The Devil's Dream: Waking Up (19 page)

Joe nodded, not sure his voice could carry back.

"We're going to die now, aren't we?" The boy said.

Joe didn't know what to say. Joe didn't know what he was really even being asked. Die now? Had the boy looked around? Was he watching Brand? Joe didn't know what was happening, let alone how long anyone would live. Brand could collapse from the ladder at any moment and this whole thing end with his head cracking open on the concrete floor beneath.

Why was he here? Why was the boy here? Why were the people hanging from large rings here? Why were any of them here? All of it went back to the man climbing the ladder, a handicapped, bleeding, insane individual on a trek to nail someone to something. Every single one of them here because of him. He had...

Changed all their lives.

Changed his own, so drastically that Joe didn't think the original Matthew Brand, the one that lived with a wife and child, would even recognize the one carrying the thin Asian over his shoulder.

They had all come for him. Some were brought here and others, like himself, had come on their own, all of them circling this man. This genius. And if the police knew where he was? They would be here too. The entire world would have shown up to see Matthew Brand climb this ladder, his body falling apart. And what of it? What had Brand gained because of it? What had Joe gained? Joe stared at the boy, his body leaning forward, his knees bent, untold pain probably rippling through his body, and wondered what any of them had gained? Joe's obsession, his singled-minded need to find vengeance had led him to someone who could only be considered human if one were to stretch the definition to the point of snapping. Joe had lost his wife and child, true, but now, seeing Brand climb like some kind of wounded monkey, he realized he had also lost the rest of his life. He had lost his brother. Lost any possibility of a relationship with his brother's wife. But lost was the wrong word. He had given it up. He had thrown it away. He had knowingly sacrificed his life, his brother's love, to get here and see this.

All of it, all of his pain and suffering, and the pain and suffering of those he cared about, to watch Brand shimmy around on a ladder, screaming out obscenities and talking to people who didn't exist.

"God, help me," Joe whispered.

"
H
e stopped moving
. We've sent the directions to the pilot. You're looking at thirty minutes total."

Art listened to Gyle over the phone. "Is anyone else there yet?"

"It's taking us longer to get police there because of how remote the place is. It's an old lighthouse, Art. One that hasn't been used in a hundred years, one of those you would see in a painting. Twenty minutes maybe, and they should be there too."

"Jesus Christ," Art said. "What are they going to do when they get there? Why don't you just send some planes in and drop some missiles on it?"

"We don't know what would happen. The entire world might explode if it goes wrong. We can't risk it," Gyle said.

Art looked over at Jake. He no longer felt the pain in his face, but that was probably just from the adrenaline spiking through his veins. The pain still lived there, hiding behind the noise that the world shoved at him now. Jake stared back at him, probably wondering what Gyle had said. They arrived at the plane an hour ago, every other Northeastern flight completely canceled. The sky was theirs alone and they still might not make it in time.

"I'll talk to you when it's over," Art said into the phone.
Or I won't
, was the part that he left out. Because if it was over and the sun no longer shined, he wouldn't be speaking to anyone but Jake, probably, and that was only because the kid would be right next to him.

"Good luck, Art," Gyle said. "I'm praying for you, for us all."

The line went dead but Art didn't put the phone down immediately.
I'm praying for you, for us all.
Art held the phone to his ear, hearing those words over and over. Echoing through his head. How long had it been since
he
prayed? A week? The longest stretch of his life. Was God dead to him? Is that what he had allowed to happen? No, that was too much. Death meant no longer existing and Art knew He existed. Even now, He was there, even present while Art thought these things. Art hadn't killed God, not even in his own head, but he had pushed Him away, had said that he wanted no more and that he would go his own route.

And then Art did. He began operating on his own, leaving the hope that God promised behind.

Why?

Because of Henry Werzen. Because of the boy that was most likely at the lighthouse they now headed to. Because Art had been trying to do something good and Brand stepped in and dashed it all to hell. Because God let it happen.

Art couldn't forgive himself and did it make him feel better to throw God into the cauldron of blame too? Did it make him feel better that he wasn't the only one that need carry the burden of Werzen's death? Did it allow him to wake up with a little less guilt? Was that his reasoning for it? Or was God to blame?

He could feel Jake looking at him, knew Jake wanted to know what Gyle had said, but Art didn't want to give up this train of thought yet. Was God to blame or was Art trying to make himself feel better? Because if God was to blame, then Art...he couldn't forgive God, as insane as that sounded. He couldn't just let it go, couldn't just allow God to skate through if He was indeed to blame.

And does that matter to Him? Does he need your forgiveness?

No, of course not. Even the thought was laughable. But Art wasn’t after that—it had nothing to do with what God needed, it had to do with what was
right,
goddamnit. Henry Werzen dying wasn't
right
and yet God allowed it to happen.

God cannot be wrong.
That's what Mandalay said and what Art had grown up believing his entire life. God must be right because He is God and Art believed that as much as he believed the world was round. It was fact, almost intuitive. Until now. Gyle casted up prayers to God and Art imagined Gyle only did that when things got bad. Gyle wasn't one to pray all the time; he wasn't one to show God the glory He deserved all the time. Yet now, as the clock clicked closer to zero, Gyle went to God, went to that refuge. Art, the person who had found his refuge in God his entire life, wasn’t able to. Wasn’t able to ask for God's protection, for His blessing, for His will to be done.

And there it was, what he refused to grasp. The reason behind his anger, the reason behind his inability to trust, to put his faith in God.

Art wanted what Art wanted, and it appeared that might be different from God. Art wanted Henry Werzen alive. He wanted Matthew Brand dead. He wanted the world to continue turning as it had for the past million years, with the sun shining on half of it at all times. And if God didn't want that? If God was ready for this place to spin in darkness now? That's what Art raged against. That's where his anger stemmed from. Henry Werzen had only allowed it to reach the surface, had allowed Art to voice these feelings, had given him an excuse.

Art wanted his will to supersede God's.

He put the phone down.

"What did he say?" Jake asked.

"The shipment stopped moving. Brand's at a lighthouse. The police will be there in twenty minutes, and we should be there in thirty."

"What are you going to tell them to do?"

"To sack the building. Just to take it down completely, kill everyone inside if necessary, Henry too," Art answered.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds and Art was about to stand, to head to the back of the plane and sit alone for a minute, but Jake said: "Do you think we're going to make it?"

Art swallowed. Jake had never asked anything like that before. Jake's confidence propelled him forward as much as his ideas. His complete surety in everything he did, even to the extent of breaking laws, apparently. There was no confidence now, not in this plane at least. Not for either of them, but Jake didn't need to know that. Jake didn't need to know that Art thought the chances of them making it in time, of landing and then driving to the lighthouse before Brand pressed some stereotypical red button that blasted them all to hell, were extremely small. They had done their best, the both of them, and Jake's best—most of the time—had outweighed Art's own. But your best didn't always matter. Because Brand's best, even now, probably beat theirs. Brand's best had always been better. He'd only lost because of his pride, because of other's treachery, and now—what was stopping him? Time. That was it. Everything else sided with him and if he could pull it all off in the next twenty minutes, then he won. Plain and simple. They had done their best, but the truth was, when Art got right down to it, that he didn't think their best would add up.

But Jake didn't need to know any of that.

"Yeah. We are," Art said. "I'm going to pray."

"Of course you are." Jake gave a small smile then turned his head to look out the window. Art saw the clouds and the night sky outside. The moon lit it all up. Would the moon still shine tomorrow or would there not be any light from the sun to reflect?

Art stood and walked to one of the empty rows. He bowed his head and folded his hands into one another, bringing them to the bridge of his nose.

* * *

I
'm sorry
, Art prayed.
I'm sorry that I forsook you.

I've lost my way. I've thought that my own will was greater than your own. That what I wanted was more important than what you wanted. Maybe even that I was the creator of the universe and that what I wanted was all that mattered. I can't judge Gyle's faith, that's not my place, but he opened my eyes. He's praying, he's begging you to see us through this, and I'm telling you that I don't need you. I'm telling you that you're wrong and I'm right.

I'm too old to be thinking things so simple minded. Those are the thoughts of a teenager, not of an old man, but yet, here I am thinking them all the same. You didn't make me as smart as Matthew Brand but you made me smart enough to recognize when I'm being stupid, and I haven't taken advantage of that blessing, and for that I'm sorry as well.

I want to live. I want my kids to live and I want their kids to live. I want Jake to live. I want Henry Werzen to live, if it's not too late. Those wishes have grown to be my god, rather than you. They have replaced you, and in that, I have sinned. Abraham put his son on an altar and was ready to kill him for you, ready to end the most special thing he had on this Earth because you commanded it. I didn't have nearly the same command; I've only been told to try and stop Brand, yet I somehow have twisted that into you wanting the world to end because my own shortcomings are not allowing me to accomplish this goal. I haven't been able to stop Matthew Brand, and in doing so, my own wishes have been thwarted, and I've blamed you.

I don't know what your will is. I can't. I've never been able to understand it. If your will is for Brand to end this in a few minutes, then who am I to say no? Who am I to put blame on you? Maybe you've turned your back on humanity, your creation, or maybe you haven't—either way, it is not for me to judge. My place is beneath you, casting up glory. That's it. Nothing else. If we are no longer worthy of your care then we have surely been judged not worthy, and that's something I must accept. I can no more demand your love than I can jump out of this plane and fly. You are in control, not me. I am...

I am your creation. Nothing else. You made me, made us all, and you have the right to end us as you see fit.

If it's your will that Brand completes the tasks he set out before himself, then I accept it. I accept it and I love you still. I am sorry for my errors and for not measuring up to the man I should be, but it's only by grace that I'm allowed to live at all, so perhaps your grace can forgive my fuck-ups as well.

Your will, not mine, be done.

F
ifty police officers
surrounded the lighthouse, one hundred feet out, with weapons of all kinds pointing at the stone structure.

All of them, all fifty, knew why they were here. Matthew Brand waited inside.

The air was cool enough to see breath as it exited their mouths. The wind blew in from the ocean, ruffling hair, but not a single cop felt chilled.

Miles Hemmer was in charge until the FBI arrived, and he stood behind an open car door with a radio up to his ear—waiting on instructions. Brand knew they were here, every car and SWAT vehicle arrived with sirens blaring. They were shut off now, but lights on top of the cars still swiveled their blue and red rays. Miles had already demanded Brand come out, demanded he give up, but there had been nothing from inside. If it wasn't for the white van sitting on the gravel path in front of the lighthouse, Miles would think no one was inside. That white van though, he'd seen it before, seen it in the news broadcasts about the crucifixions in Boston. He knew who drove that white van. The Devil himself.

The Devil's Dream—that was the book written about Brand years ago, wasn't it? Yeah, that was the name of it. And Miles didn't have any reason to doubt the veracity of the title.

No one was coming out, that was obvious, and Miles understood what was at stake. He had been briefed on his drive down but he didn't need that. He only needed to turn the television on anytime over the past couple of months to know what this was about. They were here because the man inside was about to destroy the world.

He kept the radio to his ear, waiting on orders. This was taking too long, in his opinion. Every second they sat outside here was a second that Brand worked inside, a second that Brand moved closer to accomplishing a goal that Miles could barely fathom. The man wanted to blot out the sun and Miles didn't know how he could. Something about atoms, but Miles didn't care to understand anything else. He looked out across the men surrounding the lighthouse, some looked back at him, most of them stared forward, guns drawn, ready to fire the moment something looked dangerous. They were to kill anything they saw, that was an order that Miles himself had given. It didn't matter if Jesus himself walked from the lighthouse, kill Him.

"You have the go ahead. I repeat, take the lighthouse."

The words sliced through Miles’ thoughts like a knife through newborn flesh.

Miles grabbed the bullhorn inside the cruiser and put it to his mouth.

"Take the lighthouse," he said, his voice surprisingly calm.

People began moving around him, efficiently running at speeds only intense training made possible. He watched as the cops around him found their place, everything from Glocks to assault rifles pointed at the stone building. Miles listened as his captains shouted out the orders to their teams.

The movement, looking like ants before, was now syncronized, all of it facing inward and moving towards the door.

Miles watched as his police walked forward, guns pointed, everyone covering everyone.

And then he watched as the first ring of police officers exploded.

The ground erupted with fire, dirt flying into the air, and heat rushing out so heavy that Miles instinctively covered his face. The explosions didn’t stop, though—Miles watched as the second ring of men halted, but a daisy chain began. Brand wired the land mines to not operate on pressure, but to explode consecutively. He tried to scream at his men, but by then it was too late. The second ring of people went up into the air too, limbs being torn loose from bodies, the sounds of screams completely eclipsed by the sound of the explosives.

Miles scrambled, reaching into the car where he had set the bullhorn, trying to get it back out as quickly as possible, trying to tell them all to return to their cars.

"STOP! PULL BACK!" Miles shouted into the bullhorn. Another explosion went off to his right as someone else tried to cross the eighty feet from them to Brand—the place they stepped now a cavern.

People began moving back, jogging, almost as one. Miles breath exited his lungs in heavy gasps. At least twenty men lay on the ground, groans coming up now, screams, and the worst of all—silence from a lot of them.

He grabbed the radio from the roof of the car.

"Officers down! Officers down! We need medical attention! Land mines!”

* * *

A
rt heard
the shout over the radio, heard the captain screaming about land mines.

He didn't need the radio to know what was happening though; his car sped across the road leading towards the lighthouse. He watched the explosions, saw the bodies flying into the air like this was some World War II battlefield instead of a Massachusetts' landscape.

"Jesus Christ," he said.

"What the fuck!" Jake shouted from next to him. "What was that!"

"He's wired the place. God. Just like last time. It's wired." How had he been so fucking stupid? Sack the place? Did he not remember what happened four years ago when they tried the same tactic? Did he not remember the guns shooting from the room, slicing up all the police he brought with him? And now, this time, there weren't guns, but land mines. Bombs in the ground that you couldn't even see.

The car pulled to a stop and Art jumped out, Jake doing the same on the other side. He looked out at the mess before him, the dead bodies lying everywhere in front of the ring of cars surrounding the lighthouse. He unholstered his gun and jogged to the man holding the bullhorn.

"You're Hemmer?" He asked.

"Yeah. They just all blew up," the man said, sounding stupid, sounding like he just watched a lot of his friends die.

Art could see better from here. The cops had circled the building, just like they did with their cars, and started walking forward in lines, each circle filled with about ten police. The first group stepped forward and were blown to hell, and then the fireworks spread backwards to the second group. The chain stopped before the third group, although Art had no way of knowing if another chain waited closer to the lighthouse; the third ring of officers was now trying to pull the men who were still alive out of the mines, trying to pull them back to the safety of the police cars.

"What the fuck do we do?" He said, to himself more than anyone else. How did they get around them? How did they get inside? They couldn't just start firing at the building; no one had any idea what was inside, nor what a single spark might do.

Art looked out at the dead men, guns scattered across the ground, and realized he now saw God's will.