Come to Dust

by Bracken MacLeod

  “Excuse me, can you—”

  The guard fumbled the phone in his hand, spinning around with red-faced surprise. His eyes widened at the sudden appearance of the blood-smeared man lurching toward him. He tried to reach for the pistol, but Mitch clocked him hard, straight on the chin. The man crumpled without uttering a sound. Only the serial popping of the vertebrae in his neck and the sound of his body hitting the concrete walk like a soft bag of meat accompanied his fall. Mitch began rifling through the guard’s pockets. Aside from a wallet and the gun on his hip, he wasn’t carrying anything else. Mitch found the phone the guy dropped and silently thanked the girl who’d sent a picture of her pleasingly shaped bare ass and the message, “When can I see u again?” He silenced the device and stuffed it in his pocket. Looking more out of curiosity than a belief he would find anything of help, he opened the wallet, certain the big-ass girl behind the text message would not be in any of the family photos inside. He found a little money and credit cards, AAA and NRA membership cards, and a picture of a pair of gap-toothed kids, but not their mother. Behind the photo, he discovered the scrap of folded paper. On it was scribbled a four-digit number: 9221. Resisting the urge to take the cash, he folded the wallet closed and put it back in the guard’s pocket. He waved the others over. They trotted over, looking exactly like a group of people up to something and trying not to look like it.

  Slipping the pistol out of the unconscious man’s holster, he handed the gun to the person nearest him. “I’m not allowed to have one of these things,” he said.

  Alexa reflexively accepted it with a trembling hand. Staring at the gun, her expression read like she was contemplating the kind of gift a cat would give, something dead. She said, “I think we’d give you a pass tonight,” and held it out for him to take back.

  “Thanks anyway.” He nodded at Nick. “Give it to him if you don’t want it.” She handed the gun to her husband who handled it like an ancient mystery carved out of a piece of Aztec jade, trying to figure out which end was the top. Mitch gently pushed the barrel toward the ground and returned to the door. He punched the numbers from the slip of paper into the keypad and waited for the red light to change to green. It didn’t. Mitch’s resolve faltered. Maybe they should just make a run for it and call the police.

  Nick said, “No luck?”

  No. None in the world. He double checked the number on the scrap of paper to make sure he hadn’t misread it. He tried again, but the red beacon remained constant. Maybe it’s his debit card PIN and not a door code.

  “What’s that mean?” Izzy asked. She pointed to a line under the numbers that Mitch assumed was merely a flourish. Her finger drew his eye to the barb at the left end of the line. An arrow? He reentered the number in reverse: 1229. The red light turned green and a mechanical chuck sounded behind it as the electric strike switch released. Merry Christmas! He pulled the door open before the lock could defy him and reset, and peered through looking for anyone who might be trouble. He saw no one inside. Not in the lobby anyway.

  “Help me get him out of sight.”

  Nick took hold of the door while Mitch and Steve dragged the softly groaning man in. The others followed and Nick pulled the door shut behind them. Mitch grabbed a lamp off of a low table against the wall and pulled the unconscious guard’s hands behind his back. He tied the man’s wrists with the electrical cord as best he could, leaving the heavy lamp attached at the end. Alexa opened a door and peeked in. “How about in here?” she said. She stood in front of a suitably large coat closet, gesturing into it like a game show hostess. Door Number One it is! Steve helped Mitch stuff the guy inside. He was tempted to jam the guest chair up under the door handle, but decided not to do anything that might draw attention to what he’d done. He felt mostly secure in the knot he’d tied in the lamp cord.

  Relieved of his burden, Mitch flexed his hand, trying to dispel the growing soreness in his bones. He was pretty sure he’d broken the guy’s jaw, and probably his own second knuckle. His hand was already swelling. Soon, if he didn’t get something to knock down the inflammation and the pain, he wouldn’t be able to use it at all. There wasn’t time to contemplate his future as a sleight of hand magician, though. He turned, trying to fathom the layout of the building and guess where in it they could keep a half-dozen kids captive.

  They were standing in a reception area. Instead of the Bible verse banners hung in the Parents’ Ministry, pictures of Pastor Roper’s book covers adorned these walls. Beside the closet in which they’d stashed the guard was a small private office and a tiny bathroom in the corner. Mitch listened at the door at the back of the reception room. Hearing nothing, he pushed the door open and poked his head inside, half expecting to be bashed in the skull the same way he’d incapacitated their jailer. No blow fell. He stepped the rest of the way through and surveyed the room. Inside was a warehouse of self-help and inspirational books, CDs, and DVDs whose covers adorned the front office. An angry urge to tip the shelves and watch them topple over like dominoes boiled up in Mitch’s belly. They were wasting time and he’d led them into the wrong building. Made another bad choice. The children weren’t here, and he had no better idea where they might be, other than that there were now two buildings out of the eight he’d counted where they definitely weren’t. They couldn’t keep blindly guessing and expect to remain unnoticed and unchallenged.

  Mitch stalked out of the room and yanked open the door to the closet. The man inside flinched; a look of contempt flashed across his face. “Where are they?” Mitch demanded. The guard opened his mouth to speak and winced with pain. Mitch had seen fighters with broken jaws before, and knew it had to kill the guy to try to move it. He didn’t care. “Where are the kids?” he asked again. “Why are you even guarding this building if they aren’t here?”

  “Huarding?” The man winced at the word. “I’m nod... huarding nothin’.”

  “If you weren’t standing watch, then what were you doing out front?”

  He shook his head. “Shecking my messages.”

  Mitch held up the phone he’d taken from the man. He woke it and selected the IM thread the man had been reading before he got ambushed. He scrolled up and read the messages above the round ass. Since taking the phone, the girl had sent two more messages asking where he went. But the time stamp on the image message confirmed the guy’s story. He’d sneaked away from the service to read some sexy messages from his girlfriend. He was telling the truth; he wasn’t guarding shit. Mitch turned the phone toward the guy. “This is all you were doing?”

  The man blushed and looked away. “Noh fug yourselv.”

  While Mitch debated whether a less than affectionate pat on the cheek would focus his attention, Nick shouted from the warehouse. “Hey boss! You want to come see this!” Mitch slammed the door on the stranger and rushed to the storeroom. Inside, Alexa pointed through the stacks toward the back. He slipped between the shelves, finding Nicholas standing halfway up a spiral staircase he couldn’t see from the entrance. Nicholas waved. “Up here,” he said. Mitch followed him up, taking the wedge-shaped steps as fast as he dared. At the top, he felt a little dizzy, and steadied himself on the doorjamb. They stood staring at another keypad lock. Mitch tried the code from the guard’s wallet again. Nothing. He tried it in reverse, as it was written and still the red light remained unchanged. Whatever was behind this door rated an entirely different code. Mitch needed to see inside, but the way was closed.

  “Stand back,” he said. The second the words exited his mouth he regretted uttering them. Mitch was as far from an action hero as a person could get, yet he was speaking in blockbuster clichés. Stand back! Let me handle this. Let the girl go. But then, Nicholas didn’t seem to take note of the melodramatic absurdity; he stepped out of the way.

  Mitch looked over his shoulder at the floor below them. It wasn’t a long drop, not deadly by itself, but if he fell on his neck, or bashed his spine on the rail below as he fell... He couldn’t be this timid. He didn’t have the luxu
ry of playing things safely. He lashed out with his foot. The stomp did nothing but send reverberations of pain up through his leg into his hip. He kicked again without effect. An image of the black tendrils of corruption snaking out of Sophie’s finger, rusting and rotting the deadbolt lock on their own front door came to mind. Where do you lock up kids who can do that? How do you contain that? If this lock was in place, he knew she wasn’t in the room. Still, he felt the need to kick it in. If only because it meant breaking something, and he needed to break something more significant than a single jaw, though he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He sighed and leaned against the rail. Nicholas held up a finger and stepped around to his right. Mitch lined up next to him. He nodded and said, “One, two, three!” The both of them kicked together, and the sound of the door splintering was only slightly louder than their feet banging off the still shut door. Another coordinated kick and the jamb split free, letting the door swing wide and bang into the other side of the wall.

  The doorway led into an opulent office appointed in mahogany and glass. There were no Bible verse posters or book covers hanging on these walls. Instead, the space was decorated with original contemporary art. A pair of sculpted marble Russian greyhounds flanked the dark behemoth of a desk at the far end. Above that hung a large portrait of Pastor Roper. Near the door were a leather sofa and coffee table facing a LCD television mounted to the wall. The screen was black and reflected the desk and portrait behind, giving the illusion of another darker dimension to the office, one in which Roper was waiting for them as Mitch and Nicholas invaded his private space. Mitch turned away from it. Given that the spiral staircase appeared to be the only way up, he marveled at the idea that they were able to get any of these things up here. But Pastor Roper was a man of miracles, wasn’t he?

  Nicholas trotted over to the desk and started searching through the drawers. Mitch’s heart sank. Whether or not standing in this room was a symbolic usurpation of Roper’s sanctum sanctorum and a defiance of his authority, Sophie wasn’t here. She sure as hell wasn’t in a desk drawer. “What are you looking for?” he asked, ready to leave.

  Nicholas shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m hoping I know if I find it, though.”

  Mitch moved to the windows. It seemed like every light in the place was on, as if a conspicuous consumption of energy was part of the Pastor’s outward display of heavenly-deigned prosperity. Roper didn’t care about electric bills; he wanted to see. Mitch went to pull the long drapes closed so Nicholas could perform his search with privacy. Outside, he caught a glimpse of movement in the growing shadows. He stumbled around behind the curtains, holding out a hand for Nicholas to get down. He squinted, trying to get a better look at the people stalking across the center courtyard.

  “What the fuck?”

  He sprinted toward the door. Nicholas called after him, but he was leaping down the spiral staircase and racing toward the front door before the man could finish asking what he’d seen.

  Mitch burst out through the front doors, trying to catch the figures before they disappeared again. If he’d seen them at all.

  38

  Impulses to both run away and stand and fight competed in Liana’s mind and muscles when the man burst out of the building to her left. Instead, her body obeyed its third instinct, to freeze. She stood motionless in the courtyard, heart pounding, hand death-gripping the night black bat, hoping she’d have the strength to swing it when the figure reached her. At the moment, though, her arms refused to do anything but stay rigid and still. She looked for the silhouette of a rifle like the thugs at the gate had brandished, but this man’s hands were empty. Mike brushed past her, holding his pen out as if it were actually a sword. The man was undeterred by either of their displays, and continued rushing toward them. It wasn’t until he called her name that her eyes cleared and his face emerged from the gloom. Her muscles relaxed; the stress of fear left her feeling used up and she fell into his arms.

  He spoke with hushed urgency. “Li? What in hell are you doing here? How did you even...”

  She kissed him hard on the mouth, swallowing his words and tasting his lips with her tongue. Her vision dimmed with actual breathlessness. She pulled away reluctantly and barraged him with questions. “Why are you here? What is this place? What’s going on?”

  In the background, an amplified voice boomed throughout the compound, echoing off the buildings surrounding them. The speaker worked the crowd with the kind of cadence she used to hear Sunday mornings—an inflection unique to preachers, politicians, and salesmen. All conmen, she thought. A cheer went up. She couldn’t hear everything, but clear words floated above the din like ominous storm clouds on the horizon. “THE COMING OF OUR LORD!” A thundering “Amen” followed.

  “What is that?” Mike asked. He looked around for a sign that they weren’t alone in this section of the courtyard.

  “It’s the sundown service,” Mitch said. “Everyone’s there. Almost.”

  “CAST OUT THESE DEMONS!” A loud jeer.

  Mike stared at the archway entrance to the amphitheater and gripped his pen tightly. “Service? It sounds like an exorcism.”

  Mitch grabbed Liana’s hand and turned toward the warehouse. “We need to find Sophie and get the fuck out of here.” She resisted, pointing between the chapel and the warehouse toward the cool light of the outdoor amphitheater.

  “Sophie’s that way,” she said.

  Her lover cocked his head, fear painting his expression dark. He shook his head. “No. Not there.” His voice cracked and Liana heard the tone of defeat that had infected him after his girl died return to his voice, as if the part of him that had come back to life along with her was dying all over again. Whatever was going on beyond the archway was something he knew was too late to stop. The crowd cheered again. From the sound of it, the three of them would pose no threat to whatever it was they were doing.

  She pushed closer and extended her hand again so her finger was pointing along his eye line. “Not there. There.” She pointed to the right of the shining blue archway entrance at another building. Beside the arch, a windowless three story block stood, carved with an ornate fresco of swirling patterns surrounding a cross that became a sword at the bottom, stabbing into the earth. It too was illuminated with blue light that made it stand out from the other buildings lit with white and amber spots. The amphitheater arch resembled the gateway to Heaven as she’d imagined it as a child. Like a welcoming clear sky. The building next to it, by contrast, looked like a monolithic block of arctic ice carved out of some frozen expanse where its strange eternal contents waited for the thaw to free it to lay waste. She shivered in the heat.

  “How do you know that?” Mitch asked.

  “Same way I knew how to get here. I can feel her.” She pointed to her chest. “She’s in here.” She pointed to the distant building. “She’s in there.”

  “SEND THE DEVIL’S SPAWN BACK TO HELL!” A crashing “hallelujah.”

  Mike interjected. “Maybe we should get moving, huh? Instead of just standing here in the open, you know, waiting to get shot at.”

  Mitch looked back at the building he’d come rushing out of. Liana’s eyes followed, and she saw the people gathered to stare at them from both the doorway and a window in the second story. She yipped with surprise and took a step back, raising her bat. Mitch put a reassuring hand on her arm. “They’re... with me, I guess. They’re other parents whose kids have been taken. Sophie’s not the only one being held captive here.”

  “Other... kids?” Liana said. A greater tinge of fear filled her. She’d come to terms with the piece of her life force, or whatever it was, that Sophie had taken, but the thought of being around other kids who could do the same thing—other children with no emotional ties to her who could take as much or as little of her as they wanted—was terrifying. Her hand floated up to her hair, as if she could feel the new white strands replacing the dark that remained. She took a step away. Resistance tugged at her heart and gut in response to her
backward movement. The pull forward was there no matter how badly she wanted to retreat. The breathlessness and fear of the dark was in her. She could breathe, but a part of her was suffocating. The part of her in Sophie.

  Liana chose to step forward despite her rekindled fear.

  Mitch squeezed her hand again, and led her toward the others.

  From the amphitheater, two more words rang out with perfect clarity. Liana heard the faint echo of them, and a faint ring like a church bell after a thunderclap followed along. “SPIRITUAL WARFARE!” the preacher called out. And the gathered congregation screamed, “IÄ! IÄ!” in reply.

  39

  They marched along the campus quadrangle, silent and trying to look like they belonged. Their silence put the lie to their belonging, however. Everyone else in the compound was taken with the spirit of Pastor Roper’s sermon and met his every call for praise with ready volume. Among them, only the Parents’ Ministry was silent. Though most of the parents had been quick to accept Liana and Mike into their band without hesitation, once Mitch vouched for them, Amye seemed reticent. He reckoned that as the one former true-believing member of Roper’s congregation among them, she had to struggle against what she had been taught in fireside sermons like the one growing louder as they crept toward it. He sympathized. For years after losing his faith, he still feared the idea of Hell. Childhood warnings of eternal damnation and a wrathful God had seeped into the deepest parts of his mind. While the tree might wither and die, the roots remained, deep in the ground, making it hard to dig and plant anything new in the same soil. Even now, as he heard Roper cry out about demons wearing the skins of children to deceive humanity, he felt a pang of that old fear. This time it was amplified by the response of the crowd. People howling for the blood of a child. His child. Screaming, “OUR GOD IS A CONSUMING FIRE!”