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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Piratecat" data-source="post: 3352848" data-attributes="member: 2">Round 2, Match 2: Piratecat vs. BerandorThy Kingdom ComeBy Kevin Kulp (Piratecat)Dateline: June 5EBRO, FLORIDAI can smell the cordite. This little corner of the Panhandle goes quiet as the assault rifle fires, surely scaring off any wildlife that might otherwise have expressed an interest in us. Spent cartridges drop into the rich Florida mud at Parker’s feet. I wonder how many cartridges are down there. Thousands, I decide; this hill has the bumpy texture of a teenager’s forehead. The sound of the rifle echoes around us, hammering the rancid summer air. Birds take flight as if in a bad John Woo movie.From where we stand on the hummock, the target is a pink lump two hundred yards distant. You can’t see the stake it’s tied to. If it squirmed, you wouldn’t be able to tell. It’s too far away.The fat man next to me bites his lip as he squints and aims. Ripples of flesh jiggle from the recoil. I imagine what it’s like for the bullets to hit, flatten, tear, ricochet, smash. He stops firing and spits out a thin brown stream into the dirt.  “Still alive,” he says with a slight grin, and slots another clip. “You want a go?”I decline, and he brings the rifle back up to his shoulder. “You can never be sure how hard they’ll be to kill. That’s why I practice. I’ve had everything from simple to nightmarish. The worst one was in a souk in Morocco. She was close to the time, I think, so the killing shot only hurt her. I had to chase her. It got ugly.”I inquire about gender. “They’re not all male. Most are, I think, but God doesn’t particularly care about gender.” He smiles again, a private joke. “Don’t tell the churches. They’ll be scandalized.”I’m here in this tropical swamp to profile a man named Parker. He kills children, and he claims he does it to save the world.- - -<a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27855" target="_blank">Ten minutes later</a>, I extend a finger to tap the target’s head.  Small chunks of pink plastic fall into the mud. He hadn’t said, and I hadn’t been sure. From where I stand next to the green and white stake, I can see the lonely remains of other shattered mannequins dropped into the bushes behind me. I count, and there are at least sixteen.  All are the size of children.I feel exposed as I walk back to Parker. He nods at me. “Got a brother who owns the factory,” he says, and slots a third clip with an audible ka-CHAK. “Even when things are slow, you have to keep your hand in.”“Does it bother you shooting at something the size of a child?” I ask. He looks at me.“They’re the right size. Every time I squeeze the trigger, I remind myself what’s at stake. The only difference here is that the target isn’t living.”June 6TALAHASSEE, FLORIDA“The Rapture would come if we’d just let it,” says Parker. “My job is to make sure that it doesn’t. I accomplish that by any means I can.”  We are buying coffee in an urban Starbucks. Even with the air conditioning he sweats from the heat. There is another Starbucks two blocks down the avenue, but he has chosen this one for a reason. Parker points out the window and across the street.“Do you see it?”I study the storefront with the picture in the window. “Books-A-Million!” the sign trumpets. “<a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27853" target="_blank">30% off!</a>”  A bright yellow sign leers at me, sun-faded, boasting an adorable child in a lop-eared bunny suit. Easter-themed, which strikes me as particularly ironic. People stroll past with no idea of what they’re seeing. I study the image of the child, and for a second I think I can sense the sanctity.Still, it’s an inauspicious introduction to the new messiah.Parker shades his eyes. “For a while, pictures of that one were everywhere. It was closer to the surface than it is with most of them, and his parents saw it too. They just didn’t understand it. He went easily.”I keep my expression steady. “No one noticed?” I ask.“Not particularly. His whole family disappeared. Moved, supposedly. Their neighbors never learned why. Someone filed a missing persons report, and the FBI got involved, but I was long gone by then.”“You killed them?” I ask, knowing the answer. He knows that he’s being recorded.“Of course I did.”  He studies my face, squinting as if into sunlight. “It goes with the job.”Something occurs to me. “JonBenét Ramsey?”He harrumphs, and his jowls wobble. “Sloppy. Not me.”I ask then who. “There are very few of us, and we don’t know one another. Each person has a protégé or two. We make bad jokes about Star Wars and Sith Lords. But we aren’t evil. I’m certainly not. I’m more like the Little Dutch Boy.”I raise my eyebrows. “Hans Brinker? The one with the dike?”Parker nods once. “You know the story. He kept back the flood by sticking his finger in the dike and stopping up the leak until help could come. It led to a lot of schoolyard jokes. It also led to the timeless image.” His head tilts up and his voice gets deeper. “One man standing between innocents and horrible disaster, holding it back with inadequate tools, the only way he knows how.”“Is that how you see yourself?”He rips a yellow packet in half and dumps it into his coffee. He doesn’t look at me. “The pressure keeps increasing. These things keep getting born, faster and faster. They’re all over, each one ready to step in when the other one dies, none of them knowing the truth. You know that Buffy show on TV? It stole the idea, only in reverse. Joss got in some trouble for that.” I ask him to explain.“In that show there’s only one slayer at a time, right? She dies, another one gets created. The Messiah is the same. One of them dies, and the holy spirit moves on to the next one. Heaven keeps trying. They’ve been trying for nine years.” He grins like a feral dog, showing his teeth. “We’re overdue for Armageddon. Me? I keep the world alive.”We walk outside, and the wet heat hits us like a club. I try to believe him. What I believe is that I just had coffee with a serial killer.“How many of these Messiahs have you killed?”He looks at me, pulling on his sunglasses. I can’t see his eyes. “You want to meet one?”June 8OGDEN, UTAHWe stroll past the Dino Day Camp, up by the brachiosaurus exhibit and onto the bridge that leads to the lab and museum. Parker doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. Ogden’s Dinosaur Park is busy today. A kid in front of us slaps at mosquitoes, and a small child screams bloody murder when his father holds him up to the fiberglass pterodactyl.I’m not sure what to look for. Someone walking on water, maybe. Or turning soda pop to wine.I ask Parker why he’s being so open with me. After pondering it for a time, he answers slowly. “There’s no danger in telling you the truth. You can’t publish.”I stare at him. “Of course I can. That’s why I’m here.”“No it isn’t, but I’ll tell you about that later. You’ll never be allowed to publish this story. A number of very influential people have a very large vested interest in seeing that I don’t get caught.”  He laughs, but there isn’t much humor in it. He puts his hands in his pockets.“How so?”“Think about it. What happens if I fail and a messiah returns to us? I’m sure you read Wikipedia or went to church or something before you got assigned to this story. So what happens?” “It depends on what religion you are.”  I pause. “What religion are you?”“Later,” he says. “It doesn’t particularly matter whether I’m Muslim, or Christian, or Jewish. It certainly hasn’t mattered to God.  Pick a religion, and describe what happens.” He wipes his brow.I describe what I can remember. Natural disasters and plagues, Armageddon, the judging of the faithful, the dead rising from their graves, ascension into heaven for those found worthy, hell for those who aren’t. A world war. The horsemen of the apocalypse. The more I repeat, the more comes back to me. Most of it sounds like nonsense.  “So,” Parker says with intensity, “if a messiah shows up, all that adds up to a lot of misery. Right? And you thought global warming was bad. But in this case, everything ends. And everyone dies.”I stare at him. “But people get into heaven!”“Some people get into heaven. Quite a few religions, mine included, believe that number is exactly 144,000 souls, drawn from both the living and the dead.” He wipes his brow again. “The last estimate I checked said that about 100 billion people have lived on this Earth. I did the math. If those scientists are right, that puts my chance at making it into heaven at .00014%. It’s the proverbial ‘one chance in a million.’ You feeling righteous enough to take that chance? Cause I’m not.” I don’t answer him. I wonder whether I can call 911 on my cell phone without him noticing. I point out that his chances of heaven would be better if he didn’t murder children, but he ignores me.Instead he continues, ticking off points on his fingers. “And there’s seven years of death and misery beforehand, and the world pretty much collapses. So I’m putting that off, too. All it takes is killing some kids who are being used by God. And a lot of powerful people in the know are working on a long-term solution. I don’t worry about official repercussions, so I don’t think you’re actually going to publish.” He looks at me and smiles. “But I surely do appreciate the company. And now we’re here.” He pushes open the door to the museum, and cool air washes around us.I ask him where the current messiah is. His target. He scans the room and points past a T-rex towards a gawky boy climbing in to a large dinosaur egg. I excuse myself and walk over to the boy. He must be fourteen, and he doesn’t look unusual in the least. He lolls in the huge plaster egg, his mustard-colored shirt making him easy to spot. I realize that I’ve seen him walking in front of us on the way to the building. He’s the boy who slapped at a bug.He looks at me with pale eyes as I squat down next to the egg. “Hey there,” I say.“Hey,” says the boy, and his spirit strikes me with the force of a hammer. For a second I have no choice but believe. I would follow this boy anywhere. I would die for this boy. I love him. The rest of the room fades to a pale blur. I swallow. “I’m a reporter. Who… who are you?”“My name’s Mike.” He seems exhausted, but his voice transfixes me. I soar in light. “So?”I stutter out that I’m writing an article. He groans theatrically and my heart leaps. “Not another one! What is it now?”I shake my head like a wet dog. “What do you mean?”“The last few weeks, man. Everyone wants to be around me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I dunno why. I got no privacy.” He looks resentful, and then yawns. “I came here to get away. And now a reporter!” I find myself wanting his approval more than I can say. I remember the threat.“Look,” I manage to get out, “you need to run. There’s a man over there who wants to kill you.” I look around, but Parker is nowhere to be seen. “You’re in real danger.” I look back at Mike, but he looks stoned as he lies inside the egg.“You know, I feel so good.” He mumbles, but I hear every word. His eyes slide half-closed. He smiles. “Can you maybe call…” He manages to <a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27856" target="_blank">raise his hand</a> and simulate a phone, but my cell is already out and I’m mashing the nine and one and one keys as quickly as I can. Mike slouches into sleep there inside the egg, and I crouch next to him while 911 assures me that an EMT is on the way. And a police car. No one arrives. I call again, and the first call was apparently never logged, and they assure me that an ambulance will be sent. I look around and the room is now completely empty, but I can’t leave my savior’s side. No one comes. I call a third time and no one picks up the phone. As I sit there, Mike’s breathing slows, then stops, and just like that the spell is broken. I stumble outside with no idea how much time has passed. Parker is waiting for me in the heat, eating an ice cream cone and spitting tobacco juice into a fountain. “Told you,” he said. “Almost got to this one too late.”“How did you…” I ask, and despite myself I start to sob. I hitch and rock. A woman looks at me oddly and shoos her children away from me.“On the path,” Parker says. “And now you know the truth. For a little while there, he was the son of God.” He looks up to the blue sky. “Another Armageddon averted. A lonely mother sad because her son just died of an undiagnosed heart condition. And right now the divine spirit just entered some other kid. That’s the bitch of it. I try to let them live as long as they can, but we don’t know how old they have to be before everything triggers. There’s too much at stake to allow many risks.” My breath catches in my throat. Right now I could kill him myself, but curiosity takes hold. “How do you find them?” I manage to ask.He considers. “Bring your passport.”June 11KONYA, TURKEYThey spin in the dust, whirling. Their purple robes shimmer in the heat. The air here smells of incense and something I can’t identify. I wonder if it’s the odor of corruption. It occurred to me on the flight here that the stolid neutrality that I’d maintained throughout my career was badly shaken. I feel lost, bobbing in a sea of insane possibility. Worse, it is an insanity that makes a horrific amount of sense.In the airport, I whispered to a security guard that my companion had murdered a child. With competent aggression they immediately marched both of us out of the line and into back rooms. They take that sort of thing seriously. I breathed a sigh of relief. And twenty minutes later we were escorted via a little white electric cart directly to Gate 23, where they bumped us to first class and brought us complementary cocktails. Parker didn’t say anything, but he looked disappointed. I felt like I was drowning. I decided to do the only thing I could.  I called my editor. He told me to do my job and hung up. He must be part of Parker’s conspiracy. There’s no one to trust.  I asked Parker about religious leaders. The Pope, for instance. Parker laughed and gulped down a drink, his fleshy throat wobbling as he swallowed. “You think they want the world to end any more than we do?” He didn’t elaborate further. I didn’t ask. I should have. I was still shaken from Utah.Now jet lag wears at me, and the song is giving me a headache. These dervishes are distinctly modern; they arrived at the ruin in a line of SUVs, they wear sunglasses and sneakers, and their robes are far from traditional. “The hat is the tombstone of the ego,” Parker says. “The skirt is the ego’s shroud. They whirl around the truth.”  I don’t particularly believe it. Parker leans over to tell me that this is a daily occurrence, and that these men or their fathers or their forefathers have been performing this dance for five hundred years. Almost as an afterthought, he adds that it wasn’t until nine years ago that anyone remembered why. “<a href="http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=3352755#post3352755" target="_blank">And who says that tradition isn’t important</a>,” he chuckles. My hands shake.The dance ends. Parker steps forward to speak with one of the Sufi mystics. He turns. “China. A bad one. God is upping the ante.”I take a deep breath and nod.Later, on the plane, I jostle him awake. “Why me?” I demand. “Why’d you want a reporter if I can’t tell the story?”He grunts and turns away. “There’s a lot for me to tell. I wanted a hagiographer.”I stare. “For you? What?”He turns back. “What do you call a man who selflessly sacrifices his life and his soul to save millions of innocents? Who performs miracles?” I stare at him, and he shrugs. “Most people would call him a saint.”I try to keep my voice to a whisper. “You’re mad! You’re thwarting God! You’re defying divine will!” “To save the world,” he reiterates patiently. “I think that sort of defines martyr, don’t you? So make sure you take good notes.”I want to whine. “But you’re a murderer. That means eternal torment. How are you not going to roast in Hell?” He winks. “And how do you know there is a Hell? I’ve seen no proof. Maybe the true religion is Judaism. I’m still not sure which Testament god we’re dealing with here, and I don’t particularly care. What I have right now is better than what I’m going to get. I’m happy to prolong it.” I rub my eyes. He turns back. “I’ll point out that in addition to a biographer, I need a disciple. Think about it.” Western China rushes past beneath us. June 21.UNNAMED VILLAGE NORTH OF YUMEN We are within a hundred miles of China’s border with Mongolia. This is the embodiment of emptiness. Parker tells me that the village ahead of us didn’t want to be found, and now I think I understand what he means. We certainly didn’t find any roads that led here. We crouch in darkness on the eastern edge of the village. The sun will be up soon. I smell smoke, and goats, and body odor.Parker speaks quietly. “Now you’ll see why I sometimes feel like one of the three wise men. I just bring high caliber ammunition instead of myrrh.” I fail to laugh. He does it for me.“Watch the stable,” he says. “That’s usually the place. Symbols are important.”And sure enough, it’s the ramshackle stable whose door opens first. The sound of a hymn fills the air. I don’t understand the language, but it’s clearly a holy song. It spirals like a dove up into the pre-dawn silence, pure and beautiful. The messiah making his way out to greet the dawn. My breath catches in my throat at the image, and I suddenly wish I could paint with something other than words.I bring the binoculars to my face. I see two men and a boy, and at first I think that the boy must be the new vessel. They carry a basin. It’s too dark to see what is inside it, but I see something twitch and jiggle. A sacrifice, I ask? Then the sun breaks across the horizon, and the sky above me fills with pink and gold. I gaze upon the Son of Man.I was wrong. It isn’t the boy who’s the Messiah. It’s the thing in the basin. It isn’t much of a savior. <a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=27852" target="_blank">Naked and mewling</a> and horribly large, it looks like it just pulled itself from the womb. At first I can’t conceive of it being human. It has spindly limbs and the self-aware eyes of a frog, its bloated face oddly passive and content in the morning dawn. It is dried blood and bedsores and caked on filth. I see no sign of divinity in this creature, except maybe that it wasn’t stillborn. Parker makes a sound of disgust. “One of these,” he says. I don’t have time to ask.The lilting hymn reaches a crescendo, and the disciples lift the child towards the sky. Parker raises his rifle and looks through the telescopic scope. It’s time. I know in my heart I should stop him and I realize that I don’t have the courage. I wonder what the consequences will be. I wait for the killing shot. I lower my binoculars as if pretending it will help, and from here the target is just a pink lump two hundred yards distant. I can see why Parker practices with the mannequin.And I can tell when it sees us. The terrible awe hits me like a geyser, and this time I struggle against it. The distance makes it weaker. I felt this same exultation in the museum with Mike. It knows me and welcomes me, this spirit. I have no doubt whatsoever, and I wait for Parker to kill it. My heart soars in rapture. The shot doesn’t come. The power of the Lord rises up against us, a vast golden wall of terrible love. Conflict wracks me. Angels sing in my ears.The shot doesn’t come.I look over to see Parker crying. He’s fitting the end of the rifle barrel into his mouth. He’s clumsy at it. I snatch away the rifle, tearing it from his grasp, and the gun skids across the hard-packed soil. Parker’s lips are working and I’m not surprised to hear him mouthing the Lord’s Prayer. He unholsters his pistol and raises it to his head, tears still coursing down the dust on his fat face. Suicide is a sin, I think irrationally, and I scoop up the rifle.I hear the song of angels. The holy spirit is eternal, I tell myself. This is what I saw in Mike. This is what I love. If it is gone from here, it will be reborn elsewhere. I’ll have another chance to decide. What I’m doing is buying us some time. I tell myself it’s not actually death. It’s still focused on Parker. I think of the Little Dutch Boy, standing in the dark and plugging the leak so that his country will be saved. I pull the trigger.- x -</blockquote>

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