by J. R. Mabry
She thought of Susan. Susan would know what to do. For a moment, the thought of Susan made her want to cry. She was so warm, so squishy, so like what her own madre had been like. Yes, she must go to Susan. Careful not to scuff her feet, or trip, or do anything else that might make a noise or give her away, she walked as briskly as possible down the long hallway.
Chicken felt the little hairs on her arms stand up. The coldness of the place, the emptiness, the institutional nature of it—it all gave her the willies. Yet she set her face and walked on. For a minute it looked like the hallway would dead end, but as she got closer, she saw that it just dog-legged to the left about six feet. She turned left, then right, and then discovered something beautiful—at the end of the hallway was what looked like daylight.
She stopped and looked back, but all she could see was the dogleg. She thought of Dylan, and what might be happening to him. A wise part of her said, The best way to help Uncle Dylan is to get help.
She started to run. The hallway was long, but there was a window set into the door. The light coming from it seemed impossibly bright. She was tempted to slam into the door at full speed, but at the last minute pulled back, worried about the noise. She pushed it open quietly, then burst into the open air.
The sunlight blinded her momentarily—but she didn’t let that deter her. She ran but almost immediately hit an immovable object.
“Woah, that hurt! Watch where you’re going, little one!” The man was tall—or he seemed tall to Chicken. He had sunglasses on, and he had a friend with him. They were standing by a Jeep in a parking lot. Both of them had rifles slung over their shoulders. Should I tell them about Uncle Dylan? She wondered. There was something about these men. Some internal radar warned her not to trust them.
“Have you seen my dog?” she asked.
“What?” the other man asked.
“Wants to know if we’ve seen her dog,” the man said, a little louder. “Jesus, you got to get your hearing checked.”
“It’s the tinnitus,” the second one said. “Sounds like a fucking freight train in my head twenty-four seven.”
“Hey, language—little girl,” the man said. He turned to Chicken. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Julie.”
“What’s your dog look like?”
“He’s gold-colored. Kinda fat. His name is Toby.”
The man pulled a walkie-talkie about the size of a brick from his belt. “Boss, Nathan here. And Fuller.”
“I’m in the middle of something, Nathan. Is it important?”
Chicken recognized the voice of the mayor. She cocked her head and listened.
“Found a little girl wandering around the navy base. Just burst out of building 2A.”
There was a long silence on the other side. “What’s her name?”
“Julie. Says she lost her dog.”
More silence followed. Finally, the man said. “Eighty-six her. Do it fast, do it clean.”
Both men’s eyes widened. They looked at each other. The first man, Nathan, spoke into his walkie-talkie again. “Sir, come again?”
“You heard me. This is a code eighty-six. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important matters of state to attend to.” The radio squelched then was silent.
Chicken didn’t know what “86” meant, but from the men’s reactions, it couldn’t be good. She looked around her. Time seemed to stand still. She could smell the water. She could hear the birds. She noticed the way her chest moved in and out as she breathed. She blinked up at the first man. “What does eighty-six mean?” she asked.
The men were still looking at each other, but now they looked at her.
71
Terry arrived within sight of the parking lot just in time to see a woman in khakis and a white sleeveless t-shirt deck a taller man holding a rifle. As if in slow motion, the man’s face rippled and stretched and a stream of blood leaped into the air above him. He hit the ground like a bag of rocks. The woman wiped blood from her own mouth as she stood over him panting. “You say that one more time, motherfucker. Just give it a go.”
Terry’s view was obscured as a crowd surrounded the fallen man, cheering the woman on. But Terry heard the man’s voice, cutting weakly through the crowd noise. “Marcia, honey, all I said was how good you look in a muscle shirt. But you do look good in it!”
“Motherfucker,” Marcia said again, raising her fist.
Just then Casey whistled so loud that Terry’s ear rang afterward. He inwardly cursed her, but it had the desired effect. The large crowd gathered around the fighting couple quieted down and turned to see who it was. They were assembled in a parking lot near the channel that separated Alameda from Oakland—mostly men, mostly young, many of them armed. The lull wouldn’t last long, and Casey didn’t hesitate. She put her hands on the hips of her stained blue coveralls. “Hey, jerkoffs, listen up! You can fight later—we’ve got important news and an even more important mission. One that could mean the survival of everyone on this island.” That got their attention. She adjusted her ball cap over her dirty blond hair and glared at them. One by one, they began to wander over to where Casey and Terry were standing. Marcia even helped her boyfriend up off the pavement. Not only did Casey have the attention of the mayor, but everyone else listened to her, too. Terry began to appreciate just how respected she was and did not wonder why no one wanted to cross her.
“I want to introduce Father Terry,” Casey half yelled so everyone could hear. “We pulled Father Terry and his friends out of the Webster Tube last night just before they bit the big one. And it’s a good thing we did, too, because they know what’s happening out there, and they know how to stop it!”
“What is going on?” one of them called out.
“Demonic oppression,” Terry said, stepping forward. His cassock was smudged and his cuff was ripped, but his confidence made him an impressive figure, despite his short stature.
“Did you say possession?” someone asked.
“No, oppression,” Terry said. “Demons aren’t inhabiting people—that would be possession. Instead, they’re riding people like horses and making them do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. Think of it as a temporary insanity. Oppression.”
Terry could tell from their furrowed brows that they were skeptical.
“I’m sorry, but that sounds like a lot of superstition,” one of the young men said. He was better dressed than a lot of them, probably a lawyer or a real estate agent, Terry guessed.
“I understand your skepticism,” Terry said, “but there isn’t any doubt about it.” He unfolded a sigil. “The demons are called by this. It’s called a sigil. It opens a narrow place between the worlds where demons can slip through. Think of it as a party invitation.”
“I’m waiting for the joke,” said one man, a little older, with his arms crossed.
“I think the ‘party invitation’ line was a joke,” the man next to him said.
“There’s no joke,” Terry said. “I’m looking for volunteers to do short missions over to the mainland—to Oakland—to find and destroy these.” He waved the sigil.
“Because…”
“Because that will stop the demons. And that will stop the killing and the madness.”
There was a low murmur as people shook their heads and discussed it with the people around them.
“I don’t want all of you. I don’t even want half of you. I don’t want anyone who’s scared. I don’t want anyone who is skeptical. I just need a few volunteers. I need some men—and women—with enough vision to see what’s happening to us and enough guts to do something about it.”
One man walked up to Terry, his hands on his hips and a shotgun slung over his shoulder. The top of Terry’s head was about halfway up his torso. Most people would have been intimidated, but Terry looked straight into his eyes. “You got what it takes?” he asked the tall man.
The man scowled, but then his scowl turned into a wide smile. “The little guy has balls!” he announced to the
crowd behind him. Plenty of folks laughed. Then there was the sound of a distant crack, and the man crumpled to the ground. Terry ducked and sprang over to where the man had fallen. A morbid gash ran across his scalp, and blood began to gather in a puddle under his head. Terry felt for his pulse and breathed a sigh of relief. It was strong.
“The bullet just grazed his scalp—a kick to the head. But he’s just knocked out, I think,” he said to Casey as she crawled over to them.
“Who did that?” called one of the men.
Terry crouched as he ran and made for a gray wooden building near one of the docks. Peering around the corner, he saw a speedboat coming toward them, about to dock. A large sigil was spray-painted in red on the roof of the boat. Squinting, Terry could just make out a fluttering scrap that must be the activated sigil. Crouching again, he ran back to the parking lot. “Okay, that time we’ve been afraid of? It’s here. We’re being invaded. We got a mobile sigil and a boat full of frenzied folks with guns. As soon as they dock, they are going to let loose with everything they’ve got on our civilians here. And if they’re successful, more will follow. If you want to save your island, you have to stop them.”
Craning their necks, the crowd looked down to the dock, then back at Terry. Instantly, the parking lot erupted with shouts and questions. Terry disentangled the shotgun strap from the shoulder of the downed man and rummaged in his pockets for shells. Finding some, he shoved them through the slits in his cassock and then into the pockets of his jeans. Without standing up again, he yelled back to the parking lot. “Anyone here who wants to save your island, with me!” He ran for the dock.
He didn’t look behind him, but he didn’t need to. He felt their energy. He knew that at least some were coming. He gritted his teeth and ran full out as he saw the speedboat slide parallel with the dock and saw several of the Oaklanders leap out, waving weapons. Terry dropped to the ground at the edge of the road just before a steep hillside down to the water. He rolled over on his back to allow his arms some freedom while at the same time staying as small a target as possible. He unlatched the break-action double-barreled 20-gauge, checking to make sure there were fresh cartridges in the breach. There were. He snapped it shut again and rolled over, snuggling the stock firmly into his shoulder and taking aim.
In his peripheral vision, he saw others joining him along the same ridge, first to his left and then stretching out to the right. He didn’t bother to count. He just hoped there were enough. “Stay low!” he shouted as they readied their weapons.
“Shouldn’t we check with the mayor first?” someone asked.
“Before or after they murder, rape, pillage, and maim?” Terry asked.
“Surely not,” one woman said. She was young, and sounded vaguely British. “These people are from Oakland, they—” With a sickening “thuck” sound, a bullet penetrated her brain and she fell over like a rag doll.
“Surely not,” Terry repeated, sarcastically. “All right, listen up!” he called as the last of the Oaklanders exited the boat. All were running along the wooden dock platform straight toward them. “You don’t need to show any mercy, because they won’t. Shoot to kill, not to wound, because they’re not going to let a flesh wound stop them—they’re going to keep coming. As soon as I can, I’m going down there. Cover me if you can. Stay—”
But his words were cut off by the blast of a nearby rifle, a call answered by more. A chorus of gunfire erupted all around him. Terry got one of the Oaklanders in his sights, a lanky white kid with a machete in his hand, and squeezed the trigger. The stock kicked him in the shoulder as the shotgun fired and the kid went down, a red bloom erupting across his chest. Terry aimed again, this time at what looked like a Latino gang-banger, his bandana pulled down over his nose and mouth. He squeezed the trigger, but this time his shot went wide. “Shit!” he yelled and turned over again, unlatching the action and shaking out the spent shells. Smoke rose from the breach and Terry’s nostrils twitched at the smell of sulphur. Careful not to burn his fingers on the gun metal, he shoved two fresh shells into the chambers and closed the breach again, turning to aim—but it was too late.
The berserkers were upon them, and Terry had nothing to fight with at close quarters. Few of them did. But most of the attackers were better prepared. They flashed knives, brandished tire irons, and rebar—Terry even caught sight of an ax and a meat cleaver. He shuddered, but there was no time to think. All around him people were standing up and swinging their rifles at the first few Oaklanders to reach the ridge. Instinctively, Terry stayed low, rolling to his left until he was no longer underfoot, then crouching as he ran to the relative safety of the gray wooden out-building.
Strangely, one of the Oaklanders had stayed with the boat. He hadn’t expected that. He would have guessed that their bloodlust was high enough to compel all of them into the fray, but no. One skinny black kid, dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie, stood on the dock, rifle at the ready.
Terry snuck around the other side of the out-building and, concealed from everyone for the moment, removed his cassock and folded it. He laid it on the ground, along with his wallet, keys, and shoes. Then he slunk down to the water and soundlessly lowered himself from the edge of the dock. Carefully controlling his breathing and trying to stay calm, Terry edged his way beneath the docks, clinging to the mossy, slime-covered pylons. He drew his hand back too quickly, and blood started seeping into the water. Barnacles, he thought. Damn it. He refocused and continued to edge to the left until he approached the boat. He swam out to avoid the prop, even though it was still, but then swam toward the short ladder hanging off the port stern. Trying to splash as little as possible, he grasped the metal ladder with one hand. Then, placing the other slightly higher, he pushed off the stern of the boat with his feet and hauled himself up. Getting one foot on the ladder, he looked up, straight into the barrel of a rifle. The skinny kid drew his lips back into a satisfied smile.
72
Marco stopped and checked the Liahona. It pointed in a slightly different direction than they’d been going. But since they couldn’t travel as the crow flies in North Berkeley—with its houses stacked on top of one another like sardines—it hardly mattered. They set off again, still heading mostly north along the main road and heading toward the tunnel into Albany.
“How does that thing work?” one of his companions asked. He was gregarious, friendly, and just a little too chatty for Marco’s comfort. He was African American, with a lot more swagger and street sensibility than Marco himself possessed. He wasn’t a detective, like Cain. Marco assumed he was a beat cop. He strained to remember the man’s name. Then it came to him: Madison, like the president.
“Hell if I know,” Marco answered. He explained the two dials and briefly recounted Richard’s theory about God’s perfect and permissive wills. He stopped when Madison’s eyes glazed over.
“Technical shit, in other words,” Madison said. “Technical God shit.”
“Something like that,” Marco agreed. He looked up at the too-blue autumn sky. The clouds formed serene, floating palaces, completely unconnected and unconcerned with the chaos that surrounded them.
“So are you a priest?” the cop asked.
Cain laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why that’s funny. Richard doesn’t seem very priest-like either, and he is a priest…isn’t he?” Cain looked taller and a little meaner in the dark blue coveralls that accompanied the riot gear.
“He’s a bishop,” Marco nodded. “But I know what you mean. I’m not even a Christian. I’m a Thelemite. A magickian.”
“A what?” Madison asked.
“Thelemite. Have you heard of Aleister Crowley?”
“No,” Madison said, making a face.
Cain snapped his fingers. “Isn’t he that guy…‘the wickedest man alive’ guy?”
“That’s the one,” Marco grinned. “But it’s mostly PR. He just wanted to shock everyone out of their Victorian sensibilities, so he sometimes posed as the anti-Christ. Kind of like
Marilyn Manson. We consider him the prophet of a new age.”
“This whole world is so new to me,” Cain confessed. “Until that murder last week, I didn’t know half of this existed.” He shook his head as they walked. “So…what did this Crowley guy preach, anyway?”
“Hmm…he didn’t actually preach much. He did take lot of drugs and have a lot of sex, though.”
“Shit, man, you’d think a religion like that would’ve taken off!” Madison crowed.
“You’d have thought. But Thelema has always been small. And it’s not his outrageous behavior that was important—it was what he wrote,” Marco continued. “Our scripture says that ‘every man and every woman is a star.’”
“So…all humans are bags of burning gas?” Madison teased.
“We interpret that a little more poetically,” Marco answered, with just a hint of edge to his voice. “It means that each of us is divine, and answerable, ultimately, for our own fates.” Down a side street, Marco saw someone pushing a shopping cart about two blocks away. Otherwise, the place seemed deserted.
“That sounds pretty woo-woo to me,” Madison said.
“Hey, Madison, haven’t you ever had faith in something?” Cain asked.
“I have faith in what I can see with my own two eyes and what I can do with my own two hands. Beyond that, I don’t trust the church or the government or anything else that happens behind closed doors.”
“You’re not alone,” Marco said.
“And women. I sure as hell don’t trust women.”
“That doesn’t stop you hitting on them,” Cain noted.
“You got to play the game at least as good as they do, or you’ll end up with atrophied genitals. You know, use it or lose it.”
“That is complete bullshit,” Cain said.
