Hell on Earth (6 page)

“You don't think they might be working with the aliens?” asked my buddy. I had the same thought. But they didn't act zombified, and we'd learned that the monsters preferred human lackeys in that condition. The spidermind had made only one exception when it needed knowledge in the human brain of poor Bill Ritch.

We had to make contact with these people, but I preferred doing it in a way that wouldn't get us shot. While I was formulating a plan, Arlene tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned and found myself staring down both barrels of a twelve-gauge duck gun. It had gorgeous, inlaid detail work running all seventy-five centimeters of the stock and barrel . . . and it was attached to a beefy hand connected to a large body with a grinning, boyish face topping it off. Twenty-two, twenty-three, tops.

“How do?” said the man. His buddy was a lot thinner, and he held an old Ruger Mini-14 pointed at Arlene.

He caught my expression and grinned at me as if he could read my mind. Here was proof positive we were facing honest-to-God, living humans: they had pride in a good weapon.

“Hi,” I said, moving my eyes from man to man.

“Good morning,” said Arlene.

“Hey,” said the other man by way of greeting, noticing how my eyes kept drifting to his piece. “Took me quite a while to get one of these,” he said conversationally.

“Beautiful weapon,” I said, noticing that the beefy guy was still calm.

The thin one nodded and said, “They are compact, easy handling, fast shooting and hard hitting.” He paused, then added: “Don't you agree?”

Thunk. The penny dropped. They were testing us.

“Oh, yes,” said Arlene, jumping in. The thin guy looked at her a little funny and waited for me to say something.

“One of my favorite weapons,” I said. “Hardly any kick. Not like the bigger calibers.”

Finally the big guy spoke again: “Jerry, these people don't want a lecture.”

Jerry squinted at him. “They're military. Look at their clothes.” We weren't asked to confirm or deny anything, so we kept our mouths shut. Jerry had plenty of words left in him: “They're interested in a good weapon. Aren't you?”

He looked straight at me and I answered right away: “I sure am, especially that one you've got.”

Jerry smiled and went on: “Albert gets tired of hearing me go on about what a good model this is. They were even reasonably priced until they were outlawed.”

“Not a problem now,” said Arlene. “I'm sure there's plenty of squashed zombies you can take one off'n.”

Whenever she spoke, the men seemed a bit uncomfortable. I had the impression she was getting off on it.

Arlene looked over at me and winked. We'd fought enough battles to read each other's expressions and body language. Her expression told me that things were looking up as far as she was concerned, but she couldn't resist getting in the act: “I like an M-14,” she said.

Jesus, it was like going shooting with Gunnery Sergeant Goforth and his redneck buddies!

The men started to warm to her a little. “Good choice for a military gal,” said Albert. We all just kind of stood there for a moment, smiling at each other, and then Albert broke the ice by changing the subject.

He asked, in the same friendly tone of voice: “You wouldn't happen to be in league with those ministers of Satan invading our world?”

“We were wondering the same thing about you,” said Arlene. I gave her a dirty look for that.

The beefy kid with the double-barreled duck gun chuckled. “Don't mind her saying that, mister. It shows a proper godly attitude. I hope you both check out; I like you. We talk the same language. But we can't take any chances.”

They searched us both thoroughly, found the knife, and impounded it. We were weaponless. In a way, I was glad. These guys weren't acting like amateurs . . . which meant they had a chance against the invaders.

“Okay,” said the man with the bird gun, “we'll take you to the President of the Council of Twelve.”

Arlene grimaced, which told me she knew what he was talking about; but she kept her promise. Not a word came out of her about the religious stuff. The title sounded impressive enough to tell me that the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints was still in business
big-time.

Maybe she was right, and they were a cult; but I don't know any difference between a cult and a religion except as a popularity contest. They had survived, and we needed allies against the monsters.

I knew one more thing about the Mormons that I hadn't mentioned to Arlene during our little chat in the desert. A friend I trusted with Washington connections told me that a good part of Mormon self-reliance was to
really
prepare for every eventuality. After their tumultuous history, extreme caution was understandable. Result: there were a lot of Mormons in the government . . . in the FBI, in the various services, in the CIA, even in NASA. God help anyone
who tried to play Hitler with the Mormons as the Jews! The Mormons should be ideal allies against a literal demonic invasion.

Arlene and I would find out soon enough.

A
s we were led through the streets of SLC, I allowed myself to hope that Arlene and I had lucked out by landing here. If I were still a praying man, I'd burn candles and say a few Ave Marias that we wouldn't find a spidermind sitting in the Mormon Tabernacle . . . which loomed closer and closer, obviously our destination.

The people in the street gave us a wide berth as we passed, but they didn't act unfriendly—just cautious. No one acted like an idiot. I hoped it stayed that way.

Suddenly, a man on a big motorcycle roared over to us and stopped a few inches away, kicking up dust. He wore a business suit. “Hey, Jerry,” he said.

“Hey, Nate,” said Jerry. “Folks, this is my brother, Nate. I'd introduce you, but I don't know your names.”

“Now, Jerry,” said Albert, “you know better than that. The President of the Twelve hasn't interviewed them yet. They should give their names to him.”

“Sorry.”

“Sounds like they know your names already,” said
the man on the cycle, taking off his helmet. These guys were twins.

Although Arlene kept her promise about not discussing theological matters, she leapt into any other waters that gurgled up around us. “That's a bad machine,” she said.

Nate proved to be his brother's brother: “You like this?” he asked with a big grin.

“They have good taste in guns,” said Jerry, spurring them on. Albert groaned.

Nate was on a roll: “BMW Paris-Dakar, 1000 cc's . . .” He and Arlene went on about the bike for a few minutes.

Part of me wanted to strangle the girl; but another part appreciated what she was doing. Putting the other guys at their ease is a critical strategy. There were a lot more men in the street than women, but our captors—hosts?—remained respectful and polite in Arlene's presence. A very civilized society.

“ . . . and the glove compartment can hold five grenades!” announced Nate, topping off his presentation.

“That does it,” said Albert. “If these nice people are spies, why don't you just give them mimeographed reports?”

In the short time we'd been prisoners, I'd learned that there was no genuine military discipline here. I had mixed feelings about this. The good thing was that I couldn't believe these casual people had been co-opted by the invaders. They still talked and acted like free men. Very loquacious free men!

As far as getting their president to cooperate with us, it could go either way. In the land of the civilians, the Marine is king . . . or a fall guy. I was impatient to find out which.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Nate. “I have a message for you. The President hasn't returned yet.”

“You should have told us that right off,” said Albert peevishly. “We'll take them to Holding.”

We entered the Tabernacle. It was nice and cool, with a fresh wood smell that was clean and bracing. The floors were highly polished. You wouldn't notice anything different from the world I'd left on a court-martial charge that now seemed to belong to a different universe.

Arlene wasn't the only one with a lot of reading under her belt. I didn't know a whole lot about the Mormons, although I knew a bit more than I told her—but I'd read the Bible all the way through, enough to recognize things the Mormons took for inspiration from what they accepted as the earlier Revealed Word.

In addition, the nuns taught a little about comparative religion, probably so we'd be better missionaries. I remembered that God was supposed to have given Moses directions for the construction of the Tabernacle. The structure was to be a house constructed of a series of boards of a special wood, overlaid with gold, set on end into sockets of silver. In other words, it wasn't Saint Pete's, but it was no Alabama revival tent either. The Mormons adapted the idea for a permanent standing structure.

Right outside the Tabernacle were some more conventional office buildings. We entered one, and were led into an office by Albert. “I'll bring you something to eat and drink,” he said. I was hungry and thirsty enough to settle for bread and water. A minute later Albert returned with bread and water, then left us alone.

“Damn,” I said; “I was hoping for a more splendorous galley.”

I walked over to a small table, and picked up the sole object on it: the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. I felt puckish and decided
to tease Arlene a bit. I thought she'd pushed the envelope too much, encouraging the more talkative of our captors.

“Bet you can't remember all the books in here, Arlene.”

She gave me that look of hers. “Will you bet me the next decent weapon we find?”

“Deal,” I said.

“Okay,” she replied, and rattled them off: “First and Second Books of Nephi, Jacob, Enos, Jarom, Omni, the Words of Mormon, Book of Mosiah, Alma, Helaman, Third and Fourth Nephi, Book of Mormon, Ether, Moroni. You're not getting out of this, Fly. I get first pick on the next piece!”

“Damn!” I said, thoroughly impressed.

“Watch what you say near a holy place.”

“Don't worry about it,” came a third voice. Albert had rejoined us without knocking.

“Don't you knock?” asked Arlene.

“As soon as you're no longer prisoners,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I just wanted you to know that I don't think you're spies for the demons.”

“We call them aliens,” I said. The medieval terminology didn't bother me when Arlene and I were using it to distinguish the different kinds of monsters. It seemed very different when talking to a deeply religious perseon. These things from space could be killed. They were created by scientific means. In no way should they be confused with immortal spirits against which all the firepower in the galaxy would mean nothing.

“I understand,” said Albert. “Would you mind telling me who you are and how you came to be here?”

“Won't the President ask us that?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why should we tell you?” asked Arlene.

“Because I don't have to be as cautious, and I'm a fellow soldier.”

“So you should tell us about yourself,” I said.

“In time. You don't have to tell me anything either, but you should consider it.”

“Well,” I said, thinking on my feet, “if we talk to one Mormon, we should probably talk to the leader.”

Albert laughed. “We're not all Mormons here,” he said. “Just most of us.”

“Oh?” I said, unconvinced.

“Uh,
I
am,” he cautioned. “Think about it. We're fighting the common enemy of mankind. We don't care if you're Mormons. We care that you can be trusted.”

“Makes sense,” admitted Arlene in a tone of voice so natural that I realized she'd been subtly mocking them before.

“I'm of the Church,” continued Albert, “but Jerry and Nate are Jehovah's Witnesses.”

“I thought they didn't fight,” said Arlene, surprised.

“They are not pacifists, but neither are they of the Latter-Day Dispensations,” he said as warning bells went off in my head. I prayed I could count on Arlene's promise to keep her trap shut . . . but she pressed her lips pretty tight.

“Latter-day what?”

Albert was more succinct than his friends: “They believe all the world's governments are works of the devil. They won't fight their fellow man at the command of a state. But they can fight unhuman monsters until Judgment Day.”

“I get it,” I said. “Draft protesters in World War Two—”

“But volunteers for this,” Albert finished.

“What do you mean by, uh, ‘dispensation'?”

He laughed. Apparently we'd fallen into the hands
of someone lacking in missionary zeal, for which I was grateful. “The United States Constitution was ordained by God. That's why we didn't like seeing it subverted. We never know if a governmental person is good or bad until we see where his loyalty lies. But you two made a wonderful impression on the Witnesses; I think you'll do fine with the President. If you change your mind about chatting with me, you will find me easily enough.” He left us with the promise we would see the President soon.

Three hours later we were led to the office of the President of the Twelve. A clean-shaven, elderly man with pure white hair, a dark tan, and a tailored suit got up from behind a walnut desk and rested his hands on his blotter. He kept his distance. He had a judge's face, carved in stone. If we were assassins, he was giving us a clear shot at him. But Albert and Jerry continued to baby-sit, fingers on triggers.

Mexican standoff. He sized us up. We did the same to him. He reminded me of a senior colonel in the Corps, a man used to giving orders.

Finally, he coughed. “I'm the President here,” he said.