Travel Bug (40 page)

The scissors were razor sharp and almost painless… to die from… Doubting Thomas plunged them deep into Luther’s throat. What raced through his brain before he passed away was amazing and… haunting. He did not want to be thought of as the freak that killed a pet shop boy, an old lady who worked in a country store and a librarian. Luther Knox suffered at the hands of the enemy when he was tortured. Now the false prophet of the media was going to make him suffer intensely by remembering him as a madman. He did have a breakdown but there were far more evil people killed with his hands than good folks who didn’t deserve it.

“I guess that’s your answer, Martin.”

“And so it is,” said Wesley.

Doubting Thomas gave him a swift kick in the head. It was not so hard that he lost consciousness (although he damn near did) but hard enough to make him reflect. Martin Wesley reflected on his newborn son Max and his wife Mary.

“Oh, Christ, this is a party, let’s celebrate,” said Thomas.

“Dear God,” said Martin.

John Calvin had a rope tied around his neck, the one that was intended for the infamous leftists’ professor. All Doubting Thomas could do was look for a place to hang him up. Then he spotted a ceiling fan and laughed his ass off. If it was good enough for whoever Luther imagined was a terrorist, then why not. He decided to pretend again. When he killed folks in the name of religion, he really was mad at an imaginary God, truly he was. The townsfolk who died at the hands of his knife when he claimed alien parasites were really just the victims of his overactive imagination. So often in life people fantasize about movies, but they would never hurt anyone, let alone kill anyone to try and get the full sensory experience.

“Please, Thomas, don’t do this.”

“Sorry, Martin, I must.”

He simply hung him with the rope he borrowed from Luther. The little bit of life that John Calvin had left in him choked shamelessly for survival. It was terrible. Martin was as helpless as his own newborn baby in this situation. Calvin choked and choked and… choked.

“Thomas!”

“Please be quiet,” he said to Martin.

“He’ll die.”

“I know that, why do you think I tied a rope around his neck to hang him up with?”

“I…”

“Shut up, Martin.”

Then the final gasps for air. The haunting look of John Calvin’s final expression was unforgettable.

“Martin, said Calvin, barely audible, please…”

He was calling out to his would be savior.

“Martin, please……”

It was barely, barely audible. If he hadn’t said it a second or two before, no one could have made sense of what he had just said.

“That’s good enough for me,” said Thomas.

Martin could now hear the policemen coming very closely. They might have been damn near at the door. They were at least in the hallway of this department building. He was no fool, though. He knew whatever happened; Calvin was going to be dead as a doornail.

Thomas grabbed Calvin by the hair and made him look into his eyes.

“Oh God,” said Martin.

The rope had done its work well.

If one was observant, the quiet sound of a neck breaking could be heard.

“Memento Mori,” said Doubting Thomas.

John Calvin was dead.

“So we’re almost out of time, what do you suppose we should do with the little time we have left?” Thomas asked.

Martin had regained some strength again. It was never enough to keep up with this maniac. It wasn’t fair to be paired with an overweight old man. The man who wanted to see “real action” at any cost and then paid the ultimate cost to see it. Wesley knew that he would be last on the menu. Luther was Thomas’s appetizer; he obviously loathed Calvin, who was then the main course. Martin Wesley was a sweet treat to this maniac’s taste buds.

“I don’t know,” Martin answered Thomas.

“Well, let’s see. Now, we could fight to the death.”

“We could do that,” Martin said.

“We could.”

“What do you want to do, Thomas?”

“You know, old friend. That’s a damn good question.”

“That it is,” he said.

“The police are coming in to get me but now I have you at a delicious disadvantage, don’t I?”

“You do,” said Martin. No sense lying to the sociopath.

“It’s almost as bad as you and Smith ganging up on me isn’t it?”

“Almost, I suppose.”

Now Martin knew it was endgame time. He was summoning up what little strength he had. He was ashamed that he did not save Calvin’s life but he only had one shot. The life of his wife and kid were too important to blow it. When he was really honest, as his strength and courage were gaining, he knew he valued his own life more than the old man’s. He was ashamed and he was angry.

“Go for it, Martin!”

He didn’t give it a second thought, he lunged forward to grab Thomas by the throat and strangle the son of a bitch once and for all. What he realized half way though this journey was that he was much weaker than he thought. His adrenaline and furious pride made him think he had the strength to fight this madman. He didn’t.

“Oh, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” said Thomas, laughing his head off.

The monster had good reason to laugh. Martin had fallen down on the floor, hitting his head on the dead professor’s desk on his way down. He looked like a perfect fool. Martin knew he was going down without a fight.

“I told you that you and you ilk are incompetent as all hell, didn’t I?”

“You did?”

“Do you have anything to say in your defense before I send you to Heaven?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I should have thought this through better. Jack should be here. The old man’s death was my fault for thinking he was ready. Maybe I am incompetent, maybe you’re right.”

Thomas was flattered.

***

“Martin?”

“Thomas?”

“The police are coming.”

“They are.”

“I just want to say… goodnight.”

Martin Wesley felt nothing as he lost consciousness. Doubting Thomas kicked him in the head so hard that he went out like a light. Then he had to decide what to do next with him. He remembered those little scissors; they were now on the floor. They got knocked down somehow, he couldn’t remember exactly how. This was, after all, a pretty exhilarating evening.

“To be or not to be, that is the question,” said Doubting Thomas.

There was no hell and no purgatory in the visions of Martin Wesley. He was simply going through space and time. He could talk to his dead family members, people he thought he could never speak to again even when he was filled with faith. He talked to Jack Smith’s wife and she was in a happy place of goodness and light. Martin had always been taught as a Catholic that the meaning of life (and death) was to see the face of God. That didn’t happen.

He was still fortunate enough to see another face he wanted to see.

“Martin?” said a familiar voice?”

“What?” he answered groggily.”

It was the face of…… Jack Smith.

“Where in the hell am I?”

“You’re in Davistown Hospital.”

“When did you get back?”

“Today, you’ve been out for two days.”

“My back hurts.”

“It should. Thomas Grey knocked you unconscious and then stabbed you in the back with scissors. He put a note under it first, to let you know what a great guy he was for not killing you.”

“Read it.”

“Dear Martin, I can’t do it. When I kill you, it has to be under the perfect circumstances. You and Smith will die by my hands together, at the same time if I have my druthers. You are a worthy adversary but tonight you were an imbecile. I guess you need Smith to even be truly competent. You are, I lied when I said you were not. You’re humility helped save your life. Thanks for owing up the fact that you guys did a lousy job. Get back with Jack and become dragons again. It was signed with the initials D. T.”

“Dear God.”

“The other side of the note had the word nemesis on it.”

“Are you coming back for good, Jack?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jack, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, Martin. You need to rest. We can talk about that later.”

***

Doubting Thomas had stolen that pathetic vehicle that Luther left for him in the parking lot. He had no problems taking it and driving away. He took what little money Luther had and then drove far, far away. Thomas, of course, killed some more people on the road and took some of their vehicles. None of them, of course happened to be pickup trucks. There was nothing he wanted from the dead lunatic who fought bravely for his country. Well, almost nothing. Thomas always loved animals. He loathed people like Luther but he felt a kinship of sorts with the beasts. This feline bastard was like a little lion.

“You are a lovely little cat, aren’t you?” Thomas said.

Moose purred and stayed in his lap. He took a liking to him. They continued driving deep into the night. Thomas wasn’t even quite sure where they were. He did know where they were headed.

“Want to go to Las Vegas, the desert, what do you think?”

The cat said nothing because animals can’t use human language.

“You know, maybe we will build a bomb shelter. Perhaps the real Apocalypse is really coming after all,” he said, half joking.

Harold and I met at the train tracks. It was a much needed break. I wrote the story of the cat. It came to me from the last bug trip.

I got very drunk during our time away and enjoyed many fine meals. It pays to have money. I just wanted to be sure there would still be a world left to spend it in.

I took two huge leg pieces from the creature. Harold and I swallowed them up quickly. The train tracks soon faded from my vision. My great grandfather and I vanished in time. We were gone in an instant.

We saw Mount Rushmore, Harold and I. We saw it after getting dizzy from the bug meat. Harold was not quite himself. He looked madder, sicklier and much more tired than usual.

South Dakota’s American tribute once featured George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln.

“My God, Andrew, Rushmore, these faces…”

I won’t share with you, my friends who they were, these faces, dear readers, not yet. First let us tell you about a terrible journey that insulted the dignity, freedom, intelligence and goodness of our species.

We glanced at this corrupt Marxist government’s public T.V. with the people all watching in what was once Time Square. They were awaiting a deeply Christian speech from “The people’s pastor.” The woman from Rapture once knew him as Pastor Fred. He was being introduced by the “people’s actor” Ian Flick. All this emphasis on people and yet they were the last concern of this sick fascist government.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we need to show some respect for the man who told us the true way to Christ,” said Flick.

The audience’s applause was huge.

The radical system of extreme leftism met an unlikely champion in the messiah of Christianity but “liberation theology” changed Nicaragua thanks to the Sandinistas. Now, apparently it changed the other end of the American continent.

“Christ was a man of the people…”

No house, no senate but the building was still there. There were just no direct representatives of the great republic sitting there any longer. The seats were, however, far from empty. They were filled with the czars that were handpicked, selected by fearless, ruthless leader to bring the word of the lord, according to the false prophet of Communism.

We could briefly read the intentions of the people, Harold and I, we could. Now we could see… really see… perhaps the bug was making us feel what the tone of this nightmare society was. It was false contentment, false hope, a web of lies and I felt it in my gut…… a mountain of skulls…

“Now that we have elected this council, one of the people, to divide your possessions and redistribute property the way Jesus would have… this is now the most Christian society in world history,” said the false teacher.

The applause was loud but democracy was silent.

“Andrew?”

“Yes,” I answered him.

“How did this happen?”

“I’m not sure but I think that if the pastor was somehow connected with Flick, she is obviously behind it.”

“Yes,” Harold said.

“My grandfather told my father that politicians were the only criminal class,” I said.

“He was right,” said Harold, smiling like a madman.

“Now the will of the lord is the will of the people,” said the comrade in Christ. He went on to discuss how folks should give up every penny of savings, all their remaining property and gave such a Marxist speech Castro would have blushed. In the end, he was not just a poor excuse for a minster; he was almost like a McCarthy era caricature. Let’s just say that the John Birch Society would be embarrassed by claiming such stereotypes to be real people.

“I want you to give all you can to the point of extreme poverty in order for us to eliminate extreme poverty once and for all,” said the righteous pastor.

Huge applause from everyone in the live audience but there were a few faces that seemed… well… to have a shadow of doubt, not very long though.

“You doubt the lord?” asked the anointed one of the people.

“No!” shouted the old man.

“You, sir, look like a doubter,” he answered him.

“No…”

“Absolutely,” said big brother or big pastor…

“No, you see…”

Armed guards grabbed this doubting Thomas.

“I need faith; you need faith to believe in what I will say next…”

Huge applause, frightened applause followed next.

“I need you to believe… disbelievers… belong in some type of hell, either here or in the next life…”

“God, you know what that means,” Harold said grimly.

“Yes, I sure do,” I answered him.

“Why do humans want to be free?” asked the pastor.

Dead silence, good sheep…

Anderson continued, “It’s an illusion, this freedom. If you think you can pursue whatever happiness you want, you might as well be wishing that the Jinn will grant your wishes. A constitution of freedom has another name… an ancient one… Pandora’s box…”