by J. R. Mabry
Susan turned again to see if they were being followed. They weren’t, but before she could give way to relief, she noticed the ferry, out on the water, being boarded by one of the smaller boats. So now there is truly no escape, she thought, and her despair ripened within her and began a conquest of its own.
Then motion caught her eye, beyond the ferry, and what she saw made her stop in place. Her mouth dropped open.
“Susan, honey, why—” Dylan began, but then he noticed the direction she was looking and turned his head toward it. “Waal…holy fuckin’ shit,” he breathed.
She nodded in agreement. There was, truly, nothing else to say.
As they watched, a pillar of cloud that stretched from the surface of the bay to the sky was moving toward them. It seemed to be coming from San Francisco, and while it was not moving fast, it was definitely moving. Despite being a meteorological event, despite being made of gaseous water, the pillar held its integrity. It roiled, it buffeted, but it stayed together. Its size was hard to gauge, but it seemed to Susan that the pillar must be nearly a city block in circumference. It moved as a witness to power. Its presence reduced thrones and dominions to quaking jelly. It was the incarnation of Glory.
A few of the possessed pirates—for she could think of no more appropriate way of thinking about them—had noticed, too. They slugged the shoulders of their fellows and pointed. Soon, all of the raiders were standing and gawking at the pillar.
Heedless of the danger, Susan felt herself drawn to the water. It made no sense to go toward the pirates, but the part of her brain that objected found no traction. She moved as if compelled toward the pillar even as the pillar moved toward her. Dylan, holding Chicken’s hand, followed close behind as she approached the water.
Some part of her watched herself as if from afar, even while her eyes were riveted on the pillar of cloud. It seemed to her that she was gliding over the streets in slow motion. Once she stopped and gazed back at her husband, desperate to share the wonder of the moment with another person. His eye was wet with tears and his mouth was screwed up with emotion. When he noticed her looking at him, he wrestled his mouth into a smile for her benefit. She turned again.
“Who is that?” she asked. There was someone—no, two people—moving across the water just in front of the pillar. And they were walking on the water.
There was no caution in her, now, nor was she conscious of whether Dylan and Chicken were following. As the pillar drew near it was as if her soul were standing naked before her God, and neither the love of family nor the violence of the berserker could intrude upon that intimacy. All other awareness, all peripheral vision was stripped away and the pillar of cloud alone filled her sight.
She reached the shore and a part of her was tempted to step out on the water herself. But she did not. Instead, she waded in until the water covered her shins and fought against an almost maddening urge within her to go closer. Suddenly she was aware of Dylan beside her, and Chicken beside him, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away to even glance at them. The pillar of cloud was not the only thing in the universe, but at that moment, it seemed to be the only thing that mattered.
“Uh…honey-pie. Them two whats walkin’ on the water? Ah think we know them.”
She lowered her gaze from the pillar to the two who walked before it. And by now they were close enough that she could make out their features. The taller of the two was stooped, the smaller was wizened. “Brian,” she breathed. “Brian and Maggie.”
108
Richard was frozen in place as the patchwork dinosaur stomped its terrible feet, crushing everything in its path. Its sides sagged pathetically as the bolts, ropes, and pulleys holding its meat in place struggled against the tyranny of gravity.
The spectacles he’d gotten from Marco kept slipping down the bridge of his nose, but he pushed them back into place, watching the hosts of Hell as they hovered over the tramping soldiers, driving them on, their ectoplasmic lips pulled back in gleeful, wicked grins. Many of them cracked whips, and some marched behind their troops, goading them on with tridents or pitchforks.
The dinosaur stopped and reared back a bit. Directly beneath its feet stood the pitiful, skinny frame of the Goat King. His horned headdress clung precariously to his brow. In the moment, it no longer seemed ridiculous. It was somehow proper—a badge of allegiance to the very forces that lorded over him so menacingly now. Richard was surprised that he did not cower. He did not shake. And he did not beg for his life. Instead, he seemed almost catatonic—as if he were watching the whole drama play out from afar, or was somehow completely dissociated from what was happening to him.
Then he moved. He reached into his pocket and pulled forth a pocket knife. He opened it, and holding it firmly in his right hand, he slit his left wrist, working the blade up his arm. He turned his wrist downward, shaking his blood out onto the ground—an act of offering. It was a gift to his God, who, no doubt to the Goat King’s great surprise, had turned out to be real after all.
But before he could complete his act of self-offering, the great foot of the dinosaur sideswiped him as the beast turned. The Goat King’s body went flying, his feet spiraling in the air, his headdress finally falling to the ground. He landed atop a picnic table—and might have survived it—but the great beast’s next step crushed the table and everything in its vicinity beneath its terrible, sagging, meaty feet.
Tobias had worked himself into a frenzy, tugging and ripping at Richard’s clothes. With great effort, Richard tore his gaze away from the dinosaur and looked at the dog, clearly beholding the image of an angel superimposed over the dog’s body. Its face was contorted with anger and urgency, its mouth moving noiselessly in entreaty. Richard nodded, forcing his body to move, clumsily at first. Then with greater speed and alacrity, he sprinted after the dog. The intensity of the light made it impossible to see the details of the terrain, so as he ran, Richard tore the spectacles from his face and placed them once again carefully into the breast pocket of his cassock.
Tobias led him to the dried bed of the bay again, but Richard was determined to see the lay of the land. There was too much destruction to wade through to get back to the pedestrian walkway, so Richard raced north toward the University Avenue overpass. Toby grudgingly followed, snarling and barking his protests as they made for the cloverleaf onramp.
Richard was winded as he made for the center of the overpass. It seemed more solid than the pedestrian walkway, but it was wider, too. Running to the north side of it, Richard saw the tail end of what had been the Goat King’s army in full retreat. Turning back to the south, toward the Bay Bridge, he saw the advancing Oakland army, a hundred thousand strong. Oppressed by forces they did not see or believe in or understand, crazed by an irrational bloodlust, they marched on, their faces contorted into an unnatural conflation of rage, pain, and glee.
The army was beginning to pass to his right, along the frontage road. For a moment, Richard feared the patchwork dinosaur might stomp its way onto the freeway, might tear down the overpass with him on it, but no…it seemed the great beast was hugging the coast, following the frontage road as well. Richard had been prepared to flee, but at the moment, it seemed his perch might be the safest place possible, besides affording him a strategically advantageous view.
He watched as the terrible lizard passed and felt the overpass shudder with every crash of the great, fleshy feet. He felt his stomach turn with revulsion as he saw—closer than ever now—the cadavers sewn, roped, and bolted into its sagging sides. It was a diabolically animated monster of rotting flesh, into which women, men, children, dogs, cats, rats, and God knows what else had all been incorporated. There might be people I know stitched into that, he thought, and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight with the sheer horror of it.
The infernal duke was invisible to him now, since he was not wearing the spectacles. He reached into his cassock to pull them out, but his eye was caught by something moving in the east, and he jerked his head in that di
rection.
He didn’t need the spectacles to see the glory of it—a pillar of cloud, stretching from the ground into heaven as far as the eye could see. It seemed like a solid pedestal, rooted firmly in the earth and supporting the heavens. As he watched it, it eventually dawned on Richard that it was not stationary. The pillar was moving. In fact, it seemed to be on a collision course with the advancing army. Tobias, also looking in the same direction, whined, and his tail began to wag.
Richard looked back at the dinosaur to the north, then south to the approaching pillar. As it got closer, it appeared less solid. It was, indeed, a cloud, and at points he could nearly see through it. Yet its integrity held as it came. As it passed the Ashby Avenue overpass, Richard saw a human figure walking before it.
“Holy Christ,” Richard breathed. He knew that figure. No one on earth he knew walked that way except one man. Richard saw the outline of his hunched back, the loping gait made by two legs that were not of exactly the same length. “It’s Brian,” Richard said to Toby.
Toby barked—no doubt he could see him now as well. Richard wondered at the sight, as Brian stopped to talk briefly with every person he came across. Most of these were people who had been injured on the march from Oakland and were mystified now that they were beyond the influence of a sigil. Richard watched as Brian drew a woman out of hiding. He put his hand on the back of her neck and spoke directly to her face. The woman dissolved into tears.
“C’mon, boy,” Richard said, and dashed for the off-ramp. Toby followed, wagging his tail furiously. Sprinting from the ramp to the frontage road, Richard ran south—the bay shimmering to his right, and the Berkeley hills green and towering in the distance to his left.
Richard didn’t stop to speak to people along the way. There weren’t many, but those that were there seemed fearful and confused. No more than me, Richard thought. He didn’t know what Brian was saying to people. Richard himself had no idea what to say to any of them.
He ran directly toward the pillar of cloud. Brian was poised over a man, his hand on his head. The man was kneeling. And weeping. Brian removed his hand and said something to the man Richard couldn’t hear. It occurred to Richard that Brian looked like John the Baptist or perhaps Elijah or one of the other Hebrew prophets—albeit with sneakers and a hunched back.
Brian lifted his head and his face broke out into a smile as he saw Richard approach. He opened his arms and circled Richard in a great bear hug. Tears streamed from Richard’s eyes as he clutched at his old friend.
“I am so glad to see you safe,” Brian said.
“That makes two of us,” Richard said, drawing back to get a better look at Brian. “Did you stop him?”
“Larch?” Brian laughed. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
Richard wanted details, but they could wait. “What are you doing?” he asked, pointing to the pillar. “I mean—what the fuck?”
“I have this new job,” Brian said. “I’m taking over for Maggie.”
“Maggie? What does being a spiritual director have with the fucking pillar of cloud?”
Brian slapped his arm. “I think there are some things about Maggie you…well, that you never suspected.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that she’s walking ahead of a pillar of fire on the other side of Grizzly Peak right now, putting things right in Oakland.”
“What?”
“Look, we’ll have to catch up later. It looks like I have a dinosaur to stop. Whodathunkit? As well as a whole host of demons. I…I have to get to work.”
“What, exactly, is your work?” Richard asked. He was struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the surreality of it all vanquished his efforts.
“This is my work,” Brian put his hand on the back of Richard’s neck and gazed at Richard with his kind, ebony eyes. “Richard, listen to me, because this is the Truth. When the Order got all that attention after the Republican convention, it wasn’t good for you. You were content before, but now you crave more and more. Before, you just wanted to help people. Now, you can’t rest without the fame. It’s making you sick, and it’s twisting your soul.”
Richard looked away. He felt sweat break out on the back of his neck. Brian placed a hand on his cheek and lifted his head until their eyes met again. “Listen to me, my friend. Your reward is not in this world. You must stop seeking glory for yourself and for the Order—you will not advance the Kingdom that way. Your reward is elsewhere, and glory will be given to you there. But it will be God’s glory, not yours. What you have is enough. What you are is enough. Be at peace and serve God for however many days you have. Do you understand?”
Richard’s knees buckled. His hands ran with sweat and he felt faint. He felt deeply ashamed and strangely liberated at the same time. He nodded blankly.
“Good.” Brian touched his forehead to his then kissed him on the nose. “Gotta get to work.”
Brian looked down at Toby. He knelt and took the dog’s head in his hands. “Gnay ip zodireda paaox hami. Adgt eol ripir.”
Richard could tell he was speaking Enochian. When the fuck did Brian learn Enochian? he wondered. Then he heard Toby respond, “Ulcinin zir.” So Richard hadn’t imagined it back there in the Goat King’s tent. Toby actually spoke—or more likely, the angel spoke using the unwieldy instrument of Toby’s mouth.
“What did you say to him?” Richard asked. The words had gone too fast for him to catch any of them.
“I told him he did not need to stay in Toby’s body. A way can be made.”
“And what did he say?”
“He says he’s good.” Brian slapped his shoulder. “Gotta go. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure,” Richard said, and turned to watch Brian as he limped northward. He looked taller, more confident than Richard had ever remembered seeing him. For a long time, Richard watched him as he stopped to speak with every person along his way, saw into their soul, and told them the Truth that both undid them and restored them.
Richard looked down and noticed Toby looking up at him. “C’mon boy,” he said. “Time to go pick up the kids.”
109
Marco stepped off the ladder onto the roof and, getting his balance, climbed the peak toward the solar panels. He knelt to examine them, conscious that he was putting on a show. There was nothing he actually needed up here. To reroute the power, he’d have to do it at the electrical panel at the rear of the house, but they didn’t know that. So he pretended to check wires and plugs, every now and then pulling some wire cutters from the cloth sack full of tools they’d given him. All the while, though, he moved toward the front of the house—toward the sigil scrap fluttering in the breeze at the house’s peak.
The problem with this plan, he thought, is that the panels don’t actually extend to the edge of the roof. Once I start making for the sigil, the game is over and my goose is cooked. The trick would be snagging the sigil and somehow destroying it before he got shot. How would he destroy it? He could rip it up, he supposed. That would at least destroy the sigil, if not the paper it was written on. He could eat it, but he dismissed that thought. It could take hours for the sigil to lose its potency that way, and if he died, it would be for nothing.
He wiped the sweat from his brow onto the paper sleeve of his jumpsuit. It was chilly, but that didn’t stop a man of his size from sweating whenever physical exertion was involved. He looked down at the two guards holding rifles at the ready. He waved at them. One waved back. He squinted and realized it was Cain. Well, that’s a good sign, he thought. For a moment he wondered if Cain still had the talisman that protected him from the demon’s influence. He felt a moment of panic but then breathed deeply and centered himself. He needed to trust Cain. If he couldn’t, then he’d know it in a moment when he was dead.
Marco had an idea. He couldn’t see over the roof, so he had no idea if there were guards on that side, too. He somehow doubted it. Oh, no doubt there were black shirts in that part of the yard, and no doubt some of them
were armed. But they wouldn’t be expecting him, and he’d have a few seconds of surprise, at least, before they realized what was happening and started firing.
He knelt by another of the panels and tinkered with the connections. Everything seemed in place. Actually, if I weren’t bullshitting them, this would be a good thing to do, he thought. It can’t hurt to make sure everything is ship-shape topside before rerouting the outgoing power.
He kept moving toward the front of the house, checking each panel as he went. At the last panel, he glanced over and judged that he was about six feet from the edge of the roof, and it was about a nine foot climb up to the peak where the scrap was fluttering in the wind. He lowered his eyes quickly and felt his pulse rise in his throat until a steady beat-beat-beat-beat pounded in his ears. His hands were sweating. This could be the last minute of my life, he thought. He looked up at the sun and did a silent salutation. Then he dropped the bag and sprinted up the sloped roof toward the peak. He threw himself over the top of the roof just as he heard the first gunshot. Gaining his balance on the far side, protected for the moment, he reached toward the peak and snatched at the sigil. It tore free in his hand, but before he could tear it a gust of wind tugged it out of his fingers and he nearly fell lunging for it.
But it was no good. The scrap was buffeted by a sudden and strong wind, wafting high above the yard, well beyond his reach, drifting beyond the yard, beyond anywhere he might potentially set hands upon it. He felt his heart sink and was suddenly sick to his stomach. Then a bullet punched a hole in the roof next to him.
He jumped up and scrambled diagonally across the roof, even though it was no safer over there. He was without a plan and without hope. A scuffle below caught his eye, and he turned his head in time to see Cain swing his rifle like a bat, clobbering a black shirt who was aiming directly at Marco. He saw two other black shirts grab Cain by his arms, wrestling him to the ground.
