The God Machine Page 6

  Stop them. Was right. DANGER! Go to Waldoboro. Stop them.

  He had no choice but to listen.

  Absolom Spearz slid limply from the stool in front of a cluttered workstation and slumped to the floor of the farmhouse subbasement. He twitched and shuddered, and his head snapped back.

  Hundreds of snaking, multicolored wires clipped to the skin of his face and arms connected him to a device of his own construction. A strange hum came from the device, which was composed mainly of exposed circuit boards and glowing vacuum tubes. The soldering iron he had been using to attach the last of the wire connections to the machine slipped from the table and struck the back of his hand, searing the delicate skin with its red-hot tip and filling the vast subterranean room with the stench of burning flesh.

  Absolom felt nothing.

  He lay in the dirt, curled into a tight, trembling ball, exhausted by his attempts to communicate with Qemu'el. Since his return to the physical world, he had been desperate to reestablish contact with his almighty, but his importunings remained unanswered.

  Where are you, lord? he thought, trying not to panic. He and his followers had been restored--given another chance to complete their sacred chore--but without their god, they had no purpose. Have we offended you? Did our failure taint your love?

  "Absolom?"

  He opened his eyes to find his congregation standing around him, their eyes glistening expectantly. It was still odd for him to look upon these unfamiliar faces, for his mind held on to the memory of how they had appeared long ago, before their bodies were destroyed by the deeds of the ignorant.

  Geoffrey Wickham was first to speak. In his mind's eye, Absolom pictured a white-haired gentleman, spine twisted from scoliosis, not the attractive features of a middle-aged woman.

  "What did he say?" Geoffrey asked in a soft, female voice that Absolom doubted he would ever grow entirely used to. "What message did he have for us?"

  They all moved closer. The children, Annabel and Tyler, reached down with their small hands to help him up from the floor.

  "Tell us, Absolom, please," Tyler demanded.

  "Is the god well? Has he heard our prayers?" Annabel asked breathlessly.

  "Our god is still silent," Absolom replied gravely. With a burst of anger and frustration, he tore at the wires still connected to his body, pulling away swatches of his skin with the clips.

  The band gasped in unison. They clasped their hands together and bowed their heads, as if their sudden attempts at prayer would somehow reach the absent deity.

  "But why?" Tyler pleaded. He fell to his knees, the others quickly following suit. "Tell us, Absolom, what has happened to our savior?"

  They all raised their new faces to him, pleading, and even though they did not appear as he remembered, Absolom could still gaze deeply into their eyes and see the men and woman who had become his beloved flock. He could see their souls.

  A thought occurred to him. A realization.

  "Perhaps it is a test," Absolom replied, drifting toward his newest creation, the machine that had enabled him to project himself even deeper into the beyond. He reached out and cut off the power to the humming device, the subbasement falling eerily quiet.

  Quiet as a church.

  "It must be a test. We failed in our initial attempt to bring his blessing to the world, and he has not forgotten."

  Silas Udell whined, his ears flattening against his head, tail tucked fearfully between his legs.

  "What can we do?" Wickham asked, his hands nervously drifting over his female form. "Certainly he knows that was beyond our control--that the attack upon us was..."

  Absolom silenced his friend with a look. "Of course he knows," he scolded, rubbing at the angry burn left by the kiss of the soldering iron on the back of his hand. "He is god--but it does not change the fact that we disappointed him. Look at the time that has been wasted--time that could have been used to bring about change, time in which each and every one of god's creatures could have been lifted up to a new level of greatness. But we failed, and our god was forced to wait. The world was forced to wait."

  His disciples hung their heads in shame, and Absolom could feel the pain of knowing that they had displeased their lord and master.

  "But all is not lost, brothers and sisters, for even though he does not speak, he has given us a second chance," Absolom said, a slow, euphoric smile creeping across his face.

  He began to walk around the basement, feeling the desperate eyes of his flock upon him. "Secreted away from the eyes of the infidels, in our deep, dark hole beneath the ground, we shall continue to perform our sacred tasks. Faith, my brothers and sisters, is what we need if we are to achieve our goals. Faith from our hearts, faith from the hearts of others."

  He directed their attention to the corner of the room, where a wooden pallet held the first of their prizes: a large rock that resembled a woman lying tightly curled in the fetal position, a paper drinking cup, one side of the rim chewed as if by rats, and, leaning against the dirt wall of the chamber, a piece of plasterboard, a brown water mark in the shape of a veiled female, head bowed in prayer, staining its center. How to collect the residual power of veneration from these objects had been but the first hurdle Absolom was forced to confront upon his return.

  "These are but the start," he continued. "In time..."

  "But when will it be enough?" Annabel Standish interrupted, wringing her tiny hands. "When will there be enough that he will no longer be angry?"

  Absolom smiled. He was as much in the dark about their god's whereabouts as they, but he would not show it. In order for them to achieve their goal, they had to believe that all would turn out as planned, that it was only a matter of time before they were to be reunited with Qemu'el, and the world changed forever.

  "Soon," he whispered, opening his arms to them.

  "Very, very soon."

  Chapter 4

  T hey had been at the Museum of Native American Culture in Waldoboro, Maine, for just over three hours, and Hellboy was starting to get itchy.

  "I don't know about this," he said to Liz, as he rummaged through a brown paper bag.

  The museum had closed for the winter and wasn't scheduled to open again until Memorial Day, but it still employed a full-time security guard to patrol the grounds and the adjoining gift shop and visitors center. George, a full-blooded Micmac, had been waiting for them when they'd first arrived, and since Hellboy and Liz weren't sure what the night would offer, they had sent him home. The man was so grateful for an evening off that he left them his bag lunch to share.

  "Cut the guy some slack," Liz said from her seat on a folding chair in the middle of the exhibit hall. "What did you want, a five-course meal?"

  Hellboy looked up. "I'm not talking about George's lunch, Liz. I'm talking about this." He waved his hand in the air. "About being here. I think we're wasting our time."

  "Oh," she said, crossing her arms and slouching in her chair. "Well, Manning said he had a source."

  Inside the paper sack, Hellboy found a cheese sandwich, cookies and an apple. His stomach grumbled. Some of that cheese sandwich would hit the spot. He pulled off the plastic wrap and took a bite.

  "Yeah, and what's up with that? Since when does Manning have sources?" he asked through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

  Liz shrugged. "I don't know. He has sources, so what?"

  Hellboy carefully sat down in the chair beside her and handed her the other half of the sandwich. "He seemed kind of off. A little antsy. Especially when he got to the part about the sources. I think he was holding out on us."

  "Why would he do that?" she asked, taking a bite.

  "Haven't got a clue." He glanced into the lunch bag again. "Apple or cookies?"

  "Cookies," she replied, wiping the corners of her mouth before taking another bite.

  Hellboy removed the apple and tossed the bag to Liz. "He just seemed more close-mouthed than usual. More uptight, if that's possible." He polished the apple on the arm of his c
oat. "I don't know, maybe I'm just being paranoid."

  "You?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm despite a mouthful of cookie.

  "Bite me," he growled, getting up to stroll around the main exhibit hall.

  George had taken them on a brief tour of the building before heading out for the night, but Hellboy hadn't looked at the displays all that closely. Since they probably had a few hours to kill, it seemed as good a time as any. The museum was small, but the room was filled to the brim with all kinds of Native American cultural artifacts, representing not only the Micmac, but also the Malaseet and Penobscot tribes.

  Hellboy stopped in front of a particular case, leaning in for a closer look while taking a bite from his apple. "So you think this is what we're supposed to be protecting?" he asked, eyeing a pouch.

  It was quite old, about the size of a woman's handbag, and appeared to be made from tanned animal hide, most likely deer, or maybe elk. There was an interesting zigzag pattern painted on the front of the pouch in red and white, the colors barely faded even after all these years. GLOOSCAP'S MEDICINE BAG read a small plaque just below the glass cube that contained the artifact.

  "It's the only thing here that vaguely matches Manning's description," Liz said, joining him. She was still munching on the sugar cookies from George's lunch.

  They had asked George if he knew anything about medicine bags, and he had brought them to this case almost at once. He told them about Glooscap, a demigod and the subject of many Micmac folktales. Glooscap was the earthly embodiment of the great deity, Kitche Manitou, and had taught the Micmacs how to hunt, fish, and make tools and weapons. He prophesied the coming of the white man and Christianity, but eventually he left the world, leaving behind his powerful medicine bag as proof that he would return to his people in times of war and hardship. According to the security guard, it was the crown jewel of medicine bags.

  "Kind of small, don't ya think?" Hellboy commented, taking another chunk from the apple. "Wallet, a pack of gum, car keys, and that baby's pretty much full. How much medicine could this Glooscap keep in there?"

  "It's magic," Liz replied, her reflection in the glass case dwarfed by her partner's. "Sort of like Felix's bag of tricks."

  Hellboy looked at her confused. "Felix who?"

  "The Cat," she answered. "Felix the Cat? Don't even tell me you don't remember. I know Felix, and you're way older than I am."

  "Oh yeah," he nodded. "Thanks for the reminder."

  "Do you remember the name of his arch nemesis who always tried to steal his bag of tricks?" Liz asked. She went back to her chair, where she'd left her coat, and started digging through the pockets until she found her cigarettes.

  Hellboy threw the core of his apple into a nearby trash barrel. "I can see him in my head, had a crazy white mustache, didn't he?"

  She plucked a cigarette from the box. "He was called the Professor. I don't think we ever got the rest of his name." She started toward the door, far across the exhibition hall. "I need a smoke."

  "Aren't you going to wear your coat?" he called after her. "It's freezing out there."

  "Warm-blooded." She smiled and held up her index finger. An orange flame flickered to life on her fingertip, and she lit the tip of her cigarette.

  Hellboy shook his head and turned away, focusing his attention on a totem pole in the corner, its carved faces alternating between animals and gruesome fright masks.

  He heard Liz open the door. "Be right--"

  She didn't finish her sentence. Hellboy frowned and tore his attention away from the totem pole, wondering what had stopped her.

  Liz stood in the doorway--and she wasn't alone.

  "Hey, who's that?" Hellboy called, starting toward them. Whoever had come in was half in shadow, and he couldn't make out the face. He hoped the security guard had come back and brought them some coffee. "Is it George?"

  But even as he asked, he knew it wasn't George. Something made the hair at the back of his neck stand up. The wind outside was blowing, and gusts of frigid air laced with snow invaded the relative warmth of the museum.

  "Liz?"

  She turned ever so slightly and he could see the look of wide-eyed shock on her reddening face--and the hand locked firmly around her throat.

  "Jeezus!" he bellowed, bolting across the exhibit room.

  The guy in the doorway was dressed in a long coat with a black cap pulled down tightly on his head. When he saw Hellboy barreling toward him, he lifted Liz like she weighed nothing and tossed her right at him.

  Hellboy tried to be gentle, cupping her body against his own to cushion the impact as he caught her and fell backward. He collided with the folding chairs, sending them flying, and crashed to the floor.

  He laid her down gently, touching her neck, searching for a pulse. She gasped for breath, the pale skin of her throat already starting to bruise.

  "Pal, you better hope your health insurance is all paid up," Hellboy snarled as he rose and spun toward the intruder.

  Liz's assailant was no longer alone. There were six of them now, all dressed in the same long coats and hats, standing perfectly still as they watched Hellboy advance.

  "You have friends," Hellboy growled, flexing the stonelike fingers of his right hand. "Good for you."

  As if responding to some cue, four of them slipped off their coats and tugged off their hats, moving in unison. Hellboy froze where he was, staring at them, trying to figure out what the hell he was seeing.

  "What the...?" he managed.

  They'd definitely been human once, three men and a woman. But they were long past their expiration date, the stink of death and rot coming off them in waves. They were each encased in some kind of crude exoskeleton constructed from wood and metal.

  "It was a near-perfect day up till now. But zombie cyborgs..." He sighed. "I'm not sure I deserve this much fun."

  The one that had attacked Liz sprang first. The thing moved crazily, its long-fingered hands, adorned with nasty-looking serrated blades, slashing at Hellboy. He blocked the attack with his right hand and drove a punch into the creature's chest.

  It grunted as his fist connected, stumbling back, belching a foul-smelling gas. Then it bent over and vomited a viscous stream of murky fluid filled with springs, cogs, screws and wire.

  "Now that's just gross," Hellboy sneered, stepping back so as not to be splashed.

  The others came at him. They were stronger than they looked, and disturbingly silent as they grabbed at him. Only muffled whirring, like the mechanics of a windup toy, could be heard coming from somewhere inside each of them. Hellboy swatted one of the creatures aside with his right hand and punched another, his fist sinking into the soft decay of its belly.

  "Yarrrrgggh!" Hellboy recoiled in disgust, yanking his hand back. As he did so, the creature's innards spilled out onto the wooden floor; again, nothing more than springs and wires, gears and cogs. Then something else that momentarily caught his eye, a glowing canister. It dangled from a thick cord attached somewhere inside the hollow man and pulsed with an eerie, rhythmic light.

  "Like clockwork," Hellboy grumbled, pulling his gun from its holster and firing into another attacker's face. It flipped backward onto the floor, arms and legs thrashing wildly.

  "Hellboy!" Liz croaked, voice rasping from the whole nearly getting strangled thing.

  He spun around to see the zombie robot he'd discarded seconds before coming at him, brandishing the totem pole he'd been admiring earlier like a Louisville Slugger. He tried to get out of the way, but his foot slipped in some of the oily spew. The totem pole caught him across the chest, sending him flying through the museum. The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood was all he could hear, as he at last came to rest in the remains of an exhibit of Native American blankets.

  He rose from the wreckage just as the Babe Ruth zombie was heading in for a second turn at bat. Hellboy reached down and grabbed up one of the colorful blankets. "Here, cover up. You'll catch your death," he said, tossing it over the creature's head
.

  The zombie robot stopped short, the totem pole falling heavily from its grasp. It clawed at the blanket with long, skeletal fingers adorned with what looked like steak knives.

  Hellboy pummeled the creature to its knees.

  A clanging alarm filled the museum, and, with a hiss, drenching artificial rain began to fall from the sprinklers in the ceiling. For just a second, Hellboy wondered what had set off the sprinklers, then chided himself for such a stupid thought.

  Liz was back in the fight.

  He glanced over and saw her standing, legs apart and hands out in front of her. Fire blazed from her fists and engulfed the two remaining zombie cyborgs. It was never a good idea to make a firestarter angry.

  Liz had them backed into a corner, the stench of roasting meat replacing the odor of rot in the air. The metal and wooden parts of the framework that encased their bodies had started to burn, the exposed flesh charred to black--but they were still alive, or what passed for life with these things.

  "Liz!" Hellboy shouted, stepping over the crumpled, blanket-covered thing he'd just pummeled into oblivion. "You want to dial it down a bit?"

  She looked over her shoulder, sparks leaping from her eyes.

  Man, she's pissed.

  "What the hell are these things?"

  "Haven't a clue," Hellboy replied. He could feel the heat coming off her as he drew closer. "But keep this up, and you're gonna burn the place down, buy the BPRD a whole political incident."

  She looked at him again. There was still anger in her gaze, but he could see from the softening at the corners of her eyes that she was starting to calm down. He felt the heat in the room diminish immediately as she bent her head, ever so slightly, and drew the power back within herself.

  "Now I'm getting wet," she said, as he stepped up beside her.

  "Join the club," he responded. "How's the throat?"

  She touched her neck. "Sore, but it'll heal."

  He couldn't take his eyes from the twisted things smoldering in a pile against a section of wall burned black by the intensity of Liz Sherman's anger. The creatures writhed, some of their metal parts fused together--connecting them as one grotesque thing that had no reason to still be moving.