The Reality Conspiracy (60 page)

May your will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.

"There are many ways to destroy a man, Father William. Perhaps the most humane is to completely and instantly extinguish his physical body—a boot upon an ant. At least this permits a sense of hope. For if he has faith, the doomed man ends with his cherished beliefs unviolated."

as we forgive those who offend against us.

"Less charitable but perhaps far more honest is to destroy the man by destroying the beliefs. Destruction yes, but not necessarily death. Do you understand what I mean, Father?" The voice was clearer now. Stronger. More youthful and familiar. "Suppose I were to tell you that every principle for which you've lived your long and painful life is bogus, a contrivance, a system of lies and illusions aimed at seeking your cooperation in the advancement of abstract and incomprehensible ends, ends you can never understand the first thing about?"

And lead as not into temptation.

"From the human viewpoint, of course, either notion is ugly, ultimately undesirable, it would seem to me. But I propose a compromise. Suppose I were to offer you an alternate system of beliefs? One based on observable phenomena, signs and events that shine as great truth within the muddle, murk, and mud of the human mind? In other words, William, suppose I were to cut through the crap and tell you what life is all about?"

deliver us...

"Believe me, Father William, I can show you the reason you are here. I can tell you where you are going and what will happen to you the instant immediately following the moment of your physical death. I can tell you the meaning of all the institutions and political systems that have arisen and fallen, and I can show you the tangible ends of religions, arts, and philosophical thought. In short—and with a very few words—I can teach you the indisputable meaning of life. And I can offer what your church cannot. William, I can offer proof. Would you like that?"

. . . from Evil.

Father Sullivan's mind was so paralyzed that his only defense was to fall back into ritual. The words of the Pater Noster played in his brain like an endless loop on a tape recorder. This effort of faith seemed to shield a deeper level of mind where rational thought continued unimpaired. There was no denying that he was a prisoner. If he got up from the chair, that same invisible force would propel him back down again. But more than that, he suspected he was in that chair for a reason, according to the irresistible demand of some infernal designer. This reunion with his childhood mentor must have been planned. It was too utterly fantastic to be total coincidence. He had replaced Father Mosely in Hobston at St. Joseph's parish. Now he faced the diabolical fa
ç
ade of his precursor in some kind of withering good-against-evil confrontation.

How had he been manipulated like this?

How could he hope to stop it?

Had his years of education, devotion, and professional experience prepared him to offer no better resistance than the parrotlike uttering of prayer? Sullivan pinched his eyes tightly together, pleading for guidance.

Was it humility or hubris that made him think he had been the one—the only one—divinely selected to parry this satanic assault?

I must do what I can
, he thought.
I must meet this challenge of my own free will, but in the name and by the authority of Jesus Christ and His Church
.

If Sullivan could hold his faith intact, perhaps his wits would contrive some sort of defense. He lifted his head, opened his eyes to meet sparkling black orbs that bore viciously into him, probing toward his soul.

"What do you want with me?" he asked.

When McCurdy came to, he was on the soggy ground. Though the rain had stopped, he was soaked to the skin. And he was cold, shivering. Bone-deep pain permeated his face, radiated down his spine as he remembered the kick Jeff had delivered to his chin.

He broke my jaw
, he thought. A dry sob wracked his aching chest.

Breath felt like sandpaper in his throat.

Before he was able to open his eyes, he smelled carrion and offal. Reluctantly, he willed his eyelids to open. His hands and his clothing were smeared with streaks of the bloody rain.

Looking around, he saw Jeff and his daughter were gone.

Carnage surrounded him, as if he were the sole survivor waking on a battlefield. Pieces of bleeding bodies had turned the mud red. The smell was appalling. He gagged. Retched. Vomit spewed across his knees and splashed against a severed hand that clutched a Bible.

The agony of the violent expulsion filled his head with new pain.

Chunks of bodies. Heads. Split torsos. Intestines. Legs so cleanly detached they appeared the work of a butcher's cleaver. These were his apostles.

These were the witnesses who would have sung the glory of the new day. As he painfully contorted to a sitting position he saw the bloody fragments of the TV newswoman and her shattered video camera. Videotape spread from a cracked cassette like entrails extruding from a wound.

He grabbed a handful of his magnetically recorded miracle, then cast it down into the mud.

Worse, as his fuzzy thoughts cleared he knew the connection was broken. The voice no longer whispered in his head. His psychic link with the computer was severed like a nerve.

Why have you forsaken me?

McCurdy tried to get to his feet, but he was too heavy. He fell, rolled onto his back, and looked up at the sky.

He had been duped. Deceived. Now, with a fresh clarity of thought, he began to realize what he had done.

It was a sin too great to be forgiven. It was a realization no mind was strong enough to bear.

He wanted to repent, but to whom?

He felt moisture on his cheeks.

Was it raining again?

In the distance, he saw three people running toward the farmhouse.

"What do I want from you?" The creature's words carried images and meaning directly into Father Sullivan's mind. "This is not a matter of I and you, William."

Father Mosely's mouth wasn't moving. Sullivan wasn't listening. But communication occurred just the same. Sullivan could feel it humming in his brain.

The alien presence in the room had increased tremendously. Its power made it almost visible in the darkness. It was all around him like a nauseating vapor.

"You are far too provincial, William. You must learn to think grandly. Not just globally, but universally, cosmically. It will soon be within your power to make things better, easier, for many people on many different levels."

By now there was no more room in Sullivan's mind for prayer or independent thought. The onslaught of demonic ideas overloaded the strength of his mental resources. He was enduring a kind of psychic brainwashing. Everything registered as true; he found himself believing every word.

"First I want you to consider the near-fanatical capacity your race has for destruction. While boasting that you strive for order, you destroy with intent. You destroy with abandon and from innocence. Destruction is in your nature—and by design, that's exactly as it should be.

"Most of what you do is of little consequence to us. If you seek to befoul life-sustaining waters with your waste and excrement, that's fine and good. If you want to annihilate a companion species or two—a bird or animal or fish—so much the better. If you prefer to engage in warfare for politics, principal, economics, or even population control, we have no quarrel with that. In fact, over the eons we have done our share to encourage you along all those lines. We enjoy your antics until they begin to affect our well-being. The truth is, your antics bring death. And death is . . . of great value to us.

"That's right, William, we . . . encourage certain of mankind's delusions because they provide us with . . . merriment. Your struggle to the stars is a favorite comedy. What can you possibly hope to gain from such frivolity? Your efforts are akin to those of a mite on a carnival wheel.

"But while your puffery and pride may entertain us, they must be controlled and directed, for—after millions of years—you are starting to become dangerous. Even when you act out in ignorance you often perpetrate far greater damage than you have the capacity to understand. Universal damage. Cosmic damage.

"The balance of nature is something your kind can never understand. Why? Because nature extends too far beyond you. You cannot fathom the simplest cause and effect relationships, so any concept of totality is impossible.

"Let me give you an example: you have the wisdom to recognize how your destruction of forests endangers the creatures residing there. Yet you selfishly continue, though ultimately that same destruction is a far greater danger to your own oxygen supply. You can't muster the will nor the wisdom to stop. Headstrong you violate nature's precision: you kill, you damage, you destroy. But individually you are protected; your trivially short life span exempts you from suffering any immediate personal consequences of your actions.

"By dismissing us as supernatural what you have failed to understand is that we too are a part of nature. We may not be accessible to your telescopes, microscopes, or electronic equipment, for we exist outside the confines of space and time. Yet—along with birds and fish and animals—we are a companion to your species.

"As one trained in Roman Catholic theology, William, you are better equipped than any scientist to understand the nature of our existence. You understand spirit. You accept its reality. Do you understand?"

Yes, Sullivan understood perfectly. The colloquial phrasing, the familiar, almost companionable mode of address, the ecological examples, the overall logic of the presentation—all of it might have been articulated by a friend or colleague. Mosely's demon knew how to speak to him, how to convince him. Sullivan was beyond resistance, yet the creature continued.

"Unlike your kind, we have existed since the beginning of time. Symbiotically, we are linked to you like an older brother who has been with you since the moment of your birth. Throughout the ages we have played a critical role in your upbringing by creating your myths, your folklore, and . . . your religion."

Sullivan closed his eyes. He had expected that final revelation, but didn't want to hear it. Protesting, he knew, would do no good. Defending his faith was impossible. Though he tried to form a prayer in his mind, he could not. He wasn't in control. All that filled him was the creature's words.

"Unlike you, we are not bound in the evolutionary manacles of brief birth-death cycles. We have watched your mistakes, have watched you repeat them, and regret them, and repeat them again, until your blunders grow and evolve beyond your ability to correct. All the while each of you is restricted to a lifetime of a scant seven decades; your blunders evolve while you do not.

"Know this, William: mankind is an imperfect animal. In each of you, from the most primitive cave dweller to the most advanced humanistic thinker, each of you holds within himself the capacity to destroy all things. You are held in check only by the vague and vanishing concept of conscience.

"And who created conscience?

"We did.

"Then we taught you how to acquire and instill it."

Father Sullivan groaned, slumped in his chair. The rosary beads were hot coals against his wrists. His skin seemed to vibrate like the head of a drum pounded by the creature's words.

"For thousands of years we have revealed ourselves to you by accident and by design. We present ourselves as angels, spirits, fairies, monsters. Even demons. We are your UFOs and the UFO occupants. And whatever form we take, our purpose is to guide, instruct, and ultimately to keep mankind confused, ideologically at odds with itself. We see to it that your religion, your scientific research, your political philosophies, are fragmented into myriad conflicting and non-uniform disciplines. Thereby, we render all your institutions ineffective.

"Our tools—or weapons, if you prefer—appear to you as magic, supernatural intervention, and individual inspiration. I'm talking about lies, jokes, coincidences, and metaphysical theatrics. I'm talking about cosmic minstrel shows like the one occurring around you right now. By forming and reinforcing human experience, we help to perpetuate your most primitive beliefs. Thus, exactly like the farmer who fences his livestock, we control you."

Father Sullivan felt himself shivering. He wanted to pass out but the creature's words burned like a fire in his mind.

"We are like you, but we are your antithesis. Where human beings boast of their instinctive quest for order, logic, and fulfillment, our goals are quite different. Different, and I'm afraid completely beyond your capacity to understand.

"That's why we have the right to command and direct you. And this relationship has worked well for millions of years. But now something has happened.

"Unfortunately, we've never completely controlled the channels of communication between our dominions. Some of you, through accident, instinct, or imaginative persistence, have almost come to know us. Some have even initiated communication using magical rites, spiritualism, channeling, and religion. Those, you see, are the languages of communication between our realms. Sometimes when you call, we answer. Sometimes we do not.