George Chesbro - Second Horseman Out of Eden

Vicky Brown's tiny brow wrinkled in a puzzled frown, and there seemed to be a newfound-if tentative-respect in her pale blue eyes. "You really are one of Santa's helpers?" she said in a small voice. "It's the truth?"

"Santa's helpers never lie," I answered, and cast a quick glance over at the girl's parents. They were both beginning to stir, and that didn't bode well; I thought it might be a little difficult to explain to the girl why one of Santa's helpers had been bashing her parents around. "Can't you see that I'm an elf?"

"What's your name?" she asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Mr. Mongo. I'm one of Santa's helpers who takes care of heavy duty. . uh, Santa sends me out to take care of people who hurt little girls and boys. I'm his toughest helper."

Mr. Brown moaned, then fell silent again. Mrs. Brown, however, was starting to come around. One leg twitched, and she started to raise her head.

"You sure you're not a demon?"

"Yes, Vicky. Uh, why don't you go into the bathroom and spla-"

"How come you have on pink sneakers?" she asked in an accusatory tone as she pointed a tiny finger at my unusual footgear, which the streams I'd waded through on my way from the swamp had washed clean. I decided that her interrogation techniques were as good as, probably better than, Malachy McCloskey's. "Elves don't wear pink sneakers. They wear shoes with pointy toes."

"Only the elves who make toys in Santa's workshop wear shoes with pointy toes," I said tightly, keeping my eye on the woman, who was now pushing herself up from the floor with her hands, shaking her head. The child's back was to her parents, but in another few seconds I was going to have to make some kind of move, and it looked like it was going to have to be an unpleasant one. "Tough elves like me who are sent out to help little girls wear pink sneakers."

"I have to go to the bathroom, Mr. Mongo."

Ah. "You go right ahead, Vicky. I'll be right here when you come back. We'll talk about your puppy."

She'd no sooner stepped into the other room than I was across the floor. I stepped in front of the woman, once again clipped her on the chin-this time more gently, using the heel of my hand. I caught her head, eased it down to the floor, put the towel under it. Then I checked the man's pulse and breathing. I'd apparently hit him harder than I'd intended, but I decided that he'd be all right as soon as he slept a little longer.

Next I checked on the clock radio in the other room. It read 11:05. I returned to the unconscious couple, made a show of covering the woman with an afghan from a sofa set against the wall. The child had become the key, and I couldn't rush.

The child, still looking sleepy, entered the room. Now apparently trusting me completely, she came over to where I knelt beside her mother, wrapped her arms around my neck, and rested her head on my chest.

"What's wrong with Mommy and Daddy, Mr. Mongo?"

"I … I had to make them go to sleep, Vicky."

"Why?"

"For two reasons, Vicky. First, they might not understand that I have to find something and shut it off before it hurts other little girls and boys like you. Second, because they might want to hurt themselves-and you-if I didn't make them go to sleep."

"Why would Mommy and Daddy want to hurt me, Mr. Mongo?"

"They wouldn't know they were hurting you. They believe wrong things. They believe they have to take themselves and you off to God. That's wrong. If God wants you, He'll take you in His own good time."

"We're all supposed to go to God in a little while, Mr. Mongo. There are going to be demons all around outside. We were supposed to stay here until Jesus came down to drive away all the demons and take care of us, but now everything here smells like poo-poo. Mr. Thompson says it's a sign that we're supposed to go to God now, before the demons come. He's made us stuff to drink that will make us sleep while God takes us."

"Vicky, do you like Mr. Thompson?"

She made a small grimace. "I guess he's all right, but he looks real funny now that he doesn't have any ears. Some demon hurt him and took away his ears. Now he kind of scares me sometimes, and I know he scares my mommy and daddy. When he came around here and told us we have to drink that stuff, Mommy and Daddy tried to argue with him. He made them be quiet. I think he scared them."

"Vicky, Mr. Thompson is wrong. He believes wrong things about what God wants. Santa knows what God wants, and Santa doesn't want you or anyone else to drink that stuff and go to sleep like Mr. Thompson wants you to. If you do, you'll never wake up again, and then you won't be able to play with your puppy. That's why Santa sent me here to stop Mr. Thompson from doing those bad things. Do you believe me, Vicky?"

Her answer was a small nod of her head.

"I have to tie your parents up, Vicky, but it will only be for a little while. It's so they won't hurt themselves or try to stop me. After I find what I'm looking for, we'll come back and untie them. Okay?"

She thought about it, finally nodded. "Okay, Mr. Mongo. But please don't tie them too tight."

"I won't. Is there any rope in the house, Vicky?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"It's okay," I said, quickly getting to my feet, hurrying across the room, and sticking my head around the door to glance at the clock radio.

11:19.

I went back, quickly rolled the shower curtain lengthways, and started to tie the man's hands. "Vicky," I said tentatively, feeling the breath catch in my throat, "your father's been working here at Eden for a long time, hasn't he? He takes care of things, right?"

"Yes. But it's not his fault that things here smell like poo. He told me that they weren't building it right, and that they were putting too many people in here."

"Did he ever take you around Eden with him?"

"Oh, yes," she said, and smiled. "He used to take me with him all the time, and he let me help him take care of things. It was a lot of fun before everything started to smell like poo."

"Do you know what a radio transmitter is?"

She shook her head, and I swallowed a grunt of frustration as I tried to think how to describe something when I didn't even know what it looked like.

I continued, "Did your daddy ever talk about a machine, or anything, that was going to send everybody to God just before the demons came?"

"You mean the thing that's going to kill all the niggers, kikes, mud people, and burnoose-heads?"

"Where is it, Vicky?"

"Across the ocean, up on the shore just before the place where the jungle begins. Daddy never did anything to it. He told me it takes care of itself, and that it's all set. But he used to show it to me. It's going to help Jesus when He comes to fight the demons."

"How can we get to it, Vicky?"

"We can get there in a cart by going around the ocean, but it's more fun to go across in a boat."

"Where do they keep the carts, Vicky?"

"They're parked down by-" The girl suddenly stopped speaking, and her eyes suddenly went wide as she looked at something behind me. "What are you going to do with that ax, Mr. Thompson?"

I pushed Vicky to one side, then leaped away just as the heavy head of a fire ax buried itself with a loud thunk into the floor on the spot where I had been kneeling a moment before. Tanker Thompson cursed loudly as he struggled to free the ax head.

First I threw a pillow from the sofa at him, because it was the only thing at hand. He didn't seem even to notice as it bounced off his face. But he noticed when I threw a side kick into his left thigh, just above the spot where I had pumped a bullet into his leg. The seemingly indestructible giant screamed, grabbed with both hands at his thigh, and began hopping around on his right foot. I hopped after him, drawing my revolver and aiming it directly at the hole on the right side of his head where one of his ears had been before he'd pulled it off. I pulled the trigger; just as I feared, I was rewarded for my efforts with nothing more than a dull click. As he roared with pain and rage and reached for me, I ducked under his arms and brought the end of the barrel up hard into his groin.