F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

“Faggots,” said Hagaman, a long-bearded, barrel-chested biker type to Jack’s left. “Just like their boss man.”

“Former boss man,” Jack said.

Indelicate photos involving Luther Brady, the Dormentalists’ disgraced Supreme Overseer and Acting Prime Dormentalist—now former SO and APD—had surfaced last fall. He was awaiting trial on a variety of charges, sexual misconduct the least of them.

Hagaman sneered. “Bet the new one’s a faggot too.” He squinted at the entrance to the temple. “And what’s that bullshit over the door? I seen it a dozen times but what the fuck’s it mean?”

The desires of the worthless many are controlled by

the desires and knowledge of the decent few .

Plato

Jack shrugged. “It’s Plato. And Plato didn’t always make a lot of sense.”

He’d never understood how anyone had ever bought into that shadows-on-the-wall stuff.

“Yeah,” Hagaman said with a derisive snort. “What can you expect from Mickey Mouse’s dog?”

Jack laughed, then noticed Hagaman’s sharp look. “You were kidding, right?”

“No.”

“ Play -toe—the philosopher.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Him. What’s his first name again?”

“He’s just known as Plato.”

“Just one name? Who’s he think he is—Madonna?”

Jack turned away and spotted a couple of Dormentalists walking toward their temple. Their steel-gray, double-breasted jackets were buttoned all the way up to their high collars. Some wore military-style cords draped across the front or around a shoulder. He was pretty sure they weren’t going for the Michael Jackson look. Maybe Sergeant Pepper.

“We’d like to convert the members,” Darryl was saying, “but we’re most interested in the ones going in and out who ain’t in uniform. Those are recruits. And we want to get them before the Dormies do. We want them to be Kickers instead of Dormies. All they gotta do is read that chapter and they’ll want to read the book. And once they read the book, they’re ours. So concentrate on them.” Darryl grinned. “And if the Dormies give you any trouble, well, you just give it right back. Got it?”

The Kickers cheered, Hagaman the loudest.

Jack knew the possibilities for some rough-and-tumble were what drew these guys up here. Most of them were bunking at the Kicker HQ downtown and it gave them a chance to earn some Kicker “community service” points in exchange for their keep.

For Jack it was a chance to stay in touch with the group. He sensed they’d coalesced around Hank Thompson for some purpose. They themselves didn’t seem to know what that was, but he wanted to be nearby when they found out.

As they trooped across the street, a dreadlocked Kicker who Jack knew only as Kewan—and who knew Jack only as Johnny—sidled up to him.

“Hey, Johnny, got a light?”

A smile creased his deeply pocked cheeks . . . a face like the surface of the moon—the dark side.

“Sure.” Jack fished out his Bic and handed it to him.

Kewan grinned. “Great. Now, got a ciggie?”

Jack had guessed that was coming. A lot of these guys had little cash, so he always made a point of carrying a pack of Marlboro Reds. Kewan had lit up by the time they reached the other side.

They split into two groups of a half dozen each and flanked the doors. As the universally smiling and pleasant Dormentalists emerged or approached, the Kickers pressed them to take the sample chapter and read it. To a man and woman they refused. They knew they were being watched from inside.

Last year Jack had become involved with the Dormentalists—he wasn’t alone in thinking of it as a cult rather than a church—and knew what went on behind the walls of this tightly controlled, globe-spanning organization that touted its costly programs as steps toward self-realization. By contrast, the Kickers were a loose organization of disparate types brought together by a bestselling book.

The so-called Kicker Evolution that Hank Thompson touted in Kick embraced all socioeconomic strata, but the lower echelons seemed to return the clinch with the most fervor. Many of them—including their leader—had had brushes with the law.

The Dormentalists had been in long-term competition with the Scientologists—known in Kicker circles as “L. Ron Hubtards”—over who could cull more depressed and lost sheeple from the human herd for fleecing. Then Hank Thompson had appeared on the scene with his Kick manifesto, urging people to “dissimilate” from society and join the Kicker Evolution. Millions had responded, decimating the ranks of both the Dormentalists and Scientologists. But Thompson wanted more. Right now another group of Kickers was over on West 46th Street at the Scientology building handing out chapters and spoiling for a fight.

After ten minutes of harassing the Dormentalists, Jack checked his watch. Any second now . . .

Sure enough, right on time, a group of Temple Paladins spilled from the entrance. Their military jackets were a deep burgundy instead of gray. Known as TPs, they functioned as the cult’s security force.

“All right, you Wall Addicts. How many times do we have to tell you? Move away from the door!”

“We’ve got as much a right to be here as anybody!” Jack shouted, for the simple purpose of establishing his presence among the Kickers.

The usual pushing and shoving match began. Soon the NYPD would arrive and break it up. Jack always made it a point to be gone by then.

A super-size TP, looking like a grape Kool-Aid pitcher, appeared in the doorway carrying a cardboard box.

“Attention TPs!” he bellowed. “They’ve been declared ‘In Season.’ Come and get ’em!”

In Season . . . Dormentalese for an enemy of the cult who was to be eliminated by any means necessary.

The TPs surrounded the new guy and pulled billy clubs from the box. Then they charged. The Kickers outnumbered them, but the Kickers were unarmed.

A TP with short blond hair and bad skin took a diagonal swing at Jack’s head. Jack shifted to the side and grabbed the guy’s arm as the baton went by. He pushed it farther in its present direction and brought his knee up against the back of the elbow, hyperextending it. The TP screamed and dropped the nightstick. As Jack grabbed for it, he saw another TP taking a grand-slam swing at him.

Why was he so popular? Because he’d shouted?

He pulled the first TP into the path of the blow, hearing him grunt as it hit his shoulder. He picked up the first’s nightstick and rammed it into the second’s solar plexus, doubling him over. Then he jabbed him in a kidney. The guy went down.

“Hey, you’re pretty good with that.”

He looked around and saw Hagaman grinning at him. Behind him on the street he saw someone step out of his car and raise a camera.

He ducked his head and handed Hagaman the baton.

“Let’s see what you can do.”

Time to move.

As Hagaman charged into the melee, Jack turned and strode off. The Kickers would remember him as someone who spoke up when challenged and gave better than he got in the fight. His Kicker credentials were reconfirmed. No need to be on camera or present when the cops arrived.

Time for a beer. He’d earned one.

4

Ernst Drexler ended his phone call and turned to find someone standing in his office.

No, not someone. The One.

He shot to his feet and broke out in a sweat as he always did in the One’s presence. The man—no, he was something more than a man—frightened him to the core, especially the way he entered and left rooms without warning whenever he pleased.

“You’ve located the troublemaker,” the One said—a statement, not a question. “Who is he?”