Tales of Sin and Madness (23 page)

One of the man’s followers rushed across the stage, into the view of the camera.

Dave remained behind the large array of keyboards. “Fuck you! I’m not afraid of you sick people. You’re nobodies, insignificant los…”

The audience gasped with fright as the bald man rammed a large kitchen knife into the top of Dave Morrison’s head.

Gasps turned to screams and the clamorous stomping of feet swarmed the soundtrack. The camera suddenly pivoted upwards, showing the rafters of the ceiling, gunshots ringing out in droves, before the screen turned to static.

“Jesus, what happened?” Jay Waterhouse said.

“Did ya see the way the knife…?” James Gardiner sighed and shook his head.

“I’d say the cameraman fainted.”

They all flinched at the sound of Mike Barry’s voice.

“I thought you’d gone to have a shower?” Lou asked. He turned and looked at his roommate. He sat on the far bed with a glazed stare.

Mike Barry shrugged. “The shower can wait.”

4: (
From the house of the Layford family
)

Julie wandered back into the lounge where her fifteen-year-old daughter was staring into the white snow of the television static.

“Finally got a hold of him,” Julie said. She slumped into the chair with a sigh.

Thalia Layford turned her head. “Is Dad at the police station?”

“Yeah. He stayed behind with a handful of other officers.”

Thank God
, she thought.

Thalia glanced back at the screen, saw the show hadn’t come back on, then stood up and sat down in the chair beside her mom. “Does he know what’s going on? What did he say?”

Julie grabbed the packet of cigarettes from off the coffee table, yanked one out and dangled it from her lips. “Apparently it’s a madhouse in the city. FBI, cops from all over New York. Dad said that one of the men from the cult rang FBI headquarters just as the show started, and told them they had taken over the Marty Laffin show. He told the Feds they have thirty members and they all have guns and have locked all the doors.”

Julie stopped to take a breath. She fired up the cigarette.

“It’s okay, Mum. Dad’s not over there. He’s back at the station, safe.”

“I know,” Julie said and gave her daughter a quick smile. She puffed harshly. “But he still might be called in. These guys are absolute maniacs. They’re a cult. Do you know what that means?”

Thalia rolled her eyes. “Of course I know what a cult is. I’m not an idiot Mum.”

“No,” Julie chuckled. “I mean, do you know how cults usually work?”

“What do you mean?”

Julie inhaled deeply before continuing. “Cults often commit mass suicide. They would rather die by their own hands than be captured by the police. Well, in truth, it’s the leader who doesn’t want to be captured, and he orders for his ardent followers to join him in the kingdom of heaven, or some bullshit like that.”

“Wow,” Thalia muttered.

“Exactly.” She took two quick puffs. “And they don’t care who they take with them. In this case, I wouldn’t be surprised if they set fire to the place.”

“Really? Wouldn’t they just, I dunno, shoot themselves or something?”

Julie shrugged while blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Perhaps. But they have a whole audience, plus…police, to kill.”

Thalia gazed down at the floor. She now understood fully why her mother was so scared. “You know, you should really stop smoking.”

“I know,” Julie huffed.

“What else did Dad say?”

“Well, apparently, if anyone fu…messes with them in any way, like turning off the power, they’d kill as many people as possible. Their orders were that they were to remain on the air, until they were finished with the show. Whatever the hell that means. Then they’d let the survivors go. They said they are going to…sacrifice, a few people, but…” She stopped to stub out the cigarette. “They basically said it’s either half a dozen people dead or two hundred. It’s the FBI’s choice.”

“They blackmailed them?”

“In a way, I suppose.”

“Did Dad say what the cops are going to do?”

“He had to go before we got to that. He said he’ll ring back soon, though.”

They were both as surprised as each other when the familiar sounds of the show came back on. They turned their eyes to the screen.

“How you holding up?” Julie asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to watch this, you know. This isn’t a movie…”

Thalia gave her mother a fleeting frown. It told her she knew all that, so be quiet.

The camera showed the bald man sitting behind the desk, his face flushed and dripping with perspiration. There was something slightly different, however. It soon became apparent that they were shooting the show at a slightly different camera angle.

“Welcome back,” the man said down the camera. “We had a little technical difficulty.”

There was a lot more crying than usual coming from the audience.

“We had quite a wild time in here,” the man chuckled. “It’s a shame you all at home missed it.” He leaned over the desk. “Well, let me show you the aftermath,” he whispered.

The camera panned around. It showed bodies slumped where they fell, some with their heads blown away, some with gory holes in their chest and stomach. Lots were sprawled on the theatre floor and a fine mist of smoke was still present in the air. It was pretty evident what had happened. A few of the bald cult members were still busy re-loading their guns.

There was still a good hundred audience members left, and they were all either weeping or staring at nothing, possibly on the brink of madness.

The camera left the carnage and settled back on the man. “We told them not to try and escape,” he said. “We warned them. Ah well, sorry for the inconvenience, folks. The cameraman fainted, and in the process pulled out a cord or something. But we have another one – Shaun, on camera, two? Yes, camera two.”

He turned and looked past the view of the camera. “How are my boys doing upstairs? We still on the air?”

There was a faint murmur of talking and the man nodded.

“Good,” the man said and turned back to the camera. “That was Bill, the floor manager. He’s still alive,” the man said and chortled. “Give us another look at Bill, will ya Shaun?”

The camera swung around to the plump floor manager. The pale man glanced fleetingly at the camera then cast his head to the floor.

“Give Bill a round of applause,” the bald man shouted and clapped his hands. His followers joined in, but nobody else.

“Thanks Bill, you’ve been a great help tonight.”

The camera was turned back to the man.

“You see, I’m afraid my boys are all alone up in the control room, now. Seems the director and his pals decided to make a run for it during all of the commotion. They got as far as the control room door.” He shook his head. It was obvious he was beginning to lose a bit of self-control. He was scratching his scalp continuously and stumbling over his words.

“What shall we do now?” he asked one of his followers.

The camera swung around to the bald cult member. He shrugged and shook his head.

“Dunno, Sam. Sacrifice more people for the evil ways of television?”

“Nah, fuck that,” the man said.

A quick pan back to the leader.

“I know!” he proclaimed. “Let’s destroy the house of the devil!” He stood up and raised his arms. He wore a vicious grin.

“It’s time for us to prove our worth to the Lord. Let’s burn this motherfucking theatre down!”

The phone rang in the Layford house. Julie hopped up. “That’ll be Dad.”

She rushed into the hall and picked up the phone.

Julie wandered back after two minutes. She fell into the chair.

“What did he say?”

“Emergency Services Unit are going to raid the theatre,” she told her daughter.

“Well it’s about time,” Thalia said.

Part 3: The Pay-Off

It was clear, when the ESU officers had finally gained entrance into the building, that they were definitely not dealing with a terrorist group. The general concurrence from all law enforcement was that the group inside were a cult, but they weren’t ever completely sure until the lock was carefully, and quietly picked, and they saw no members standing in the foyer. A terrorist group would always have people guarding it.

A cult might think to place guards, but that was only in the minority; most cults were disorganized and led by morons with more charm than brains.

This cult was obviously in the majority.

The ESU had set up with rapid precision, keeping the noise to an absolute minimum. They had checked the security guards that lay sprawled in their own blood, but they were long dead.

Now, twelve ESU officers stood in front of all three entrances to the theatre. Within the group of four by each door, two men held assault rifles, while the other two held a small but powerful battering ram. Their orders were relayed through earphones by the commanding officer who, outside, held a portable television.

With guns poised and battering rams ready, the officers inside the building waited for that one final order.

From behind the doors, the leader of the cult shouted: “It’s time for us to prove our worth to the Lord. Let’s burn this motherfucking theatre down!”

Immediately afterwards, the officers received the order.

* * *

Sam gazed out at the sea of terrified faces. His thoughts were on how masterful his plan was. On how brilliant he was.

He knew there would be mass hysteria when he first set fire to the theatre, but his people would be standing by the doors, firing bullets into anyone trying to escape. He felt no guilt about killing his followers, after all, they were nobodies, runaways with no ability to think for themselves.

Fucking morons
, he thought.
They’d believe I was black if I told them so
.

But he did love the power. He was a god to these people. That aspect he would miss.

Never know, I could get another group together after I’m far away from here
, he thought.
Change my look, go to another country…

At once, all three sets of doors were smashed open and officers came barging into the theatre.

Sam watched, stunned, as a dozen or so armed police swarmed the room.

“Put the weapons down and place your hands on your heads!”

The audience screamed as Sam fell under the desk.

Watching from his impromptu cubby house, Sam saw that each officer had their rifle pointed at the cult members. Even the ones that had been carrying the battering rams were now armed with rifles.

“Put your weapons down now!” the heavily armed and protected officers screamed.

There was a moment of hesitation, as the members thought about which path to take.

But, just as Sam had preached to them time and again, the disciples of Uncle Sam’s family chose to go down fighting rather than be captured.

All armed members raised their guns. From around the theatre came the thunderous onslaught of gunfire.

The cult members guarding the entrances were pummeled with bullets.

By the end of the battle Sam’s entire cult had been shot. No officer was injured.

“Sam,” one of the officers called. “Come out with your hands on top of your head. If you come out firing, we will be forced to shoot. This is a warning. Come up slowly.”

With the faint cry of ambulances and the audience being led from the theatre, Sam stood up.

“Please, don’t shoot me. I, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t the leader, you see. They forced me to do this. I was a patsy.”

Sam continued to insist on his innocence as two officers handcuffed him and led him out of the theatre.

“Hey, what happened to Flag and Shorty and Bobby?” Sam asked as he was escorted outside.

“They’ve been taken care of,” one of the officers said.

“Good,” Sam said. “I hated those fuckers. Flag, he was the leader, you know. He was the one that set this whole thing up.”

* * *

Two men sat under the shady cover of an umbrella, sipping coffee amid the crowded café.

“Okay, Bill, what’s your full name?”

“William Anthony Crivelli. But I prefer Bill.”

“That’s Italian?” The man from the newspaper smiled.

“Yes. My family was originally from Venice.”

The man scribbled on his notepad. “You don’t mind, do you Bill?”

“Of course not. How else are you going to get the story?”

The man smiled and nodded. “Okay. What was your job at the Marty Laffin show?”

“I was the floor manager.”