SUMMATION (17 page)

           "I'm very sorry for your loss." He
paused, then continued. "Really? He was actually there? He told you that?"

           "He swears, uh, swore it actually happened.
Most people didn't believe him, though. There weren't a lot of people here back
then, and of those, very few are still here or able to talk about it.

           "Actually, he was kind of obsessed by it. He
kind of went off the deep end on that kind of thing - he used to look up
newspapers and read about all that supernatural stuff. He thought it was due to
some kind of demon or something. Supernatural, anyway. He didn't bring it up
much to others, not after all the hassles he got, but-".

           Her eyes began to tear up. She quickly turned
her head away, wiped her eyes, and looked him in the eye. "Sorry, we were
pretty close, and this just happened. There have been so many deaths, it will
take another day or so for the coroner to release him to the funeral home."
She looked away again. "Pretty bazaar that this same kind of thing ended
up killing him. Almost like the storm didn't like him keeping record, or
tattling on it.

           "A lot of people thought he was kind of
crazy, but
B
anyway, I thought it was interesting. Sorry to keep you. Drive
safely!"

           He stared at her a moment longer.

           "Miss, or Officer---?"

           "Whatever..."

           "Miss, I know it sounds kind of weird, but
I'd be very interested in what your grandfather had on the subject. I'm a, uh,
I'm a kind of a collector of that type of thing."

           "Seriously? From the Vatican, interested in
supernatural storms?" She looked at him, assuming he might just be being
polite, but he seemed genuinely interested.

           "If you want, I think I can still get it. He
kept all that stuff in a box in his den. His house is just a couple blocks
over.  It was pretty badly damaged by the tree falling on it - that's what
killed him - but I think I know where it is. I'm sure he wouldn't mind - I
think he'd be happy someone was actually interested."

           "What about you? Were you interested?"

           "Me? I'm not sure what to think. I found
some of it kind of fascinating, and I believed my grandfather, but well, it got
kind of far-fetched at times." She looked a little embarrassed. "Sure
you want to see it?"

           The man nodded,

           "Wanna follow me?"

           "Absolutely." He climbed back into his
car and waited for her to pull around him. He followed her around the corner. As
she said, it only about two blocks, and as she had said, a huge tree lay across
the porch and corner of the house. Branches had been cut away near the porch,
probably to free her grandfather's body, he supposed. Police tape surrounding
the front of the house.

           They pulled to the back of the driveway, past
the tree, almost to the rear of the house. They walked to the back, and in the
unlocked door. She saw the surprised look on his face. "It's still a small
town."

           He noticed the tiny, neat kitchen as he walked
through. The only thing out of place were some leaves that had blown in from
the front and made their way back. Going through the kitchen entrance, the
gaping hole in the living room ceiling near the front entrance was clearly
visible. More branches and leaves were spread throughout the room. It was
obvious water had come in. The carpet in the front half of the room was much
darker, as was half the sofa. Like their owner, numerous knick-knacks lay
broken on the floor where they had been tossed as the tree made its unwelcome
entrance.

           "In here, Mr. Biazzi."

           The tiny den was originally intended to be
second bedroom, although it would have functioned far better as a closet. The
desk, although not large, was placed perpendicular to the far wall, and reached
most of the way across the room. He had little room to step around and behind
it. She was struggling with a covered plastic bin up on the shelf. Heavy and
awkward, she struggled. He reached over her and grabbed it. Together, they
carefully set it on the desk. She then grabbed a second, smaller container and
set it beside the first.

           "That's it."

           "Tim."

           She looked up. "Excuse me?"

           "It's Tim. Mr. Biazzi was my father."

           "Okay, Tim. Jenna."

           "Jenna it is. You're right. He had quite a,
this is quite a collection."

           He looked at the bins she had set on the desk,
then opened the first, larger one. Inside he saw page after page of notes,
newspaper clippings, maps, and more. She was right, this guy was obsessed.

           "Would you like to go through them? I have
to get back, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I think I can
trust you here alone, can't I? I'd tell you to close up before you leave, but,
as you see...

           "If you don't mind, I'd love to look
through these. This is truly fascinating. May I?"

           "Knock yourself out. Stay as long as you
like. If I see your car here later, I'll stop in. Just close up the lids when
you're done - rain coming in and all. It's gonna be a day or two before we can
get a tarp over it. Not sure if we should even bother, except for this stuff we
haven't moved out."

           "Of course, of course. I'll be sure it's
all kept dry and secure, and thank you again. This looks fascinating."
As
does she
. He sat down in the old leather chair. Looking inside, he never
even heard her leave, his concentration immediately focused.

* * *

            And he began to read.

           Yes, there
had
been defections. Since the
beginning. Since even
before
the beginning. They knew about the group,
the
Protectors
. They knew of the
Chosen One
, and of the
Coming
.
They were spoken of in their
own
writings, though they used their own
naming convention to literally demonize the order. They used terms like
Antichrist
,
or The Beast to describe the coming leaders. In fact, not only were they known,
but expected; not only expected, but anticipated, for the end could not occur
before this, and they looked forward to the end as much as the Protectors,
perhaps even more. The difference was, in fact, the only
real
difference
was, who would be in charge? Who would have the power? Who would rule?

           Of course, there were more differences than
that.

           As it had been written by another, "The
greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing man that he didn't exist."

           Following this line of thought, numerous trusted
members of the order, far enough from the center organization to not risk
association, began to ridicule the idea of a Chosen One in public. The idea
that there could even be a Chosen One, or an Antichrist was made out to be
ridiculous, old fashioned, simply a straw man for the Others, the Church, to
focus dissent. In fact, they went on, the whole idea of a Chosen One, The
Beast, or whatever name they chose was instituted by the Others themselves to
create a demon, someone to target, someone to make
themselves
be the
good guys, the ones to protect the common man. Using these techniques, the
order strove to make the Others, the Church, look like superstitious, religious
extremists, trying to scare the world with their talk about the Antichrist, or
the Devil.

           And in great part, they were successful. They
had formed a huge organization. Publicly. Serving the good of the public.
Looked upon by almost all as the source of salvation for mankind. The Order was
non-denominational, non-sectarian, unattached to any specific country or
ideology. It had carefully been designed to offend no one, yet be part of no
one. To provide technical and financial support throughout the world to other
organizations, guided, of course, by themselves. Oh yes, the campaign had been
successful.

           There had been no direct attacks on the Order by
the Others, by the Church, in years,
many
years. The Others, the Church,
knew that any direct attack on the Order, any attack targeted to preventing the
future rise of an Antichrist would be met with ridicule, and so conceded the
public battle.

           Behind the scenes, however, the battle went on,
a few soldiers at a time. In fact, to most on both sides, there wasn't even a
battle going on. They, the Others, the Church, as they called themselves,
stayed public; the Protectors, private. As long as no bodies were left in the
streets, figuratively speaking, the public saw no battle, and no war.

           So very little was documented. And what
was
documented was almost always by mistake. Normally, little mistakes simply went
away. With their connections in the media, significant stories simply didn't
appear, unless they were so blatant as to be obvious by their absence. And even
then, records were soon quietly purged. Once again, the Order, the Protectors,
those waiting for the Chosen One, simply didn't exist.

           Both sides developed a frustration of purpose. The
Protectors, like army ants, knew that they were there to help and protect the
Chosen One, but had no idea who or how. This made it difficult to keep the
lineage focused, and their supporters engaged. Fortunately, their secular
pursuits occupied them day to day, and due to their discipline, focus, and
broad contacts, at least of those at the top, they became very successful,
providing enough money to maintain support, even if their followers stayed more
for financial than philosophic reasons.

           On the other side, purposes and goals had
shifted towards public relations and social issues. Talk of 'the other side'
and the coming 'Protector', and even talk of the Antichrist himself faded from
comment, and the few who spoke of it, and few churches that supported it tended
to be marginalized to prevent the embarrassment they caused the rank and file
members. People were embarrassed by the medieval concepts of a Devil, or an
Antichrist. Neither was normally mentioned from the podium any more. The Others,
the Church, had managed to silence themselves.

           And so the battle stalled. Stalemate. Virtual
non-existence, in both public and private, for both sides.

* * *

           Except for a very few. On both sides.

           "M
ushrooms
on your bagels. Mushrooms on your bagels," he sang as a little ditty, kind
of dancing from one foot to the other.  He seemed happy. Or so it seemed to the
man at the breakfast bar. Looking around, the place seemed different. He
remembered having been here before, but something was different. Something had
changed.

           Oh, there were more people. Was that it? Was
that all? Looking slowly around, something struck him as he looked at the girl
sitting at the booth behind him. She looked familiar. Next booth over, an old
man also looked at him. Should I know these people? Two booths over a family
with two young children sat, and next to them, a blind man sat alone, with his
service dog. (That dog looks familiar...) All were looking directly at him. Looking
the other direction, a Hispanic family sat, all eyes on him. Down the bar from
him sat a black man and woman, obviously not from around here, with brightly
colored outfits that belied the sad eyes directed toward him.

           The eyes!  Looking around, sad eyes. No one
talking, no one laughing - nothing but sad eyes, all focused on him. What had
he done?

           "Mushrooms on your bagels, mushrooms on
your tacos, mushrooms on your burgers, mushrooms on your rice", he
continued, almost gleefully, now.

           Who were these people? Next to the black couple,
two seats over, was a young Asian man, sitting alone. Looked like the United
Nations in here.

           "Mushrooms, mushrooms, see them in the
air....Mushrooms, mushrooms, see them everywhere."

           The hooded (hooded - something seems familiar)
cook began to fill plates from the grill. Everything was burned, not just a
little, but charcoal black. Crumbling on the plate. With an awful odor
emanating from, was it him? Was it the food?

           He served the black couple at the end of the bar
first. "Mushrooms, mushrooms, see them in the air...."

           The couple screamed, turned to a black powder,
and dropped to the floor. A small conical pile of ash. Looking around, no one
but he had noticed - all eyes stayed on him - no one looked at the black,
crumbled powder on the floor.

           "....mushrooms, mushrooms, see them
everywhere."

           The cook walked past carrying the plate of
blackened....blackened....whatever it was supposed to be, and stopped at the
table with the blind man. This man screamed as well, and turned to dust. The
dog didn't, not right away, anyway. It just continued looking at him. Then, he
also turned to dust, but in slow motion, from the ground up, until nothing but
his sad eyes were left. Then these, too, turned to dust.

           He awoke.