Ashe finished the last tweak on the final engram recorder. He slid the small blue device away from him and rubbed his face. Everything twinned as he looked from his fatigued eyes. He couldn’t remember working so hard on anything. Even when he created the first engram recording devices, he hadn’t spent as much effort or time bent over a magnifying lamp. The muscles in his neck cramped down, not allowing him to fully extend it. A boxer after a prize fight probably didn’t feel as rough as he did right then.
He stood and stretched out his back. Czernobog had removed the possessed helpers a few hours ago. He mentioned they had other work to do tonight. Ashe figured it must be sometime pretty late by the way he felt. He hadn’t seen the outside in a few days. The Devil had kept all time devices away from him. A quick twist of his neck one way then the other popped the vertebrae and loosened his stiff muscles. The repaired cot that stood against the far wall of his lab enticed him. With everything finished, including programming the chant Smalls had emailed him into the engram recorders, he figured that Czernobog wouldn’t care if he slept for a while.
The minimal support the canvas bottom of the cot gave his back didn’t matter. The second-hand army cot felt like the plushest bed Ashe had ever slept in. The flimsy, flat pillow under his head cradled it just enough to be soothing. He blinked and rubbed his eyes again, and finally he saw only one image. The only noise he heard was the humming of a few mechanical instruments in his lab. The sound of the other corpses working in the warehouse had ended hours ago. The Devil must have sent them out on some other work as well. He closed his eyes and thought about two people, Cybil and Marianne.
Both of their faces floated in the dark space behind his eyelids. They weren’t reconciled with each other in his mind. Worry for Cybil and her safety prodded him into doing the dumbest thing he might ever do. Marianne haunted him both in his conscience and literally. Her likeness walked around the building. He watched Rogers have his way with her. Only because of his promise, strike that, verbal contract with Satan was he sure Rogers hadn’t done the same with Cybil.
The door to the lab slammed open. “Wake up.”
Ashe opened his eyes and looked toward the door. Rogers hurried across the room. He pulled a long strip of silver duct tape out as he did so. The door to the room remained wide open. Ashe sat up and tossed his feet off the cot. Before Rogers could have known what happened, he was on his feet and hit the other man in the chest with his elbow. Rogers spun and buckled to the floor. Nothing blocked Ashe from the door. He was almost there when orange light flamed up in the doorway. The whole place filled with sulfur odor. The sudden wind and heat from fire knocked him backwards. Czernobog stepped into the room through the curtain of fire. He put his foot on Ashe’s chest, pinning him to the floor.
“Hurry up and get this done, you fool,” the Devil told Rogers.
The psychologist grabbed Ashe’s wrists and put them together. Then he wrapped them with duct tape. Ashe felt the need to yell building up in his chest. Czernobog must have read this in his eyes because he put his finger to his lips.
“I would recommend that you stay very silent, Dr. Shrove. I would hate to have something happen to your dear Cybil.” He nodded his head from Rogers to Ashe. “Over his mouth for extra insurance.”
Rogers placed the end of the tape at the edge of his mouth and wrapped the tape twice around his head, leaving a two-ply barrier between Ashe’s mouth and the outside world. The taste of the tape’s glue was bitter on his tongue. Czernobog removed his foot and grabbed Ashe by the wrists. With a mere movement, the Devil pulled him to his feet.
“When you hear the lock on this door rattle, take him out the back door into the main area. When you hear me heading in there, you bring him back in here.” Czernobog looked deep into Ashe’s eyes. “You do anything stupid, and I will kill Cybil slowly and agonizingly. You will be forced to watch, and I will take great pleasure in doing both.”
A puff of acrid, sulfurous smoke enveloped the Devil, and he was gone. The curtain of fire disappeared leaving no trace on the doorjamb as the door slammed and locked on its own. Ashe cut his eyes around. He would have moved away, but Rogers held him. His former partner’s grip felt stronger than he had expected. Part of his deal with the Devil must have involved a subclause about strength. They walked closer to a door in the wall that led into the main area of the building where the floats were assembled.
A door somewhere not far from them slammed open. The sound echoed through the metal walls of the building. Voices muffled by distance but obviously shouts followed the boom of the door opening. Ashe strained to hear who it was. One of the voices was definitely female. It bore authoritative undertones.
More loud clattering sounds mingled with yells. Someone slammed desk drawers closed in the main office. Another sound was similar to a chair rolling across the floor ending with an echoing cymbal-like crash. The place was being ransacked.
“The police got their warrant.” Rogers’ breath felt hot on his ear as he whispered to him. “They’re probably looking for me. I killed a doctor in Mississippi.”
Ashe cut his eyes up at his former friend. A childish grin of pride split Rogers’ face. He nodded and winked as if to tell Ashe that was just another thing to add to his delinquent record. Ashe wanted to yell but knew it would be wasting his breath.
The door to the lab rattled. Rogers opened the rear door and forced Ashe through it before closing it without making a sound. The wall between the lab and the main chamber was thinner. It looked like little more than tin sheeting held up by two-by-fours, a makeshift lab put up on the fly. Ashe started to believe that the Devil was a little more haphazard than religion would have people believe.
“This is my electronics lab where I have techs mock up and knock together the more technical aspects of my floats.” Czernobog’s voice came clearly through the wall.
“Where are your techs tonight? I would think troubleshooting would be happening this close to showtime.” Ashe recognized the female voice now. It was Detective Cooper.
“All my people have been told to go to the MOT’s parade tonight. That society knows how to make a technically impressive series of floats. I want my people to make any last minute adjustments they need to top those guys.”
“Where do you build the floats?” Cooper asked.
“In the larger room. Follow me and I will be happy to show them to you.”
Rogers put his ear to the wall. After a few seconds he opened the door back into the lab, and dragged Ashe back inside. Making a sound would be so easy, and could be considered a mistake. The Devil couldn’t read his mind so blaming him for doing it purposefully wouldn’t work. Ashe stopped. Rogers kept a good grip on him and listened at the wall. They stood a long time in silence. The tape around his mouth began to burn and sting as it started to slip, pulling at the whiskers on his face. He mumbled, but Rogers twisted his arm like an Indian burn. Ashe quit.
After another eternal period of standing still taking short breaths to try and keep the tape from slipping more, Rogers let him go.
“They’re gone. I guess they didn’t find what they were looking for.”
Ashe walked to his cot and sat down. He put his elbows on his legs and entwined his fingers. After a span of time Czernobog walked in through the rear door. He smelled overwhelmingly of sulfur. Ashe looked at him, and the Devil’s features were more demon-like, sharp and angry.
“Unbind him,” he said to Rogers.
The psychologist did what he was told. Ashe rubbed his face when the tape was ripped off unceremoniously. Twin stripes on his wrists were red and bumped from where the tape had torn the hair from his arms.
“Are they on to you?” he asked the Devil.
“Silence!” Czernobog turned to Rogers. “I am very angry. They are looking for you. The Pascagoula Police Department wanted to question you about the murder of a doctor in the Singing River Hospital. You are becoming a liability, Dr. Rogers.”
“You told me to get more corpses. I was just doing your bidding.”
“I did not mean that you needed to gloat on camera. You have gotten sloppy.” The Devil flashed with anger. “I will deal with you later. For now, you have a job to do. Get to it and hope my rage subsides after you do.”
“Yes, Master.”
Rogers bowed and hurried from the room. Czernobog sat on the cot beside Ashe. His face smoothed out to the swarthy complexion he had the first time they had met. The smell of sulfur still clung to him. He put his hand on Ashe’s knee like a father would a son.
“You have finished?”
“Yeah.”
“You have done a good job. You have no need to worry about Miss Fairchild’s safety. I will uphold my end of the deal completely.”
Ashe believed Czernobog, but it didn’t help ease his mind any.
Cybil felt her way around in the pitch black. She knew that she was in a basement. When the guards or whatever they were moved her from the closet they kept her in they walked down stairs. They made sure to keep her blindfolded. She wasn’t even sure what time it was. Staying in the closet day and night with only the artificial light from a single low wattage bulb screwed up her orientation.
She heard the rumble of noise above her. It wasn’t in the house or wherever they kept her. The sound came from the street. The wall felt like old hewn block as she slid her back over it. Cybil felt ahead of her with one hand. After shuffling along for a while, her hand hit a corner. She scooted around it and kept against the wall until her hand no longer ran across a solid wall. Her foot bumped against a wooden step.
“Thank you.”
Cybil swung around and placed a shaky foot on the step. Her hand pawed in the darkness until she grabbed a banister rail. Using it as an anchor, she started up the steps. Her steps were quick but short to keep from missing a stair and toppling to the hard floor in the pitch black. The higher she ascended the stairs, the louder the noise from outside became. Now she heard cheering and felt the bumping of bass coming from speakers. Occasionally the shrill blast from a plastic party horn cut through it all. Her eyes began to perceive a slit of light not far from her. Three more steps and the hand she slid up the banister rail hit the doorjamb. She searched for the doorknob with her free hand. The cold metal of the knob first flirted with the tips of her fingers. Then she wrapped her hand round it and twisted hard. The knob didn’t move.
Cybil repositioned herself on the top stair. She took her hand from the rail and balanced as best she could. A quick shifting of her weight down the steps nearly toppled her over, but she flung that momentum into ramming the door with her shoulder.
An involuntary puff of air burst from her, and pings of pain prickled across her shoulder. The door seemed no worse for it. Deep inside her, Cybil knew that this might be her only chance to escape. As best she could tell, Czernobog, the Devil, or whatever he called himself, had ordered all the living corpses out of the house tonight. That’s why they locked her in the basement. She flung herself against the door again. More pain and still more of nothing happened to the door. Desperation took over. She slammed into the door with the rhythm of a manic-depressive typing a suicide letter.
The wood on the doorjamb popped. Another ram with her shoulder made the wood crack. A well thought out hard blow with most of her weight splintered wood, and the door pushed open. Cybil fell onto the upper floor. More air forced its way out of her in a large puff.
Sweat ran into her eyes. It stung. As she wiped them with her sleeve, her eyes focused in on the light. They ached from having been so long in the dark. The sound from the street almost rattled the window. She stood up and walked to the window. Outside revelers stood along the street, as a large float passed by. It looked like a dragon and seemed to slither from side to side as smoke billowed from its nose. She hurried through the house looking for a door to the outside. As she ran into the kitchen, the small door with a window in it almost beckoned to her. Cybil ran across the room. She twisted the dead bolt and jerked the safety chain away.
The cold night air gushed in around her when she opened the door. The sound of all the festivities followed as well.
“Thank you,” she said again out loud.
Hindered by nothing, Cybil ran down the small back steps into the little yard. A fence cut the yard off from the street, but a gate stood ajar. She rushed it and bounded onto the street. Several of the revelers gave her mean looks when she bumped into them.
“Please help me.” She pulled on a man’s sleeve. “I’ve just escaped from that house. They kidnapped me.”
The man jerked his arm away and pushed deeper toward the street. Cybil moved down the street and grabbed a man in tuxedo wearing a feathered domino mask.
“You’ve got to help me. I just escaped from kidnappers. They’ve kept me for I don’t know how long.”
“What?” The man pulled up his mask.
“I’ve been kidnapped. I need help.”
“All right, just stand here.” The man sounded panicked. He pushed into the crowd toward the street.
Cybil waited. Her heart beat hard, and she kept twisting her head to make sure none of the living corpses were coming up the street. The man in the tuxedo came back with a police officer who had several strands of Mardi Gras beads around his neck.
“This man tells me that you just escaped from some kidnappers?” the cop asked.
“Yes, and I’m afraid they’re out here in the crowd. I need your help. Take me to the police station or St. Mary’s-by-the-Bay church. I’m friends with Father Smalls. He’ll know what to do.”
The policeman looked at the tuxedoed man. “I think she’s in shock.”
“I’m not. They’re going to get me,” Cybil screamed at him.
A plastic horn squealed out, and a string of beads hit her in the face. She pawed at it knocking it to the ground. The policeman took her by the wrist.
“Please just try and settle down. I’m with you and you’ll be safe.” He turned to the radio clipped to his epaulet. “This is Simmons. I have a woman who says she’s been kidnapped. I’m at Government just past D’Iberville Court. Send a buggy.”
“Roger that Simmons. Buggy on the way.”
Simmons, the policeman, pushed her back from the crowd and against another fence. “I’ve got a golf cart on its way. We’ll get you somewhere safe.”
She put her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
News Report: Channel 10, Mobile, AL, 2:30 a.m. CST. Sharmaine O’Calley Broadcasting.
“Good morning. We are sorry to interrupt the repeat of Thursday night’s American Idol, but we have breaking news from downtown Mobile.”
Sharmaine O’Calley turns to the second camera as it focuses in closer on her.
“We received a report around two this morning that the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception Basilica, seat of the Archdiocese of Mobile, was on fire. Not long ago, the Mobile Fire Department confirmed that the one-hundred-plus-year-old church is engulfed in flames.”
Grainy images of flames lapping the sky replace that of O’Calley. Orange fire envelops the large church building. Several laddered fire trucks sit diagonally to the building. Firefighters spray the flames with water from hoses. O’Calley speaks over this scene.
“Maxwell Grady, captain at the downtown firehouse, says that the fire appears to have been set. At this time, the Mobile police will not confirm or deny this. They do report that they are currently reviewing the video from the traffic cameras near the basilica. This video was emailed to us by a reveler heading home from Dauphin Street celebrations after the Mystics of Time parade.”
The video of the burning church loops back to the beginning, and O’Calley comes back on screen.
“There is also no word from the Mobile police if this fire might be linked to the kidnapping of Archbishop Harrington, who presides over the Archdiocese of Mobile. The spokesperson for the Mobile police did report they are looking for a suspect in the kidnapping of the archbishop, and will probably question that person about this fire.”
She stops and puts her finger to her ear. She listens for a moment.
“We’ve just been given a report that Fairview Baptist Church on Azalea Road burned to the ground about an hour ago. Late night tipsters are also making unconfirmed reports that West Mobile United Methodist Church and St. Simon’s Episcopal School have burned.”
The broadcaster looks nervous at this point. Her young face shows the inexperience that landed her on the overnight shift at the television station.
“It appears that we are in the middle of a major news event. Please stay tuned to Channel 10 for the latest breaking news about this rash of church burnings. We are going back to our program still in progress.”
A commercial for Zion Presbyterian Church comes on. The minister smiles as a church organ plays “Nearer My God to Thee”.