The God Machine Read online

  Spearz nodded with understanding. "All I ask is that you exhibit restraint when in public."

  The sound of giggling caught his attention, and he turned to look at the Thomas children--the young boy hosting the mind and spirit of Tyler Arden, and the little girl, Annabel Standish.

  "Did I say something amusing?" he asked them. He found it interesting that the youngest members of his congregation had found their way into the youngest bodies. Another example of the strange synchronicity affirming that the time of their return was correct.

  The children bowed their heads in reverence.

  "No, sir," Tyler said in a voice yet to feel the change of puberty. "It's just that we know how Brother Wickham feels."

  "To have a body again," Annabel added, holding out her small hands and flexing her fingers. "It's glorious."

  Spearz noticed that the girl's fingernails were painted a bright shade of red. A harlot's shade. Yes, these modern times filled him with wonder, but they also made his blood boil. No matter, if all went according to plan, it would not be long now before everything was finally set right.

  He returned his attention to the truck that had come to a lurching stop before them. The incessant beeping ceased and the property around the farmhouse returned to blessed silence.

  The dog that had been lying silently on the porch, face between its paws, climbed to its feet, tail wagging furiously as it growled and whined.

  Spearz reached out to stroke its head. Not all of his flock had fared well. Poor Silas Udell had had nowhere else to go but into the vessel of the family pet.

  The dog's dark eyes gazed into his imploringly.

  "Patience, Silas," Absolom said, feeling a familiar tingle in his fingertips--the urge to design, to create, to build. He would help his friend as soon as he was able.

  "I wonder how they will explain their sinful lives when they come face-to-face with God?" Annabel mused, young eyes on the delivery truck.

  "That's not for us to worry about," Spearz said, as he stepped from the porch to greet the man climbing down from the vehicle, clipboard in hand. "Ours is to pave the way for his righteous arrival. What happens after that is none of our concern."

  "Road's a bitch," the deliveryman said, vulgarity spewing from his mouth with ease.

  Spearz wanted to slap the man's face, but restrained himself. "Yes," he agreed instead. "We've been meaning to do something about that."

  The man grunted and plucked a pen from behind one of his protruding ears. "You Stanley Thomas?"

  "Yes, yes, I am," Spearz replied. It had been mere weeks in this new body, but he felt as though it had always been his own. It had only taken him hours to sift through his host's thoughts, learning all he needed to know about these modern times.

  "Got a delivery for you." The man handed Spearz the clipboard and pen. "Sign at the bottom."

  A second man had climbed down from the passenger side of the truck and was opening the rear door, exposing the numerous boxes and pallets.

  A cascade of images flooded Spearz's mind--the innumerable inventions that he and his followers would construct. He saw every nail, every piece of metal, every nut, bolt and screw required to build these fabulous machines.

  "You all right?" the driver asked, startling him from his reverie.

  "Yes, of course," Spearz replied, his mind aflame. "I'm fine." He reviewed the receipt on the clipboard before affixing his signature. Everything seemed to be in order. Now they could begin their work in earnest.

  The man passed a cursory glance over the signature, then tore the yellow copy away from the clipboard and handed it back to Spearz. "Here ya go, Mr. Thomas."

  Spearz smiled politely as he accepted the receipt.

  The driver brought the clipboard back to the truck, then returned, pulling on a pair of work gloves he'd taken from his back pocket. "Where would you like us to put this stuff?"

  "Right here is fine," Spearz answered, pointing to the ground at his feet. "My family and I will see to them after that."

  The deliveryman glanced doubtfully at his followers, who still stood upon the porch in the bodies whose owners they had usurped. The man shrugged. Absolom knew there was no way he could even begin to suspect what had recently occurred on this property--but it didn't hurt to be cautious. There was so much at stake; the fate of the world, and the glory that was due it, was now in their hands.

  The two men lugged multiple boxes from the truck and stacked them outside. Spearz watched, his mind filled to bursting with the work that awaited them; hard, grueling work, but all for the most magnificent prize.

  "All this stuff," the driver asked, grunting with exertion as he hauled the last box from the truck. "You building a rocket ship or something?"

  "Oh no." Spearz said as he closed his eyes. "It's more than that." He smiled broadly, imagining the future.

  "Something that will change the world."

  Tom Manning came awake with a gasp, his cheek resting on the rough weave of the small area rug around his desk. Immediately his thoughts went to those fears that men, as they grow older, often have.

  Am I all right? Did I have a stroke? He was afraid to move, fearing that he'd be unable to, but gradually he came to realize that he was, indeed, fine.

  But am I really?

  He struggled to all fours, looking around his office, wondering how he'd come to be on the floor. He saw the time and felt a twinge of panic. He was late for work.

  Using the corner of the desk, he climbed carefully to his feet. His body was shaking. Again he looked about the room, and everything appeared to be in order. Then he saw the notebook.

  The Director of Field Operations for the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, still wearing his bathrobe and pajamas, sat down heavily in his leather desk chair, staring at an open notebook on the desk before him, and felt long-established defenses beginning to crumble.

  He read the words on the open page, and suddenly felt dirty. Defiled. His heart fluttered uneasily as he gazed at his hands--hands stained black. He picked up a Magic Marker that lay beside the notebook. The tip of the thick pen had been pressed nearly flat. He dropped it into the trash barrel beside his chair.

  Something had happened to him, something worse than a heart attack or a stroke.

  He'd always suspected that the world was a much stranger place than it seemed, even before he went to work for the BPRD, while he was still with the FBI. He remembered his first encounter with the Bureau, and its best field agent, Hellboy. It was a serial killer case out of Columbus, Ohio, and the primary suspect had proved to be something far less than human.

  That was when everything had changed for him. Manning remembered how it had felt, the fearful realization, and found himself again reading the words scrawled in the notebook.

  Working with Hellboy had confirmed his worst suspicions, testing the bonds of reality, driving home the fact that there really were things that went bump in the night, monsters under the bed, things that would eat you alive if given the chance. And with that knowledge confirmed, he had no choice but to adjust how he dealt with the world. It was either that or go completely insane.

  Tom had established a kind of bizarre-free zone around his personal life. It was his way of not letting the job consume him. He would handle the strange and horrible things he saw with the FBI, and then with the BPRD, with full efficiency and professionalism. But when it came time to call it a day, he would raise the barrier and the weirdness of the world would be locked out until it was time to go back again.

  This worked quite well for him--or at least it had.

  Manning pulled his eyes from the notebook and looked around his office disdainfully, as if it had somehow betrayed him. He was supposed to be safe here. It was meant to be a place where he could trick himself into thinking that the paranormal was nothing more than rich fodder for popular entertainment. Here was where he could be blissfully ignorant. But not anymore.

  It had broken through his defenses.

  He allowed hi
s gaze to fall back to the open book, where a message had been left in a handwriting not his own.

  Manning had gone to bed shortly after Leno's monologue, checking the alarm clock settings, as he did every night before shutting off the light and falling asleep almost immediately. He'd never had any difficulty sleeping, thanks to his free zone. But now he had to wonder if sleep would ever come so easily again.

  He had no recollection of leaving his bed, and certainly none of coming downstairs to the office, removing the notebook from the desk drawer and writing this strange message.

  Not much time. King's cup...stone Queen...Virgin wall. All stolen. Medicine bag next. Stop them. Was right. DANGER! Go to Waldoboro. Stop them. Don't take any wooden nickels.

  Manning felt an icy finger of dread run down the length of his spine. There was something disturbingly familiar about the tone of the message, something that began to dredge up painful memories long buried by the passage of time.

  The image of a sad old man restrained upon a hospital bed flashed before his mind's eye, and Tom gasped aloud, slamming closed the cover of the notebook.

  Ghosts of the past, never laid to rest.

  Franklin Massie held on to the sides of the embalming table, the painful arthritic throb of his old joints making him momentarily unsure he could continue with the task before him. He paused, gazing down at the elderly corpse laid out before him, and decided that he must.

  Not much older than me, he thought, reaching down with hands sheathed in rubber gloves to pluck an unsightly hair from the corpse's nose. Franklin studied the man's features. It was obvious that his passing hadn't been pleasant, for there was a certain strained expression on his face. He took note of the ruptured capillaries in the nose, the distended belly and the yellowed skin. Alcohol abuse had claimed another one.

  This was nothing new to the funeral director, especially when dealing with the more troubled populace of the old city. He had an agreement with City Hall to handle the arrangements for those who passed from life with no one to mourn them, nor funds to pay for the cost of burial. The City paid him a flat rate for his services, barely enough to cover expenses, but he didn't mind. It made him feel good that these poor souls were at last being shown some proper respect. He treated them as he treated all of his clients. To Franklin Massie, death was the ultimate equalizer.

  Franklin imagined himself lying naked upon the cold metal table, a stranger's hands preparing him for his own final slumber. It won't be long now, he thought. The ache of his joints was growing steadily worse, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to handle his equipment. It had been the same with his father, Walter. When Father could no longer get up in the morning to open the doors of the Massie Funeral Parlor, he had simply surrendered his spirit. Franklin wondered if he would be as smart, or would he be found dead in the embalming room one day, an extra body on the floor, in addition to the one on the table.

  He turned from the corpse, forcing the unpleasant thoughts out of his mind, and flicked the switch to start the embalming machine. He picked up the long, sharply pointed trocar and turned back to the deceased.

  "I know this looks bad, but I guarantee, you won't feel a thing," the mortician said, preparing to plunge the pointed tip of the shaft into the corpse's belly.

  A green light began to flash above the room's entryway--someone was at the door upstairs.

  "Wonderful." Franklin set the trocar down and switched off the machine. "Sorry about this," he said to the corpse. "But it looks like we'll have to finish up later."

  The pain in his hip was sharp, and it made him wince as he turned, removing the rubber gloves and throwing them in a nearby trash receptacle. He hobbled to the sink, washed his hands dutifully with a powerful, antibacterial soap, then dried them well with paper towels.

  The light above the door continued to flash.

  Franklin lurched toward his cane propped against the wall near the door, then shuffled out of the room and over to the basement stairs. This was actually the hardest part of his job these days, he reflected, using both the wooden handrail and the cane to ascend slowly, step by painful step. He could hear the bell now, and prayed that, after all his effort, the person at the door wouldn't get fed up and go away. Not for the first time, he wished business was better and he could hire someone to help him, but he was barely keeping up with expenses as it was.

  "Coming!" he called out in his loudest voice, just to be on the safe side.

  Franklin reached the top of the stairs and exhaled loudly. It seemed to take a little more out of him every day. He glanced into the mirror on the wall of the foyer and ran his fingers through his head of thinning gray hair as the doorbell rang yet again.

  He turned the crystal knob on the heavy oak door. Pulling it open, he found a tall, thin man standing on the stoop.

  "Sorry about the wait," Franklin said as he opened the storm door and stepped back for the man to enter. "I was working downstairs." He held up his cane. "Not as quick as I used to be."

  Franklin shut the door and turned back to the stranger. There was something vaguely familiar about him. "Have we met before?"

  The man nodded. "But it was a long time ago--I barely look the same." He extended his hand. "You're Franklin Massie."

  Franklin took the man's hand in his own, and they shook. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir."

  "I am Absolom Spearz, Franklin," the man replied, a strange twinkle in his eyes. "Do you remember me?"

  The funeral director rolled the name around in his mind for a few seconds. "The name's familiar, but I can't..."

  "Your father and I were close for a time."

  Franklin chuckled. "My father passed away a long time ago, I doubt you were even born then."

  The stranger smiled again, and Franklin felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  "Do you remember the Band of Electricizers?" he asked.

  Franklin blinked, the name dragging long-forgotten memories to the forefront of his mind. He had been young--no more than five or six. There had been a man who used to visit his father, a preacher of some kind. Absolom Spearz and his so-called congregation had been called the Electricizers. Yes, he remembered. He had thought it was a funny name, even when he was five.

  "I do remember them," the old man said, shaking his head, a bit bemused. "But that was seventy years ago."

  Absolom clasped his hands in front of him, tilting his head strangely to one side. "My how the years have flown," he said. "It seems like only yesterday that I watched you sitting on the floor of this very hallway playing with your tin soldiers."

  Franklin smiled uneasily. "You remember me playing in the hall, do you? There must be some really good genes in your family."

  The man calling himself Absolom Spearz looked around the foyer of the funeral home. "It really hasn't changed much," he said casually. "Your father would be pleased. The business was very important to him."

  "What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Spearz?" Franklin asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He leaned heavily on his cane. His hips had begun to throb even more painfully than before, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down.

  "The last time I was here I made a proposition to your father," Absolom said, checking his reflection in the hall mirror before turning his gaze back to Franklin. "It was refused, quite vehemently I might add."

  Franklin's stomach roiled, and the agony in his hips pulsed with the beat of his heart. He remembered his father's voice now, screaming in anger, yelling at Spearz to get out and never return. He'd asked his father about it later that evening, but his inquiries were met with a beating and bed without supper. Spearz was never mentioned again, nor thought of--until now.

  "Look, Mr. Spearz...or whoever you are, I have a pretty busy day ahead of me. I'd appreciate it if you would get to the point of this visit."

  The man smiled. "The apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it, Franklin? Will you evict me from this place as your father did?"

  The mortici
an blinked.

  "Yes, Franklin, the vessel in which my spirit resided then was different, but I am the same Absolom Spearz." He took a step toward the funeral director, and Franklin tried to back away, but his hips balked sharply, and he fell backward to the floor. "And now I come to you, adorned in new, healthy trappings of flesh, blood, muscle and bone."

  "You're crazy!" Franklin rasped, shaking his cane to keep Spearz away. "Get out, get out of here right now!"

  Spearz stepped back, allowing Franklin to struggle to his knees.

  "Look at you, you're dying by inches," he said quietly. "I can help, you know. I can free you from the rheumatism-wracked carcass you are burdened with."

  Franklin forced himself to his feet, the bones in his hips grinding painfully. The man approached, but he held his ground.

  "You are an old man in body, but your spirit is young, Franklin Massie," Spearz continued. "I can imagine how that feels, to be the prisoner of your infirmity."

  And suddenly Franklin could not help but agree. How he resented his body, with all its aches and pains. "My...my spirit is young," he murmured.

  Spearz nodded. "Of course it is, and that spirit deserves so much more than to pass from life when that withered husk you're wearing finally breaks down."

  The man's words were mesmerizing, seductive, and so powerful in their truth. Who is he, really? The mortician's mind raced with an insane notion. Can he actually be who he claims to be?

  "I...I want you to leave," he said halfheartedly.

  Spearz nodded, heading for the door. Gripping the crystal knob, he turned. "Does your spirit not deserve more, Franklin?" he asked. "If you truly believe it doesn't, I will leave at once, and you'll never hear of me again."

  Franklin wanted to send the madman away, but a tiny, pathetic voice at the back of his mind whispered, I don't want to die. "It does," he said, feeling his eyes well with tears. "It does, it does...but there's nothing..."