Notes from the Future: Laminated II

This laminated note is duct-taped to the back of an END sign on Dry Creek Drive in Dublin, California, near where the Martin Canyon Creek Trail meets the road; it has rainbow reflective tape all around it and red and silver reflective metallic tape in foot long strips splays out from all around it, constantly moving in the breeze and drawing the eye from miles away.

Dear Veronica,

If you find this note, you are being extremely stubborn. You have doubtless seen my other missive on various fence posts along the ridge. I know your current path falls under the heading of, "What Tad doesn't know won't hurt him," but NEWSFLASH: what Tad doesn't know can hurt Veronica. Oh, and I do know. Hence this note.

Here's a list of things to consider before you continue down this road to "civilization":

1. Not all of the Mean Greenies know what happened at the Compound. There were some roving bands still hunting among the houses near the Freeway, and they've since moved South. There are at least two within a quarter-mile of you.

2. You do not have Max with you. Max is a large black dog. Large black dog = deterrent. Do I really have to explain this?

3. Wildfire. The air's pretty smoky, right? It's Summer, right? The hills are covered with dry brown grass, right? MOUNT DIABLO HAS ERUPTED AND YOU CAN SEE BURNING HOUSES AND BURNING HILLS WITHIN A MILE OF YOU, RIGHT? "Oh, I didn't know it was that close. Are you sure?" you want to ask. Yes, I'm fucking sure! Take this note, turn around and run back up that trail as fast as you can. IF you go now, you might get to the ridge before fire closes off the trail. Stop reading, take the note and go.

4. You should be back on the ridge before you read any further. Stop reading and keep running, I don't give a shit how much pain you're in. If you are on the ridge, get onto the West side of it (toward the left if you're walking back toward the compound, which you should be), a little below the top. Easier to breathe, possibly. I know you don't think much about the dangers of smoke inhalation, but once again: listen to me. Now: guess what creatures live in these hills? Mountain Lions and Wild Boar. Guess what's roaring up the hills from the East? Fire. Guess what animals run away from? Fire. Do they want to be your friend, these animals? I'm guessing no. I'm guessing they are panicked. I'm guessing you'd better start running North. If you see a Mountain Lion, make loud noises and throw things, try to scare it away. Do not throw valuable things, like your water bottles. You will need those. Throw rocks and sticks. If you see a Wild Boar, just keep running. If there's a tree you can climb nearby, get into it. Fast. But don't stay too long. Fire will crest the ridge in two hours.

If you can get past three of my fencepost notes along the ridge in the next two hours, you should be safe. Whatever you do, stay within fifty feet of the ridge. If or when fire crests the ridge, get down the ridge and around in front of it as fast as you can. This might be terrible advice. But I'm trying to salvage your terrible decision.  Next time, please listen to me.

I love you even though I am frustrated right now,

Tad

Notes from the Future: Veronica's New Journal

Day 1

Maybe 8 am

I'm sitting in a very nice room that overlooks the garden, writing in this new journal. Smoke is so thick outside that I can smell it in here, and Mother Henrietta has sent several Bearded E's down the hill to see what the fire is doing. It's been moving up through the houses since ... yesterday?  The day before? Feels like I've been here a month but it's only been a couple of days.

I was in this room when I woke up late yesterday, with the feeling I was forgetting something important. Mother Henrietta was tending to me personally, bandaging cuts and putting poultices and plasters on my bruises. She has no idea where Tad and Max are. Tad and Max, Tad and Max. Tad is the one with the lox that's lax. That's a song he liked to sing while walking Max. They both shake their butts when they walk. I think Tad has an invisible tail that is always wagging. Had. Has? 

Where are you, Edward Hightower?

Mother Henrietta said I can go visit the Rachels who were injured by Torvald as soon as I've had time to rest. 

"And I mean rest, Veronica. Actual rest. Not just sleep. You've been through, and accomplished, more in the last 24 hours that many people accomplish in their lifetimes. You can wander this entire compound as you like, you may go everywhere you want -- except the recovery ward. You need to be feeling better before you go in there," and she smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. She reminds me of Tad's mom.  She gave me this journal because my other journal has disappeared. I don't really understand why I can't go see Young Nurse Rachel and the others, but I'm sure Mother H has a good reason.

So I got up and walked around, it was later -- near sunset. So quiet, so peaceful. The feeling of forgetting stuck with me as I explored. The whole place has changed. Except, where are all the children? I started looking for them, really looking, and I ended up in the barn where I was kept prisoner. I saw that all of the cells are open and clean and empty. I asked a passing Bearded E about them and he said they were intended as contemplation chambers, that the locks had been added later. Then he asked if I wanted to see something, and took me into the main section of the barn.

Sitting there in the dusty sunset light coming through gaps in the wall was our car. I almost cried when I saw it. Our beat-up little blue Honda. So trustworthy. Dented hood, with broken windows and a passenger door that looks like we were attacked by a rhino. Nearby, on a workbench, was Chauncey! He was in a big wire rabbit hutch thing and he saw me and came right up to the wire; I put my hand in and gave him some rubs. He was so happy! He made his rabbit purring noise, kind of a grunting little grunt noise.

"Chauncey, you're the only man who hasn't left me here; is that because you were in a cage? Is that what it takes?" I noticed something glinting near Chauncey's left front paw. Reaching down, I found a section of dirty metallic chain. It looked like gold, but how to be sure? I took it with me and it's in my pocket as I'm reading this. I will look more closely later. I still feel like there's something important I'm supposed to remember, though. Weird.

When I got back to my room, they brought me food: delicious lentil soup and fresh bread, with water and a bowl of fruit afterward. I was so hungry! I didn't realize until then that I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast the day before. Before bed, Mother H came in and changed my bandages, putting some ointments on my bruises. She even tucked me in bed. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and looked me in the eyes.

"Veronica, you're going to need to talk about what happened. About everything, but also about what you did. It was heroic. It was also unexpectedly violent. We had several competent mental health practitioners in our midst until Mayberry arrived. Only recently have I realized how many of the early deaths and disappearances were the people most likely to spot psychosis and whatever red flags Mayberry was sending up. I don't know how I missed that, it's like there was a cloud over my mind until you dealt with him yesterday. Anyway, with all of them gone, I may be the only person qualified to listen. But that's not why I want you to talk to me. I want you to talk to me because I recognize in you the traits common to people who have survived -- and buried -- deep childhood trauma. I will never force you to talk about it. But if you need to talk, or even if you are certain that you never will, please come see me. Even if it's just for tea."  She smiled, patted my leg, and left. I fell asleep almost immediately. When I woke up this morning, my light was still on.

And here's the only thing I can really think about, under everything else, woven into every second, these three words:

Tad is gone. 

Poof. Only thing missing was a cloud of purple smoke. He's always telling directors that he wants to appear and disappear in a cloud of purple smoke. Nobody ever gets him the smoke. Got him the smoke. Probably because he was kidding. But was he? Is that what I was forgetting? Was this something he could do all along? What did I do wrong, what could I have done differently -- better -- to have been closer to him, closer to the bed? Just to have touched him, to kiss his cheek one last time. I don't think I'll ever see him again.

Tad is gone, Max is lost. I am so afraid for them both, I don't even know what to do. I realize now that I was wandering around in a haze yesterday. I've had to stop and cry several times as I've been writing today. I hate crying. I'm all puffy now and my nose is stuffed up. But they're gone. They're gone. My boys are gone. Chauncey isn't gone. Chauncey is in the barn. I wonder if I'm allowed to have a rabbit in my room with me?

I have got to remember whatever it is that's bugging me. I'll write it down big:

I remember everything. I remember everything. I remember everything.

Tad would be proud, he's big on repetition. I am sleeeeepy.

Okay, so, questions for Mother H tomorrow:

1. Where are the kids?

2. Where are Iron Rachel and the two Creepy Zekes? (Ha, Iron Rachel and the Creepy Zekes, good band name.)

3. What should I do now?

Is that even a question I should bother her with? Bedtime. I'll think about it later.

Stars, Hearts and Unicorns,

V

***

Later, late: just woke up. There was a noise, a sound outside my window. It sounds like someone is just below the window, where I can't see, laughing. 

Like the Prophet.

I'm wide awake, and I'm so scared it's even hard to write. I'm scared to move. Scared to get off the bed. What if he's under the floor? What if the sound I hear is him in a basement, and he's reaching up through a trapdoor under the bed? I can't even turn on the light, I don't want anyone watching outside to see me. 

I need to get out of this place. ASAP. If I can, I'll go at first light. Get to Hayward, find his parents, that was the plan all along.

Damn it, Tad. You're supposed to protect me from monsters.

Oh my God. Something just thumped on the outside wall.

I'm not closing my eyes until I see sunlight.

Notes from the Future: Laminated

This laminated note is ziptied to several wooden barbed wire fence posts along the ridge leading South from San Ramon to the Dublin Grade of 580; it is most often found where more heavily-worn trails lead close to, or under, the fences.

Dear Veronica,

If you have found this note, I have disappeared, you have lost Max and you've left our Honda behind.  A bold choice.  But you are going the wrong way. I know you think it's the right way, because of what you experienced back at the compound, but I promise you: what waits ahead is actually worse. As far as I can guess, you are planning to walk along this ridge until you reach 580, then walk down to the freeway and walk to Hayward from there. In theory, that is a great plan. But in actual practice, it cannot work.

Here's why: 580 is built along what was a road in a canyon, which before that was a trail in a canyon, which before that was a canyon. Canyons in this area have the potential to be branches of local fault lines. I cannot guarantee that any portion of 580 on the Dublin Grade is able to withstand the current climate of seismic instability.  

I know it's hard to face what happened, it's hard to face what you did; I know you prefer to move forward and never talk about the past and how it affects you. But I promise you, that is not the way to survive in life; running away from trauma will only bring it back to haunt you when you least desire it, and this can unravel even the best-constructed defense mechanisms -- often at the worst possible moment. If you plan to survive this ordeal at all -- and I think you must if you're trying to get to Hayward -- you've got to go back to the Compound and learn everything you can.

I'm leaving notes just like this all along this ridge. How I'm doing this is difficult to explain, but why should be pretty obvious: I love you, I want you to stay alive and I am always looking out for you.

Turn around and go back immediately.

Love,

Tad

Notes from the Future: Dreams of the Sleeping Porpoise, Part IX

Incredibly dizzy. Jesus. Where am I? Light's too bright, can't open my eyes right away.

Dreaming? I don't think so.

Okay ... I'm on the floor, it's wooden, I'm still in my hospital gown and there's ... hay poking me in the ass. That's great. Smells ... dusty, a little like animals. Livestock. More like a place they've been than a place they are.

I cover my eyes with both hands, opening both eyes and slowly letting a little light in between my fingers. Then a little more ... and a little more ... and finally I can take my hands away from my eyes and ...

Veronica is sleeping on a little cot not four feet away. Holy shit! Where are we?! When are we?

No digital clock. No light switch to test my reality. I have to assume for now that this is real and not a dream.

I try to stand and go to her, but my leg in this cast, Christ, it hurts so much. Moving is not good. Dizzy. Pukey. 

Wait ... wait ... think: what is she doing here? There's a window high up there, barred, it's night. Reaching to my left, I gently try the door. It's locked. So she's being kept prisoner. And there, near her, on the bed ... papers.

Turning my back to her, I scoot slowly along the floor, lifting my butt as best I can in order to avoid ass splinters.  I'm next to the bed, leaning against it, breathing heavily from the effort, but as quietly as I can. She's snoring softly. Should I wake her? Should I tell her what's going on?

Yes. Maybe we can escape together. Or ... no? No is right: that door is locked, it would not be good to be caught here ... so fucking dizzy ... hard to think.

Okay: the papers. I quietly reach over and take them, begin reading. I have to close my eyes once or twice in order to keep from yakking. I read it in its entirety:

There is a small lantern under your bed, and matches. Light it carefully, do not drop it: you would burn alive if this building caught. There are things you need to know, now, before sunrise. For now, be warned: the "Prophet" believes you, your dog and Edward are all emissaries of local government come to shut down "his" compound. If he finds any proof of this, he will eat and rape you -- in that order. Probably myself and the Rachels who are helping us, as well. The Ezekiels he will probably just murder.

Therefore, as soon as you finish reading this, burn it in the stainless steel bucket, away from cloth or hay.

This Monastery has been here since before the Spanish. How this came to be has its roots in the story of Father Robert, and the fate of the Abbess of the lost Abbey so high in the Pyrenees. You must simply trust that we have been here for a very, very long time, living in peace with the local tribes and then presenting the illusion of a ranch when the area began to be settled by Europeans. Land can be made to seem to change hands, but we have held this land for so long, we know it as family. It was always a holy spot, it drew us here from so far away and we intend to hold it. We will need your help.

We have many beliefs, and among those beliefs is a Prophecy that a man shall come from the outside in the time of fire and that he will bring peace, wisdom and an end to tyranny. Pretty vague, I know, but I'm trying to keep this brief. There is much more to the Prophecy, and several months ago a man came wandering up our hillside, lost and dehydrated and near mad with hunger. We nursed him to health, as we do, and he seemed to be full of kindness and wisdom. We invited him to stay here among us and all was well.

Then one night he started having dreams, terrifying apocalyptic visions of devastation and death and fire. His dreams were paired with uncanny predictions of how national and local elections would go, and many among us began to believe he was the man of whom the Prophecy spoke. I was never entirely certain that he was to be trusted; his first dream came on the night I believe he overheard me discussing with one of the nurses that I felt he had overstayed his welcome. Not that he knew or knows my status here as Abbess -- I have kept that secret closely-guarded since his arrival -- and he believes that we are just a very earth-friendly commune. But many were frightened by his visions, and in order to placate them, I agreed in secret with my people that we should prepare for any eventualities. If this meant building up our defenses, buying more food, so be it.

He was also recruiting people from the local neighborhoods, going to community meetings and churches and slowly our numbers grew. You can tell the difference between our people and the newcomers simply: our men and women are nurses, doctors and healers of every persuasion, and the men have full beards.

I feel no shame in admitting we are all staunch Muirists, and that we stand with our Bretheren in Oregon who maintain that John Muir did not assassinate President Theodore Roosevelt in Yosemite Valley, and we will forever speak to the innocence and wrongful execution of Ansel Adams for his so-called "seditious" photography and acts of "landbank espionage." If you disagree, that is your choice. But I can't have you help us if you don't know who you're helping. We are good people, please remember that: we help the sick and broken, we heal the wounded. Not just their bodies, but that is something for later, if later ever comes. Back to the subject at hand:

Some of the newcomers may be healers of excellence and skill, but they believe the "Prophet" and cannot be trusted: the men are clean-shaven and the women are fearful, vapid things who cannot start a fire, chop wood or defend themselves. All of these people believed that the "Prophet" is the man who founded this place, and those of us who have given our lives to this Monastery -- many of us have been here since birth -- have been forced to hide in our own home.

Slowly, he has been eliminating us. At first, there were accidents. An Ezekiel named Dr. John Frazier was crushed while changing a tire on our SUV, alone on a backroad here. A Rachel named Louise, one of the senior nurses, fell down some stairs. You saw what has been done to Becky, the girl he began to devour before your blessed Max did what humans are too scared to do; all Becky is guilty of is fidelity to her fiance, who is due to return from Iran next month.

When the earthquake came, the "Prophet" threw himself down upon the ground and shook and pooped and peed on himself off and on for eight hours. He calls it his Holy Travail. He has been shouting so-called Prophecy ever since: if the wind changes, he will say, "Lo, the wind did change, and the Prophet did say it was so!" He uses this to control his followers more than ever before. He directed them to get uniforms and set up roadblocks, and at every roadblock he has been offering people the chance to pay the toll and pass, or to not pass. The toll is a bite of their flesh, and as you may have noticed today, it is the only thing that sexually excites him. So once he takes a bite, he takes another bite. And another, and once he is aroused, he may as well satisfy both appetites at once. 

God help me, I was glad when he began to go down to the roadblocks to feed, as my Rachels were spared any further torment. But then he got hungrier. He sent people out with green glowsticks around their necks to wait in areas where the lights have gone out. You may have seen them, they break the glowsticks and surround the car and stop it, if they can. Their job is to herd people to the roadblocks, but many of them, desiring to be like their "Prophet," have begun to attack and eat people as well.

Yours was the last car to get across Bollinger, only the center of the center island remains, at last report. Anyone coming across must do so on foot. The Prophet was down there, eating a pregnant woman, when you drove across. It enraged him because he hadn't predicted it. Which is why his followers combed the area so thoroughly to find you. I have no idea what happened to the people still waiting after you crossed. I hope they went away, and that they are safe.

There are hundreds of his followers, now: possibly a thousand. Every time one person pays the toll, the "Prophet" has the rest of the occupants of the car brought here. And what do they see? Food, light, a place to sleep. As long as they do what he says, they live. 

Mt. Diablo's eruption has given him too much power. The night you arrived, he instructed a new Ezekiel to bite off his own penis and thus be cleansed of mortal want. When the young man could not succeed at this task, he threw himself from the balcony of the main house and died. Severed spinal cord. I think he was a lifeguard before he tried to leave the area with his parents and sisters. Now they are here and they are not permitted to grieve, lest they appear to un-believe the "Prophet."

Here is what you need to know: tomorrow morning, he will eat your Max, if they catch him. If not, he will try to eat you. Key to his power is the mystery of his origins; only I know his name, his history and his weakness. Learn it, memorize it, and use it! Speak the Prophecy if he tries to eat you, shout louder, shake harder -- it's all illusion. You have some theatrical experience, this I know. Improvise.

His name is Torvald Mayberry. He is 56 years old, never married. Former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School, in Castro Valley. Left under a cloud of suspected sexual misconduct and embezzlement, surprise surprise. Here's the kicker: he is utterly, completely terrified of rabbits.

I hope that's enough for you to go on; from what I heard about Edward's performance in the car on the night you arrived, I trust that you have similar improvisational skills. Living with such a talented man, how could you not?

I believe in you, Veronica. I believe you are our salvation. I no longer look to prophecy, I look to the human race. If you can out-preach him, you will save us all.

Burn this now, please.

Yours sincerely,

Mother Henrietta

Whoever you are, Mother Henrietta, you have chosen the wrong person to improvise and out-preach the Prophet. Veronica has a hard time speaking to small groups of people, there is no way she can step up and outdo this Prophet fuckmook. Damn this broken leg, if I could just move around freely, I could help her.

But maybe ... maybe there's something I can do ...

First things first: make sure she remembers. Read the part about the Prophet to her. Leaning gently to my right, I turn so I can see her face and lean against the little table. I whisper:

"Veronica, stay sleeping. I'm speaking to you in your dreams. Dream of me, and stay asleep. I need to tell you about this guy, this Prophet. Remember his name: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley. Remember this: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley. Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley. Say it with me now: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley."

Her lips seem to move, but no sound comes out. I have to trust that she said it with me. Moving on:

"I'm going to help you prepare to improvise against the Prophet, Veronica --"

She makes a small sound of alarm, barely a breath. But I know that sound, it's a scream in her dreams, so I lean forward and allow myself a touch more volume:

"He has no power over you; if you see him, he is trapped. He is in a glass case, bulletproof glass two feet thick. He is silent, you are loud. He can hear you, but he is silent. He is just a man. Oh ..."

Leg. Pain. Ignore, please, please, just breathe ... dizzy ... have to keep pain to myself, if she senses it she may wake up ... I see her head turn from side to side, I pause, watching, not sure if I can escape in time if she wakes. After a few moments, she subsides. I take a breath and try to speak through the pain.

"Now repeat everything I say: first and foremost, while the key to comedy is incongruity; in this case, you only want to use incongruity if you must, because you're not trying to make them laugh, you're trying to make them believe ... whoo, youch ... okay ... oh, and remember, he is afraid of rabbits. He's afraid of rabbits. We have a rabbit. He's afraid of rabbits. Remember that. Okay. So, improvisation: remember it's a case of 'yes, and ...', meaning that you take their energy and top it. Take whatever they give, affirm it, and if you can you should twist it before throwing it back at them ..."

Her forehead is creased in the Veronica frown. I think I'm rushing this, but I have to get it all out ... hard to concentrate ...

"Know what you want, and how you are going to get it. Make a choice and stick to it. In this case, you want to top him. Say that, 'Know what you want and how you're going to get it ...'" I watch as her lips sort of move. Maybe that's enough. Going on: "Now, because you are preaching you want to keep your words rooted in the real world, in things that you can see, touch, feel, hear and taste. Stick to the palpable because he's probably going to obsess on things that can't be proven or disproven, like God, the Devil, shit like that. So the way to remember this is, No whales on dry land. Say that now. Say it three times, it may be the most important thing I tell you tonight: no whales on dry land, no whales on dry land, no whales on dry land. So when you preach, keep it focused on ... wait, did I already say that? I can't remember ... um, in case I didn't say this, remember: the successful actor knows what she wants and how she is going to get it; with nothing else, you can succeed where all others fail."

... breathe ... deeply ... through the nose ... exhale, imagining all pain and nausea dissipating like smoke ... inhale ... exhale ...

"Okay. The final thing I need to tell you: he's afraid of rabbits as you know, so quote Watership Down if you can. I think the first lines are, 'Long ago, Great Frith made the world.' You won't need more than that. And once you start talking about Frith, you may as well start speaking in tongues. Just ... say whatever comes into your head. See some trees? Say, 'trees-and-leaves-and-leaves-and-trees-branches-branch-ranch-ranch-ranka-danka-doo, hamana hamana hamana, ding-ding, I love a party ...' whatever comes to mind. See? Speaking in tongues is just gibberish, it has nothing to do with foreign languages. Okay. Wow. I may throw up. Sorry if I do. Um ... let's see ..."

I lean my head back and can't move for a while ... tired ... need to tell her something ... 

"Once you've got their attention, believe everything you say. Give 'em the old razzle-dazzle, honey ... if they think you believe it, people will believe anything you say ..."

... head hurts exhausted ... so dizzy ... can't stop thinking about the time I ended up in Veronica's wooden cell in an old barn and I found that letter from a lady I'd never met. What did I do then? I had to find a way to help her. What was it? What did I ... room is spinning ...

Pop.

Cold, hard gravel. Raining. Jesus, where am I now?! And then Jesus says, Hey, fucker, you're whenever I say you are. I'm, like, the Lord. Heh, heh -- not funny really, not funny at all. Why am I laughing ... this leg hurts more than ever. Paging Nurse Veronica ... find me in that clump of bushes ... I'll be ... sleeping ...

Still raining under bushes. Not as bad, but not great. Have I slept? I feel a little clearer. There's something over there, something yellow. I'm pulling myself toward it, crawling with my left leg, trying to gently drag my right leg, crying out every time it jars against a rock. Which is every second I'm moving. Ella Fitzgerald, Rodgers and Hart Songbook, why are you in my head? I'd feel so rich in / A hut for two ...

It's a tent. A yellow tent. Go in or stay in cold rain, in a hospital gown? Clear choice.

I start to unzip the tent, but a voice speaks from inside:

"Hold it, buddy. We can't touch. Just give me a second."

I see a light glow in the tent, and the music turns down. Oh, it's music. I wasn't imagining it. Okay. Whoever this guy is, he's taking his sweet fucking time.

"Whoever I am, I'm taking my sweet fucking time," he says.

The door zips open.

Sitting there in front of me in old REI pants and my green REI jacket is ...

Me.

I'm staring in shock and I -- he -- laugh. Laughs.

"Tad, this is not a dream. Come in carefully, stick to that side of the tent. If we touch, we seize. I need to tell you some things, and then I'm gone. This will be your tent, your place, for quite a while. Now get the fuck in here, I remember how cold it was out there."

I pull myself into the tent. Two sleeping bags, a nice thick vintage Thermarest, some pillows. He throws a towel at me. 

"Dry your head first, you're going to have a cold for a little while, but why make it any worse?" 

I start drying my head and we study each other. He is much thinner than I am, there is a lot more silver in his hair, and his beard is longer than mine has ever been, longer even than when I finished backpacking the Roosevelt/Solomons trail in 2009. He looks a little like a wizard.

"I look a little like a wizard?" he asks, and we both laugh.

"Do you have anything to eat?" I ask, and he's throwing Cliff bars at me. He throws a bottle of water, too. It's got something in it.

"Cytomax," he says. Ah, yes. Good shit. "Eat, get dry, put on this clean hospital gown. You'll be leaving, soon, and I need to anchor you to this spot."

"Shit. Where am I going?"

"To help Veronica. You're going to need to put some pillows under us where we sleep in the hospital house first, then find Chauncey. You can take him with you, you can even take people with you. But I have to caution you against that: it will not work well. If you take someone out of time with you, it is up to you to reassemble their timeline. And we're already fucked up enough as it is. So. Chauncey is in a stand of Oak trees about three hundred yards down the slope behind the barn you just came from. Don't hesitate, just grab him. Here's your anchor." He holds up a gold amulet, exactly like the one I left for Veronica. He cuts his thumb, rubs his blood on it, hands it to me with the knife. I cut my thumb, rub my blood on it.

"Is this all it needs?" I ask him.

"Yes. It's gold. Gold and blood are beacons. You will snap back here harder than anything you've yet experienced. All I can say is, don't thrash when you land and take the time to rest every time you arrive. Oh, also: if you have a bunny with you, try not to land on him. Now: try to sleep. I've got soothing music." He dials through selections on an iPod I've never seen before: it looks like it's made of flexible clear plastic.  I get into the sleeping bag, stretching out awkwardly with the heavy plaster cast. He taps it. "That's never going to heal properly, sorry to say. Yoga will help, though."

"What should I do once I get Chauncey?" I ask.

"When you snap back here, lie still and get him to relax on your ... belly. He needs to get used to that. Wow, I forgot how pudgy we were," he's grinning at me with the same grin I use to asshole my way through bad jokes in public. It works, probably because we're me. "Once you're both relaxed, focus on V. She's got the amulet you left her, brilliant impulse, follow those -- unless they involve taking someone else through time! Got that? Even if you think you're saving her ... their ... life. Tad. It's my one regret, do you understand me?"

"More than anything in Boston?" I ask.

"Eternally more," he says. Wow. We're very serious. "V. has the amulet, you'll be drawn to her, but there's something you need to understand: right now there are three of us in time. There's you, there in that sleeping bag, now. There's me, here, older, now. And there's you, in 2012, unconscious in that room. That you and this you are the same you, which is why you are so dizzy. So when you snap back there, focus on clicking back into you. It's kind of like the amygdala thing, learning to tickle it with an imaginary feather. You've got to get all the way in. You will know when it happens, you'll feel and hear a kind of snapping like a rubber band. Once you're there, you'll have a lot more control. You'll need to pop back here for Chauncey, he'll hop onto your belly if you relax enough before you leave, get it?"

"Yes," I say. And I do. It's almost like we're speaking in mental shorthand: I see pictures of everything he says.

"That's good, so do I. But it only lasts until you're clicked back in, in the hospital room; if ever you feel it again, know that you may be about to meet with yourself in another time and place. But it will be more of a trickle than a wave. So: pop back here when the Prophet slams your bed through the French Doors --"

"What the fuck -- ?"

"You'll be fine if you pop back here. Generally. You'll need some advice from the ladies. Ask it, be charming. Veronica misses us so badly, Tad. She needs us to be gallant and brave every time we appear. Be as nonchalant and devil-may-care as possible. You are her hero, now. Be that," he says, shaking his head a little. "Before you ask your next question, listen: get Chauncey onto your belly. Hold him there. Pop into the bed as the Prophet comes off the little grassy rise or you and the rabbit may fall out. Then keep your eyes shut and lie still with your hands on Chauncey until he puts the sheet over you. After that, do whatever comes to mind. Now, ask your question."

"You said Veronica misses us so badly. Have you gotten back to her yet? Ever? Once?"

"No," he says. Barely a whisper. This hits like a sandbag.

"How long have you been here?" I'm yelling a little, but I don't care and I know he won't.

"Ten years," he says, nodding slightly, looking directly into my eyes. "Go on, ask."

"What year is it?" I almost don't want to know.

"2005," he says. My next question almost asks itself:

"Where the hell are we?"

"We're in the yellow tent, among the thick coyote bushes in the ravine, down by the train tracks at the end of your street. It's early February. I watched you two pull into the parking lot to interview with the landlords earlier today. She loves you so much, Tad. You should have married her already. You should have kids by now. We have been so foolish."

His face crinkles up and he's crying quietly but still looking at me, reaching out as close as he can without touching my arm.

"Go back. Tell yourself, warn us: marry her in 2002, when you have the money. Marry her right away, all this can be avoided if you convince yourself. Time and events are malleable as clay, Tad. Fix it. You'll bounce around a lot in time, pinballing. Whisper to us in our sleep. If we had kids, if we only had kids ..."

He takes a ragged breath, convulsed with grief.

And he's gone.

Notes from the Future: The Prophet's Reckoning, Part IX

I see Chauncey dart away the instant the shot is fired, and I'm watching him now, wishing him freedom, feeling very detached. I'm thinking about the chunks in my hair, how they will be tangled and that will be gross, when I look up to see Fat Bald Ezekiel standing over me, a club raised in one arm. 

I should do something.

Pain blossoms bright in the left side of my head and I gasp, throwing myself to the gravel to my right as the report from a second shot echoes from the hills and mountains around us. I can feel blood trickling down my face from where the gravel hit me, and Fat Bald Ezekiel has whirled around to shout at the sniper, but everybody is shouting and running and screaming, so his voice is lost in all that. Odd: people are falling to the ground all around the place. Have they been shot, or is this a flight-or-fight response? Sets of Ezekiels are running up to those who fall, wrapping them in white sheets and carrying them away. Yikes, I don't want that. I start to get up, watching as the Prophet screams and points at terrified Rachels and Ezekiels; it looks like he's cursing them or something. Iron Rachel stands near him, turning to look at or move toward each person he curses, but never moving; she seems uncertain. That's nice. I still plan to punch her in the twat. Keeping my eyes on them, I am moving slowly to my knees where I hold still, breathing and waiting. They must think I was hit because of the shot and how I fell. Oh fuck. I should have stayed down. I freeze as I realize this, then feel my hackles raise as I hear someone run up behind me.

"Meddling bitch!" 

A man's voice, and at the same time something hits my head and shatters -- but does not hurt at all. A sheet is thrown over me and I'm lifted bodily and carried as they run over the gravel and onto dirt. I don't know if I should be scared or struggling, but whatever they hit me with didn't hurt, so I opt to listen very carefully.

Their feet are on pavement, now, and I hear a door open and a woman's voice, urgent, whispering as we move closer to her and then we are on linoleum and we turn a few corners and I am set -- gently -- on something soft. The sheet is whisked away.

"Hold still, we have no time to lose," says Mother Henrietta, and she begins wrapping my head with bandages; Nice Rachel and Young Nurse Rachel step forward to help, and the two bearded Ezekiels who carried me in are each watching the goings-on outside from a different window. I can still hear people screaming and, every few seconds, a gunshot and then its echo. The sounds dim slightly as the bandages cover my ears. They've already covered my eyes and now someone is wrapping my arms. Mother Henrietta is speaking.

"We keep a Rachel bandaged like this constantly, in case we need to make someone disappear; when that time comes, the bandaged Rachel becomes a nurse again and we wrap up the fugitive. What we're hoping is that this keeps you safe long enough to get The Prophet to pass out, and then we're putting you and Edward in a car and driving you both to safety," her voice is soothing, but I have a question.

"What about Max and Chauncey?" I ask, my voice muffled by bandages.

She is still and silent for a time. I feel someone else take over her bandaging work.

"I do not know," she finally says. "I can see if there is a way to find Chauncey, but short of setting a snare I cannot guarantee that we can retrieve him. Max, on the other hand ... I have a sense that Max is somehow closer than any of us realize. I don't know why. But in any event, you need to lie very still and not react if anyone comes in and speaks to you. You are heavily medicated, suffering severe poison oak allergies. We will not inject you or anything along those lines, but we may need to pretend to. Have no fear, you are safe."

The window on the left shatters and through the bandages I see the figure of that Bearded Ezekiel spin away from the window and fall as the echo of the shot  -- or is it another one, another shot? -- sounds in the distance. Everyone in the room is shouting as they jump to help him. I ask where he was shot and if he is okay a couple of times, but nobody hears me through the bandages covering my face. 

Another bang, louder now, sounds like the front door slammed open; there's angry shouting and frightened shouting and it's getting closer and closer and everything in the room goes still as a voice speaks. I do my best not to cringe.

"Take the Whores, take them all! The Interloper Whore has been killed as I wished, but her body is taken and hidden! Who but the healers would know where to hide a Whore's corpse?! Whores are Whoremagnets! Like flies to shit, they must be shriven for their sins, and questioned for their knowledge, even unto death!" The Prophet is always so fucking loud. Doesn't he know he's inside?

"Mighty Prophet," this from Mother Henrietta. "We do humbly submit to all of thy Holy Ministrations, but allow one of our number to stay and care for this Rachel so racked with Poison Oak that it is in her lungs and brain." When she says 'Poison Oak,' I hear a gargled gasp and see the Prophet's form retreat a step.

"Poison Oak is Satan's lure! Satan's taunting lure! Oh, how I itch just to think of it! Know ye, Whores!, that if ye spread thy unclean sex for my Holy Blessing, and if it be besmirched inside with the oils of Poison Oak, I will personally pull the skin from thy bodies, keeping ye still alive, misting ye with juices of lemon and salted waters! Know that, Whores! Know it! Mmm-hmmm, it is time, it is time for a Whore to have her second Rapeday. You!"

I hear Young Nurse Rachel gasp.

"Ezekiels, hold her! It is time for her to learn what her Father should have made her father do to her before she had her first flowering!" I see him shrugging his pants down, and the standing Bearded Ezekiel helps the other one to his feet -- he must not have been hit, it must have been the glass that everyone was so concerned about -- where they reluctantly hold her, one at each arm. Why? I want to scream. Why not just kill him? 

But then I see Nice Rachel take an involuntary step toward Young Nurse Rachel as the Prophet viciously backhands her where she is held, and two figures step into the room, rifles at their shoulders trained on the Bearded Ezekiels as a third figure steps in and clocks Nice Rachel with the butt of a rifle, neatly flipping it to train it on Mother Henrietta, gesturing her over toward me. Nice Rachel hasn't gotten up.

The Prophet is grunting with the effort of beating Young Nurse Rachel, and I find myself flinching with each blow and cry. Mother Henrietta puts her hand on my right hand and squeezes. I squeeze back, desperate to stop this. The Prophet is telling Young Nurse Rachel to dry her sex with sand. What the fuck?!

An idea hits me and I flinch bodily, like when I dream I'm falling. Mother Henrietta cradles my head in her arms, I can hear her breath, she is crying. I turn my head slightly and whisper, "Mother Henrietta ... what is his name?"

"Shhh, shhh ..." she whispers, rocking me slightly. "It's just a bad dream, shhhh ..."

"His name?" I whisper again. "I forgot. Tell me."

Mother Henrietta pauses, I feel her go still. She's not going to tell me. Or maybe the Ezekiel with the gun on us has seen my mouth move beneath the bandages. I realize I've closed my eyes and I open them to see that my left eye is partially uncovered from Mother Henrietta cradling my head, and I can see that there are indeed three Clean Zekes with guns, avidly watching as Young Nurse Rachel, her face streaming blood and tears, her skirts hiked up around her waist as the Bearded Ezekiels she trusts hold her in place, is rubbing sand into her vagina. The Prophet stands there stroking himself, muttering and keening some biblical gibberish, punctuated with more, more, more sand.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I will stop this. I will do anything to stop this. Nothing matters but stopping this. 

I squeeze Mother Henrietta's hand as hard as I can. The Clean Zeke with his rifle trained on Mother H. is watching Young Nurse Rachel's fingers push sand into her vagina, the rifle is actually pointed more at the window than us now. Mother H. isn't saying anything. Can I get the rifle from him and fire with my hands bandaged? Can I get them unwrapped in time? 

"Good," says the Prophet. "Now assume the stance of the Penitent Whore!" Young Nurse Rachel turns her back, adjusting her skirts as she presents her ass to him and begins to unbuckle the belt of the nearest Bearded Ezekiel. Both Bearded E's are shaking with rage, staring kill-you-now eyes at the Clean Zekes with the guns. The Prophet takes a handful of Young Nurse Rachel's hair and yanks hard, not just pulling her hair, but tearing away a clump of it as he digs his sharp, jagged fingernails into the flesh of her back, tearing into her and doing a little jig of delight as she screams. Then he starts stuffing the clump of her hair into her, whether it's her anus or vagina I can't tell, but she's screaming, screaming, screaming.

I grab both of Mother Henrietta's hands, risking everything, turning to her and pulling my bandages aside to look her directly in the eyes. "His name. Now. I can stop this, and if not I would rather die than stand by and let it happen!"

"Torvald," she whispers, barely audible against the girl's screaming and the Prophet's gibberish, and it comes back to me: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School, in Castro Valley. I let go of her hands as I adjust my bandages to mostly cover my eyes. The last thing I clearly see of the Prophet is that he is using the muzzle of a rifle to shove her hair into her ass with one hand, as he licks and chews on a dirty, greasy wooden dowel in his other hand. He begins to preach.

"Lo and behold, the Whore did know the healing penetration of God's Holy Firearm, and as an arm of fire, her own hair was pushed into her True Womanhole, the Hole of Shite! Thus did her cleansing begin! Thus did the Earth within her foul sex absorb her sin, ready for the Rod of the Prophet!"

I take a breath.

"Inside voices, Torvald!" I shout. Everything in the room freezes, save for Young Nurse Rachel's gasping, panting fear. Hearing that sound alone in the room somehow builds my rage beyond where it had been and I realize I have stuck a blow, even if only a small one, that may be greater than throwing Chauncey onto his head.

I can see the forms of the Clean Zekes glancing between the Bearded Ezekiels, the Prophet, and me.

"Whore -- !" the Prophet begins.

I raise my right hand, pointing it toward the Prophet.

"Inside voices! How many times must I tell you?!"

"Your mouth is better used elsewhere, Whore!" The Prophet turns away, raising his hand to beat Young Nurse Rachel some more.

"Torvald Mayberry! You will listen when your Mother speaks to you!" I hear his gargled gasp and the wet bing-bang thud of the dirty greased dowel as it hits the floor.

"You dare! You ... dare to claim to be my ... Mother?" he's confident at first, but his voice arches up on the last word and becomes a question, almost begging. 

I knew it, I've always known it, my Great-Grandmother told me when I was nine years old, "Todos los hombres son los niños pequeños. Y todos los niños pequeños quieren que sus madres. La cuestión es cómo los quieren, y por qué." 

All men are little boys.

And all little boys want their mothers.

The question is how they want them, and why.

"Mother is very upset with you, Torvald! Mother is deeply disappointed! Look at you, Torvald! When is the last time you bathed?!"

"I ... do not need to listen to a Whore! I am The Prophet!" His right hand is spasmodically grasping at his penis, shaking it and pulling on it, trying to keep it hard, I think. Ah, another hole -- ha, ha -- in his defences.

"Prophet?! What kind of Prophet is so small and shriveled? Look at you! Your followers are better men, with better manflesh between their legs! Go ahead, you disappointing and unholy son, pull on your tiny inadequate wiener! It still won't be attractive. No woman would willingly suck that ugly thing, so of course you use religion as an excuse to force them!" I find myself sitting up slightly as I rage at him.

He surprises me by rushing forward and backhanding me, shouting, "No Mama of mine would ever speak of my dingle-dangle! Mama never, ever spake of it! Mama never spake of anything dirty! Mama only wanted me to be good! I was good! You are not my Mama! You are not my Whore Mama! You are just a Whore!" He's reaching a clawed hand toward my face and I grab it, holding it to my breast, taking his energy as Tad always says, and topping it, matching him as best I can in intensity -- but keeping my volume lower so he has to lean in to hear me:

"You dare to call yourself my son? You dare to question your own Mama? How do you know what I spake of, tiny disappointment? I should have aborted you when I had the chance! I should have flushed you down the toilet and given birth to a better son, with a larger dingle-dangle to make Mama proud! Do you even remember the color of my eyes, Torvald Mayberry? Do you?! Do you know your Mama's eyes when you see them, or have you fallen so far that your ugly dingle-dangle pulls you into sin and cruelty, away from the memory of your Mama's eyes?" I can see him only from the waist down at the moment, and each time I say Mama's eyes, his ugly dick gives a twitch and gets harder. Ooooh, boy. How far am I going to have to take this?

As far as I have to.

"Blue," he is saying. 

Oh, shit.

"Blue is the color of my Mama's eyes. Blue as the sky, blue as arctic ice, blue as ... a flower, Mama?" The Prophet's voice is singsong, almost lilting. He sounds like a little boy, sort of. A little boy filtered through a skinny, stinking, scraggly-bearded lunatic rapist.

A rapist whose mother had blue eyes. 

My eyes are brown.

Nothing to do but twist the twisted:

"Blue! Truly?! Torvald Mayberry, have you so forgotten your loving Mama? Have you fallen so far? I thought you loved me, Torvald! Or were you just being kind? ... Or, am I losing my mind?"

Jesus, I'm quoting Sondheim. Hope he doesn't know his musicals. 

"Mama never lost her mind!" he stomps his little boy foot, and if I could see his face I'm sure his lower lip would be pouting in boo-boo face with his little boy fists I can see bunched at his sides.

Of course he doesn't know any musicals. What was I thinking? He ran a church in Castro Valley, for fuck's sake ...

"My Mama had blue eyes and never lost her mind, Whore!" he yanks his hands away and claws at my bandages, and I grab his hands and am pulled up until I am face to face with him. His breath reeks of rotten meat and rotting teeth, and I nearly gag when I realize he must live off of the raw flesh of the people he eats. And maybe, if he eats their brains ...

Holy shit. Maybe those shakes he has are not from excitement or fear.

I think this crazy fucker has Creutzfeldt-Jakob. Maybe he is so far gone that all I need to do is keep pushing.

"Mama lost her mind with disappointment and heartbreak, Torvald. She did. Because of you. You had such potential, you could have been so great. Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School brought Blessed Jesus into every sinner's heart! Didn't it, honey? Didn't you just fill those sinners with good, pure Jesus?"

"I did, Mama! I did!"

"Mama is so proud of you, little Torvald. Mama is so proud of you for what you did ... then. Right up until ... what was it you did, Torvald? Why did you have to leave?" I'm pressing my bandaged forehead against his disgusting face and all I can think about is getting these bandages off my face because his stink will stick to me like dead body smell from shallow graves.

"I was trying to ... trying to ..." he leans back from me. "No, noooooo, no I don't talk about that ..."

"Look at me, Torvald! Look at your Mama!" I'm pulling on his hands, my arms hurt.

"No! Noooo!" He's pushing away from me. Does eating live human flesh give you super strength? Jesus.

"Look your Mama in the eyes and she might love your dingle-dangle, Torvald! Mama might love your dingle, and your dangle, if you just ... look her ... in the eyes."

"Mama? Mama ... ?" The Prophet is looking at me askance, shrinking away from me, over his left shoulder. I whisper:

"What color are Mama's eyes, Torvald Mayberry, former pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley? If you love me, you know my eyes. If you love your Mama, you remember."

" ... blue ...?" his eyebrows are crinkled up, his mouth working to hold back tears or vomit, who knows with this loon?

"Look at Mama's eyes," I say, and, pulling the bandages up, I stare into his eyes as he turns his head and looks directly at me. I can see that the Clean Zekes are staring at us, their rifles lowered slightly, though I do not dare shift my eyes from the Prophet's for a moment, so I do not know what their expressions are.

For a moment, there is only joy on the Prophet's face.

Then confusion, and he rears back from me in horror.

I grab his beard with both hands and yank as hard as I can, screaming in his face, "You forget your mother's eyes, Torvald! What color are my eyes?!" Holding his beard with my left hand, I reach out with my right, hoping Mother H. will understand, and that the Clean Zekes are so mesmerized that they don't notice.

"Brown ..."

"Mama's eyes are brown, Torvald Mayberry! And your dingle-dangle is tiny and ugly and always was and always will be!" I feel something placed in my right hand, something with a handle. I think I know what it is, and I begin stretching my arm out, getting ready to swing up and into his face.

He vomits all over my arm and chest. The fact that it's probably all human chunks is disgusting, but it's distant -- far more important is the instrument whose handle I grip in my right hand.

A shout from the hallway followed by a gunshot, "You there! Stop in the name of the Prophet!" The spell is broken. The Prophet shoves himself away from me, I try to tuck the instrument in my right hand under the sheets, and Mother H. helps out by adjusting my blanket.

The Clean Zekes raise their rifles, shaking their heads as though coming awake and resuming their aggressive stances as a fourth Zeke runs in, eyes wide and face pale.

"Mighty Prophet, there was a man in the Interloper's room! He was ... he was ..." The fourth Zeke trails off, staring at the scene: Young Nurse Rachel is still bent over, the blood clotting on her horribly swollen face, sand falling from between her legs; she has the closest Bearded Ezekiel's belt unbuckled, all three are staring at the newcomer. Two of the three Clean Zekes already in the room are pointing their guns at the Bearded Ezekiels. The third is pointing his gun at me; I see dirty grease and some blonde hairs stuck to the muzzle: this was the gun the Prophet was using on Young Nurse Rachel. The Prophet is hunched, staring, between the newcomer and me, his eyes locked on what he can see of my face.

"Speak, Ezekiel," the Prophet almost whispers. I think better of praising his use of appropriate inside voice.

The newcomer Clean Zeke clears his throat, takes a breath.

"There were two of them, Mighty Prophet. There were ... two ... Interlopers," he is staring at the wall above me, or staring through it, rigid.

"And did you shoot them both, Ezekiel?" The Prophet is still looking at me, eyes narrowed.

"No, Mighty Prophet. I shot at one, the one who was standing. But he disappeared. He was ... exactly like the first one," his eyes dart from the wall to the Prophet to me and to the Bearded Ezekiels. He is clearly confused. I see Young Nurse Rachel's eyes move to where Nice Rachel has been on the floor this whole time, then to Mother Henrietta. This is significant. But how?

Now the Prophet turns to the newcomer, fast and twitchy. "Tell me everything you saw, Ezekiel, tell it quick," stepping close, the Prophet sniffs deeply at the newcomer's neck. This galvanizes the young man into stiff fear. He takes a deep breath and speaks:

"I was told by Iron Rachel to come in the back way and check for fleeing Rachels for the dairy --"

"What happened when you were in the building?" The Prophet speaks over him, loud and fast.

Dairy? What dairy?

"I was passing the Interloper's room when I saw a figure standing near his bed, Prophet. I looked in and it, it, well it was like he had a twin, Prophet. He was lying there in bed in his hospital gown, and the other man was leaning next to him, reaching out a hand. His right leg was in a cast, same as the Interloper's. Then he stopped, he didn't touch the Interloper. I raised my rifle, shouting, and he disappeared --"

Snarling, the Prophet grabs me by the bandages and hair, hauling me from the bed and into the hall; I am yelling and twisting and I see the Clean Zekes usher my friends out at gunpoint.

What the hell is going on? Did Tad really do this? How did he appear like that? Is this kid hallucinating? He can't be more than seventeen, he doesn't look like he's doing shrooms or acid.

The newcomer continues, "He may have disappeared before I fired, Prophet. I am ... not certain. I don't really know what happened, Holy One."

By now we are in Tad's room. The Prophet yanks me to my feet by my hair, throwing me against the right hand wall.  Tad is laying there with tubes in his nose, breathing deeply. His cuts are healing. Machines are beeping. I forget the pain of my yanked hair and just want to go to him and stroke his brow, maybe scratch his head the way he loves. Tad is like a human puppy that way. If only Max were here, too. I feel like we could escape and get to the mountains if we were only together.

The Prophet has stalked up to Tad's left side and is leaning over him, screaming:

"How?! How do you do these things?! Who sent you?! Who gave you Godspeak?! Wake and tell me now, I kill kill kill you --" Whirling, eyes wild, spittle running down into his beard to mingle with half-digested chunks of someone's arm or hands, he reaches toward a Clean Zeke, grabbing at his gun.

Then his eyes fall on my right hand. He stops. Everyone is looking at my hand, now. I look down.

Fuck.

The scalpel. Disposable, plastic handle. Sharp as hell. I forgot I had it. How did I not cut myself?

Then I see the clumps of my hair stuck to the Prophet's hand: I cut him. Badly. This is very satisfying. I smile a little, looking away. Does he know he's bleeding?

"Where did you get that? Where, Whore?! Did he appear and give it to you? Is he here? Is he in this room? Tell me now!" The Prophet is standing so close to me, his weird little prick is almost brushing against my thigh. I'll bet I could cut it off if he angles a little to his left.

It hits me: he doesn't scare me any more. I made him bleed, not with a rabbit but with a blade in my own hand. This feels good. Maybe a little too good. I don't even care.

"Your name is Torvald Mayberry. You are probably wanted for sex crimes, and you are not a Prophet at all," I say, calm and confident. The Clean Zekes gasp.

I see him winding up to beat me, turning around calmly but I know what he'll do. And it's like the movies, or in a book when they say it seems to be in slow motion: as he comes around, his left hand raised to smack me down, I bring my right hand up in a fist, hoping to nick an artery, bracing my right arm near the wrist with my left hand and smack, schliick/crunch with a little spray of blood, the scalpel has gone straight through his left hand.

He stares at it, stupid and angry.

I say, "Torvald Mayberry, false Prophet, you have no power. You didn't know about the rabbit, you didn't know I had the scalpel. You are a sorry, weak man."

The Prophet screams, "No power?! No power?! See my power, Whore!"

He dashes to Edward's bed, shoving it away from the wall from the back, launching it into the left-hand wall. I am baffled, until the bed crashes through a set of french doors behind a curtain. I hadn't noticed that before. All I see in this room, all that really matters, is Tad. Stupid. I could have used those doors somehow.

Now the Prophet -- Torvald -- is pushing Tad's bed through shrubs and over a little grassy bit of landscaping, dragging the IV and some other equipment with them until tubes come out and the IV tears loose from Tad's arm and I hear a gasping, sucking noise and I'm running after them through the little birch trees outside and the Prophet is bellowing:

"Rachels and Ezekiels, the Reckoning is come to an end! Attend your Prophet and see! See the truth! See the Interloper come to meet his maker! See Satan's relish fall from his mouth like ashes of the burned vagina of the Whore of Babylon! Ebasagu, Ebasagu, ebanah-ebanah-ebanah-flerr-na-na-na-na-The Lord is Mighty!"

Rachels and Ezekiels appear from everywhere. This guy's voice can carry. They come running, but ... there are a lot fewer. In fact, most of the Rachels under Thirty seem to be gone. Even the little girls. I wonder if they all were shot, or fell down earlier. The Rachels and Ezekiels gather in a loose crowd in front of us. Weren't there thousands once? And now there are maybe two hundred. I don't see as many Bearded Ezekiels as I would like. I begin to worry about the younger girls.

Then I see Tad's arm bleeding heavily from where the needle was torn out and I can't look anywhere but there. Why didn't I castrate Torvald when I had the chance?

"I have discovered this Whore hiding among the healers! Spies! Spies and Interlopers in our midst! She -- this Interloper Whore -- she questions my power! She conspired with her DevilMan to create a double, to infiltrate us and steal our American way of life from us like the Unclean Mexican she is! Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," one or two people in the group respond automatically, their voices loud in the absence of support.

A Clean Zeke runs up with a white sheet, slightly stained with blood and other fluids. Torvald sniffs and licks at the other fluids, smiling, then winks broadly at his followers. It's chilling, like he's on stage or something.

"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," this from more of the faithful in the group, now sounding a little quiet.

The Prophet Torvald unfurls the sheet over Tad and it covers him perfectly, the stains on the right down near his legs. As the sheet is settling down, gentle and soft, Torvald turns and raises his hand toward the main house.

I see movement on the roof and there is the sniper: a Clean Zeke with his sights set on Tad. Or on me. All I want to do is get to Tad and stop the bleeding.

"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"

"So saith your Mom!"

What? Tad?! Everyone is looking around to see where he is, to see where his double is hiding. The Prophet stumbles toward the group, peering at them, left hand clutching at the air, right hand fumbling at his junk.

Tad whisks the sheet down from his upper body, blood smearing all over it from the needle tear in his right arm. The faithful gasp as one, several of them cry out. Someone calls, "Tad!"

Oh. That was me.

The sheets are very bulky over his belly, has he gotten fatter?

"Hey there, fucko!" He calls to the Prophet, who whirls, stumbling back, shocked: his back to the bed, he hadn't seen Tad pull the sheet down. "Feeling rapey?" Big grin. I love my crazy man.

"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"

"Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?"

Someone laughs from within the faithful. I laugh, too. The Prophet whirls, signaling the sniper, pointing to Tad.

"Yes," the Prophet says. "Yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!" His arm is still in the air.

"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald. Just good, old-fashioned know-how," glancing at his heavily bleeding arm, he turns to Mother Henrietta and I. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"

"Yes," we both answer at once.

"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet," and, kissing his hand with an Elizabethan flourish, he blows me a kiss and throws the bloody sheet back up over his head so it covers his whole body again. The ladies among the faithful sigh.

The Prophet, enraged, drops his hand.

A bullet slams into the sheet before it's fully settled, and I see Tad's belly convulse as he twists to the side.

God, no, please no.

I've shouted something, some wordless noise and I'm running toward the hospital bed when someone grabs my arm and I whirl around to kill whoever it is, but Mother Henrietta is hugging my arms to my side saying, "Look, look: shhh, look ... !"

Turning to look, I see the sheet has settled and the Prophet is staring at it, aghast.

Something is wrong.

There's the bullet hole, in the bloodstained part. There's Tad ...

Or, no ... wait, is he there? There's bulk, but no blood. Tad isn't moving.

But his belly is. Or seems to be.

The Prophet runs screaming, snarling to the bed and snatches back the sheet --

 -- to reveal Chauncey, sitting on pillows fluffed into a vague man shape, only they're raising like weight has been removed from them. Was it Chauncey I saw move when the shot was fired? It must have been!

"Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!" The Prophet throws himself to the ground, convulsing.

"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!" Mother Henrietta cries.

From every corner Bearded Ezekiels appear or step forward, armed with guns or swords or daggers that all look very old. A battle begins, but it's clear that the Bearded E's are far more skilled than the Clean Zekes. Nurse Rachels, with syringes and scalpels and bone saws, are stepping neatly between combatants, injecting here or slicing there, creating bloodflow to blind or severing an Achilles tendon if they must. I am amazed at how precise they are. I forget about danger until I hear the gunshot and feel something zip past my cheek.

Then someone tackles me and shields me with their body, and they're whispering something and it's, "Thank you, thank you, thank you ..."

I turn to see that it's Young Nurse Rachel, almost unrecognizable for all the swelling and bruising of her face. She's smiling as best she can, tears streaming down her face.

Then I see the Prophet standing behind her, reaching for her hair, the bloodied scalpel pulled from the palm of his left hand, his eyes bright and a big rot-toothed grin lighting up his face. He looks like a moldy jack-o-lantern. I breathe in to warn her and suddenly she's whipping around onto her knees, slicing left, right, left again at his thighs and his --

... puh-thump, tump-tump ...

Wow. I've never seen cock and balls cut off before. Can't say I'll be eating calamari any time soon.

"Oh, ouchy. Ouchy, ouchy, oh my. Oooohhhh, ouchy ouchy that hurts me. It hurts me so, oh please. Please? Will someone please help me?" Torvald has fallen to his knees, clutching at his copiously bleeding junk region. I feel bad for him. Why do I feel so bad for him? I hate this fucker.

All I want to do is kick him in the face. I stand up.

Everything is quiet. The fighting has stopped.

Chauncey sits, perfectly composed, among the pillows of the hospital bed. He begins cleaning his left ear.

"I didn't mean to be bad, ouchy, oh, please help me, I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it, please? It ... hurts to move, oh Mommy please, Mama, Mama please ... I tried to be good, I did. But it was like there was someone inside me, and they wanted to see pain. And I didn't want to. Please? Somebody?"

I look around. People are on the ground, either moaning weakly or out cold. The only ones standing are about two hundred Bearded Ezekiels, maybe fifty Nurse Rachels, Mother Henrietta and myself. Young Nurse Rachel is still crouched with her blade pointed at Torvald Mayberry, false Prophet.

"You know what, Torvald?" I say. "You say you couldn't help it. Someone inside you wanted to inflict pain on the weak and helpless, and I know what you mean. I want, more than anything, to kick your teeth in right now, and to keep kicking until your face is a bloody pulp and you choke on your own blood. But I believe that we have a choice. We all have a choice, you sick fuck. No matter how tortured, angry or mentally unstable we are, there comes a moment when we can choose not to harm another human being. I believe that that is the better choice." I take a breath. "And, you know what? I don't give a fuck."

I spin and plant the heel of my shoe squarely in his teeth, savoring the way his head snaps back and the blood spurts from his broken nose and lips and he hits his head hard on a corner of the bed as he falls, and I'm watching as my shoes keep kicking him, kicking his face, his chest, his flabby belly, his torn bleeding crotch, kicking and kicking and kicking him, someone is screaming, I am, it's me screaming and people are trying to pull me off him but I've grabbed a handful of gravel and I'm shoving it into his mouth, I slap someone pulling my arm, forcing gravel past his broken teeth and his eyes are wide in terror and I realize I'm laughing at him, laughing and sobbing and screaming, "That's right, asshole! Take it! Take it! Take the holy Gravel! God made it, it's good for you! Eat it! EAT IT! EAT IT, YOU EVIL MOTHERFUCKER!"

Holding his mouth shut, I stand and deliver one final, vicious, stomping kick to his jaw, shattering it and all his teeth on the gravel I've stuffed into his mouth.

I am laughing uncontrollably. I turn.

Everyone is staring at me. I realize I've done something bad, but I can't stop laughing. And crying. I feel so light and free, so good, so powerful. And I know I just became a little like him, which for some reason makes me laugh harder. I look around. Where is Iron Rachel? Because now I'm pretty sure I could punch right through her twat and pull her shriveled old uterus out and shove it down her throat.

Man, my feet hurt. So do my hands.

I sit down on my knees, I'm on some grass now. How did I get here? I can't seem to get enough breath. I'm laughing and breathing and I can't get ahold of my lungs, I can't --

Someone steps up next to me, placing their fingers against my forehead and a little metal device that clicks and shocks the nerves in my face.

I can breathe. I take a good deep breath. I start to sob. I am cold, shaking so hard my eyes hurt. I lie down on my right side, I see my hands, how torn and bloody and bruised they are. I hurt so much.

I feel a jab in my left butt cheek, and pretty soon I feel good, kind of floaty.

I'm floaty and breathing. I miss Tad. That makes some tears flow, I can feel them running down my face. I'm not sobbing, but the tears are wetting my shirt. I want Tad and Max, but Chauncey is safe. Chauncey is safe and okay. I saw Young Nurse Rachel cradling him earlier, staring at me, eyes wide, mouth open.

Did I kill the Prophet? ... where did Tad go? ...

I don't know. I'm very ... floaty ... this is nice ... cozy ...

... someone is barking ...

... floaty ...

... barking ...