All Bad Things

—13—

“I thought he was murdered,” Samson says. “How did you find this tape?”

“One of your acolytes found it back when you were clearing out the old studio to bring everything here. He didn’t know what it was or how important. It was hidden in a vent behind some equipment. Gave it to Cyrus.”

“Cyrus knew about this?”

“He thought he’d destroyed it. Had the acolyte who found it murdered. He was so freaked you’d find out about it. But we got to it in time, replaced it with a blank for him to toss into the fire.”

“Who’s we?”

“Haven’t you figured it out, yet?” Volkov asks. “Hollywood. I’ve been a spy for them for years. Working my way up through your ranks, feeding them intelligence the whole time. Almost managed to kill you on Western when I brought in the guy with the bomb vest. I was even prepared to die for the cause that day. But goddamn, aren’t you one lucky sonofabitch.”

“I trusted you. You were my right hand.”

“You trusted your delusions, Samson. You trusted your hallucination of King to give you the justification to do what you wanted to do anyway.”

“No. No, that’s not—”

“You’re insane, Samson. You weren’t getting your cues from God, you were getting them from your cross–wired brain.”

“No. I talk to him. He’s saved me. He’s told me what to do. King was—”

“A lie. You’re not talking to King. He’s dead. He’s been dead for years.”

“Then who do I talk to when he comes to me?”

“Yourself, you crazy fuck. King was a lie that you bought into and Cyrus fed. Cyrus has never been a believer, you know that, right? Do you know Cyrus wanted me to assassinate you on Wilshire? He thought you were getting too big for your britches. I was supposed to shoot you and blame Hollywood for it and start a war. Dumb fuck didn’t know it was already on. You’ve been betrayed, Samson. By King, by Cyrus.”

“By you.”

“I’m not sure I count,” she says. “I mean, I’ve always been your enemy. You just didn’t know it. You know, the funny thing is that for all the horrors you’ve brought into the world, you’re an honorable man. You always treated me right, your people right. You even cared about the ones you murdered. I wonder who you’d have been if you’d never found King. Never found Cyrus.”

“Why did you come here? Why show me this?”

“Because I knew you didn’t die in the street. Hoped, at least. I wanted to see the look on your face when I showed you the lie you’ve been living for all these years. I’m sorry, Samson. I pity you, but you’re a monster. And monsters should be broken before they’re put down.”

Volkov pulls a pistol from her pocket.

Samson’s mind reels. The video changes everything—King’s teachings, the murders Samson and the Church have conducted in his name, God’s plan. It’s all built on a foundation of bullshit. Samson is a killer for a cause that never existed, the follower of a charlatan. All because he wanted something to believe in. He can feel it all coming apart in his mind. All the things he thought he knew disintegrating like sand in the wind.

“I can fix this,” he says. He has to fix it. If King’s teachings were all lies, then this isn’t God’s plan at all.

Volkov laughs. “Can you now? Can you bring all those people you murdered back to life? Can you rebuild the camps you’ve torched, the families you’ve torn apart?”

“No, but I can change the Church. I know where they are. I can take this to them. I can turn it around.”

“Sorry, Samson. It’s too late for that.” Volkov fires, but Samson jogs to the right and instead of punching through his chest, the bullet digs into his arm, a searing pain blossoming through his entire left side.

He launches himself at her, tackling her to the floor. He doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to keep up the lie, but she shoots him again, this time grazing his scalp, and he punches her in the face over and over as the red rage fills him up and blinds him. When he comes back to himself, Volkov lies motionless on the floor, her head a pulpy mess of blood and shattered bone.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll fix this. You’ll see. I’ll fix it all.”

“I don’t see how you can.”

Samson turns to see King leaning against the doorjamb, half his head missing, chunks of brain plopping onto the floor.

“What are you doing here?”

“Weren’t you listening to her? You’re insane. I’m here because I’m your crazy, fucked–up brain. Maybe I’m a stroke. Or maybe I really am James King, here to lead you on the path of righteousness. Or maybe I’m the devil. I’m Satan and you’re just my puppet.”

Samson shoves the heel of his hand into his eye. Wishes it would all go away, that it would all make sense. He slows his breathing, counts to ten. Opens his eye.

“Still here.”

“You’re not real,” Samson says.

“I’m as real as you are, Samson. Maybe more so. How do you know Volkov was telling the truth?”

“Because I saw the video. I saw you admit it was all lies.”

“Maybe it was faked. Maybe your delusion is the tape and I’m actually real and you’re my delusion. Wouldn’t that be fucked up?”

“Stop it!” It’s all too much and Samson can’t take it. He’s been wandering through the streets for more than a day, exhausted, dehydrated, starving. This is all just a hallucination, it has to be. King, the tape, Volkov.

“Nope. That’s all real,” King says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to. I’m in your head. Hell, I am your head. Look, Samson, accept the fact that you’ve lost. That all of this is a psychotic break. You’ll feel better.”

“I will fix this. You’re a lie. You’ve always been a lie and I was an idiot to follow you.”

“I gave you what you wanted, Samson,” King says. “I gave you purpose. And when you doubted, I was there to guide your hand. You think I’m not real? Without me, you’re nothing. Not the other way around. You know what you should do? You should pick up that pistol from the floor and take my way out.” King makes a finger gun with his hand and puts it to his ravaged skull.

Samson closes his eyes and screams. “No. That’s a coward’s way out. I’ll fix this. I’ll go up and talk to Cyrus and together we’ll turn the Church around.”

He waits for King to tell him he’s insane or stupid, to mock him for what he’s done. But he doesn’t say a word. Samson opens his eye.

James King is gone.

Samson heads up the hill, his left leg dragging behind him. It’s taken most of the day to get this far and he’s not about to stop. He can see the tunnel leading to the Bastion of Faith up ahead. Church members are stacking boxes at the mouth, unspooling wires and attaching them to a box inside the tunnel. And there’s Cyrus sitting under an umbrella, giving them orders. He looks worried, a little haggard. No doubt he hasn’t slept much, either. He keeps touching the gun holstered at his belt as though he’s expecting the Hollywood army to overrun them at any minute.

“Samson?” Cyrus says, peering into the trees as he approaches. “You’re alive!”

“Don’t sound so happy, you liar,” Samson says, stepping onto the road. “I talked to Volkov. She told me everything. She showed me the tape.”

Cyrus chews his lip, says nothing for a long time. Then, “Everyone, we’re done here. Back to the Bastion.”

“But sir, the explosives aren’t ready.”

“They’re ready enough.” Cyrus goes to the box with all the wires and pushes a button. A readout on the box glows red with 2:00. Samson thinks he’s set the bomb for two hours until the readout starts to tick down. Two minutes.

The acolytes run out the back of the tunnel and up toward the Bastion, throwing nervous glances behind them. Soon Cyrus and Samson are alone.

“Sealing the Church off from the rest of the world, Cyrus?”

“It’s temporary,” Cyrus says. “Give us some breathing room. We’ve got enough food and guns in there to last long enough. And I’ve already got plans for moving our territory north into Burbank. So. Volkov. She was a spy for Hollywood, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Should have fuckin’ known.”

Samson pulls the tape from where he’s stuffed it into his waistband at the small of his back. Its sharp edges have dug into his skin. Bringing it up here is only part of his penance.

He throws it at Cyrus’s feet. Cyrus stares at it like it’s a dead rat. “Huh. Thought I burned that thing a long time ago. So you saw it. And I suppose she told you I was going to have you killed?”

“You don’t deny it?”

“Why should I? You know the big truth already. What’s one more little one on the pile?”

“We can fix this, Cyrus. We can make the Church different. King didn’t want us to be murderers.”

A noise in the distance. People moving up the hill. Hollywood soldiers? Has to be. Samson knows they couldn’t have been far behind him. He was lucky to get here before they did.

Cyrus clears his throat. “I don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll keep this brief. You’re an idiot. You think people are going to get behind ‘be good to each other’? No. They need order and protection. They’re sheep for fleecing and if we don’t do it, somebody else will. Come on, Samson, you know how this works. You kill or you die out here. There’s no in between.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does,” Cyrus says. He pulls his pistol and shoots Samson in the chest. The bullet plows through Samson’s right lung. He staggers, but he doesn’t fall.

“You’re the second person to shoot me today,” Samson says through clenched teeth.

“Well, let me try it again to make sure it sticks.” Cyrus pulls the trigger. The gun jams. He racks the slide, desperately trying to clear it, but Samson is on him in a flash, the sledgehammer swinging up into Cyrus’s jaw. Bone shatters, teeth and blood go flying.

Samson brings the sledgehammer around again, swinging it hard into the side of Cyrus’s head. His skull caves, spraying blood and brain across the floor of the tunnel. Cyrus falls to the ground, his limbs spasming, a low, thin wheeze escaping his lips. Samson stands on top of his chest and hits him again, kicks at his already–destroyed skull until it’s nothing but so much red paste.

“It could have been different,” Samson says.

A bullet whizzes over his shoulder, cracks the cement of the tunnel wall. At first he thinks it’s one of the Church Faithful, but it’s coming from the wrong direction. He turns to see a dozen Hollywood soldiers coming out of the trees toward him. He waves them back, yells at them to stop. Yells about the bomb. He needs to warn them, save them, needs to explain. He can fix this. He just needs time.

They don’t give it to him. They rush him, firing blindly. He drops the sledgehammer, yells for them to listen. But a bullet pierces his other lung, and he’s got no air left to explain.

They descend upon him with knives and hatchets, beating him, cutting him, slicing into his flesh. More join the fray. The tunnel fills with them, each looking for a piece of the monster. Each taking their revenge for a dead friend, a murdered lover, a slaughtered child, tears in their eyes. Samson lies there and lets them do it. It’s his penance, his punishment.

He tries to say, “I’m sorry,” but the only sound is a terrible rushing roar that fills the tunnel with light and fire that kills Samson, kills the soldiers.

And kills the truth.