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Authors: Walter Greatshell

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“What kind of business?”
“What kind of business do you think? I’m here to save the world.”
As the Prophet’s entourage approached the clearing, a larger group swept in from the street on the opposite side, chanting and spreading incense. The chant sounded like Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise.” These men were not on bicycles but on in-line skates, identical with their scythe-bladed hockey sticks and black hooded sweatshirts—a mob of street hockey Grim Reapers. Rolling among them was another vehicle liberated from mall security, an electric cart with a small freight bed, on which a huge gold crucifix stood like an uprooted tree. Ray recognized its driver as the Apostle Chace Dixon. The Living Saint.
After his recent encounter with Dixon, Ray had ransacked his memory for what he knew about the man. There wasn’t much. He knew Dixon had been incredibly wealthy—which his followers took as the surest sign of God’s approval. His success had drawn the mighty to him, particularly those who were less interested in the meek inheriting the Earth than in Congress repealing the inheritance tax. Oh, they had tithed richly for
that
gospel, and Dixon was only too happy to give it to them. His pulpit had aimed squarely at a certain breed of militantly prosperous Christian who was ready to ditch fuddy-duddy traditions of charity for a dose of stronger dope—and Chace was just the doctor to write the prescription.
The two groups met in the middle.
“Welcome, Your Greatness, welcome,” Dixon said grandly, assuming the role of host as he bowed before Sandoval.
Sandoval impatiently gestured for him to rise, saying, “Thanks, Dix.”
Hopping lightly up to the microphone, Dixon said, “Thank
you
, O Holy One.” Was there perhaps just the slightest tinge of sarcasm in his voice? Gesturing toward the marble dome of the State House, he indicated the gold statue on its summit and addressed the assembly: “Divine Providence! Since the founder of this city was a clergyman, I feel that at long last it is time to raise a cross atop our capitol. The glorious unification of church and state has finally been achieved—hallelujah!”
Sandoval said, “What about the statue that’s already up there?”
“Hah! The Independent Man?”
“The Independent Man, yes.”
“What a monstrosity. That’s what you want representing your state: a big gold sociopath with a spear.”
“As opposed to a big fat sociopath with a cross?”
Turning red, Chace pretended he hadn’t heard, saying, “I always hated that thing; it looks like a kitschy lamp. Not to mention, it’s a contradiction in terms: an iconic iconoclast. So absurd! Most human beings are dependent by nature—it’s not a bad thing. Hey, that’s why civilization was invented, folks, in case you didn’t know. Let’s have everybody be a loner, good idea. See how many bridges and tunnels that gets you. But that’s exactly the kind of liberal thinking that brought down the whole country, the whole world.”
Facing the crowd, Chace shouted, “Hey, gang! How we all doin’?” This was one of his most popular catchphrases, and the audience responded with customary enthusiasm. When the noise abated, he said, “Everybody doing good? Fantastic. Nice
day
. Speaking of which, has anybody noticed anything … unusual?”
He was answered by cheers and applause.
“That’s right. We are standing in the open, under the clear blue sky. Can you believe this? Barely a month ago, we were desperate scavengers, barricaded inside that mall. Then we were visited by an Angel of our Lord Adam, who told us to go north and seek the Prophet Jim. Now we return from our journey in triumph, the Prophet at our side, to stand outdoors in the light of day! With no high walls protecting us, no armored convoys, no weapons. And listen! What do you hear? Nothing. Nothing but sweet, sweet silence.” He paused. “Ladies and gentlemen. I am here to tell you that this land …
is our land
!”
Someone handed him a guitar and he broke into a slightly pitchy rendition of the Woody Guthrie song. But the crowd went wild. Everyone sang along, even Todd and Ray, and when it was over, the cheering and victory chants went on for ten minutes.
Finally, Chace called for quiet. Grave-faced, he said, “But there is a threat.”
A chill swept the audience. He nodded slowly, panning his cold gaze across the crowd.
When the suspense had built enough, he continued, “Yes, it has just come to my attention that there is a threat to our mission of salvation and purification. Eighteen days ago we received transmissions from a substantial party of survivors in Washington, DC.” The crowd gasped. “Yes. Apparently they have established a Godless, socialistic society called Xanadu. And they are recruiting more heathens by the minute!”
This caused a tremendous stir.
Breaking through the hubbub, he bellowed, “Should we tolerate this new Gomorrah in the heart of our nation’s capital?”
Amid the confusion, a number of voices cried, “No!”
“No? Not even if it means committing ourselves fully to an attack against entrenched human beings—not just demons?”
A smaller number, harder to hear over the growing opposition: “No!”
“Then that is what I propose we do!”
The majority turned against him, roaring their displeasure. Dixon shouted them down: “
Not
just because I believe we have superior firepower and the Lord on our side, but because we have reason to believe that this other group has already invaded our lines and is engaged in a campaign of spying and subversion!”
Now any stray sounds of protest were buried in an avalanche of gung ho fury. Dixon bellowed, “I’m speaking of the disappearances! I am speaking of the mysterious thefts and sabotage! This may be the Enemy we have been waiting for—the secular army of Satan! Yes, we must engage them, not to destroy them but to save their souls! And once we have conquered them, we will add their arms to our Lord’s arsenal. At long last we will be able to put an end to the corruption of our land by socialists and subversives and the so-called liberal elite! At long last we will avenge the victims of Waco and Ruby Ridge and Oklahoma City and 9/11—all precursors to the ultimate atrocity of Agent X! It’s time to end the terror, once and for all! It’s time to send a message to Mecca and Moscow and Washington, DC! Hallelujah! Thank you, Adam! Amen!”
Standing on the sidelines, James Sandoval raised his hands, and the crowd immediately fell silent, urgently shushing each other. Voices whispered, “Let the Prophet speak!”
In a soft voice, he said, “Greetings, my friends. So nice to see you all here. I would like to welcome the new recruits among you, but first I must make a special announcement. This is important.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I blame myself for this, for allowing things to go so far. It shouldn’t have happened; I’m sorry. Chace, I apologize to you most of all, since I obviously should have been more clear with you from the beginning. I wasn’t, and now I have no choice but to do this in front of all these good folks. Here it is:
“There will be no crusade against our fellow man. Not happening. Not now, not next week or next year, not ever. That’s not what we’re here for. Chace, these people don’t need an Ayatollah, they need a Gandhi, and you’re not it. You’re not even close. I only wish I could have prevented you from burning all those poor women. Believe me, I’m sorry as hell about that—the thought of it makes me physically sick. But I failed them, I failed you, and most of all I failed God … and for my sins I died. But the Lord gave me a second chance. He raised me from the dead, and He said, ‘Hold on a minute, Jim. I have a job for you.’ That doesn’t make me Jesus, and it doesn’t make you the Pope, okay? You’re just a guy who used to work for me, but now you’re fired. You understand? You’re fired.”
Before Sandoval even finished speaking, Chace yelled, “I don’t have to listen to this! You wouldn’t even be alive if not for me! You’d still be a half-frozen Xombie up in fucking Canada! You’re no prophet! You don’t speak for Adam; I don’t think you even believe in Him! I renounce you!” To the crowd, he shouted, “Attention everyone! This man has just revealed himself as a false prophet, a phony! He must be one of
them
! Yes, he is a spy, sent to infiltrate and corrupt us! Do not believe him! Do not obey him!”
The assembly dissolved into a riot of accusations and counteraccusations. The extremists of both sides wanted to fight it out then and there, but since most of the troops weren’t sure which side they were on, the brawl was postponed. Dixon and Sandoval stormed from the field, followed by their core supporters. Dixon had clearly gained a few.
Todd, Ray, and the other disciples were dismissed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 
COUP
 
“J
esus, that was scary,” Ray said. “I think I pissed my pants.”
“Did you?” Todd asked.
“
No.
But I would kill for a shower.”
Hours had passed since the big schism, and still there were no arrests, no statements from either the Prophet or the Apostle, no fallout of any kind. The whole complex seemed to be holding its breath.
After finishing their cleaning duties at the hotel, Todd and Ray crossed the glass Skybridge to the mall. Below the bridge, they could see long rows of abandoned Humvees and other military vehicles leading up and down the highway ramps. Roads were impassable now, but across the field was the Amtrak station, with very irregular service to Boston and points north. Nothing was better for morale than the sound of a train whistle—it was an advertisement for civilization. Like Todd and Ray, many of the men had been lured in by that sound.
The mall was even busier than the hotel, full of holy warriors eating, sleeping, and doing religious devotions. It smelled like a school cafeteria. Men were gathered at the mall’s central atrium, an oval space rising two floors to the ceiling skylights. A bank of windows overlooked Water-place Park, formerly a summertime attraction with gondolas and mimes, now a debris-choked concrete pond. To the far left was the fenced field below the State House—the women’s camp. Men crowded the windows as if watching a show.
Ascending to the Food Court on the top floor, Todd and Ray sat down to a dinner of “stew”—what the cooks called stew. It was a lot of random canned things poured into a pot and heated together—in this case tomatoes, green beans, beets, tuna fish, and hominy. It actually wasn’t that terrible, but Ray had no appetite.
As they finished and prepared to leave, they were joined by Captain Barnstable, who took them aside, and said, “I have a message for you guys.” He looked shaken and preoccupied. As if coming to a difficult decision, he asked, “Did you say you talked to Elvis?”
The boys were wary. Todd said, “We haven’t seen him lately, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Barnstable leaned close and palmed Ray a folded square of toilet paper, “This is from the Prophet to all of us. He asked me to show it to you. I suppose that must mean he thinks you can be trusted.”
“How do we know you can?”
“Just read it, then eat it.” Barnstable walked away.
The note read:
This is Jim Sandoval, your Prophet. An assassination attempt has been made on my life, and I have reluctantly accepted an offer of sanctuary by the Evians. They do this in full knowledge that it is a breach of their inviolate status, but know it is imperative that we prevent Chace Dixon and his followers from committing a heinous crime in the name of our Lord Adam. As most of you already know, Dixon intends to wage war on the innocent human beings at our nation’s capital. What you may not know is that he has a nuclear missile at his disposal and is gathering a trainload of other heavy weapons. That train is being outfitted as a war machine, an engine of destruction, and within days or weeks, it will begin its terrible journey south. We must not allow this. I hereby authorize any and all resistance against Chace Dixon and his supporters.
 
“What the hell, man,” Todd said despondently. “Figures we’d find ourselves in the middle of a fuckin’ jihad.” He noticed the intensity of Ray’s expression, and said, “Don’t sweat it so hard, man. This shit has nothing to do with us.”
“Todd, I’ve gotta try and break Sandoval out of there.”
“Huh?”
“You know how I called him ‘uncle’ before? Well, the truth is, he’s been more like a father to me. He took me and my sister in when we had no place else to go, and he’s the only family I have left now.”
“Are we talking about the same guy here? This is Chairman Sandoval.”
“Yes.”
“How come you never told me about this?”
“I never told anyone. He swore me to secrecy so I’d be allowed on board the boat with the rest of you. Truth is, I was too messed up after the death of my sister to talk much about anything. But if it weren’t for Uncle Jim, I would’ve never known about the sub. He saved my life. I have to at least try to return the favor. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to take the risk.”
Todd was offended. “Screw you, man. Of course I’m going to help you, that’s not the issue. Do you even have any idea what you’re going to do?”

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