The Six Messiahs

by Mark Frost

  By the time the thirty-eight amateur lawmen had assembled outside, the five Bible salesmen were saddled up, ready to go. None of the vigilantes overheard their leader, the man who'd spoken up first inside, the handsome one with the slight German accent, say quietly to his companions:

  "Wait for my signal."

  chapter 14

  FRANK WAITED UNTIL FIVE MINUTES PAST SUNRISE TO RIDE up to the gate; a man and woman wearing identical white shirts, both carrying Winchesters, stepped out of the guardhouse to meet him.

  "Welcome to The New City," said the woman.

  "Nice to be here," said Frank.

  "Isn't it a glorious day?"

  "Seen worse," said Frank.

  "What is your business with us today, sir?" Both of them smiling.

  "Figured on joinin' up," said Frank, grinning right back at (hem.

  "Joining ... up?" asked the woman.

  "Yup."

  Their smiles wore down around the edges; they glanced at each other uneasily.

  "Joining up," said the man.

  "Yup."

  "Excuse us a moment, please, sir," said the woman.

  The two moved back into the guardhouse, whispering to each other; Frank could see the man through the window, working a telegraph key. Looking up, he traced the suspended wire following the road toward the distant town. He took out his field glasses and trained them east, where he'd seen the military maneuvers taking place during the night; looked like a firing range set up there, sandbags and targets.

  Frank heard the telegraph key clicking; an answer coming back. He tucked the glasses away as the guards moved bac outside, all smiles again.

  "You may ride on ahead, sir," the woman said to him "Please stay on the road at all times. When you reach The New City, someone will meet you with further instructions."

  "Have a glorious day," said the man.

  Frank tipped his hat and urged his horse forward. The gat closed behind him. The road was simple but well maintained " flat stones laid down in orderly rows, wide enough for a wagon, cutting straight through the shifting dunes. Smoke rising from chimneys in the distance. As he rode the five mile to the next gate, a black stain that came into view in the distance turned out to be a gigantic black tower. Once he realized what he was looking at, Frank stopped; he heard Molly's voice again:

  Looks like you wandered into the middle of somebody's nightmare now, Frankie; don't know whose exactly—ain't yours, 'cause I'm not in it. What you gonna do?

  You know me, Molly; in for a penny, in for a pound.

  A vast shantytown spread out ahead of him. Surprising, from the outside he'd figured The New City would be all picket fences, shade trees, and freckle-faced kids; this looked more like one of those dirt-poor slums he'd seen squatting outside big cities in Mexico.

  He moved on. Smiling faces waved him through a second gate. A pretty young girl met him on horseback at the guardhouse and escorted him to a stable just off the town's main street. Looking through an arch to a courtyard in back, Frank spotted the actors' wagons grouped against a wall.

  He'd come to the right place, that much he could bank on.

  A group of five smiling young people in white shirts, none of them older than eighteen, blacks and whites mixed together, eagerly greeting him as he climbed off his horse. A stable hand led the horse, and his Henry rifle in its saddle holster, away. They pressed a printed flier into his hands—"The New City Rules for Our Guests"—and asked him to surrender his sidearm.

  "No weapons are allowed in The New City," said one of the shirts, pointing to Rule 14 on the sheet, which was nearly as long as his arm.

  Frank saw no percentage in arguing and handed over his Colt.

  "I'll keep the holster, if you don't mind," said Frank.

  "We don't mind at all, sir," beamed one of them.

  "Good," said Frank.

  'Cause I'm probably gonna need those bullets for the gun I hid in my boot.

  "Would you please take off your hat and put your hands over your head, sir?" asked another.

  "Why?"

  "So we can give you your shirt," said another.

  Two of them opening one of the white shirts, ready to slip it over his head. Frank thought this over for a second and decided it pissed him off.

  "No thanks," he said.

  He handed back the list of rules and walked out of the stable. The welcoming committee trailed after him like a flock of anxious ducks.

  "But everyone who wants to join us has to wear their shirt, sir...."

  "It says so right here in the rules."

  Frank turned onto Main Street and kept walking; the avenue and the planked sidewalks crowded with busy, smiling people, all wearing the same white shirt. More than a few Chinese faces in the mix, Frank noticed. None that answered right off to the Chinaman's description, but enough of them to encourage the idea that Chop-Chop might not be far off.

  Frank stopped, struck a match off a pillar, and lit up a cheroot. The five shirts following him whispered among themselves, confused; finally one of them, a bespectacled black kid, stepped forward.

  "I'm sorry, sir, there's no smoking allowed in The New—"

  Frank turned and shut him up with a look.

  "How much you kids want to go fishing?" asked Frank, reaching into his pocket for a handful of silver dollars. "A buck apiece, how 'bout it?"

  The six stared at him and each other in shock.

  "There's no money here in The New City, sir."

  "We have everything we need."

  "All our needs are provided for." "That figures," said Frank, putting the coins away.

  "It's important for everyone to follow the rules."

  "Sure it is, kid, or what you got is anarchy and that's no way to run a railroad, is it?"

  They looked at him blankly until the somber, round-faced black kid, who was emerging as their leader, picked up the thread of their argument.

  "Especially if a person wants to join. They told us you wanted to join."

  "They did, did they?"

  "You do want to join us, don't you, sir?"

  "I'm thinkin' about it," said Frank, looking off up the street. A poster outside a large building ahead on the right caught his eye; bright colors, big print. He walked toward it.

  "Because we have strict rules about people wanting to join us," said the black kid, continuing to tag along.

  "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

  "We really need you to follow the—"

  "What's your name, kid?"

  "Clarence, sir," said the black kid.

  "Tell you what, Clarence. Why don't you cut the crap and give it to me straight so I can make up my own mind? Who's running the show here?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Who's the head honcho?"

  "Our leader?"

  "Who wrote the rules?"

  "Our leader is the Reverend Day."

  "Reverend A. Glorious Day," said another, enthusiastically.

  "What's the 'A' stand for?" asked Frank.

  More blank stares.

  "What's so all-fired special about this Reverend Day?" asked Frank.

  "Reverend Day speaks to the Archangel," said Clarence.

  "He brings us the Word of our Lord."

  "Through the Reverend we see Him—"

  "We commune with Him, Brother Tad," corrected Clarence.

  That stopped Frank dead on the sidewalk. "You what?"

  "We commune with the Archangel."

  They were beaming at him again like lunatics.

  "Which Archangel is that?" asked Frank.

  "We don't know his name, sir."

  "He's just the Archangel."

  "He sits at the left hand of God," said Clarence.

  "That's what this Reverend Day tells you?"

  "Oh yes, he knows the Archangel well...."

  "But we know Him, too, here, in our hearts," said Clarence. "When we have communion with Him."

  "Whereabouts does all this communing take place?"
r />   The white shirts smiled at each other like the answer was so obvious.

  "All around."

  "The Archangel is everywhere."

  "We hear his voice wherever we go."

  "We're never alone...."

  "You mean to say that, right now for instance, you hear a voice telling you what to do?" asked Frank carefully.

  "Yes, sir; through Reverend Day the Archangel is always with us."

  "Praise the Lord."

  "Hallelujah."

  "Okay," said Frank, nodding slowly, looking at all the smiling white shirts passing by on the street, more wary now that he realized he'd wandered into an insane asylum.

  "And you'll hear the Archangel, too, sir, once you join us."

  "After you meet Reverend Day, you'll understand."

  "All the people who want to join us meet Reverend Day...."

  "What's the tower you're building over there for?" asked Frank.

  "That's the Tabernacle of the Archangel, sir."

  "So it's a church."

  "Much much more than that, sir."

  "When the Holy Work is finished, that's where the Archangel will appear," Clarence piped in eagerly.

  "The Reverend says the Holy Work is near."

  "It won't be long now."

  "What a glorious day that will be!"

  A chorus of hallelujahs followed.

  Jesus Christ, thought Frank, they're crazier than a bunch of drunken monkeys at a taffy pull.

  "Let me ask you something, Clarence," said Frank, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and pointing to a poster for the Penultimate Players beside them on the wall. "This play is being put on tonight; have I got that right?"

  "Oh yes, sir."

  "And the actors for this thing, are they staying here in town?"

  "Yes, sir; they're over at the hotel," said the black kid.

  "Where would that be?"

  "Just down the street."

  "That's where all our visitors stay."

  "That's where you'll be staying, too, sir."

  "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place—"

  Interrupting them, a commotion in the street: five men on horseback galloping up to a building across from them, scattering people out of their way. Unlike any other building on the street, a big adobe, like a ranchero's hacienda. A sign in front: The House of Hope.

  Shouts from the riders; huge man in a gray duster coming down the steps of the House of Hope to meet them: the same man Frank had seen with the troops last night in the desert.

  The five men well-dressed; dark clothes, covered with dust from a hard ride; one of them injured, the others helping him off his horse. Bloodstained bandage around what looked like a gunshot wound to his thigh. A tall, blond fella, the lead rider, hint of a foreign accent in his voice, shouting to the big man.

  Something about a posse. Shit.

  The big man barking instructions; white shirts leading their horses off. Others wearing all black running down from the House of Hope to help carry the wounded one inside. One of the riders, a smaller blond, lifting a briefcase from his saddle-bag before trailing the rest of them in. Over in less than a minute. Activity on the street returned instantly to normal; not a soul stopped to wonder or gossip about what they'd just seen.

  Like no small town I've ever seen, thought Frank; a little excitement like that would set most folks off gabbing for an hour at least.

  He watched the big man climb back up the stairs to the House of Hope and the realization nearly knocked off his hat.

  He knew this fella from somewhere. Where was it?

  Jesus, that was it: Cornelius Moncrief.

  Head-buster deluxe for the railroad. Ten years ago, Moncrief came into Tombstone and nearly beat this poor little accountant fella to death in the middle of a full saloon. Claimed he'd run off after embezzling twenty thousand dollars from the home office. If it was true, Frank and the other deputies couldn't find any cash in the poor bastard's possession, but he refused to press charges so they couldn't stick Cornelius for the assault. And they could tell from Moncrief's attitude that he knew his position with the Southern Pacific brass made him untouchable.

  Frank had escorted the big man to the edge of town on Wyatt's instructions and invited him to never set foot there again. Cornelius just laughed in his face and rode off; he was crazy and he liked to hurt people. That's why he lingered in the memory.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  "You'd better take me to the hotel," said Frank.

  Kanazuchi slipped away from the workers' shacks after walking out to use the latrine. The guards weren't as sharp-eyed in the morning and they'd been busy doling out the workers' breakfasts, bowls of oatmeal and a crust of bread served in a mess hall between their huts.

  Making his way through the shanties, Kanazuchi adopted the passive smiling face the white shirts wore and no one gave him a second glance. In the daylight, he saw that none of these buildings off the main street had been given paint or whitewash. No flowers or decoration. Only four thin walls and flat corrugated tin roofs. Filth and despair. The one attractive street served as a false display, to impress visitors. Or to keep the citizens in order.

  His dream had told him he would find the Kojiki and the other holy books in the chamber below the church, but his mind had not found a way around the problem the church presented; how to search for an entrance with shifts of workers swarming over the area both night and day.

  The rounded roof of a tall building to the south caught his eye and he moved in that direction. Along the way, he heard the sounds he had missed the night before:

  Children's voices. Laughter.

  He followed the sound to an enclosed compound, ringed by a fence of knotted barbed wire. Inside the circle, children were playing games in the dirt, over a hundred of them, running tossing balls back and forth. Boys and girls, different races None older than eight or nine. Low buildings lined the far side of the circle; their living quarters. A row of adults stood around the perimeter, not participating in the play, encouraging, or even supervising. Just watching.

  Kanazuchi had seen enough now to realize the people in this city lived and moved under the most powerful form of mind control he'd ever witnessed; trying to probe beneath the surface of the workers' consciousness proved useless. How or why this group illusion gripped them so fiercely he could not determine; a blank, impenetrable wall had been built around their thoughts. But he sensed that the energy controlling these people was already beginning to decay.

  And for some reason, these children were still free, even happy. Living together, apart from their families.

  They are just waiting for them to reach the right age, Kanazuchi realized. Like ranchers raising a herd of livestock.

  One of the children, a tiny curly-headed girl, chased a bright red ball to the edge of the fence. It rolled underneath the strands and stopped at Kanazuchi's feet; he picked up the ball and held it out to her. She looked at him coyly; he made the ball disappear with a deft sleight of hand, then reached through the fence and produced it from behind the girl's ear. She accepted it with a delighted gasp of astonishment and ran off laughing toward the others.

  One of the adults inside the fence had noticed their inter action; Kanazuchi raised the dead smile back onto his face waved blandly, and walked away.

  A two-story warehouse drew into sight, standing apart from the shanties in a clearing. He waited for the area to empty before crossing to its walls. Barn-style double front doors slightly open; two yawning whiteshirts patrolling with rifles Kanazuchi walked slowly around to the rear, where he found a single door. Tried the handle, twisted quietly with all his strength until it yielded, then slipped inside.

  Stacked wooden crates covered with canvas and tied to the ground by rope occupied most of the open floor space. Kanazuchi walked between rows piled as high as his head. Out of sight of the front doors, he cut the rope holding one stack and wedged open the crate. A dozen rifles inside, his estimate, more than a
thousand rifles in the room.

  A row of irregular shrouded shapes stood across from him; he lifted the canvas. Four round-barreled guns mounted on sturdy tripods. Countless smaller boxes stenciled with the word GATLING and filled with coils of linked ammunition belts piled nearby. He had never seen one before, but he had heard of such weapons: machine guns. He had also heard it said that one man armed with' a machine gun in open ground could kill a hundred in less than a minute.

  Sound nearby; a gentle rasp of snoring. He traced it to a white shirt sleeping on the ground three rows away, rifle beside him. An Asian face.

  Chinese.

  Kanazuchi picked up the rifle, reached down and tickled the man's nose with the tip of the barrel. He woke sluggishly, offering no reaction, even with the gun staring him in his face.

  "Why are you sleeping on duty?" asked Kanazuchi in Mandarin.

  "Will you report me?" the man answered flatly.

  "What if I had been an intruder?"

  "Don't talk in that language," the man said in English. "It is against the rules."

  "I will report you if you do not answer my questions," said Kanazuchi in English.

  "You should report me. I have broken the rules. I should be punished," the man said almost eagerly, the first emotion he'd exhibited. "That is your responsibility."

  "Do you know what will happen to you?"

  "I will be sent to the Reverend."

  "What will the Reverend do to you?"

  "I will be punished."

  "How?"

  "You must tell them what I have done. That is the rule. If you do not tell them, then you have broken the rules...."

  Kanazuchi grabbed the man's throat, cutting him off.

  "When did you come to this place?" Kanazuchi asked in a whisper.

  The man stared at him, not even bothered by the constriction to his breathing.

  "How long ago did you come here?" asked Kanazuchi.

  "Two years."

  "There were men here who worked with explosives, Chinese; did you know them?"

  The man nodded.

  "They worked for the railroad; did you work for the railroad, too?"

  The man nodded again.

  "Where are they now?"

  "Gone."

  "They built something here, a room underground, under that church, do you know where this room is?"