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Two henchmen grab you. They wear hoods with holes in them for their eyes and mouth. They are ugly, fiendish-looking. Your pulse is racing. They drag you, forcefully wrenching your shoulders until it feels like they are going to pop out of their sockets.
A rope goes around your waist, then your chest. You can’t breathe. The rope crosses your throat. Are they just going to strangle me? The mob is throwing rotten fruits and vegetables. You smell the henchmen. They smell worse than cattle. When they step away, you have a small sense of relief. At least I don’t have to smell my executioners.
The larger of the two pushes the wood up close around your feet. An arch-priest is reciting in Latin. You make out some of the meaning – may the Lord have mercy upon this heretic, he who has brought the plague upon us. Etcetera.
Someone in the crowd is yelling.
“This is the one who brought the plague upon us. Send him back to the Devil. No mercy on his soul. Let him rot in Hell forever.”
Nice Christian sentiment, you think. They ignite the sticks piled below you. They fan the flames with mechanical bellows. A ruckus goes up. The crowd runs out of vegetables to throw. Now they are throwing rocks.
“The plague, the plague, he brought us the plague!”
A pile of books are thrown onto the fire.
“Servetius, Peter of Bruys, Bogomil. Bogomil! Burn them all!”
A black cat is thrown onto the pile. The cat escapes without harm. Another small mitigation of the horror, but it brings you no comfort.
The flames start licking at your feet. Strangely, you feel no pain.
Grey clouds hang in the sky. You look up, hoping for a miracle.
The clouds part. A rider on a white horse descends. There is a flash of yellow light. You are blinded. The world is spinning.
Now you recline in a hot spring, surrounded by greenery and flowers of every sort. A maiden comes to you with a pitcher of cold water. She pours you a drink.
A man walks up to you. He is wearing white robes from head to toe, and sandals. The sunlight hits his hair at the precise angle that creates a diffused glow above his head.
Is that at halo? Could this Jesus?
No, it can’t be. Or maybe it is. What is happening? You don’t know, but anything is better than being burnt at the stake.
You decide to ask. If this is not Jesus the question will do no harm.
“Are you – who are you?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No. Where am I?”
“You are at Gaviota Abbey.”
“Abbey. The Abbey. Gethsemane?”
“Gaviota. Your monastery. In California. You’re tripping. You ate magic mushrooms about an hour ago.”
* * *
Ozias J. Walker’s girlfriend Hazel was in no mood for bullshit.
“When are you going to stop smoking that shit and make some money?”
“What are you talking about? You make sixty dollars an hour running around in your little nurse outfit.”
“I know.” She shot him a smile. “I am just yanking your chain.”
She pulled him onto the bed and rolled him over her. She was in no particular mood for sex – she had a high going already.
“The best part is all the free candy.”
“Yeah. What did you get today?”
“Oxycodene. Lots of it.”
For months, she had been “high-grading” controlled substances from her job at Corridor Hospital in Lompoc. Like many health care workers, she had become addicted after working in close proximity to so many effective drugs. The stress of dealing with trauma patients, the sick and dying, it all added up. And, for many, the temptation to ease the pain is too much to bear.
“Do you ever feel guilty working there?”
“About what?”
“You know.”
“Oh, you mean the vaccines. Yeah, well I am not the one telling them to take it. If they want to believe all the propaganda that’s their problem.”
Ozzie nibbled on her ear and ran his hand into the crevice between her collar bone and neck, twisting her purple hair between his fingers.
“Stop! I’m not in the mood.” She was lying, and planted a kiss on his mouth.
“If I don’t do it, someone else will.”
Ozzie laughed and pushed in between her thighs. Soon they had their clothes in a pile on the carpet and were going at it hot and heavy.
He had an erection but before he could do anything with it there was a knock at the door.
“Fuck! Why…”
There was another knock.
“This is the police!”
The fuck! Thought Ozias. No way.
Hazel threw on her dress and flung open the door.
“Dexter that is not – fucking – funny!”
“I was only jiving with ya. Lighten up woman.” He took a hit on a cigarette. “You got somethin’ for me?”
“Yeah. Oxycodene. How much ya need?”
“Enough for me and my ol’ lady.”
“Yeah alright, I’ll hook you up. But don’t pull that shit with us again or I’ll cut you off.”
Ozias went into the kitchen and pulled himself a beer from the fridge. He brought out a couple more while Hazel poured out a huge bag of pills.
“What’s going on with that deal you were working on for me Dex?”
“It should come through any day now.”
“All of them?”
“At least one box. I think there’s like twelve to a box.”
Ozias nodded appreciatively.
“I’ve got the money, thanks to Florence Nightingale here.” He motioned towards Hazel. “She’s been great. Really dedicated to the cause.”
“She should be, considering how many people she done stuck with those nasty ass vaccines.”
Hazel didn’t appreciate the remark.
“Hey shut the fuck up Derek. That money is going to help put an end to all this crazy vaccine bullshit. Right, Oz?”
“Fuck yeah. It’s worth it to kill off a few dozen people who are stupid enough to take the vaccine. Everyone who takes that vaccine will be dead in two years but we can put a stop to it. Think of all the lives we will save. In the long run.”
They drank the beers fast and Derek prepared to leave. Oz had a final word with him at the doorway, before he took off.
“Remember, I want the igniters as well as the fuses and the caps. They won’t work right without the igniters, got that?”
“My man, chill. The brothers on the other end are straight up. They know what they’re doing. They been blowing shit up in Iraq, Afghanistan, whatever. They got this shit dialed in. You’ll be getting quality deluxe.”
“Just make sure everything is there. My little surprise won’t detonate without the right primers; I don’t want to go through all this, take all this risk, just to have a dud on my hands.”
“You won’t. Trust me. You won’t. That motherfucker’s gonna blow sky high. You will be famous. Except nobody gonna know who you is. Just, that some dude put an end to all that crazy shit, once and for all.”
“You got the right idea, Derek. Love you brother.”
Hazel came up and they did a group hug. The bond between substance abusers can be tenuous, but it’s real. They help each other out, and despite the depths of depravity they often fall into, there is real affection and real community between them.
The bond between terrorists is something that runs even deeper. They would gladly sacrifice their own, or each others’ lives for “the cause”. Nevertheless they can simultaneously love one another for their devotion and commitment.
This is something seldom appreciated by counter-terrorism professionals, but every genuinely committed urban guerrilla takes it for granted.
(c) Geof Bard 2003
Memoir #7 As They Burned Heretics
Memoir #6 Confessions
Memoir #5: Ship of Fools
Memoir #4: Hammer of Witches
Memoir #3: The Crusader
Memoir #2: Rendevous in Icefjord
Memoir #1: Vector
Prologue: 1348, The End of Time
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