Cluster 2.0

He’s finally dead. Here I am, hunched over his body, my entire torso drenched in blood, his skin under my fingernails, and my trusty, half-broken bottle of Rumpel Minze lodged in his neck. I’m sure some authorities will be here shortly, and it’ll be the end for me. But before that, I must tell you the story, which was put into motion 20 years ago when his reign of terror started. This man, Lazarus Amanti, his existence is the reason that I, a priest, can commit murder, and love it. I don’t loathe myself. I will not confess this sin — for we did the work of the Almighty. We five, we took down this demon of a man, each playing our part, until this final act ended. I hear the sirens from the police. This is the end, it seems. But before I go in the slammer forever the crime I’d gladly commit again, these stories of these people must be told:

Linda Carlsberg — the Jew

Swansgrace Nash — the Hippie

Liu Xian — the Commando

Ripperton Savant — the Rich Kid

and of course, my own, Gabriel St. John — the priest.

There isn’t any time like the present, so I guess I’ll start with Linda the Jew. She had plenty of reason to hate and loathe Lazarus. Here’s how her sad tale began.

"So, what do you, uh… have for me." The Man in the Bowler Hat always phrased his questions in nervous, pointed declaratives. As he anxiously threaded his slender fingers around the handle of a chipped coffee mug, Linda was repulsed to notice a diluted mixture of coffee, cocaine, and spittle hanging in droplets from his thin mustache.

Linda looked over her shoulder to verify that she and the scumbucket were still alone in the diner. Then she reached down to the handbag secured tightly between her shoes, producing a manila envelope hand-labeled AMANUTEK INC. Bowler Hat failed to conceal a faint twitter of excitement.

She pulled a stack of papers from the envelope. "Microcontrollers, voltage regulators, sensor arrays, shall I go on?" She didn’t wait for a response. "Seriously dull stuff. I mean, where in the hell do you find these guys? It’s just a bunch of circuit board jockeys with taped-up glasses."

Bowler Hat shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly not amused. "Do you, um, have the schematics."

"What do you think I have in here? The Mishnah?" The engineering drawings she tossed despondently across the restaurant table were blurred copies of copies. "Now where the fuck is my money?"

"Not so fast," said Bowler Hat, as he donned a pair of reading glasses and started paging through the diagrams. "This can’t be everything."

"Look here, buddy... if you think you can do this job better than me, go ahead and try. But I don’t think you’d look as good in a miniskirt, and I am damn sure you don’t have an investment banker for a father. Where would you be if these geeks weren’t working off a loan from Carlsberg Trust?"

Bowler Hat cleared his throat, ignoring the threat. "Do you know the application for this technology."

Before Linda could answer, she heard a piercing crash as the plate glass window behind her shattered. Just after she instinctively dropped to the floor, the second blast came, piercing Bowler Hat’s torso with a dull thud. She heard the frail man wheeze and gasp desperately with what she assumed was a punctured lung.

Linda knew she was lucky to crawl out of the diner through the kitchen with only cuts and scrapes, but she wasn’t sure if her good fortune would hold up long enough to keep her father alive.

The action came from behind dense wood.

Hidden behind the brush, an Asian figure lowered a modified 30-06 and whispered into a microphone. "What about the Jew girl?"

"No, not yet. We haven’t received alternate funding… Her father is still needed…" There was a long pause.

The figure nodded to his the response in the response in his earphones, or lack there of.

Liu Xian, was one of a handful that knew of the true delicacy of the situation. He then crouched lower behind the bush, and started to disassemble his weapon. Turing his head into his shoulder, which purposefully brought the wire mouthpiece closer, he responded, "In that case, mission complete."

There was no answer, just a pause… a nervous exhale… then a dial tone.

A well-dressed executive put down his cell phone, and rubbed his hands over his face. "Barnaby, you stupid fuck… why did you make me do that to you?"

He looked at the clock, "Damn, the investors must be getting anxious now, I’ve kept them waiting long enough…"

He picked up a zip-drive and a stack of printed out PowerPoint’s, and headed to large conference room.

In a brick and wood cottage, several miles from the diner, a young priest read the Bible.

Father John was man of average height with a broad build. His once dark brown beard was beginning to show some age through sections of blended grays. Aside from his physical appearance, was also an distinct past.

He was once a member of the Vatican council. Which was a prestigious honor for any priest but particularly to John who was the youngest clergyman to have ever received it. But that was almost five years ago.

Not soon after he gained a voice on the council, had he started using it. Ironically, it was his scientific beliefs, and attitudes towards the church, and it’s future, that had placed him into Novaseculo: a unofficial exile. He was able to maintain his position, but far off the grid.

Ring! Ring!

The priest lifted the rosary-beads from his neck and draped them over the open page. Tired eye’s scanned the room, searching for the interruption.

Ring! Ring!

The clergyman turned to a pile of manuscripts stacked in the corner of the room. The bearded man stepped over and reached into the pile.

He cleared his throat and put the phone to his ear, "Father John speaking."

"Father John, it’s me."

The priest knew who it was; the only man who’d have a real reason to call him at late hours; Swangrace.

"What’s the matter Swangrace? Are you alright?"

"I’m fuckin freaking out father, it’s ha-happening again."

The priest’s eyes widened, "Try to calm yourself. Where are you?"

"I’m at the ch -chuch."

15 miles away, thought the priest. "I’ll be there in ten minutes."

The priest ran; grabbing only a silver briefcase and his car keys. He tore out of the cottage driveway.revving the small engine of two-door sedan.

As he sped onto the highway, he though about Swangrace and his delicate condition:

To the world, this young man was nothing more than a doped out hippie. In fact, that’s exactly what father John though of him when he wandered into the confessional one Saturday afternoon. Normally Swangrace sounded somewhat like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, but a tad more soft and pathetic. Swangrace’s body was often taken over by Demons. When he was in this demonic state, he saw visions of Hell. The last time Father John exorcised him, his eyes changed color and the demon within him seemed terrified at the thought of going back into hell. So before the exorcism ended, the priest gdecided to get as much information from the fallen angel as possible.

It seemed the devil had lost control of his domain, and was in the middle of a battle for his realm by an opposing force. Not a heavenly force, but several lesser demons united under someone named "TREB…"

The demons always seemed to follow Swansgrace. He had been seeing them since he was a child. His classmates called him names. Children were cruel creatures, and the ones that were his peers proved no less than outright evil. He was the kid with no friends. As Swansgrace grew older, he found a quaint refuge in hallucinogenic substances, because they would take the edge off — sure he’d trip, but at least some of the time, it wouldn’t be visions of hell, death, and destruction.

He made sure to keep at least one tab of LSD on him at all times. So long as this was the case, he was all right with the world.

It was in 11th grade — 10 years ago — when everything changed for Mr. Nash.

He was in his English Lit. class. He was a particularly gifted writer, so the school officials let him take one class with regular folk, and the rest of his day in special ed so he wouldn’t disturb the other students with his….ranting… as they called it. This was hellish enough — he knew he wasn’t stupid, or challenged, or anything like that. Just a mite disturbed with visions of the forces of Beelzebub and other crazy stuff. The third day into his second semester, one of his episodes came upon him — this one, was not a normal one. It shook his whole body as the entire room around him turned sickly green, and the faces of his fellow students all melted, as they spoke profane words and chanted the names of heretics.

Only the substitute teacher stayed the same.

"Mr. Amanti! Mr Amanti! I gotta go to the nurse! It’s happening!"

Mr. Amanti calmly explained, "Swans, Swans, Swans….this is real. the other reality? That is fake. Welcome to Hell. Know that I am the keeper, Sheitan. You may continue to call me Mr. Amanti, however. It rather…suits me"

Mr. Amanti finishes with a laugh which is almost stereotypically evil.

His trip soon subsided, and he was lying on the ground, sweaty and bloody, with Mr. Amanti over him saying,

"Are you okay Swansgrace? The nurse is on her way!"

As Mr. Amanti helped Swansgrace up, he quietly whispered in his ear, "I will never leave you alone. Know this, you will know not peace. This is your fate."

Swansgrace saw the devil that day, though it would be years later that he realized that it was true. He had to kill this man, if he was ever to live a real life. Sure, it may condemn him to hell, but he was willing to make that choice if it meant he could live a real life for a time.

Fast forward ten years. His latest trip had just finished. His resolve, as much as a doped out hippie can resolve, was steel. He would kill Lazarus.

As a hurried priest runs into the room, Swansgrace intones the following,

"Forgive me father, but I will sin"

Thankfully, the presentation had nearly come to an end.

"Gentlemen, I feel confident in saying -- and I hope you will agree -- that no other company can come close to matching the potential of this technology. What you've just seen here is humanity's best chance at curing epilepsy in all its forms."

Suddenly feeling quite uncomfortable on his feet, Harold pawed at the chair behind him and eased back into his place at the conference table. It was still hard to believe Amanutek had settled for a second investor dog and pony show, to buy out the investor he had snagged the first time around.

"I'd be glad to answer any questions you have." The little poindexters, who didn't even look up to acknowledge the invitation, were still paging through the various charts and diagrams. Harold knew they were faking comprehension, because the stuff in that pack was designed expressly to look good and make no sense.

A notebook slapped shut. "I think for now that does it for us, Mr. Savant. Appreciate your time. You'll be hearing from us soon."

As he shook hands with the departing investors, his mind wandered back to Barnaby. Amanutek wasn't what Harold would call a hospitable company, but he could count Barnaby as one of his rare work friends. Once the company's lead scientist, Barnaby's mental state had shown signs of deterioration consistent with the amount of time he was spending in the lab. One day, he just snapped, slipping into a panic attack that left him delusional and helpless.

Although Barnaby left the company some five years ago, he could never give up his obsession with whatever it was he was building down in the lab. Harold asked around, trying to find out what happened, and all he managed to find out was "something backfired." But was that a figure of speech?

Today's events left no doubt that Barnaby's obsession with Amanutek had gone as far as to cost him his life. When he called in the hit to Liu, he knew this death was ultimately an exchange for his own family's safety. As a managing director, Amanutek was making Harold unspeakably wealthy, but he knew that one misstep could have dire consequences. He shook his head slowly. "How did I get myself into this?"

His cell rang in his pocket. He flipped it open eagerly. "Savant."

"Hello, Father." Ripperton was starting to pick up a British accent, hanging out with all those prep school snobs. Yet another gift from Amanutek.

"Ripperton! How are you?"

"Eh, good. Just finished up a little soccer match. Another kid fell ill --"

Harold's phone was beeping. "Ah, son, sorry to hear -- gotta go -- important --"

His new caller had already hung up, but a text message appeared on the screen a moment later. From the investors. "WE'RE IN." Harold, ever the salesman, couldn't help but smile at the success of his pitch.

The rush left him, leaving his brow furrowed. "More importantly, Carlsberg is out." He began to dial.

It was going to be a busy week for Liu.

An employee interrupted Harold’s train of though. “Umm sir.”

“What is it?!” Harold barked, obviously annoyed with the disruption.

“Umm, I was thinking… should we really be…”

"Now you listen to me you putrid little queef, if I shart in your mouth and tell you it’s fudge, I want you to smile and say thank you Mr. Wonka."

“Yes sir. Sorry sir.” The employee muttered as he backed away. Harold was 55, and had worked his way up to vice president, although many say he really didn't deserve it. The truth of the matter was he was fairly incompetent. The only reason he got to this position, was by putting other people down and by kissing the right asses. He relied so heavily on the people around him that if he had to do part of their job, he’d fail miserably. He was the kind of guy who knew how to tell you how to do a job, but wouldn't be able to do it himself. Harold was a failure that the system somehow promoted.

But Harold couldn't think better of himself. In his own eyes he was quite an amazing person. But the truth was that his son Ripperton had all the brains. Linda breathed hard. She was still running in the woods, still convinced she was a target. She saw a church in the distance. In front of the entrance there was a small sedan. She hurried herself into the front door, which was partially open. Linda closed the door behind her.

Upon seeing the two men by the altar, Linda ran and shouted to get their attention. One man was lying on the floor and the other man, who was crouching over him, appeared to be a priest. She thought her heard the priest speaking Latin.
“What the….” The lights started to dim and the candles started to flicker.

What Linda saw next, she couldn't believe. She couldn't tell if it was magic or machination. The man on the floor looked in a daze, babbling in something that couldn't really be described as language, but the priest -- she heard his words, and though she didn't understand them, she knew it was something that was somehow holy -- or maybe not. The crucifix that the priest clutched in his hand was bladed at the end. Finally she recognized as he shouted, REQUIEM IN PACEM, and plunged the crucifix several times into the man on the floor, and then ran the blade over his forehead.

He screamed. So did she. Then it all happened.

She saw visions, and a portal, and a life story. But it wasn't hers. It was of a man tormented by his own visions. It was all she could do to maintain her sanity while all of this was rushing through her brain. While all this was going on, she could simultaneously hear voices in the background of her brain:

"Damn, who is she?"

"I...I don't know. That hurt you know! I won't be able to use my hands for a week! And walking's gonna suck, you know that, Father?"

"The wounds of the stigmata are....necessary for your affliction child. Be glad I did what I did."

"Oh come on Father, you don't really believe in all that, do you? All I really need is some acid, and maybe some sticky..."

"Silence, child! You know the treatment. Your blood...is tainted. Look at what it's done to her..."

Only several minutes had passed, but it seemed days to Linda. It was at this point that she started to come to, and saw the bloodied man on the floor. He was only bleeding from his hands, feet, and what appeared to be a relatively accurate cross on his forehead. He seemed lucid. The priest extended a hand to help her up.

"Welcome back to the land of the living. This is going to take a while to explain. But before I do, we need to get out of here. They're coming," the priest said.

"What? Who's coming?"

The priest looked distant for a second, and almost suddenly, he turns toward the church door, and quickly pulls out what Linda can only describe as a very big pistol and fires two shots while simultaneously shouting "I BELIEVE!"

Two well dressed corpses fall to the ground at the entrance of the church.

"Again, miss, this will take a while to explain. We must leave. Now."