The Rift (72 page)

*

The aftershock jolted Jason awake. He woke with his heart in his throat, eyes staring wide into the darkness. Then someone screamed, screamed right in his ear.

He sat up, felt the earth shudder under him. It wasn’t a bad shock— he knew, he was from California, and besides he’d become an expert on aftershocks by now— but why was someone screaming?

The screamer was Haynes, the buddy Mr. Magnusson had assigned him. The boy was sitting up and uttering one terrified shriek after another, full-blown animal screams vented into the night. They rang in Jason’s ears.

“Hey,” Jason said. “Hey, it’s all right. It’s not bad.”

Boys ran past, sprinting for the big wooden crosses that had been stretched at intervals on the ground. Jason wanted to tell them not to bother, that the aftershock was fairly mild. But Jason couldn’t be heard because Haynes kept screaming, one wail after another, pausing only to fill his lungs. Jason could see tears on his face. He patted Haynes’ back. “Hey. You’re dreaming. It’s
okay.”

Other boys were screaming, Jason now heard. Boys all through the camp, and through the little kids’ camp next door. The shock had jerked them into the world of nightmare, into memories of the loss of their homes, their property, and sometimes their families. The eerie sounds bubbling up in the darkness around him made Jason’s hair stand on end.

“It’s
okay
!” Jason shouted, patting Haynes on the back.

Haynes stopped for breath, gulped in air. Then he turned away from Jason, dropped to the ground, and began to cry.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jason repeated. He couldn’t tell if Haynes was awake or not. He might still be stuck in some nightmare.

Jason was awake now, that was for sure. The wails and sobs echoing through the dark scared him more than the aftershock.

Haynes seemed to calm down a bit, and Jason tried to get back to sleep. That didn’t seem likely. Seemingly at random a boy would wake up shrieking, and someone else would answer from across the camp, and soon there would be a chorus of cries and sobbing and wailing. Jason began to feel a kind of pressure on his mind, the pressure of dread, slowly increasing. He didn’t want to be like these other kids, wailing in the night, desperate for the touch of comfort, desperate to live in a world where the earth did not move.

Jason yearned for dawn.

The wails and cries didn’t stop. Jason took his plastic sack and his blanket to another part of the camp, away from the awning and out under the stars, and there he stretched out on his back, his head pillowed on his hands.

The stars wheeled overhead, beautiful and implacable like all nature. He gazed up and tried to remember their names.

He must have closed his eyes, because next thing he knew it was dawn, and the PA system was booming out instructions for all groups to report to the church for services.

*

“I was a pornographer! I made a profit out of poisoning the minds of children!” Mr. Magnusson’s voice boomed through the still morning air. The man walked back and forward, holding the microphone to his lips. The dawn glinted on his thin red hair. There was a strange, strained smile on his face, as if he knew he was supposed to be happy but couldn’t recollect why.

“I did my best to destroy my community!” he said. “All I cared about was the money!”

There was a regular section of people who cheered and applauded. “Tell it!” they yelled, and “Praise God!” Among those cheering was Frankland.

Jason sat crosslegged on the beaten grass and watched in amazement. He had just dragged himself from the young men’s compound, and hoped that breakfast wouldn’t be too far away. Frankland had started off with some announcements. Jason, still trying to crank his eyes open, hadn’t paid much attention to these, and the next thing he knew the repentant pornographer was strutting out before his cheering section.

Magnusson couldn’t have been
in
the pornography, Jason decided. He couldn’t feature anyone paying money to see Magnusson naked.

“But then the earthquake happened, and my business was destroyed!” Magnusson said. “And soon I learned that God was sending me a message!”

The burden of the message, it appeared, was that the man had to stay clear of pornography. As this message was elaborated at length, Jason believed he could see tears on the former pornographer’s face.

This guy is in charge of me,
Jason thought.
He is my guide
.

Everyone applauded when the message ended. Some of the applause seemed more enthusiastic than others. Frankland stepped forward and thanked the pornographer for his contribution. Then he looked into the audience and called on someone named Jonathan.

Jonathan was a boy about Jason’s age, one he’d seen around the young men’s compound but not spoken to. The boy said that he used to worship Satan, and listen to Satanic music and do Satanic things like animal sacrifices, but now he knew that Jesus was Lord and not Satan, and he trusted Jesus to get him through the Last Days. Frankland hugged Jonathan when he was done, and almost everyone applauded.

After Jonathan came a volunteer, a weathered-looking woman named Cora, who said she used to run around and do drugs, and hang around with people who ran around and did drugs, and she
had the tattoos to prove it
!— there was laughter at this— but now she was
clean for Jesus,
and if there was a single man out there who believed in the Lord, monogamy, and the Harley-Davidson motorcycle, she would like to meet him. There was more laughter, but Frankland seemed a little embarrassed by this solicitation, and he announced that they were out of time, and sent everyone to breakfast.

*

Omar had the camp surrounded at dawn, deputies and special deputies and Knox’s Crusaders. All were conspicuously armed, shotguns or rifles displayed. Merle carried his little submachine gun slung under his arm. Once everyone was in place around the silent camp, the fence-builders moved in and started putting up chain link in a long shimmering curtain around the camp, starting with the north and east perimeter, where the camp backed onto an area of hardwood forest.

“It’s a good thing, the fence,” Knox said with his feverish grin. “It’s psychological. It divides us from
them.
The
mud
people from the
real
people.” He nodded. “The fence is a
good
thing,” he said, as if trying on the concept one more time. “A
good
thing.”

Omar didn’t answer. A dull ache throbbed in his head, and a sharper pain griped in his stomach. It felt like the worst hangover he’d had in his life, even though he hadn’t been drinking.

It was the heat, he figured. He’d just got too used to air-conditioning.

When the fence builders started work there was a lot of movement in the camp, people rushing about in and out of the outlandish shelters they’d made of cotton wagons. People stared and pointed at the circle of deputies with their guns. There was a lot of noise, a few angry voices raised above the others. It was time for the inmates’ morning meal, but the volunteers from the A.M.E. church, who usually prepared the meals, had been stopped outside town at a sheriff’s department roadblock. Omar would just as soon have given the refugees their meal— if that would have kept them quiet— but he didn’t want anyone in the camp telling the A.M.E. people about David and the shooting, because once any version that wasn’t Omar’s version got out, there would be all manner of hell to pay.

Omar planned to keep Hell strictly behind that chainlink fence.

“See, what you want to do,” Knox said, “is alternate random rewards with random punishments. It’s all about behaviorism.” He looked up at Omar from under the brim of his cap. Sweat covered his face with a silver sheen. “You heard about behaviorism,” he said, “right?”

“I have a feeling I’m about to,” Omar said, and wished Knox would just shut the hell up.

Knox bounced up and down on the steel-capped toes of his boots. “Behaviorism’s
science,
see,” he said. “Real science. They worked it out with rats. See, Omar, people— and rats, I guess— they assume that when something happens, there has to be a
reason.
If something good happens, there has to be a reason for it. And the same with bad things. So if you reward people for no reason, other people will figure there has to be a reason for it, and they’ll try to behave, so they can earn a reward. And if you punish people at
random,
for no reason at all, then the
other
people think there has to be a reason, so they’ll be extra-careful not to do anything to piss you off.

“So what you do, see—” Knox grinned “—is give some little girl a box of candy. And then you beat the shit out of her big brother. And anyone who sees it will think that the little girl and her brother both
deserved
it, somehow. They’ll start to blame the
brother
for what
you
did. They’ll say it’s
his fault.
They’ll say, ’Why are you making trouble? Why can’t you be more like your sister?’” Knox cocked his hat onto the back of his head and grinned at Omar again. “That’s how you control a big group of people, like you got here. You use science and turn them against each other.”

“Really,” Omar said. His headache throbbed behind his eyes.

“I read about it in a book about the Holocaust,” Knox said. “The Nazis used behaviorism on the Jews. They’d punish Jews at random— beat them, shoot them, whatever— and the
other
Jews would say, ‘Oh, it’s all the fault of those trouble-making Jews, the Jews who aren’t like us! They’re making trouble for everyone.’ Did you ever see
Schindler's List?”

“Nope,” said Omar. “It’s propaganda, anyway.”

“It’s got a great scene of behaviorism at work. There’s this SS officer named Amon Goeth, and he’s in charge of a prison camp. Every so often he gets up on his balcony with a rifle, and he shoots some Jew at random. Just guns him down!” Knox’s grin turned admiring. “So then the
other
Jews start working faster and harder, because they figure that Goeth shot the first Jew for being lazy, and the shooting was the dead Jew’s fault. It’s a great movie! I practically had an orgasm in that scene.”

“Uh-huh,” Omar said, and gave Knox a suspicious look. Didn’t he know that the movie was made by a Jew?

“Amon Goeth was a kind of tragic figure,” Knox went on. “He was on top of the world. He could kill anybody he wanted, all the women wanted to fuck him, and everyone was paying him money for privileges. He was like a king! An Aryan king! But then he fell in love with this Jewish girl, and his whole life was destroyed.” He looked solemn for a moment, but then brightened. “But he returned to the true faith in the end. He shouted ‘Heil Hitler!’ before the Mongols hanged him.”

“Mongols?” Omar said, surprised.

“You know. Russians.”

“Oh.”

“A great movie,
Schindler’s List.
Sort of an instruction manual for the Holocaust. Shows you everything you want to do, and all the mistakes you want to avoid.”

Omar felt sweat trickle down his temples. The sun was burning a hole in the top of his head, right through his hat, and it was barely morning.

“Of course,” he said, “everyone knows the Holocaust didn’t really happen.”

Knox looked at him in surprise. “You think that?”

“Don’t you?”

“No! I mean, I know we have to
say
we don’t believe it, because that’s the way politics work and we don’t want to frighten the bourgeoisie, but I think the Holocaust was real! I think it was the greatest thing in human history!”

Omar felt a shock running along his nerves, almost a physical shock. He’d never heard anyone say something like that before.

“I’d like to go to Auschwitz,” Knox said, “and just roll around in the dirt. It’s holy ground, man! I’d like to take some of the dirt back with me and put it on an altar and
worship
it. Auschwitz was
real science,
Omar. The Kraut-eaters had their act together there. Real science.” He tapped Omar on the arm, stared up with his strange green eyes. “That’s what you need here, Omar. Science.”

“I guess.” Revulsion for Knox shivered through him. Even if the Holocaust actually happened, even if it was a good thing, Knox was carrying it a mite far with all this worship of Auschwitz dirt.

The sun burned Omar’s head and shoulders. The metal barrel of his Remington shotgun, resting against his shoulder, was beginning to scorch a hole in his flesh. He shifted the gun, rested the butt on his hip. He couldn’t understand how Knox could stand it in his long-sleeved flannel shirt. The shirt was dark with sweat stains, and Knox had a strange chemical-bog odor, but he refused to wear anything more suitable to the climate.

“Snake!” Knox screamed, and jumped six feet. Adrenaline jolted through Omar and he leaped to the side himself, his eyes scanning the grass near Knox to find the poison monster.

“Snake! Snake! Snake!” Knox said, doing a frantic dance in his heavy boots. Omar spotted the snake whipsawing its way through the grass, and breathed easy.

“That’s just a little ol’ bullsnake,” he said. “It won’t hurt you.”

“Oh God, I hate snakes!” Knox said, still dancing. “I’m getting out of here.”

He marched away. Omar wanted to laugh.

Some Aryan superman,
he thought. Scared of bridges, snakes, and who knew what else?

Omar strolled away on a walk along the camp perimeter. His deputies had kept the inmates away from their vehicles, which were parked on the grass parking lot and along the highway, and he walked along between the row of deputies and the cars. Crowds of people were moving in the camp, he saw, and there was a lot of murmuring and gesturing going on.

They hadn’t found a leader yet, though. No one to tell the others what to do, no one to speak for them. Omar looked for the people he’d marked the day before, the ones who had witnessed David shooting the runaway and who would have to go where the woodbine twineth. He thought he saw some of them, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Hey. Hey, Sheriff.”

A man called to him from the verge of the invisible perimeter between the camp and the line of deputies. He was a middle-aged white man, bespectacled, nervous-looking. Somehow he’d been mistaken for an African Methodist Episcopal and put in here, or maybe he’d come with a black person or something.