputy Folkstone would later tell the sheriff. Some folks didn’t like the graveyard shift, but he was okay with it. The world was mostly quiet at this time. You could sleep away part of the day and still get plenty of time in the sunlight to have a life. And his wife, Jeanie-Belle, was an ER nurse at the hospital also pulling the night shift. They had no
kids, so the arrangement worked.

  So far, this particular night was no different to any other. Macon was a large town rather than a small city, and reasonably wealthy too. Sure, there was drug-related crime, a little gun-related crime, the odd break-in, domestic altercations and the town had its fair share of road accidents, especially out on the Interstate, but the nasty, violent crime that featured in places like Atlanta? Macon was spared that.

  Sometimes Deputy Folkstone actually wanted something to happen, just to make things a little more interesting. But as Jeanie-Belle would say, “Careful what you wish for.” Sound advice right there.

  The dispatch radio had been quiet for twenty minutes or more. Absolutely nothing going on. So Deputy Folkstone, enjoying the night, searched the airwaves for some tunes as he cruised the streets. Just background music. Some country. Shania Twain, if I’m lucky. He turned the receiver on, scouted the waves, and …

  The deputy slammed on the brakes.

  The tires screeched horribly.

  The front end of the car dove.

  A figure caught in the glare of his headlights bounced off the grille. It then whirled away into the night.

  Folkstone got his heart under control, parked the vehicle at the curb and turned on the patrol vehicle’s emergency lights. Where the fuck did that come from? What was that, anyways? Was it a man? The clothing. It was old and ragged. And the face … it was … it was …

  His hand shaking, Folkstone reached for the radio mike. What are you gonna call in, exactly? He hooked the mike back on its cradle. You’re a sheriff’s deputy, Ignatius Folkstone – so get out of the goddamn vehicle and investigate. He opened the door and climbed out, one hand holding a flashlight, the other resting on the butt of the firearm on his hip. There were no overhead lights on the road, the crowding darkness stabbed by the patrol vehicle’s brilliant flashing red, white and blue LEDs. He switched on the patrol vehicle’s search beam, swept the shadows and saw … nothing. He heard nothing. The night was dark and still and – the face! It suddenly came back to him like a repressed memory. Now it seemed the ghastly nightmarish features were burned onto his mind. Its lips were gone, exposing brown and blackened teeth. The nose was deeply pockmarked and partly dissolved off the face. And worms snaked from deep, dark green holes in its cheeks. The face, he realized … it was … rotting! He’d never seen anything like it, at least not in real life. At the movies, maybe. “What the hell was that?” he said to himself. Deputy Folkstone kept his hand on the butt of the holstered Glock and kneaded his palm against the hard plastic, just for the reassurance of it.

  He moved to the front of the vehicle and played the flashlight beam across the hood and grille, looking for any sign of impact. There was none, he was relieved to see.

  “Patrol Zero Five, Patrol Zero Five … Hello … Ignatius?” said the voice over the radio dispatch, making the deputy jump. “Can see here you’re over on Lite’n’tie Road, aren't you? You wan’ pick up?”

  Deputy Folkstone reached in and took ahold of the mike. “This is Iggy, Irene.”

  “You all right, Iggy?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Why do you ask?”

  “I dunno … there’s something in your voice.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “Irene – you call for some reason?”

  “There’s been a disturbance over at the Cedar Ridge Cemetery,” she said. “You wan’ go over an’ take a look?”

  Deputy Folkstone shuddered. “Um … what sort of disturbance?”

  “Had a couple of complaints. Maybe just kids. Y’know …”

  Kids. “Okay, I’m on it. Over.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  For Christ’s sakes! “Over!” Folkstone hung up the mike, unnerved but also annoyed. He gave the darkness one more fruitless sweep with the search beam and climbed back behind the wheel. You don’t know what you saw, he reassured himself. And then aloud, said, “Maybe just dust on the damn windshield.”

  Cedar Ridge Cemetery wasn’t far. A couple of minutes drive, no more. He arrived in the parking lot. His was the only vehicle. The place was, well, dead. Deputy Folkstone got out of the car with the flashlight.

  The night was still. No breeze. And no starlight or moon either. Deputy Folkstone went for a walk, the skin on his scalp tight and prickling. There was some rustling among the bushes, which made him jump. But thinking about it, the air smelt of raccoon piss and whatever it was ignored his call to come on out. Soon he was walking along rows of gravestones, but still nothing to report. Folkstone swept the flashlight back and forth. There! Was that someone walking off into the night? “Hey!” he called out, taking a couple of steps forward. And that’s when he stepped into midair and fell wholly six feet into a pit of soft earth.

  Deputy Folkstone yelled. He wasn’t sure what he yelled. Maybe it was more like a random yelp, the sort you made when you dived into the ice-cold water of the Ocmulgee River in winter. Finding air under his boot instead of solid ground had taken him completely and fearfully by surprise. He smelled the fresh earth as he bent down to retrieve his flashlight. Under his feet, rotted mulch. And the smell. Was that putrid flesh?

  He sprang at the side of the hole, scrabbling for a foothold. The earth was pliant – loose. It took him several long seconds to climb out, his arms and legs a blur of movement, his heart in his mouth, his skin crawling, the whole experience giving him the creeps.

  Finally, his feet back on solid un-churned ground, the deputy stood up straight, swept the flashlight across the ground and realized that there were many holes like the one he’d just fallen into, and many overturned gravestones too. Piles of freshly dug earth were all around him. “Oh, Lord,” he said. If he didn’t know better, Deputy Folkstone would have said that the dead had dug themselves right out of their graves.

  Forty-two

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  The fake news has been having a field day. Do not be CONNED by journalists. They are terrorists by another name.

  Schelly sat up, surprised. Was I asleep? She rolled her neck back and forth. A full hour had passed since she’d lain down on the couch, just to rest her eyes. The lump in the middle of the mattress, right on her hip, had woken her. The hotel room at Fort Myer was more comfortable than the couch in her temporary office at OCJS, and so was the bed there, but it was too far from sipper access and the situation was moving too fast. There had been no choice but to move her things into the office at the Pentagon, to be near the secured computer terminal.

  She got up and poured herself another mug of burnt percolated coffee, and called up some real-time intelligence on her computer, otherwise known as Fox News. Rioters on the streets in Moscow were burning the Stars and Stripes. Cars were torched in the streets, windows were smashed and Molotov cocktails were being hurled at lines of riot police attempting to protect private and public property. The US Embassy was under siege, but the building in downtown Moscow was well protected. Schelly shook her head. How can they believe we did this to Petrovich?

  The next story: a wall of teddy bears and soft toys over ten feet high and fifty yards wide had formed at the scene of the bus crash that had killed so many children. Parents, relatives and friends mourned with compete strangers at the site of the tragedy and Schelly felt her own eyes well with tears of sorrow and anger.

  And then there were the events taking place on the Turkish border with Syria. She clicked on the video report, which began with low altitude overhead drone footage showing thousands of men on one side of a fence, mobile armor on the other.

  “They’ve come from all over Europe and the Middle East,” said the reporter, the picture cutting to a man with a microphone standing beside a Turkish battle tank. “Muslim men of all ages streaming into camps like this one on the Turkish side of the border with Syria, north of Dabiq. Camps which are well and truly under-resourced to cope with the numbers. Food is scarce and tempers are fraying. The Turkish army has been called
out to contain the growing horde, but this carries its own risks. Weapons were smuggled into this particular camp, a recent skirmish wounding two Turkish soldiers. But still the government here treads carefully. Mass demonstrations in Ankara and Istanbul, and other capitals of Muslim countries, in support of the battle they believe has been foretold in the Qur’an, are destabilizing the status quo. Push too hard and their own regimes might topple …”

  Schelly breathed deep and closed the computer. Get back to work. She climbed up on the couch to get a better perspective of the whole spread across the floor: photos, ground maps and other intel taking up all available space. The multitude of seemingly unrelated intelligence, key amongst it reports of localized sand fly infestations; World Health Organization assessments on the spread of the flesh-eating disease cutaneous leishmaniasis; weather updates of wind speed and direction in northern Syria; high altitude photos covering the ground where the Scorpion and his captives were believed to be hiding, an area of around 530 square miles.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” Schelly asked.

  Goldman’s head appeared through a crack.

  “Idris,” she said.

  “Ma’am, you have a visitor.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Really?”

  “It’s DC, ma’am. CIA Associate Deputy Director Chalmers. He said it was urgent.”

  Schelly’s eyes went to all the intelligence laid out on the floor and Goldman read her concern.

  “You can use my office, ma’am,” he assured her. “It’s small, but no less secure. I’ll be out for 30 minutes. Will that be enough?”

  “Thanks, Idris.” She gave him her warmest smile.

  “No problem, ma’am.”

  When she walked into the yeoman’s office, Chalmers was already sitting in the chair, one foot up on the desk. “You’re up and hard at work, Jill. Good to see.” He took his foot off the table.