Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

But the old man didn’t seem to hear him, his mind rapid-firing-

– Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll go away. One two three. One two three four. One two three four five. Count to ten and they’ll go away-

But they didn’t go away. The angry one crouched in front of him now, poking a finger into his shoulder. “You hear me, you stupid shit?”

– One two three. One two three four. One two three four five-

“Come on, Jimmy,” the third one said. “This guy’s a wack job. Let’s get out of here.”

But Jimmy shook his head. “Fuck that. I didn’t spend six months in the desert so this asshole could collect welfare and wallow in his shit all day and night.” He poked the old man again. “Where were you when I was chasing towel heads, you ungrateful prick? Sucking off Uncle Sam’s tit?”

– Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll-

“Come on, Jimmy, give it a rest. He isn’t bothering anyone.”

“You might want to listen to your friend,” Michael said.

He was standing less than three feet away from Jimmy now. Just off to his right side. The jump had been difficult in his condition, but he’d made it anyway.

Jimmy wheeled around and stood up. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“That’s a longer story than we have time for. But I’ll tell you where you’re going.”

“And where’s that?”

“Away,” Michael said. “Right now. Whether or not it’s voluntary is entirely up to you.”

Interfering directly in human affairs was well beyond his boundaries, but he couldn’t help himself. The old man had enough troubles and Michael couldn’t stand there and watch this idiot treat him this way.

Jimmy did a slow burn, looking him up and down. “What are you-king of the bums or something?”

“Something like that.”

Jimmy glanced at his two friends. “You believe this asshole?” He gestured. “Look at him, he’s bleeding all over the goddamn sidewalk.”

That much was true. The stitches had all ruptured now and the gash in Michael’s side was widening. “You will be, too, if you don’t walk away.”

Jimmy stared at him. “You got balls of steel, buddy, I’ll give you-”

Michael delivered the punch hard and fast, bloodying Jimmy’s nose and knocking him on his ass. Then he turned to the other two, who had sense enough to back away.

“This isn’t your fight,” he said. “Pick your friend up and get him out of here. I really don’t want to have to-”

The blow came from behind, delivered directly into the wound in Michael’s side. It made a sick, sucking sound on impact, as pain radiated up through his central nervous system, nearly paralyzing him on the spot.

He grabbed at the wound and fell to one knee, knowing that Jimmy had once and for all rendered this body useless to him. He suddenly felt no connection to it, had no real control. And before he knew it, the three gorillas were standing over him, showering him with punches and kicks, Jimmy’s the most vicious of all.

Then Michael was on the ground, staring into the frightened eyes of the old man-

– Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll go away-

But Michael knew they wouldn’t go away. When they were done with him, Jimmy would again turn his drunken fury on someone who wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

So Michael did what had to be done. Once again violating his code, he burrowed his way into the old man’s brain.

Let me in and I’ll free you, he said. Let me in and all of this will go away forever.

– One two three four five. One two three four five-

Let me in and they can’t hurt you. No will ever hurt you again. It’s the only way. You know it’s the only way.

He had no idea if the old man was listening, and as the blows continued to rain down on him, Michael felt darkness closing in.

When the bum stopped moving, Jimmy spat on him and said, “Guess your balls ain’t so big after all, are they, asshole?”

Cuddy crouched over the guy, feeling for a pulse. “Jesus, Jimmy. He’s dead. We fuckin’ killed him.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Self-defense. Besides, he was already halfway there. We just gave him a nudge.”

“You think the cops are gonna believe that?”

Jimmy saw a bulge in the guy’s back and bent down, pushing his jacket aside. There was a Glock 20 in his waistband. “You see? Fucker was packing. And I don’t see any reason to get the cops involved.”

Cuddy’s eyes were wild. “We’re just gonna leave him here?” He turned to the old bum by the box office, who was still cradling his head. “What about this asshole? He saw the whole thing.”

“Forget him,” Weasel said, starting to back away from them. “He won’t say nothin’. He’s a wack job, remember? He won’t do shit.”

Jimmy pulled the Glock from the bum’s waistband and stood up. “Maybe not. But I’m not willing to give him that chance.”

“What’re you gonna do,” Weasel said, “ shoot the guy?”

“I ain’t gonna take his temperature.”

Cuddy shook his head and let loose a nervous laugh. “Jesus, Jimmy, that’s some cold-ass shit.”

“Think about it. I shoot this asshole, put the gun in the other one’s hand and we got a bum fight gone wrong. Case closed.”

Checking the magazine in the Glock, he snapped it back into place and stepped over to the box office, staring down at the old man.

What a waste of fucking space.

Jimmy pointed the Glock at him. “Better say a prayer, dirtbag, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

“Oh, I believe,” the old man said. And to Jimmy’s utter surprise, he pulled his hands away from his head and looked up at him with unnerving clarity. “And so will you before I’m finished.”

Then he shot a hand out, grabbing Jimmy by the ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. Jimmy brought the Glock up, but before he could fire, the old man had hold of his wrist. He felt the bones breaking and dropped the gun as he cried out in pain, begging for the old man to let him go.

He heard footsteps on the asphalt behind him, but they were headed in the wrong direction and he knew that Cuddy and Weasel were running away.

Now the old man was standing over him, a foot pressed against Jimmy’s chest, an odd, amber tint to his eyes.

“You should’ve walked away when you had the chance.”

Michael left the guy there by the box office. Not dead, but probably wishing he was. And once the police found him, good old Jimmy would have a lot of explaining to do about the badly beaten corpse that lay only feet away from him.

What was it he’d said?

A bum fight gone wrong?

Moving down the street, Michael flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders. The punishment he’d doled out had been a good warm-up, but it would take him a while to break in this new body.

He’d have to do it on the run, however.

It was time to get back to Jenna.

The rumblings of disaster began on the Internet.

Beel sat at his desk surfing the news sites. Maybe Moloch and

Mamman were right, maybe the cumulative efforts of the last several hundred years were about to pay off.

For weeks, the blogosphere and the social networks were abuzz with the news of the release of a classified document. One that allegedly offered proof that Hezbollah militants had not only gotten their hands on a cache of nuclear weapons, but intended to deploy them against Egypt.

The debate raged over whether or not this document was real, but the damage had been done and the governments of Egypt, Syria, Iran and Lebanon were all on high alert, with Israel scrambling to cover itself as well. All parties concerned were spouting tough, heated rhetoric, which generally sent chills down the spines of anyone who was paying attention.