The Devil Will Come (5 page)

“The covering itself shows the book’s intent,” Dufrain proclaimed. “What does this painting manifest, if not the conjuring of a demon? How could the girl gaze upon such an image and not know the black work such ‘projects’ must involve?”

Dufrain returned the book to the table and sat down again, facing the other two. “You know the law, and the reasons therefor.” His voice was quiet again, but charged with passionate conviction.

“We are all well versed in the law, brother,” Hopkin said. “That is why we have been entrusted by God with administering it.”

“Then leave us not forget why the law exists. The Great Burning, as our forefathers have recorded, destroyed all the world but this tiny corner. Fire and disease and deadly gasses ravaged the land, everywhere but here. God spared Salem for a reason, my brothers.”

“We know the Gospel of Richard as well as you do, Brother Roger,” Bolton said, frowning. “You need not preach it to us.”

Dufrain held up a hand, palm outward. “I mean not to offend, I would not do so for all the world.” He dropped his hand and leaned forward. “But I fear for our people, left alone amid this destroyed world. If the Devil gains a foothold among us, where can we flee? Twenty-five leagues beyond Salem, the water becomes poisonous, the air unbreathable. And deadly creatures await the unwary — the demon Radiation, the witch Sarin, the serpent Anthrax, and all the others.”

Dufrain stood, walked across the courtroom to a nearby cabinet, and removed a large parchment from one of its drawers. Returning to the others, he unfurled it to display a map labeled “Normerica.”

“Behold Salem, our home,” he said. “And beyond, what did the wise mapmakers write here—” he pointed with a jabbing finger “—and here, and here, also. Of what do they warn us?”

“
‘Here be dragons
,’” Hopkin read, his voice sounding weary. “You impart nothing we did not learn in childhood, Brother.”

Dufrain tossed the map aside and resumed his seat. “But can we then ignore the
implications
of what we have learned?”

Hopkin looked at his former protégé with narrowed eyes, “And these implications would be….”

“That we must be vigilant, always, against the Devil’s infestations. For if he once gains disciples in this community, if the Lord should see that his mercy in sparing us was for naught….” Dufrain shook his head, as if in contemplating unimaginable catastrophe. “No, the girl is guilty, my brothers, and she must burn, for the sake of her soul. And for the sake of all of us.”

There was silence in the great room. Finally, Bolton said, “Much though I respect my younger Brother’s fervor, I cannot but think him overzealous and misguided in this particular matter. My vote remains unchanged.” The two of them looked at Hopkin for a long moment, before Bolton continued, “That puts it up to you, Brother Matthew.”

* * *

The hour was late, but Matthew Hopkin remained in the courtroom, alone. He had sent Bolton and Dufrain home some time ago, desiring solitude for his contemplation. “Return here in the morning, at 7 of the clock,” he’d told them. “You shall have my decision then.”

The case was troubling to him. He found himself inclined toward leniency, but he wondered whether this might spring from his reluctance to send a young, pretty girl to the stake.

Although he personally found executions repugnant and never attended them, Hopkin had signed death warrants before. Were he unwilling to do so on principle, he would never have accepted appointment to the bench. But Hopkin’s eldest daughter bore a passing resemblance to Susan Bright, and he worried that this might be influencing him.

It was almost four in the morning before the truth suddenly came to him, like lightning from Heaven. He pondered it for several minutes, then pared his discovery down to its barest essentials: “If the opinions of my Brother Magistrates had been reversed, would it have made a difference to me? If Bolton, a fatuous ass, had called for the girl’s death, would I have disagreed, on principle? If Roger Dufrain, who is young but possessed of both intelligence and integrity, had urged acquittal, would I not even now be asleep in my bed?” Hopkin smacked his knees with his open palms and stood. “Answer: Yes. Yes. And, again, Yes.” He never realized that he had been speaking aloud.

Hopkin yawned, and stretched some of the kinks out of his shoulders. His spirit was calm now. The girl would be set free, with a stern warning to avoid anything that bore even a whiff of forbidden Technology. Hopkin thought that even Bolton’s suggested whipping would be unnecessary.

It was too late to return home for even a few hours’ sleep, and too early to obtain breakfast anywhere. He would simply have to pass the time until the rest of the village began stirring.

Another yawn creaked Hopkin’s jawbone. He wandered over to the evidence table, which still bore the items that had been introduced in the trial. He glanced at a few of the innocuous books, making a mental note to have them returned to the Brights tomorrow. A small pile of handwritten affidavits sat nearby, and he flipped through them idly.

The only other item was the radio.

Foolish looking thing, really
, Hopkin thought. He wondered where the boy Jonathan had found the bits and parts that had gone into the making of it. Manufacture of such things had been forbidden since The Great Fire, and no one alive these days would possess either the materials or the knowledge, God be praised.

Mayhap the boy found the pieces in the same place he discovered the book.
We should ask the girl Susan if her brother revealed the location to her. That house should be found, if possible, and burned to the ground, the rubble covered with earth.

He picked up the piece of wood on which the “radio” was mounted. Such things ought to be—

“—make contact with communities of survivors throughout the Eastern United States, or what was once the United States, and, we hope, will be again.”
Hopkin gaped. He had barely touched the thing, and yet this thin male voice was suddenly coming from it. He stood as if paralyzed, listening to the faint but understandable words that issued from the strange device.

“We have now established radio contact with communities in Portland, Maine, Durham, New Hampshire, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, New Haven, Connecticut, and Scranton, Pennsylvania. We hope to increase the power of our transmissions soon, and, with God’s help, get in touch with other isolated cities, and towns, and even groups of people who have managed to get their hands on an old radio and find a way to power it with solar batteries or wind turbines or something similar. This is radio station WPAX, Kingston, Rhode Island.”

The speaker paused, and took an audible breath before continuing.
“And we have more good news to report tonight — a party of eight men from New Haven arrived here yesterday, after traveling through areas formerly thought to be impassible due to radiation and other lingering poisons of the war. It would appear, the Lord be praised, that the terrible effects of that time are finally lifting, which should allow us to eventually link up with other communities and end the terrible isolation which has—”
The voice began to fade, then disappeared completely. The room was again silent, so quiet that Hopkins could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind could barely contain all that he had heard. He face formed a beatific smile, the like of which had not been seen there since the day of his ordination into the ministry. Think of it! The Lord had spared others besides the people of Salem and its environs. And they were using Technology — not to worship Satan but to communicate in a Godly way, one with another. And the land beyond Salem was becoming livable again, which meant….

Hopkin’s smile melted like a snowflake on a hot stove. Strangers would come to Salem, after all this time. People with new ideas, foreign ways, unfamiliar modes of speech and… different religions?

The good people of Salem would be tempted by these things. Some might find them more attractive than the gray conformity that the Church imposed to keep God’s people from straying into sin, the kind of sin that had caused the world’s destruction in the first place.

Except it seemed that the world had not been completely destroyed, after all. One of the central tenets of the Faith, that God had preserved Salem, and Salem alone, would be
proven
to be a
lie
. And what then? What would happen to the Church, its teachings, its traditions, its power — its Ministers?

Ministers like Hopkin.

He looked with new understanding at the device he held. He had been fooled — yes, even a righteous man like himself could be fooled into thinking that this was an innocent toy. But now the scales had fallen from Hopkin’s eyes. He knew that he was holding the Devil’s handiwork.

He raised the radio above his head and smashed it down onto the table’s edge, breaking it in two and picking up the pieces and one by one smashing them also and when they were too small to break further, jumping upon them where they lay on the floor then grinding the bits with the heel of his boot until there was nothing recognizable left, nothing dangerous, nothing at all. Hopkin stood bent over, his hands braced on the evidence table, his breath coming in gasps like a man who has just been chased for miles by a savage beast.

After a few minutes he straightened, wiped his brow, and brushed a few errant splinters from his sleeve. He picked up his cloak, put it on, then went around the courtroom extinguishing the oil lamps. He left the one nearest the door until last.

If the girl were acquitted, it would be only a matter of time before someone else began to tinker with the Devil’s tools, with disastrous results for the people of Salem — and for those who ruled them.

When Hopkin met with Dufrain and Bolton, he would vote “guilty,” and that would be that. The invasion by the wicked world outside would be held at bay, perhaps indefinitely.

The girl would burn today, and, as penance for his own sin of pride, he would make himself watch. In the meantime, he desperately needed fresh air.

Hopkin opened the door and extinguished the last of the lamps. Then, drawing his cloak tightly around him, he went out into the dark.

* * *

“Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.”

—John Milton
, Paradise Lost

* * * * *

damnation.com

“So, have you heard about this new web site?”

“Which one’s that?”

“The one that lets you sell your soul to the devil.”

Martin’s mouth was full of cheeseburger, so he just shook his head. After swallowing, he said, “Don’t need to. I’m a college professor, remember?”

Croft frowned at him. “Yeah, me too. So what?”

“So, that means I’ve already sold my soul to the devil.”

“Bull
shit
, man. If anybody’s been making deals with the Evil One, it’s these kids who graduate from here and go to work for fucking Wall Street, with starting salaries about three times what you and I make.”

“The devil pays well, apparently,” Martin said with a twitch of a smile. “But what’s this web site you’re talking about?”

“One of the kids was telling me yesterday, after class. It seems to be a hot topic of conversation around the dorms, these days.”

“Sounds like one of those urban legends — you know, you look into a mirror and say the boogyman’s name three times, then he appears and cuts your heart out with a chainsaw.”

Croft shrugged. “Maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time that kind of crap caught on among the kidlings.”

“Me, I feel like catching onto some dessert,” Martin said, and stood up. “The cherry pie looked pretty good today. You want anything?”

“Another coffee, as long as you’re going over.”

Keeseville State didn’t have anything as grandiose as a faculty dining room, so professors with afternoon classes either brown-bagged it in their offices, or ate in the Student Center cafeteria along with the undergraduates. Administrators, of course, usually ate in restaurants downtown.

Martin and Croft, the two youngest members of the History Department, had lunch together once a week. They used the occasion to trade gossip, share ambitions, and bitch about the untenured professor’s lot in life.

When Martin returned, he gave Croft his coffee and said, “So this web site, how is it supposed to work? You just log on, type in the Lord’s Prayer backwards, and then play ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ for your soul?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Apparently the site’s hard to get into.”

“How come? It’s got a really long URL or something?”

Croft shook his head as he stirred a third packet of sugar into his coffee — he always said he needed the energy to get through his 2:00 o’clock class. “No, as I understand it, you can try and try, but you don’t connect— usually. But once in a while, somebody gets lucky, if that’s the right word under the circumstances. Then, I guess it’s like you said: “Let’s Make a Deal.”

Martin put on a resonant game show voice: “Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness— come on down!”

They both laughed. Then Croft asked, “I wonder if it improves your chances of being picked if you dress up like a carrot?” More laughter.

Martin concentrated on his pie for a few minutes, then pushed the empty plate away. “So tell me,” he said to Croft, “did you try getting into this ‘Take my soul— please’ site? Or have you been too busy surfing for Internet porn while pretending to do research?”

“No, I haven’t bothered. I mean, what’s the point? It’s either an urban legend, like you said, or some kind of scam, like the e-mails I get from all those Nigerians who keep offering me ten million bucks in return for my bank account number.”

“Do you even have the URL for this thing?”

“According to the kid who told me the story, it’s supposed to be
www.damnation.com
. Cute, huh?”

Martin scribbled the information on a napkin and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Maybe I’ll give it a try, sometime, just for a giggle.”

“If you do manage to get in, check and see if they have a chat room.”

“Why? You want to talk to Old Scratch personally?”

Croft grinned at him. “Just long enough to find out whether my eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Landry, is down there with him. If she’s not, then there really
is
no justice.”

* * *

Back in his tiny office, Martin decided he’d better start grading the History 102 quizzes that were piled on his desk, since he’d promised to return them tomorrow. As he reached into his shirt pocket for a pen, his fingers touched the napkin from the cafeteria. He pulled it out and looked at what he’d written. After a long moment, he turned to his computer and brought up an Internet connection. Then, after another brief hesitation, he typed in “www.damnation.com.”

It only took a second for the computer to come back with a display that began: “The page you requested is not available at this time.” This was followed by a lot of small print positing several reasons why such a catastrophe might have occurred. It was the same screen Martin had encountered a hundred times before when following what turned out to be a dead link. Frowning at his own foolishness, he tossed the napkin onto the pile of book catalogs and other junk that sat next to his computer. He’d probably get around to throwing all of it out, sometime.

Martin logged off the Net and decided it was time to get his sorry, underpaid ass back to work.

* * *

Friday night, as was his custom on weekends, Martin indulged himself in the swinging lifestyle of the single young academic — that is, he made a big bowl of popcorn and watched old movies on TV.

He got mildly interested in one that came on TNT at 11:30, an old Hammer horror flick from the 1960s. About half an hour in, one of the characters — a wise old doctor who was apparently supposed to be some kind of Van Helsing figure — had a line that went, “Midnight, my friend, is the hour when the powers of evil are at their strongest.”

Croft sat up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing. After a moment, he glanced at his watch: 11:58. He stood up, and walked quickly into the spare bedroom in his apartment that he used as a home office.

Sitting at his rickety desk, he turned on his computer, an old reconditioned thing that he had bought second-hand while still in grad school. Then he plugged his modem into a phone jack and dialed up the Internet.

He stared at the clock in the bottom-right corner of the screen until the numbers changed from 11:59 to 12:00.

He had the URL memorized by now. Leaning over the keyboard, he typed “www.damnation.com” then hit “Enter.”

Martin did not believe in the existence of digital portals to Hell. He wasn’t all that sure he even believed in Hell. But he was cursed with stubbornness, combined with a high degree of curiosity. If this urban legend had a basis in fact, Martin wanted to see it for himself. Could be there was even an article in it, for one of the journals specializing in popular culture or folklore.

Even so, he was not expecting anything to happen. Part of his mind was already preparing to turn off the computer and go back to his movie.

Then the screen changed.

WELCOME TO WWW.DAMNATION.COM, THE SITE THAT GIVES YOU FAIR VALUE FOR YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL.

Martin blinked, and then a slow grin spread its way across his face. So the damn thing existed after all! You just had to log on at the right time — the witching hour of midnight. He couldn’t wait to tell Croft about it on Monday.

IN ENTERING THIS SITE, YOU HEREBY ATTEST THAT YOU (1) HAVE REACHED THE AGE OF REASON (2) ARE OF SOUND MIND AND (3) ARE NOT UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL OR CONSCIOUSNESS-ALTERING SUBSTANCES TO THE DEGREE THAT YOUR ABILITY TO GIVE INFORMED CONSENT IS IMPAIRED (THESE CONDITIONS ARE SUBJECT TO VERIFICATION).

Then further down, you were offered a choice:

I ENTER FREELY, AND OF MY OWN WILL

or

I’M A WIMP — LET ME OUT OF HERE!

Martin clicked the first one, and in a moment was looking at a new screen with CONTRACT TEMPLATE at the top. Martin was invited to type in his full name (“true name,” the computer program called it) and date of birth. He did so, and pressed “Enter” again.

Then a new screen appeared.

IN EXCHANGE FOR DUE CONSIDERATION, THE CONTRACTING AGENCY, GEHENNA INC. (HEREAFTER REFERRED TO AS “THE AGENCY”) AGREES TO PROVIDE YOU WITH THE GOODS/SERVICES/EXPERIENCES YOU ENTER BELOW, SUBJECT TO FINAL APPROVAL BY THE ISSUING AUTHORITY.

“DUE CONSIDERATION,” FOR PURPOSES OF THIS CONTRACT, IS DEFINED AS THE ETERNAL POSSESSION OF YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL, SAID ENTITY TO BE SURRENDERED TO THE AGENCY AT THE END OF YOUR LIFE. THE AGENCY WILL UNDERTAKE NO ACTION EITHER TO SHORTEN OR LENGTHEN THAT LIFESPAN FROM ITS NATURAL PROGRESSION, AND FURTHER MAKES NO WARRANTEES AGAINST THE EFFECTS OF WAR, PESTILENCE, FAMINE, NATURAL DISASTER, OR OTHER ACTS OF G__.

Not “God,” Martin noted, but “G-blank.” He shook his head in admiration. Someone had gone to a lot of thought and trouble to make this look like the real deal. Clearly, there was a geek out there, probably living in his parents’ basement, with
far
too much time on his hands.

INDICATE BELOW YOUR PROPOSED TERMS FOR THIS AGREEMENT BY COMPLETING THE RELEVANT SECTIONS. EACH SECTION IS SUBJECT TO APPROVAL BY LOWER AUTHORITY, AND MAY RESULT IN A COUNTEROFFER IF ANY REQUESTED TERMS ARE UNAVAILABLE OR DEEMED UNACCEPTABLE.

The first section that followed was headed
WEALTH
.

INDICATE THE AMOUNT OF MONEY YOU WISH TO RECEIVE, THE CURRENCY DESIRED, THE FORM DESIRED (E.G., CASH, GOLD, GEMSTONES, STOCKS, ETC.). THE AMOUNT REQUESTED MAY NOT EXCEED ONE PERCENT (1%) OF THE GROSS NATIONAL PRODUCT OF YOUR COUNTRY OF RESIDENCE.

Martin was starting to enjoy himself. As adolescent wish fulfillment went, this was better than a subscription to
Maxim
. After a moment’s thought, he typed “One hundred million U.S. dollars. In cash.”

The screen went blank for a few seconds, and then produced the verdict:
APPROVED.

The next screen was
WORLDLY GOODS.

INDICATE OBJECTS YOU WISH TO POSSESS THAT ARE NOT READILY AVAILABLE EVEN TO A PERSON OF GREAT WEALTH, INCLUDING RARE ART OBJECTS (E.G., MONET’S “WATER LILLIES”) OR UNUSUAL HISTORICAL ARTIFACTS (E.G., A FIRST FOLIO SHAKESPEARE, JOHN DILLINGER’S PENIS, ETC.).

Martin sat scratching his chin for nearly a minute. Then he typed rapidly, “Goya’s ‘The Naked Maja,’ a lock of Cleopatra’s pubic hair, George Custer’s saber from Little Big Horn, and a transcript of the seven minutes deleted from the Nixon Watergate tape.”

The screen quickly came back with:

THE GOYA PAINTING YOU HAVE REQUESTED IS CURRENTLY IN THE POSSESSION OF ANOTHER CLIENT OF THIS AGENCY. HIS CONTRACT IS DUE FOR COLLECTION IN THREE YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND NINETEEN DAYS. DO YOU WISH TO WAIT FOR DELIVERY UNTIL THAT TIME?

Martin clicked on “Yes.”

NOTED. “THE NAKED MAJA” WILL BE PROVIDED TO YOU WHEN AVAILABLE. YOUR OTHER TERMS LISTED IN THIS SECTION HAVE BEEN APPROVED.

Then came
SEXUAL PARTNERS.

LIST THOSE PERSONS WITH WHOM YOU WISH TO HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS DURING THE REMAINDER OF YOUR LIFETIME. THE CONTENTS OF THIS LIST DO NOT EXCLUDE YOU FROM OBTAINING OTHER SEXUAL PARTNERS THROUGH COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION, COERCION, DECEPTION, OR EVEN MUTUAL CONSENT. CONSEQUENTLY, THIS CONTRACTED LIST MAY NOT EXCEED TWENTY (20) NAMES.

Martin typed in the names of six movie and TV actresses he was mildly hot for, a female professor in the Sociology Department he had been lusting after for some time, and three girls from his college days who he’d never gotten to first base with, despite his best efforts at the time.

Then, to see how vigilant the computer program really was, he typed in “Marilyn Monroe.”

Almost immediately, he was told

SUBJECT MARILYN MONROE IS DECEASED, AND DECOMPOSITION IS ADVANCED SUCH THAT THIS AGENCY WILL BE UNABLE TO PROVIDE TEMPORARY RESURRECTION FOR CARNAL PURPOSES. PLEASE CHOOSE ANOTHER SEXUAL PARTNER.

Martin chuckled, and typed in the name of a living actress. He added several more, almost as whims. Then, counting his selections, he saw he had nineteen women listed. After another few moments’ thought, he typed in the name of a former White House intern who had become better known for fellatio than for filing. “She may not be a movie star, but she sure went down in history,” he thought.

A moment later, the computer told him

LIST OF DESIRED SEXUAL PARTNERS APPROVED.

Other sections of the contract offered him opportunities to assure his professional success, bring grief to his enemies, receive public acclaim, and discover the truth about various historical mysteries. For that last one, Martin opted to learn who had plotted the assassination of John F. Kennedy, whether J. Edgar Hoover was really a drag queen, and what Julius Caesar’s last words actually were — Martin had never believed that “Et tu, Brute?” stuff).

Finally, it was done.

PLEASE REVIEW ALL THE TERMS OF THIS CONTRACT AND MAKE ANY CORRECTIONS NECESSARY. THEN SELECT “PRINT.”

Since Martin wasn’t taking any of this seriously, he didn’t bother to go back over what he had written. Instead, he went right to the “Print” icon and clicked it. After a few seconds the contract, all eight pages of it, began to issue from his printer. He was going to love showing this to Croft.

Curiously, there was something on the bottom of the last page that he had not typed: his name, followed by a line for signature and date. Next to it, under an indecipherable signature, was printed another name: “Astaroth, for the Gehenna Corporation, Inc.”

Martin frowned as he looked at that last page. Although his printer at the college was fancy enough to copy non-text items, the six-year-old piece of shit that Martin kept at home lacked the capability to produce anything besides print, in one of two fonts.

Or so Martin had thought.

After staring at the page for some time, Martin glanced up and saw that a new message had appeared on his computer screen.

PLEASE SIGN AND DATE THE CONTRACT THAT YOU HAVE JUST PRINTED.

Martin snorted quietly. How was the computer going to know whether he signed or not?

A moment later, there was something new.

THIS CONTRACT IS NOT VALID WITHOUT YOUR SIGNATURE.