Pavel Kravchenko - Project Antichrist

Through the door, then. To see the wizard. Prepare your wishes. And your guns.

The door was unlocked. The Silver Killer entered the stage. Paul turned the knob and we were inside the adjoining room. The chanting stopped.

“Doc?” I called in a whisper.

“I said not to bother me,” an irritated, whiny voice complained. I couldn’t see the man, so I immediately assumed he was behind a curtain. But there was no curtain. The man was seated in a deep, high-backed, emerald-colored, velvet armchair with its back to the door. He got up, a glass of something dark in his hand, and turned to face us. His haircut was goofy at best. The top was combed to the left, while the hair on the sides was curled into thick muffs covering his ears. From the spot between his tiny eyes and heavy, drooping cheeks, a rather meaty proboscis pointed at my boots. He measured us both with a stare a studio exec directs at a camera man.

Then he recognized me and nearly fell over. He didn’t drop his glass, however, clutching it instead to his heart.

“You,” he breathed. And then another voice, one that almost made me fall over, cried, “Luke?”

“Iris!” I shouted and ran towards the man, gun outstretched in my hand. As he sagged to the left and whimpered, I saw her, all at once, face bruised, the red sweater torn, bound to some grotesque offspring of a marriage between Procrustean bed and a gynecological exam table. Her skirt had been lifted to reveal the black panties she’d worn to our date.

“Luke,” Paul said quietly behind me.

Forgetting the pain, I grabbed the gun with both hands and spun around to face the bastard. He was slinking slowly towards the window. Covering the distance with two steps I would later not remember taking, I pushed the muzzle of the gun into his cheek and screamed in his face.

“I didn’t do anything!” he pleaded. “I swear! Please.”

“Luke…”

“It’s true, Luke.” That was Iris now. “I’m sure he was planning it, but between the blast and now he just drank and complained.”

She sounded frightened, and awkwardly serious. After a pause I was able to bend my elbow and pull the gun back. Then I smashed his face with the handle. He cried out and fell backwards, writhing and covering his mouth. The green carpet got stained with blood, in a small puddle of which pieces of teeth appeared to swim.

Putting the gun away I hurried to release Iris. Outside, in the larger office someone was banging on the door. Paul went to see and I heard several shots. The bleeding man on the floor moaned. The banging stopped.

“We have to leave,” Paul shouted.

I helped Iris off the contraption. “He said it was you in that explosion,” she said, staring at me as I untied her.

“He wasn’t lying, but that doesn’t necessarily make it true, does it?”

Suddenly, she grinned the old Iris grin and jumped on me, covering my face with kisses. I did it! I thought. Here I was and here was Iris, both alive. I laughed, then gasped and almost fell with her on top of me, as my wounded shoulder reminded me of itself with momentary darkness. Iris noticed and jumped off.

“Luke, you’re hurt.”

I chuckled against despite the pain, but my grin disappeared quickly.

“Iris, where’s Doc?” I scanned the room. There must have been a hidden passage somewhere, a cell, a cage, something.

“They kept us in a cell downstairs before bringing me here,” she said.

“No, no, no,” I was saying. “He led me here. His… chanting led me here. I heard it all the way, then it stopped as soon as we entered this room. He must be here somewhere…”

I turned to the toothless guy.

“Where’s Dr. Young?”

“I don’t know!” he groaned. I started walking towards him. “Please! Last time I checked he was down in the dormitory. They might have moved him if he isn’t there.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me. “No. He is there. Damn it, Doc.”

We couldn’t go back for him. I knew it, and Dr. Young had known the same thing when he had begun his weird telepathic chant. The crazy doctor-priest I barely knew had led me straight to her, and with her freedom I’d accumulated a debt I couldn’t repay. We had to leave. Now.

“Luke!” Paul shouted. More shots were coming from the other side of the locked door.

Taking Iris’s hand in mine I hurried back into the TV room. Paul was pushing the armchair across the floor. He wedged it under the locked door, which was now under heavy fire. It gave in just as the elevator closed. More thuds.

“Brome, what are you doing?” It was Brighton, on the chopper’s radio. Four minutes had passed since takeoff. He needed nine more to get there. He ignored his partner, but did not turn the radio off.

“Brome, I know you’re there. The cameras picked you up. We’re tracking you heading north. Listen, whatever it is, you’re not thinking straight. Land the chopper and surrender. I talked to some people here. They know about the pills. They’re willing to give you a long medical leave with full pay. I’m talking three, maybe four months paid vacation. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

The radio stayed silent for two minutes. When Brome showed no sign of following the instructions, Brighton returned.

“Listen to me. You should know how edgy everyone is today. First the Pope, then we get word Whales drove a car-bomb into some lab…” A pause. “Now you’re stealing a chopper and flying it in the same direction. Not too hard to make a connection. They think you might be headed to finish the job. That you and Whales are friends now. Of course, I know better than that, but…” Here Brighton lowered his voice. “They want to blast you out of the sky. The only reason you’re still airborne is because I keep telling them you’re not the sort to blow up a building. That you’re not crazy. Help me out here, partner. Land somewhere we can talk.”

Down below him the Chicagoland sprawled like an old bed sheet. He had complete feel for the machine now; the inevitable rust was off. Also, now that he was in the air, Brome had complete control of himself.

Brighton was bluffing. He knew as well as Brome that FBI choppers did not carry any missiles. Twin eighteen-millimeter machine guns were the extent of their armament. A chopper like that would do well against infantry, but there wasn’t enough firepower to damage a building much, let alone blow one up. Same went for blasting him out of the sky. Even a civilian would not immediately catch an anti-air rocket less than thirty miles from O’Hare. For an FBI agent there would be calls made, then there would be an escort. A couple of fighter planes to make sure he didn’t reach anything important. It would be at least fifteen minutes between the first call and the escort reaching him from Chanute Air Force Base. All Brome needed was five more.

“Oliver,” Brighton’s voice said. “Grace and Annie are here at the office. They’re worried sick. We all are. Do them a favor. Land the chopper before it’s too late. Come on, partner. Don’t throw it all away.”

Brome shook his head. Another bluff. Had his family really been there, they would be on the radio right now. He knew Brighton well enough to expect that.

Just then, a dying cloud of smoke and the distinct black rectangle of the facility appeared on the northern horizon.

“Brighton,” Brome said into the microphone. “Stall them. I’m not going to blow anything up. This is a rescue mission, not an assault. I’ll bring the chopper back to the HQ in twenty minutes.”

Switching the radio off, he began to descend.

The song of helicopter blades that greeted us when the elevator doors opened could have easily topped every chart in the world. Top it off with the brightest sunshine I had ever squinted against and the touch of frigid November wind on my wet hair, and even thoughts of Dr. Young’s sacrifice loosened their hold on my conscience. The pain in my shoulder I had forgotten completely.