Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (21 page)

- Separate Views -

TIME: DECEMBER 10TH, 1962. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO,
CALIFORNIA, U.S.A

Balzeer looked around his chamber of summons. After
making his usual grisly preparations, he turned to the center of the chamber
and saw his pentagram pulsed with life. It was a raspy breath, drawn in and out
with the effort of having traveled a great distance in a very short period of
time.

“What do you seek?” came the disembodied, guttural
question.

“What does the Darkness say?”

“Lately, there have been gaps around the boy.”

“It’s like he’s hidden under something we cannot
penetrate,” Balzeer muttered under his breath as he paced.

“And have any of the seekers caught him?” Balzeer stopped
his pacing and slowly turned to follow the response.

“We have gazed though their eyes and have seen the
boy. He is growing quickly, owing to the unexpected change of his birth.”

“You have seen him? Show me!”

An image of a small town appeared in front of
Balzeer.

“Closer, show me the boy!” He was anxious to see his
messiah. He would finally see, in the flesh, what he had only viewed in his
imagination and in fearful scripture.

The image was obscured, the boy behind a glass
window. It remained agonizingly so until he stepped out of the store’s door and
was ushered into the backseat of a grey, boxy, decade-old car. At the sight of
him, Balzeer was filled with wonder. The brown hair and questioning eyes
captivated him. When the car pulled away, Balzeer snapped, “Stop!! Get closer
to the back of the car.” The image was now clear enough for him to see, and
memorize, the Arizona license plates.

“Tell me where this is. All I have is an Arizona
plate.”

“Lord, the seeker, who brought all you see, is gone.
We found its remains in northern Columbia.”

“Dispatch another then. Dispatch thousands. The
seeker’s remains can’t be too old, or they would’ve crumbled to dust.”
Balzeer’s mind raced, trying to come up with alternate ways to locate the boy.

“As you wish, so it shall be.”

“Double, quadruple, multiply everything you’re doing
exponentially. Use every possible avenue and everything, everyone we have
— everything — do you understand?”

“Yes, we shall do this, lord.”

TIME: DECEMBER 21ST, 1962. YOAKUM COUNTY, TEXAS, U.S.A

Buford watched the evening news with the new fella,
Cronkite. He’d been on since April and told it the way it was. That suited
Buford just fine. Buford worked the night shift at a full-service gas station.
Most nights, he sat in his comfy chair and watched whatever was on the idiot
box. This night, however, he had to leave the chair to respond to the ringing
service bell.

He went through the closed convenience store and
passed a squawking radio, echoing Cronkite’s news. Some patriot burned down a
Baptist church in Georgia, and out in Germany, a boy, trying to cross over from
the East to the West was shot dead.

He opened the front door and saw a dusty Chevy cab.
Boy, that would easily take at least $10 to fill. Buford flashed a smile at the
driver and gave his best, “How’re ya doing?”

“Fill ‘er up,” was the man’s only response.

“Check the oil?” He was still going to push for the
full service treatment.

“No, the oil’s fine, just fill ‘er up.”

“Sure thing.” Buford could not recognize anything
about the man he just talked to. No feature came to mind, though he only saw
him seconds earlier.

He returned to the driver’s window and said, “That’ll
be an even 12 dollars.”

“Twelve? It takes 10 to fill this boat. Better get
your pumps checked. Here’s the 12.”

“I only work here, fella. I’ll bring it up to my
boss.”

“Fine with me.” The old Chevy roared to life and
lumbered away.

From the sound of the engine, and the ease with which
it carted out of the station, it was evident that the man knew his vehicle. It
also looked as though he wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to complain to
Buford’s boss. The few dollars he skimmed off of the top of fill-ups wouldn’t
be uncovered. Not by him, at least.

Buford’s brow creased as he tried to remember what
had worried him about the recent transaction. He looked up at the pump,
registering a sale of $10, and reset it to $0. He remembered that a little boy
had been asleep in the back seat, under blankets. He had looked as snug as a
bug in a rug, as his granny used to say.

TIME: DECEMBER 23RD, 1962. VATICAN

Father Quentin walked down an empty corridor, lit by
a line of bare bulbs. The walls were painted an institutional grey-green and
nothing adorned the walls, despite it was part of the Vatican. While the
outside world celebrated the anniversary of their savior’s birth, inside, there
was no celebration. There was no tinsel, multicolored lights, or even decorated
pine trees.

He stopped at an unmarked door and knocked twice.
From within, a voice bade him to enter. He twisted the brass doorknob and
pushed the door open. Given its location the room seemed totally out of place
— it belonged in the back of a bar. Bright banners of holiday cheer were
draped around the room and a decorated pine was in one corner.

Deep, brass-headed leather sofas lined walls, and on
each of them sat men and women of varying ages. Most had the same air about
them and looked up from their reading, but only for a second. In that brief
time, they registered annoyance, irritation, suspicion, exasperation and acceptance.
The sound of large sheets of paper, crisply turned, was wave-like, as many
returned to their reading. There were over twenty people in the room, reading
stacks of newspapers, one person for every major city in the world.

They weren’t searching for anything specific. They
simply read, suspicious of the most trivial story. Their minds read into dark,
fiscal or bureaucratic conspiracies. Some spoke openly about the Bilderburg
Group, and Dark Nobility. They described members of elite families who were part
of secret fraternal societies from Harvard and Yale. These men were also
involved with other exclusive organizations with innocuous titles: the Council
of Foreign Relations, Trilateral Commission and British Royal Institute of
International Affairs. All were publicly benevolent.

Some of the conspiracies were even true. They saw
correlations between cosmonaut Titov’s motion sickness in space and worldwide
Vodka distilleries. Some of the conspiracies were obscure, without credibility,
while others already had legions of believers. The construction of the Berlin
Wall, begun on the East side of Germany, was finished scant days later. Lines
were being drawn in brick and mortar. England was expected to join the European
Common Market, fulfilling prophecies from
Revelation.

Each of the seated patrons scribbled in the spiral
notebooks beside them. Three women in their forties, walked among the couches,
serving coffee, cleaning up and collecting pages. They were pleasant,
professional and comforting, like the best waitresses; they made this place
hum.

“Father Quentin.” A measured tone brought Quentin to
attention.

“Sister LaParee. What news of the world?”

Sister LaParee had been a waitress in a small town
outside of Montreal, Canada. St. Pie de Bagot was a small change from her
native New Brunswick. Until her man died of cancer, the town had kept her
interest. Bob was everything to her, so when he passed, Rita entered a nunnery
on
Iles des Soeurs
— the
Island of Sisters.

During her time in St. Pie and Montreal, she began to
suspect some people were able to see beyond the news in the papers, to truths
— either real or imagined. She started discussing various patrons with
Bob, a bartender. Now, Bob was gone and no one else seemed to see these special
readers in coffee shops, restaurants and bars. At the
Iles
des Soeurs
, she spoke of her life, as did most everyone. She
recounted her past, the lessons she learned and what mattered to her.

One day, after a number of years, she was asked to
speak to the mother superior. She had only spoken to her once, when she entered
the order. Since then, she barely even greeted her in passing. To be
specifically called upon was quite odd, indeed.

The old dear said that Rita was requested in Rome.
She would be leaving the next morning. When she arrived in Rome, Rita was
introduced to Father Quentin, who explained the unusual task for which he
requested her.

He described what Rita and Bob had known all along.
He stated there had always been very special people, drawn to news events and stories.
They stayed in bars, restaurants and coffee shops, because public places were
safer. If they weren’t alone, their theories seemed less fantastic and less
plausible. If they were lucky, they found someone, like Rita or Bob, who would
listen — someone who wouldn’t throw them out because all they ordered was
coffee, soda or, even worse, water. Invariably, they never drank liquor. The
scenes in their heads were engrossing enough, without the addition of alcohol.

Rita listened as Father Quentin described how the
Church gave shelter, newspapers and information to the most gifted of these
exceptional people. He asked if Rita would like to listen to and help them. She
was overjoyed at this opportunity. She thought that this was something she was
only able to share with Bob. Now, she found out that there were others who knew
about these people. In the process, she would even be doing God’s work.

Bob would have been so pleased. Everyday, Rita fondly
remembered him as she talked to these special people about how Chubby Checker’s
Twist was rotting the brains of Russian officials, to the point they were
sending dogs, mice, even people, into space.

“Some news out of Argentina, Father. The unidentified
body of a Caucasian male was found. The strange thing about it is the body bore
the clear markings of a satanic order in San Francisco.” Rita related all the
details as though they were perfectly usual and mundane.

“San Francisco?” Father Quentin continued, taking the
notes Rita offered. “LaVey isn’t part of it, is he?”

“No, Father. Anton LaVey continues to be a very vocal
entity in the true church of Satan. Much as we would like to find a reason to
move against him, he is just a poser.”

“Are there any pictures of the body?” Quentin asked.

“The Sao Paolo police are eager to help, sir. At our
request, they are sending full body pictures.”

“Has anybody seen a connection to any other stories?”
Quentin believed that this must be significant. What was a Luciferian — a
westerner, at that — doing in Argentina. During the past year, most of
them were tracked all over the Middle East. Had they found what they were
seeking, they would’ve left by now.

“Sister, I will bring some texts to you. Please
distribute them as you see fit. Make it a top priority.” Now, Quentin was
drawing his own conclusions. Nostradamus wrote that he would be born in the
Middle East. “Space the texts so that there won’t be any cross-correlation of
individual readers.”

“There is something else, sir, but very coincidental.
It is quite odd. Cardinal Colletti was murdered in the same city as the
Luciferian’s body was found. That is why the authorities are so eager to give
us anything we request.”

“Colletti’s dead?” Quentin couldn’t believe this.
There must be some connection. Even his superiors, the bureaucrats, would see
that. “Sister LaParee, I want you to tell me when the pictures from Sao Paolo
arrive. I will need to know immediately.” Quentin turned and was about to leave
when he was stopped short by the sister’s response.

“Father, this has to do with the Beast, doesn’t it?”

Quentin turned slowly, not wanting to heighten the
alarm he heard in the sister’s voice. “I believe so, Sister. Now, I have to
convince those whose authority will move our church to act.”

“Whatever you need, Father Quentin, you just ask and
I’ll see that you get it. If there is anything, just ask.”

“Thank you, Sister. It’s good to know I have your
support.” Quentin turned again, and on his way out, added, “As much as you can,
keep this to yourself, Sister. We live in a very secular world. We do not need
to fight the skeptics about this.”

TIME: DECEMBER 26TH, 1962. STAN’S SLOP SHOP, SAN FRANCISCO,
CALIFORNIA, U.S.A

Mark Warner sat alone in the rear of a coffee house.
He nursed a cold cup of java, ignored the suspicious looks of the owner and
waited for two friends to join him. The tinseled decorations were replaced with
pronouncements for the coming new year. Mark made a conscious effort to ignore
the way they loudly reflected the light. The waitress came by again, the third
time in the last thirty minutes. She hummed
Moon
River
under her breath. Mark wondered if she knew that it was part of a
very sappy film.