by Tim Lees
At first, it had moved quietly, secretly; like any predator, killing off the weak, the isolated, those who’d strayed far from the flock. Gathering its strength.
Even so, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. It panicked a few people—one little corner of the field who’d witnessed its activities. They’d run down to the fence but met no solace there. Meanwhile, Seven B had found its own way in, sensing its captive parent near; sensing, too, the contact I’d had with Hayes, for it had sought him out, a notion that unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
Over the weeks that followed, I gave thought to many things: my job, and Shailer, and the events in Budapest, and Indiana, and more. I had a lengthy correspondence with Anna, though Registry restrictions stopped me saying much of what was on my mind. “I am wondering if you hear from Michael,” she wrote, and I was so preoccupied that it took me half an hour to realize she meant Fantino, and the only reason she might think I’d hear from him would surely be in some relation to herself; wishful thinking, I suppose, on her part.
Wishful thinking.
One more invocation of the gods.
We call upon them, all of us, whether we know it or not. Oh Lord, please grant me this. Please grant me that. If you’ll just help me, Lord. This one time . . . And the gods get stronger. That’s the way it works.
Our lives are linked. That much seems true. They are our other half. Whether innately so, or in some ancient symbiosis, I have no idea. It could be they were here before us, through the long, slow history of life on Earth, their lives and ours in parallel, like two mirrors, reflecting one another endlessly. We are their children, or they ours. It hardly matters which way around it goes.
They are our other half. The part we left behind in order to evolve, to be ourselves. They are the reason that we talk about a Fall, a time when things were different, long, long ago . . . because they were.
We made our imprints, not on the ground but on what lived in it. We touched their raw, shapeless, undirected power and gave them sense, and form, and consciousness. And for a great age, I believe that we were joined to them. They blessed and stifled us, both in the same embrace. And then we freed ourselves. We weren’t evicted from Eden. No: we fled. We ran so we could be ourselves, no longer servants ridden by divinity but us: our mistakes, our errors, our unhappiness. But ours, nevertheless.
The moment history began.
Now Shailer’s back in O&D. He’s tipped for big things, as he was in youth. He’s been hailed as something of a hero, it turns out, a process I have no doubt he’s encouraged every fraction of the way.
Who told the people of Pilgrim City that, should they approach the fences now, they’d find the guards too occupied to shoot, gas, or even curse at them? And did he tell them why? Or maybe they just figured it all out themselves. Who knows? At any rate, the waters were conveniently muddied while Shailer fled the scene. Enough to hide his exit, and much else, besides.
One thing he did do: borrowed someone’s phone and called the Registry, informing them that there was something very much amiss at GH9, a prospect they’d suspected from the moment their communications broke off, earlier that day. I don’t know who first mentioned terrorists, but it must have happened early on, to draw the US military so fast.
I’ve only praise, I must say, for the military and for the first responders who arrived, not even knowing what they’d have to deal with. They did a fine job, saved some lives, and flew me and Anna to a rendezvous with Registry personnel, who swiftly slipped us out of sight.
I don’t remember what I babbled on the helicopter flight, but it probably made very little sense.
The site of GH9 is now off-limits. The perimeter fence is up again. I believe people have started leaving flowers and photographs of loved ones on the mesh.
Indiana has become a strange place. Churches there boast daily miracles: healings and flying boys and bleeding statues, lights in the sky that spell out messages of hope and wonder. Sober citizens call up police and media, announcing they’ve seen bigfoot, angels, or a host of small gray aliens; a documentary, Midweird, Midwest, enjoyed a brief, salacious popularity.
We woke the gods. What will the gods do now?
I rewrote my report. It read:
I can add nothing more of note to the extant account. My mind is a complete blank. File under Amnesia.
I transferred full-time back to Field Ops. My first job—an easy one—was at a little church in Lowland Scotland. Anybody could have done it. We got a few thousand watts. That’s all. No incarnates, no activity, no nothing. Baby stuff. Not that I was much complaining.
I’d been home a few hours, had had a nap and poured my first drink. I was thinking about dinner when the phone rang. I picked it up, grunted, and a voice a lot like mine said, “Hello, Chris.”
I sat up. It was as if a knife went through me. Stupidly, I said, “Who’s this?”
He said, “I wanted you to know. All offers are still open. If you’d like to reconsider.” He waited, three, four beats. Then, “Take care,” he said. The phone went dead.
There is a guru out in California, I hear, a homeless man who walks the beaches, preaching a new way of uniting with divinity. They say he doesn’t eat, or drink, and he has magic powers. He can change his shape. He can disappear. He doesn’t have a name.
Several people, known as his associates, have since appeared on missing persons lists, but the police have so far failed to interview him. He stays one step ahead, it seems, forever in a place they’re not.
I check the internet each morning, wondering when somebody will post a photograph.
It’s bound to happen. Maybe soon.
I think I’ll know him when they do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I began this novel on my first visit to Chicago, and finished it as a resident here. I’d like to thank everyone who helped in the transition: on the UK end, Bob, Gwyn, Pip, Steve, Alma, my GP and my Mum; on the US end, my wife, my in-laws, my new friends and colleagues.
Huge thanks, also, to everyone at HarperCollins, especially my editor, Rebecca Lucash, not only for her unending enthusiasm and diplomacy when dealing with my fragile writer’s ego, but also for editing services which can only be described as above and beyond. Without her, you would not be reading this book.
Cheers, everyone!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TIM LEES is a British author living in Chicago. His short fiction has appeared in Postscripts, Black Static, and Interzone, among many other publications. He is author of the collection The Life to Come, nominated for a British Fantasy Award, and the novel Frankenstein’s Prescription, described by Publishers Weekly as “a philosophically insightful and literary tale of terror.” When not writing, he has held a variety of jobs, including teacher, conference organizer, film extra, and worker in a psychiatric hospital. His blog is www.timlees.wordpress.com.
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COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE GOD HUNTER. Copyright © 2014 by Tim Lees. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition August 2014 ISBN: 9780062358
813
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062358820
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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