Tumultus (48 page)

Stop trying to figure things out, Mac.  Sometimes you just have to accept what is, and what is for you right now, is a miserable, painful, suffering burden of an existence.  So man up and pull that trigger.  End it.  Do it, Mac!  Do it while they are sleeping!

The weight of the shotgun felt good in his hands.  It would be an easy enough thing.  Simply place the butt of the gun on the floor, rest his chin at the end of the barrel, and reach a hand down to the trigger and pull.  He wouldn’t feel a thing.  Just darkness, a release, and an end to his suffering.  More importantly, Mac wouldn’t be a burden to the others.  His condition wouldn’t put them in more danger.

Mac watched his hands slowly place the end of the shotgun on the floor and then felt hard, cold steel as he placed his chin firmly atop the double barrel tip.  Just one little flick of his finger and he could rest.  Rest for good.

Yes!  That’s right, Mac.  You’re so tired. Do it, Mac!  Pull the trigger!  Do it now!  Do it!

Mac closed his eyes tightly, his lower back screaming in pain, his breath issuing in and out of his destroyed lungs in a series of shallow, rasping wheezes.  It really would be so much easier.

“Fuck it.”

XLVIII.

The light nearly blinded Mac as he stood up in an attempt to see where it was coming from.  He cried out in shock as he saw what appeared to be a massive cross coming from the center of the light.

I must be dead, and looks like I was wrong about the whole no God thing…

Mac blinked his eyes several times as Bear shouted out from behind him.  The cross had disappeared, though the light remained.

“Who is that, Mac?  Can you see?”

Bear stood next to Mac, his right hand over his eyes as he too peered into the brilliant glare pouring through the train car windows.

Then darkness returned.

Outside the passenger car, the sound of a heavy vehicle door closing echoed in the night, followed by footsteps slowly coming toward the back of the train.

“Hello!  Is this the group from Alaska?”

The accent was unmistakably Middle Eastern.  Mac held the shotgun in front of him, fearing they had possibly been followed all the way to Churchill by another group of Muslim bandits.

“Everyone get back from that door.  Get back and get yourselves low.  Coop, you still have some ammo left in those revolvers, right?”

Cooper’s voice replied in an almost whisper.

“Yeah, Mac – already have them out and ready.”

The voice from outside yelled to them once again.

“Hello!  I am here to take you to The Reverend Father!   Is anyone here?  Are you ok?”

Mac stifled a cough and then looked back to the others inside the train car.

“Wait here.”

Before Mac reached the exit door, someone began knocking on it from the outside.

“Hello?  Is anyone in there?  You do not need to fear me – I am here to help!”

Mac positioned himself against the far wall, just next to the door’s opening while Cooper Wyse crouched down behind a seat, one of his Colt revolvers pointed toward the back of the passenger car.

“Go ahead and come in.”

A silent pause greeted Mac’s instructions.  Clearing his throat, Mac repeated himself.

“I said come on in!”

The door slowly opened outward, as the outline of an average sized man filled the void.  Mac inched closer to where the man stood.

“Ok, that’s far enough.  Stay right there.  Keep your hands real still.  Somebody light up a lantern so we can get a good look at our guest here.”

Dublin reached up and struck a match, lighting one of the two interior lanterns inside the passenger car, a warm glow pushing back against the darkness and revealing the young, friendly face of a thin, dark haired man who was smiling back at her.

“Hello, my name is Khalid.  I work with The Reverend Father.  You know him as the priest.  I was told to investigate the noise we heard earlier, that it may have been your arrival.  I was to ensure you were uninjured, and transport you back to the church if need be.”

Though Khalid’s accent was noticeable, his English was excellent, and he spoke as one who had received considerable education during his life.

Mac moved behind Khalid, placing the barrel of the shotgun against his back.

“Hello there, Khalid my name’s Mac.  We are the group from Alaska.  Can you tell me a little about why we are here?”

Khalid stood unmoving, and though the smile had fallen from his face as he felt the gun at his back, Khalid remained calm, his soft voice measured and deliberate as it spoke.

“You are here for the weapon, for the hopeful destruction of the New United Nations.”

Both Bear and the Russian walked toward Khalid, looking the smaller man up and down carefully.  As they did so, Mac posed yet another question to him.

“And who sent us here?”

Khalid began to turn around to answer Mac, but a jab of the shotgun barrel against his back froze Khalid in place.

“That would be the Texas Resistance.  They contacted you as they had nobody available or with the ability to bypass the border and make their way here to Churchill.  Your location in the newly freed Alaska allowed the opportunity to travel here and secure the weapon.”

Mac pressed Khalid again.

“And how do you know this?”

Khalid looked back at Bear and the Russian, whose eyes were locked with his own.

“The Reverend Father, the priest…he told me.”

Bear took another step toward Khalid.

“And why would he do that?  What’s your purpose here?”

Khalid continued to meet Bear’s gaze, giving no indication of being intimidated.

“I’m the weapon you seek.  I’m the key to destroying the New United Nations.”

Cooper Wyse rose slowly from his position behind one of the train car seats, glancing at Khalid and to Mac.  Brando sat silently next to the rancher, seemingly uninterested in the new visitor.

“Care to explain how that is Khalid?  How are you the weapon?”

Khalid gave a subtle grin in response to Cooper’s question.

“That will be explained to you in detail at the church.  We should be going now.  I don’t wish to worry The Reverend Father.  Please…let us go.  I have a vehicle outside, large enough for all of you.  We can be to the church in mere minutes.”

Like Bear, Yakov had stepped closer to Khalid, his face revealing his continued distrust at the man’s arrival.

“You sound like Muslim.  Yes?”

Khalid calmly looked back at the Russian and nodded.

“Yes, I am a Muslim.  That is my faith.”

Yakov was now just inches from Khalid’s face.

“And why would Muslim work with priest?  Your people destroyed Catholic Church.  Your people beheaded many priests.”

Again Khalid nodded.

“Yes, that did happen.  Those were not my people though.  They do not follow my faith.  Not honestly.  They are an abomination to that faith.”

The Russian pointed a large finger at Khalid.

“I don’t like him!  No!  Not one bit!  Muslim dog!”

Yakov spit on the floor of the train car, the liquid projectile landing just in front of Khalid’s feet.

Reese stepped between the Russian and Khalid, while also looking at Mac who continued to hold the shotgun against Khalid’s back.

“Our goal is to get to the priest.  Khalid says he can take us to him.  I say we stop stalling and do it.  We’re running out of time.”

Dublin joined with Reese’s suggestion.

“Reese is right.  If we have a way to get to the priest now, we should do it.  Let’s go.”

Cooper was the next to suggest the same.

“I’m with them, Mac.  Let’s roll.  Better than waiting ‘till morning to head out.  I’m guessing they have food, water, maybe medical supplies at the church?”

Khalid nodded several times.

“Oh yes!  Places to sleep.  Food and water.  Shower facilities if you wish to clean up.”

Perhaps it was the thought of a hot shower that finally pushed Mac’s concerns aside.  He lowered the shotgun and nodded toward the exit door.

“Ok, then…take what you can, and let’s go.”

XLIX.

As promised, the ride back to the church took but a few minutes.  Khalid’s vehicle was an older commercial sized van with a snow plow shovel jutting out from its front hood and bumper.  The rear tires were heavily studded, allowing the van to easily navigate the snow and ice covered roads of Churchill, but making the ride a rather noisy and uncomfortable one.

None of the van’s occupants said anything to each other during the short trip.  Mac had positioned himself directly behind Khalid, the shotgun sitting against the back of the driver’s seat.  Churchill appeared to be deserted.  What few buildings the van passed were dark.  There were no street lights, no other vehicles, no signs of life.  Khalid pointed to a small digital temperature display on the van’s dash.

“Almost October, the snows will be coming again soon!  The Reverend Father says it will be a particularly cold winter this year.”

The Russian, who had insisted he sit next to Khalid so he could keep an eye on him, snorted loudly at the attempted small talk.

“Just shut up and drive shit van.”

Khalid turned right onto a narrow gravel road that rose upward onto a small hill on top of which the van’s headlights revealed a large, white painted church.  A narrow steeple jutted upward from the left side of the church’s roof, capped by a large wooden cross.

A faint shimmer of light from inside the structure could be seen through the large, stained glass windows of the chapel.  Mac and the others peered into the darkness, trying to make certain they were not being led into some kind of trap.  As the van slowed, nearing what appeared to be the parking area directly in front of the church entrance, the large double doors of that same entrance were pushed open, and out walked the tallest human being Mac or the others had ever seen.  Yakov’s mouth dropped open as his eyes grew wide, his mind attempting to comprehend how tall the priest appeared to be.  From the back seat of the van, Cooper Wyse was heard muttering to himself.

“Holy hell...”

Khalid grinned as he looked back at Cooper in the rear view mirror.

“Yes – the Reverend Father is a unique man in many ways, his stature being among them.”

As the group exited the van, the priest made his way slowly down the steps of the church entrance.  Mac noted the man appeared to be hobbling slightly, and was using a long thick staff to assist his movement.  Khalid walked quickly toward the priest and extended his hand to help the man he addressed as The Reverend Father, down the last step and onto the cold ground.

The priest was dressed in a very simple, long dark robe made from a thick, woolen material suitable for the often frigid temperatures of Manitoba.  The sleeves hid his hands, while the bottom of the robe just touched the ground below the priest’s dark shoed feet.  The Reverend Father’s dark, nearly shoulder length hair framed a lightly bearded, wide face with a particularly prominent forehead.  He appeared to be around forty years of age, with especially deep set dark eyes residing just below a large brow.  Even as his back and shoulders slumped forward when he walked, the top of the priest’s head reached nearly seven and a half feet in height.