The Eye of Madness (14 page)

“Mighty fine boy you've got here,” she said dreamily. It was as if Malakhi was the most precious thing she had ever seen in her life.

The foul breath of the woman was up Rebekah's nose before she could do anything and she couldn't help coughing.

“I'm sorry dear, are you sick?” Ruth asked, her voice dripping with sympathy.

Rebekah coughed a few more times then sat up. She shook her head as she scooted a few feet on her butt towards the front of the tent. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the toxic breath. “No, only tired,” she said. “It's been a long day.”

“Tell me about it!” Ruth cackled. “Sometimes I feel I have endured a thousand years of misery.”

“Shhhhh!” the heavy woman on the other side of the tent scolded.

“I guess we'd better keep it down,” Ruth whispered, scooting closer to Rebekah. As luck would have it, Ruth stopped when she was still a few feet away.

“Yes, we all better try to get some sleep,” Rebekah said, but Ruth either didn't hear or just ignored her.

“I wonder how long this is going to last,” she said thoughtfully.

“I don't know,” Rebekah said. “I hope it ends any second.”

Ruth regarded her a long time from her narrowed and wrinkled eyes. Rebekah couldn't tell if her expression was one of contemplation, anger, or longing. It seemed to be a strange combination of all three and it gave her the creeps. She encountered homeless people before, but none were this persistent about asking questions. From her experience, most would be grateful to have a bed and a roof over their head, not to mention the promise of three square meals a day. Ruth was a different animal. Rebekah was not sure whether to be troubled that she was so hard to read, or pleased that the old lady was a refreshing change of pace. Maybe she would feel different if Ruth were able to take a proper shower and brush her teeth. Rebekah made herself a promise that seeing to Ruth's cleanliness would be a priority for her in the morning. Even if it meant putting her hygiene second. Ruth hadn't bathed in a long, long time, and they were likely to be in close quarters for a while.

“Well,” Ruth said, her pleasant demeanor melting, “we have to make the best of it until it does.”

“Yes, that's true,” Rebekah said. “I feel a lot safer here with all the soldiers and all the lights.”

“It won't last forever,” Ruth said. “Nothing ever does.”

“What do you mean?” Rebekah asked.

Ruth shrugged and poked at her front teeth as if she were trying to dislodge a stubborn piece of food. “The Impals didn't stay long, did they?” she said.

Rebekah grimaced when she recalled the image of her father fading out of existence. She felt tears welling in her eyes. Not only for reliving the painful memory, but also because she felt guilty about almost forgetting it. Yes, she had been through a lot today, more than some people endure in a lifetime. Of course, that was no excuse to forget about her father. “No,” Rebekah whispered.

Ruth switched gears quickly. “I hope they don't have kosher food for breakfast in the morning. I could go for some steak and eggs or maybe even ham and eggs,” she said in a distant voice. “God, it has been a long time.”

Rebekah shrugged. The thought had not even occurred to her. She was pretty certain that since they were on an Israeli military base, there would be kosher food. Considering the number of people the military had to feed, bagels and blintz would be the solitary menu item. Perhaps, if they were fortunate, maybe some canned fish or chicken. She had never eaten steak or ham in her life. It surprised her at first because she assumed that everyone there was Jewish. It seemed Ruth was not.

“I don't know,” Rebekah said. “Probably rations.”

Ruth wrinkled her nose as if they would be dining on freeze dried turds. Rebekah didn't think she had eaten a meal, let alone a good one, in ages. She thought it odd that Ruth would hold such high expectations.

“Are you Christian?” Rebekah asked.

Ruth stared at the floor as if terrified to make eye contact. She mumbled in a voice barely audible over the constant hissing outside. “Maybe, I suppose.”

Before Rebekah could muster a response, Ruth switched gears again and said cheerily, “Well dear, I'm tired and I'm sure you must be exhausted. Why don't we get some sleep?”

A wave of relief washed over Rebekah. Moments ago, she was certain that she was in for a long winded talk, stretching into the wee hours of the morning. “That's great,” she said. “I am exhausted and I'm sure Malakhi will be up at first light as usual.”

Ruth scooted over and gave her plenty of room to stretch out and not feel crowded. She was still close enough that Rebekah could smell her, but it was unavoidable in this tiny living space.

“Good night,” Rebekah said as she rolled close to her son and draped her arm over him.

“Good night,” Ruth said.

Rebekah was so exhausted that, in spite of her apprehension, sleep came very fast. It may not have come so easy if she knew the conflict playing out in Ruth's mind. She lay on her side facing them, her eyes wide open. She watched the sleeping mother and son with the hungry zeal of a lion watching a sleeping gazelle. It was not hunger pangs pulling at her, it was the insatiable desire for rape, mutilation, and murder. The same desire that overwhelmed her a hundred times before. She wanted to take the pair out into the woods and play. They would have such a good time and it would rid the world of another single mother. God knows there were enough of them around nowadays.

She could have found a way to accomplish this; after all, she had learned to be crafty. However, there were two factors that stayed her hand. First, Ruth was not a she. Oh sure the body might be, but the consciousness was that of a man. A man who had been dead for thousands of years. Ruth was his mother's name. He had no idea what the real name was of the slumbering, geriatric, wino he inhabited. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter. She was better off now anyway.

His dark nature pulled at him to act, to fulfill his perceived purpose, but he resisted. He resisted with one word replaying through his mind … salvation.

CHAPTER 15

DANGEROUS BEDFELLOWS

“Trust not too much to appearances.”

~Virgil

General Garrison sat in the Oval Office staring at the far wall. He was alone, but he would not be for long. He sought the privacy of the famous room when he first heard about the arrivals. He wanted to pray and seek guidance, but it seemed God was not in a talking mood tonight. He knew God chose him and blessed him, but it no longer seemed that he was special and unique. It hurt his pride and ego, though he would never admit it. He arrived at the conclusion that he was certain must be the truth. God sent him helpers. He couldn't be expected to carry out this enormous task on his own. He couldn't lead with people who did not understand what it meant to be chosen.

Ever since the general's horrific radio address, there had been a steady stream of visitors showing up at the White House. These pilgrims' backgrounds were as diverse as their origins, yet they all held one thing in common. They all moved through the dark unharmed as General Garrison did. This small band assembled at the north gate by Lafayette Square was a tiny drop in a large bucket. Hundreds, if not thousands of immune people existed worldwide. Yet, the vast majority of these unique individuals bore no desire to broadcast their special ability. They were afraid of persecution. Most important, they had secrets to protect, secrets as black as the deepest darkest hole imaginable. They were all arrogant in their own way.

“General, there are several people asking to see you at the north gate,” an aide said as she peaked through the door. She was a short mousy woman who seemed as nervous as one in a room full of cats. Her hand trembled on the door handle, making a faint rattling noise.

“I know!” he boomed, causing her to step back a few paces and almost fall. “We're not in the habit of letting anyone into the White House uninvited, are we?”

“No sir,” she squeaked. “I just thought you should know.”

“Do you take me for an idiot, Miss Smith?” he asked. He had no idea what the poor woman's name was, nor did he care. If her name was not Smith, she made no attempt to correct him.

“No general, I don't,” she said.

“And that's another thing,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk. He eyed the poor woman with folded arms and a piercing scowl. “I think it is about time everyone starts referring to me as Mr. President … don't you?”

Her eyes filled with terror. “Yes, Mr. President,” she whispered.

“What did you say?” he asked, cupping his palm to his ear, feigning deafness.

“Yes, Mr. President,” she said a little louder.

He stood and stared at her for several uncomfortable moments. She managed to summon enough courage to clear her throat and say, “Mr. President, would you like for me to have security remove them?”

He was sure that this intrusive woman knew security could not venture past the lighted perimeter. This group of people assembled in a dark area between the White House fence and the lights of Lafayette Square. The general, now claiming the presidency, knew exactly what he would do. He would go out to them. He strode out the door, elbowing her out of the way.

“But … sir,” was all she could manage as she landed on her rear. It was too late; he had already passed her and turned the corner.

Garrison came across a young Marine guard toting an M-16 assault rifle. He demanded the weapon and, after minimal protest, the soldier handed it over. Garrison inspected the gun as any good soldier would. He ejected and then reinserted the ammo clip. Once satisfied, he flicked the safety off and held the weapon at the ready. He moved towards the nearest door leading to the north lawn. The Marine followed, though he didn't dare protest. He saw the countenance in the new president's face, one he had seen once before. The murderous gaze of an insurgent, hell bent on killing him and his entire platoon. He would not let Garrison out of his sight, not only for everyone else's safety, but for Garrison's as well. The soldier rounded a corner just in time to see a door to the outside slam shut. He quickened his pace and began to sprint down the hallway. There were other guards out there, but he was the only one who knew Garrison was coming.

By the time he opened the door, Garrison had already forced the exterior guards to stand down and fall back. He was now at the iron fence bordering the north lawn of the White House, pointing his weapon through the bars. The Marine caught the eye of one of the outside guards and they stared at each other.

General Garrison, now the self-proclaimed President Garrison, was a soldier first. A politician would not have made such a bold and foolish move, but Garrison was no politician. He was a commander, he was a leader, and he was hardcore. Not to mention, he was chosen by God.

“State your business!” he demanded, leveling the rifle at the center of the group.

“We're all chosen, general … just like you!” a short fat man shouted and stepped forward.

The crowd flinched and hit the ground as a single shot rang out. The man, who dared to speak first, lay on his back with his arms and legs splayed wide. Blood pooled under the back of his head, or what was left of it. The people nearest to him picked brains and bits of scalp off their faces and clothing.

The Secret Service agents and military guards rushed forward at once, causing Garrison to turn. “I told you morons to stay back!” he roared.

It was difficult to go against their training and instincts, but the men complied. They didn't retreat that far back though.

“It's Mr. President!” he spat as he trained the rifle back and forth over the cowering crowd as if he were trying to decide on his next target. “Now does anyone else want to ‘correctly' address me with your business?”

Garrison was about to squeeze off another random shot when a strong and forceful voice spoke up. It was a voice he recognized.

“Mr. President, we only want to serve God, you, and our country … as I always have,” the man said.

Garrison squinted into the darkness then lowered the barrel of the rifle. “Avery?” he said.

“Yes, yes … it's me, Mr. President. I'm here to serve you again.”

Avery Cooper had served under Garrison's command off and on for several years. He thought of him as a good and trusted soldier, not to mention a loyal ally. They were of the same mindset on most issues, including the way they handled things in Central America many years ago. The last time Garrison saw him was two years ago when Avery was a colonel stationed at the Pentagon.

“Where did you come from?” Garrison growled.

“The Pentagon sir, I walked all the way here … it's a bit of a hike,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Garrison didn't find it amusing. “Come closer so I can see you!” he snapped. A couple of the others crouched on the ground began to get to their feet, but Garrison fired off a shot inches over their heads.

“Stay down!” he barked.

Each one froze like a statue and an eerie silence fell over the area. The only noises were the fading echo of the rifle blast and the sounds of the dark.

“It's me,” Avery said, holding up his hands in surrender as he approached the fence.

As he entered the lights from the White House grounds, Garrison saw his face and lowered the weapon.

“Dammit, Avery! I almost shot you!” he barked.

“I'm glad you didn't,” he said with a smile and offered his hand to Garrison through the bars.

Garrison studied his friend carefully before shaking his hand. He then motioned for him to go to the gate about thirty yards away. As Avery began walking, Garrison shouted to the guards. “Let him in … but search him first!”