Pieces of Hate (18 page)

One of the men — the driver — unsnapped his holster and removed a very curvy, smooth-looking gun of shiny black metal and said, “Sorry, sir, but I’m afraid you’re under temporary detention until you can explain a few things.”

“What’s going on here?” Al asked, not sounding very friendly, as he frowned at the two uniformed men and eyed the unholstered gun.

“Don’t you at least know enough to cross yourself when you see a Deacon, Brother?” the second officer barked.

“A Deacon? Cross my . . .? What are you talking about?”

The first one, the one with the gun, smirked. “Well, if I have to tell you, then you’re in even more trouble than I thought.”

“For one thing,” the second one said, waving toward the house, “this paint job is not regulation.”

“It’s blasphemous. You ought to know that. How long ago did you paint it?”

“I painted this house three years ago. Myself! And I’d like to know just what you think is wrong with it!”

“You looked around at your neighborhood lately?” the first one asked sarcastically, gesturing with the gun. “Regulation colors.”

“Those colors,” the other one said, pointing at the bloodstained, metallic-grey cross on the door of the car.

“And where’s your flag-cross? In fact . . . now that I notice it, you’re not even wearing a cross, are you?”

“Wearing a . . .” Al’s voice dropped to a puzzled, but still angry, mutter as his frown deepened. “Well, I don’t normally wear a — ”

“Don’t normally? Okay, let’s see some I.D., Brother.”

“Well, I-I . . .” He fumbled for his wallet and held it open so they could see his driver’s license.

“What’s that?” the second one snapped.

“You know what we want to see. Your CA scancard.”

“Scan . . . CA . . . scancard? Hey, look, I don’t what you’re — ”

“Church of America scancard so we can scan your barcode,” the gunholder growled impatiently.

Al could only stare at them silently.

“Either you’re suffering from some sort of demon-possession or you are a very, very bold Churchstate Sinner.”

“I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re . . . Churchstate?” he squinted at them, craning his head forward. Then, fists clenched at his sides, he snapped, “Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I am certainly not possessed!”

At that moment, the front door opened and the children came out.

“How come you haven’t started the car, Daddy?” Ruth called.

“Yeah, Dad, we’re gonna be late,” Matthew said.

Both officers looked at the children with widening eyes. The second one drew his gun as well.

“These are both your children?” the first one asked, shocked.

Before Al could respond, the front door closed and Nita locked it behind her, then came down the steps to join them. As the children stared curiously at the officers, the officers looked at Nita with horror and each quickly made the sign of the cross over himself.

“You’re all under arrest!” the first one shouted.

All of them froze.

Al said, “Wait just a second, here, officer, I think you could at least tell us — ”

“Deacon! You’ll address me properly — as Deacon — or you’ll be in even more trouble.”

“Okay, then, Deacon!” Al shouted. “If you’re arresting us, what are the charges? And why aren’t you dressed in police uniforms and driving a police car?”

The two officers looked at one another in disbelief.

“I said,” Al repeated, fists still clenched, “what are the charges?” But his fists were trembling now, trembling because of his confusion and, no matter how hard he tried to fight it, his fear.

“Crimes against the Churchstate,” the first one said. “Your house is painted blasphemously, you have no cross-flag. You have two children, obviously. And your wife is painted like a slutty witch!”

Nita’s mouth dropped open with a gasp.

“Chuh-children?” Al croaked, glancing at Nita as she hurried to his side, looking frightened. “What about our children?”

“One child per family according to population regulations. The girl will have to go.” He turned to his partner and muttered, “Box her.”

The officer removed a small black device from the breast pocket of his shirt, touched the barrel of it to Ruth’s temple and there was a quick, quiet Zap! sound. Ruth fell to the grass in a limp heap.

Nita screamed and ran to her daughter’s side.

Al lunged toward his fallen child, but the first officer put the gun in his face. “Don’t move.”

Matthew hurried to Al’s side and Al put an arm around the boy, holding him close.

Nita screamed and cried hysterically as the other officer picked Ruth up under one arm. “My little girl my little girl, what are you doing to my little girl!”

The first officer nodded toward Nita. “Do her too and shut her up!” he growled.

With another zap, Nita was silent and on the ground. The officer carried Ruth to the car, opened up the large, boxy rear, threw her inside roughly, then closed it.

“My wife!” Al shouted, holding Matthew tight. “My daughter! Damn you, what are you doing with them?”

“Watch your language, you heathen,” the officer growled, pressing the gun to Al’s cheek.

Tears welled up in Al’s eyes as his entire body grew cold, as helplessness coiled around him like an enormous snake and began to squeeze. His breath came faster and faster as he gasped, “What’re you gonna do to our . . . little girl?”

“She’ll be recycled,” the officer replied as if it were a stupid question. “Given to an infertile family so they can have their allotted single child.” He moved very close to Al, until their faces were about an inch apart; he squinted, cocked his head curiously. “What . . . is . . . wrong with you, anyway?”

Al felt anger boiling in his stomach, burning its way up through his chest, felt his teeth clench and his lips tremble as he growled, “Wrong with me? What the devil is wrong with you? Who are you and what gives you — ”

The officer punched Al in the gut, knocking the wind, and the words, from him, doubling him over and sending him to his knees.

Holding the gun on the top of Al’s head, the officer snapped, “I told you to watch your language! I can shoot you for using Satanic language like that, Brother!”

Al grunted, retched and, when his vision cleared again. he turned his head toward Nita, who remained motionless on the grass.

“Nita,” he rasped as he started toward her, crawling on hands and knees, “Nita, honey, it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna — ”

The officer pressed a shiny black boot down on him hard. “Stay right where you are. Stay away from her. You too, boy. Don’t move. For the time being, she’s condemned.”

Al turned his head and looked up at the officer. “Con . . . demned? For what?” he hissed furiously.

The officer got down on one knee, close to Al, and when he spoke, there was, for just a moment, some humanity in that square-jawed face, in those steely eyes and in that harsh, deep voice.

“You . . . you really don’t know, do you, Brother?” the officer whispered.

Al shook his head slowly as a tear ran down his pale cheek. “No, no . . . I don’t. I don’t understand anything you’re telling me.”

The officer frowned at him, not angrily, but curiously, as if there was something about Al’s face that bothered him . . . disturbed him.

“Your wife will be given the Mark of the Beast on her forehead,” he said, speaking slowly, “then sent to a Prayer Camp for such time as decided by one of the Churchstate High Priests. When she has truly repented of all her sins . . .” He studied Al’s face even more deeply. “. . . and has given her soul back to Christ . . . she will be released back into society to serve as an example to the fact that the Churchstate can, indeed, overcome sin.” He backed away slowly, still frowning. “Tell me, Brother . . . do I know you from someplace?”

Al could not respond. He could only stare at this strange man who had sent his life into a downward spiral, who had sent him into such a cloud of confusion that he could not even think clearly enough to pray silently for God’s help.

The officer’s face became cold again and he stood, gesturing with the gun to both Al and Matthew. “Okay, on your feet. Both of you. Now!”

Al struggled to his feet. The officer bolstered his gun and pulled something else from his belt, jerking Al’s hands behind his back to cuff them.

Standing behind them, the officer ordered, “To the car! Now!”

They headed toward the car slowly, Matthew sucking close to his father. They watched as the other officer picked up Nita, took her to the car and tossed her into the box-like trunk with Ruth.

“Maawww-meeee!” Matthew screamed.

“Shut up, boy!” the officer roared.

“Just be quiet, Matthew,” Al said quietly and tremulously, “just be quiet and do as they say, everything’s fine, everything’ll be fine, just pray, Matthew, just pray, that’s all.”

“Pray!” the second officer laughed as he slammed the trunk. “Coming from you, that’s a good one!”

“That’s a nice name . . . Matthew,” the officer behind them said, once again sounding a little confused. “A good biblical name . . . one of Christ’s disciples.”

As they neared the car, the front door of Baxter’s house across the street opened and a man came outside. He had grey hair and was balding, with a paunch beneath his grey shirt. He crossed his lawn slowly, frowning over at them. In the center of his forehead, there was a mark of some kind, like a star.

“Is that . . . you?” he called. “A-Al? Al? Is that . . . you? What’re you doing back here?”

Al said nothing, just watched him with wide eyes beneath furrowed brows. It was Baxter’s voice . . . but a much older man’s body.

“Al? They taking you away?” Suddenly, he grinned. “Hah!”

The man came out on the sidewalk and Al saw that the mark on his forehead was a pentagram, one of the many Satanic images that showed up again and again on rock records and the covers of some paperback books.

“Oh, that’s a good one!” the man shouted, raising his fist in the air. “This is what you wanted, Al! And you got it! Haaaah! And now look at you! Look at you! LOOOOK AAT YOOOUUU!”

The man cackled insanely as Al and Matthew were pushed roughly into the back seat of the car. The door slammed and the man’s laughter continued, but muffled now, thick, as if under water.

The officers got in, the driver started the car and they made a U-turn, speeding away from the house and the laughing neighbor who sounded so much like Jerry Baxter . . . but looked so much older.

The back seat was separated from the front by a thick, transparent shield. There was a small black speaker attached to the ceiling from which poured the tinny sounds of a church hymn: “The Old Rugged Cross.”

“Daddy?” Matthew whimpered through his tears. “What’s gonna happen to us? Where’s Mommy? And Ruth? What did they do with Mommy and Ruth?”

Al looked down at his son — the boy’s eyes were red and puffy and his cheeks shiny with tears — and tried to respond. But he couldn’t. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Words could not get beyond the burning lump of fear and anger that continued to grow in his throat. Finally, he broke and lost control.

He threw himself forward, slamming his head into the transparent shield, screaming, “Damn, you! Damn you! Whoever you are damn you damn you damn — ”

The middle section of the shield slid downward and a hand reached through the opening to touch a small, shiny, black object to Al’s temple.

As his skull filled with a moment of bright, painful whiteness, the last thing Al heard was the sound of his son screaming . . .

He awoke sitting up in a chair with his hands cuffed behind its stiff, straight back. It took a little while for his blurry vision to clear, but when it did, he looked around to see men standing around him. All of them were wearing odd suits with ties, but one — the driver of the car that had taken him away from his home — wore his uniform, without his helmet, and stood straight with his gloved hands joined before him.

Al closed his eyes and let his aching head drop forward as he groaned.

It sounded dulled, muted, as if Al had cotton in his ears.

“Brother Holt! Will you please raise your head?”

He couldn’t.

Suddenly, the officer’s face appeared beneath his. “The Elder is speaking to you, Holt. Lift your head. Now.” Then, to the others, he said, “I don’t think he understands Brother . . . I mean, being addressed as Brother.”

It was a battle, but he forced his throbbing head to lift and face them again.

His eyes were a little clearer now. There were four men in suits — although the suits were like none he’d ever seen before, with the coat lapels and collars turned inward rather than out and with shirts that had no collars at all. The one on his far left was a pudgy young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with brown hair and a face that was stern beyond its years. The second was much older, bald except for a few tufts of white hair above his ears and a number of moles on his face and shiny scalp. The third looked terribly normal: a middle-aged man, a bit droopy, with dark hair salted with white, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his rather thick nose. The fourth stood behind an enormous desk; he was tall and very thin, with silver hair combed straight back. His suit was different from the others; he had epaulets on the shoulders and he wore some sort of badge where his lapel should have been, but Al couldn’t see it clearly. On the wall behind the desk was a round emblem, not unlike the Presidential Seal . . . but in the center of this was the head of a lamb with a single horn jutting from the middle of its head. On the right of the emblem was an elaborately framed painting of Jesus Christ and, on the left, an identically framed painting of the pope.