by Patrick Ness
—Read the Sacraments, my dear boy. All will be revealed to those who believe.
—Of course, of course, but how are you able to spread that belief so rapidly? How are you going to be able to muster the numbers? You cover yourself by your Sacrament-speak, and I understand and respect that, but brass tacks, Theophilus, there’s a lot here that I’m not seeing and I’m not comfortable with it.
He heard a long sigh over the phone line.
—Your faith was always a worry for me, Jon.
—I still have the faith—
—I don’t think you do, but even now, that is perhaps not so important. What will happen will happen regardless of your faith. You cannot avoid your destiny even if you may not acknowledge it. As for my methods, speaking the Word is easy, because the Word is truth, the Sacraments are truth, the message is truth. People believe because it’s truth. Things accumulate. Disseminating the Word is easy as well. Don’t forget that you are not Rumour, and we have ways and avenues that you don’t understand.
—The Rumour Underground.
—I can neither confirm nor deny.
—But I thought that was just a—
—A rumor, yes, you wouldn’t be the first to take a stab at the pun.
—No, what I meant was that I thought it was purely a charity thing, a benevolent organization, if organization is even the right word.
—Let’s put it this way. A phone signal is merely a means of communication. It is neither benevolent nor malevolent. It merely is.
—I don’t—
—All I can tell you is what I’ve already told you, dear Brother Jon. Have faith. Prepare yourself for the times to come. They’re coming whether you’re prepared or not, so think how much easier it will all be for yourself if you are.
—The time for what?
—Goodbye, Jon. I’ll do my part. Make sure you do yours.
He clicked off. Jon sat back against the car seat. The attack on The Crash happened before Theophilus knew for sure that Jon was buying Banyon Enterprises, and therefore before he should have known that the plans to elect Thomas had changed. Why would Theophilus have acted before confirming it with Jon? And why had Jon not been able to ask that question? Was it really that easy to lose control? What was going on?
For the first time since he had set foot back in Hennington, Jon was worried.
95. Unprecedented Measures.
LATHAM PUTS CRASH
UNDER CITY PROTECTION
UNPRECEDENTED MOVE IN RESPONSE TO ‘SHOCKING ATTACK’
HENNINGTON – Crash Advocate-General and Mayoral candidate Max Latham announced a plan last night to bring The Crash, Hennington’s wandering herd of rhinoceros, under city protection following the discovery yesterday of the bodies of three men and twenty-two rhinoceros in the densely wooded area behind the Hennington Arboretum.
‘The scope of this massacre,’ said Latham, ‘the deaths of the three men and so many animals, is shocking and horrible. I am, therefore, with the support of Mayor Larsson, ordering the Bering Zoo to assist the city in bringing the remaining animals in the herd into a protected paddock on zoo property. This will protect The Crash as well as allay any fears the public may have about their own safety.’
All twenty-two animals had been shot at close range, and the three deceased men – identified as Roger Norwitcham, 30; Alexander Kolbe, 41; and Fulton Lewis, 23 – were all found wearing hunting gear with rifles nearby. Norwitcham and Kolbe were apparently gored to death and Lewis was trampled. Authorities believe because of the number of animals killed that the three dead men were not working alone, though no other suspects have as yet been apprehended. Latham would not speculate on the reason for the attack, but there have been calls to City I Hall regarding the safety of the public following the as yet unexplained death of so-called ‘Rhinoherd’ Maggerty.
‘I think the citizens of Hennington will agree,’ continued Latham, ‘that regardless of whatever safety issues might arise from The Crash’s behavior towards Maggerty, this sort of attack is unwarranted and heinous. The death of Maggerty is still under investigation, and I ask everyone in the city to keep calm until that investigation is complete.’
Mayoral candidate Thomas Banyon was also quick to comment on both the incident and Latham’s response to it.
‘I would never condone such an attack on The Crash,’ said Ban yon, ‘but I am also interested to see that Mr Latham seems to care more about the deaths of a few animals than the deaths of three citizens of this city. My thoughts and prayers are with the men’s families.’
When asked if he thought his actions would affect his campaign, Mr Latham responded by saying he thought it was ‘unfortunate that any action, rightly or wrongly, is taken as political during a campaign.’ He indicated that he felt it was his duty as Crash Advocate-General to ensure their protection.
‘The Crash have been a city-wide treasure for as long as anyone can remember,’ Latham said. ‘Obviously something is going on, but I can’t believe that any thinking person, having grown up with The Crash, would want to just get rid of them at the first sign of something unusual. We owe it to them, we owe it to ourselves, to find out what exactly is happening.’
When asked if he suspected malicious interference or foul play surrounding Maggerty’s death, Latham declined to rule them out. ‘All I will say,’ he said, ‘is that the turn of events is suspicious, to say the least.’
Latham did not give a timetable for the release of The Crash from custody, but said that the round-up of the animals was scheduled for this morning at dawn.
96. The Living River.
The herd streamed up and down hills, through fences, across roads, roaming, searching, always moving until they felt ready to collapse from exhaustion. At last, she stopped them in a remote gully. It offered no food or water, but it kept them out of sight for a time. Time enough, she hoped, for the members of the herd to sleep, to heal, and mourn. Many animals were injured, either from the stampede out of the woods or from bleeding wounds from the same kind of explosion that had hit her horn, shredding its front end and causing a throb of pain that still pulsed through her skull.
She walked a brisk circle around the limping, struggling herdmembers as they made their way to the center of the gully. She signaled for them to rest, to gather themselves and their energy for whatever it was that lay ahead, a prospect that she herself equally feared. The gully wasn’t really big enough to hold them all, but none seemed to mind the close company just now, leaning on one another for comfort and support even in the already sweltering heat of early morning. Two newly orphaned calves lay whimpering in a circle of older females, all pressed together offering protection.
But protection from what? What had actually happened?
Her instincts seemed to be of no use anymore. She had killed the thin creature that had followed them for reasons she could not quite grasp. She had led them away to the woods, to a place where many of them lost their lives and many others were injured and maybe dying. Now she had led them here, to a valley of stone with no water and no food and no future. Why did they still follow her when she had failed so badly? Was she capable of leading them out of this, or would the next steps lead just as inevitably to more death, to more destruction? Yet still they stopped and slept at her indication. Still they looked to her for direction, even through the places she had led them, even to this place here, this stopping point on the road to who knew where.
All right then. She led them because a leader was needed, and at no time was a leader needed more than now. She would continue to lead them until they ceased to follow her. That was her duty to the herd. That was what they expected of her. She no longer wanted to lead, but the choice was not hers. If they still wanted her, as it seemed they did, then there was nothing she could do. Why? If the answer was not forthcoming, then perhaps one did not exist. They demanded her leadership. She would give it. That was all.
Dawn was breaking. The animals were finally quietening down to sleep. She was o
n her last circuit around them before collapsing into rest herself when she heard the sound. A jostling of rocks from just over the edge of the gully. And again. More coming from all sides, and then a twisting cloud of scent blew its way down among them. Thin creatures. Lots of them. So quickly, so stealthily.
Were they safe nowhere, then? Was there no end to this?
(—Remember, everyone, slowly slowly slowly. We don’t want a stampede on our hands. Everyone ready up on the north ridge? Over.
—Ready up here. Over.
—Then wait for my signal. Over.)
Gathering what energy she had left, she raised yet another alarm call. There was audible groaning as the herdmembers twisted themselves out of sleep, then a second series of groans as the scent of the thin creatures filled their nostrils. She noticed three of the group fail to rise from their slumber. Three more lost, then. At least they’d had a chance to rest. She paced back and forth in front of the members of the herd until all who could get up had arisen, all eyes on her. She turned towards the far end of the gully and with what seemed like only the latest in a long series of grunts, she ran forward as the first line of thin creatures crested the little valley.
Too exhausted even to be properly frightened, the herd made its way to the end of the gully and over its lip, a massive living river of gray. The sounds of the thin creatures behind them disappeared quickly as they plunged forward, but she heard a new sound on either side. Glancing around, she saw the loud, rumbling squares that the thin creatures often rode in pull up on each flank of the advancing herd, leaving nowhere to run except forward.
The ache from her horn pounded her head with each step. Her legs seemed heavy and airy at the same time. There was simply no way that weaker and younger members of the herd were ever going to be able to keep this up. She looked behind her and could already see the herd stretching itself thin. She had no idea what propelled them onward, but onward they went, only slowly, ever more slowly. Some animals were beginning to be left behind.
If the herd must not divide, then the herd must take a stand.
She stopped, almost abruptly, surprising the animals closest behind her, who nevertheless seemed barely able to keep upright when they too stopped running. The rest of the remaining herd caught up with them, the members looking dazed and haggard, more than one falling to the ground out of pure fatigue. This was it then. This was the beleaguered group that would have to defend itself. So be it. If this was the end of the herd, then the herd would end together. She circled the group as best she could, nudging younger and weaker animals to the center, leaving what remained of the bigger animals on the periphery.
The boxes with the thin creatures seemed to be keeping their distance for now. She brought all the herdmembers as close together as she could, then she called to them with a long, low groan. Of sorrow. Of apology. Of defiance. Of the duty that she felt for them. Of her place and position as leader. Their eyes met hers, and they seemed to understand. Slowly, she walked towards the assembled herd and took her place at the outer edge, to wait and see what the thin creatures would do, to wait and see what fate had planned for them in this sad, strangely unhurried, final moment.
Part VI.
Election Day.
97. One Up, One Down.
The newspaper headline read,DOWN TO THE WIRE ON ELECTION DAY. Was it Election Day already? The last thing Peter had heard was that that Rumour guy, Mark something, was running unopposed. Why was it ‘down to the wire'? He stopped to look at the newsrack a little closer. Thomas Banyon was running? When did that happen? Had he really been away from the world that long? He picked up the paper and quickly folded it into his basket. Food at the house had finally run out, and he was having to risk a trip to the little grocer around the corner to get something to eat. A few bananas, lots more soup (it was cheap), and not much else. Nothing frozen, because the house had no electricity. The gas still worked for cooking, but there was no telling when that would be shut off as well. And though he was keeping his spending to a minimum, a newspaper was an allowable expense. Thomas Banyon? For Mayor? That would more or less be the end of everything, wouldn’t it?
Peter paid the tiny, ancient man perched behind the counter and left. It was barely dawn, the sun merely a possibility beyond distant hills as the sky grew from black to blue. He put his groceries in the back compartment of his motorcycle and pulled off towards the house, hoping to get there before the sun reached the sky. The streets were deserted, not even a sign yet of the early-morning commute. That’s right, Election Day was a holiday in Hennington so everyone could vote. Peter rolled past a gray sedan parked across the street and turned into the driveway of the house where Luther waited.
He hid the cycle in the ever-taller grass in the backyard, reached through the broken screen on the back door, and let himself inside. It was still dark enough for the kitchen to be dim. He piled the soup into a cupboard, left the bananas on the table, and made his way back downstairs to Luther. Still there. Still the slight hum. Still the faint thrill of expectation. Peter closed his eyes and said a prayer, an act that had by now become second nature.
A sound through the stillness of the house. Footsteps.
He turned. A figure was descending the darkened staircase. Peter backed hurriedly into the room. Jarvis would have announced himself. This was someone else. He moved to the other side of the bed, closer to Luther. He looked around. There was nothing to protect himself with, nothing even to hurl at an intruder, and there was no point in hiding, whoever it was would see Luther anyway and Luther needed to be protected at all costs. The footsteps stopped. Peter prayed, Protect me, protect Luther, help me know what to do. The footsteps resumed their quiet tapping down the wooden staircase. He took a deep breath. Whatever happened, the only way out of this situation was through it.
The dawning sun finally poked its way through the high windows in the basement bedroom. Peter could see a pair of legs making their way slowly down the stairs. The pair of legs grew into a body and then into a hand. A hand holding a gun. Peter cleared his mind. Courage and faith and steadiness in the face of fear, that was what was called for now, that was his test. He opened his mouth and was surprised at the authority in his voice.
—Whoever you are, this suspense serves no purpose. I’m unarmed. Show yourself and state your intentions.
The figure with the gun paused for a moment, then completed the steps into the room. He was a middle-aged man dressed unexpectedly in slacks, a pressed short-sleeved workshirt, and tie. He sized up Peter, the gun still pointing, and cast a glance around the room, stopping at Luther.
—Please tell me that’s not Luther Pickett.
His voice was almost a croak, a deadpan full of contempt and an unwillingness to be challenged.
—Who do you work for?
—I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking me questions, Mr Wickham.
—Are you the police or did Thomas Banyon send you?
—You kept his body here? You sick fuck. Wow. Banyon’s going to crucify you.
—He isn’t dead.
—You’re just keeping him wrapped up in mummy bandages with no airholes for fun? This is over, Mr Wickham. It’s over. I suggest you come along peacefully, because make no mistake, I will do whatever it takes to bring you with me.
—And I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you.
The man raised the gun to Peter’s face.
—That’s unfortunate, because there’s nothing in my orders that says I have to bring you back alive. Now, once more, come with ow!
The man spun around. Peter saw a hand holding something raise and then fall again on the man’s face as he turned.
—Shit! Fuck!
It was a can. Of soup. Jarvis was hitting the man with a can of soup. The can came down a third time as the man tried to block the blow with his hands. The can knocked the gun to the floor.
—Peter, for God’s sake, help me!
Peter leapt forward and grabbed the gun from the floor
as Jarvis brought the can down a fourth time, striking the man in the temple, opening a bloody gash. Jarvis dropped the soup.
—We’ve got to tie him up. Is there any rope around here?
—No but there’s a trunk in the closet we can lock him in.
—We can’t do that! He’ll starve.
—We’ll call the police anonymously and report him later. What are you even doing here?
—I came to renew my faith.
—I’m sorry?
—Later, later, let’s get him in the trunk and then we have to get out of here.
Jarvis went to the closet, found the trunk, and dragged it out. He flipped the latches, opened it, and started yanking clothes out onto the floor. Peter spoke to the man on the ground.
—Get in the trunk.
—Fuck you, I’m bleeding!
—Get in or I will shoot you. If you think I murdered Luther Pickett then you won’t doubt my capability of that.
The man got to his hands and knees. Jarvis finished emptying the clothes and scooted back out of the way.
—In.
—You fucker! You’ll pay for this.
Peter fired the gun at the floor behind the man. Jarvis jumped. The man scrambled into the trunk. Jarvis rushed forward and slammed the lid, flipping the latches to lock it.
—I wasn’t aiming for him.
—I didn’t think you were. I’d just never heard a gun fired before.
—Really?
—Where would I? I’m a minister. We have to get you and Luther out of here.
—Where to?
Jarvis held a finger to his lips. He pointed at the trunk.
—I have my car out front. I’ll pull it to the side. Can you carry Luther?
—Of course. Thank you. Thank you so much. I—
—Later. We’ve got to get out of here.
Jarvis was breathing heavily. He looked at the closed trunk where the man could still be heard groaning.
—I had no idea it was so difficult to knock someone out.
