Samson stares at the screen, his mind reeling. This can’t be happening. He’s watched every show King produced, saw every recorded image. Where did this one come from?
“I’ve said terrible things on this show. Terrible. Lies. Slander. Blasphemy, even. And for what?” King laughs, hollow and sick, like he can’t bear to answer his own question.
“I didn’t start this way. When I started in Cleveland, my show was the Hour of Light. I talked about spreading God’s love, about bringing peace to the world. Nobody watched it. I was canceled after one season. So I tried it again and again. Atlanta, Detroit, Chicago. And then one day I got mad on the air. Just couldn’t take it anymore. Went off on… I don’t even remember. Some teeny–bopper Madonna bullshit, or something.”
Tears are pouring down King’s face. His breath comes out in hitching sobs. “And you fuckers ate it up. You ate up all that bile, and the more I spewed, the more you came back. What the hell was I supposed to do? Give up the ratings, the audience? The money? Could you? I know what some of you have done in my name. I read my fan mail. It’s sick what you people do. Attacks on gays, on immigrants. One of you admitted to burning down a synagogue, another murdered a black man because you thought I told you to do it. Did I? Christ, I probably did. And every day you tuned in and watched me spew more hatred. You fed on it, and you put it back out into the world. You’re just as much to blame for all this as I am. Hell, more so. This is your doing. You people created me.”
King pulls a massive pistol out from under the desk. “They say the bombs are dropping today. That missiles are already in the air. What good is being rich now? All the money in the world won’t stop that from happening. This was all a sham. I don’t believe in God anymore, but I do believe in sin. And I’ve sinned against everyone.”
He racks the slide on the pistol, and the sound echoes from the speaker like God readying a thunderbolt. “Well, I can’t take it back, but maybe I can still do something about it for anyone who survives. If anyone’s still alive out there, if anyone sees this, just… just be good to each other. Please. Help each other out. All this hatred I’ve been spewing, that’s not the answer to life. I see that now, and I’m so, so sorry.”
Samson watches in horror as King places the pistol between his eyes. “All bad things must come to an end,” he says, and pulls the trigger.
King’s head explodes, spraying the world map behind him in a familiar stain of blood and bone, his body slumping to the floor. There’s a scream off camera. A woman runs to him crying and saying his name over and over again. A few minutes of this and the tape goes to static and then black.
“That’s your prophet, Samson,” Volkov says. “When the chips were down, he showed who he really was: a weak, blubbering liar.”
—13—
“All bad things must come to an end.”
“I thought he was murdered,” Samson says. “How did you find this tape?”
“One of your acolytes found it back when you were clearing out the old studio to bring everything here. He didn’t know what it was or how important. It was hidden in a vent behind some equipment. Gave it to Cyrus.”
“Cyrus knew about this?”
“He thought he’d destroyed it. Had the acolyte who found it murdered. He was so freaked you’d find out about it. But we got to it in time, replaced it with a blank for him to toss into the fire.”
“Who’s we?”
“Haven’t you figured it out, yet?” Volkov asks. “Hollywood. I’ve been a spy for them for years. Working my way up through your ranks, feeding them intelligence the whole time. Almost managed to kill you on Western when I brought in the guy with the bomb vest. I was even prepared to die for the cause that day. But goddamn, aren’t you one lucky sonofabitch.”
“I trusted you. You were my right hand.”
“You trusted your delusions, Samson. You trusted your hallucination of King to give you the justification to do what you wanted to do anyway.”
“No. No, that’s not—”
“You’re insane, Samson. You weren’t getting your cues from God, you were getting them from your cross–wired brain.”
“No. I talk to him. He’s saved me. He’s told me what to do. King was—”
“A lie. You’re not talking to King. He’s dead. He’s been dead for years.”
“Then who do I talk to when he comes to me?”
“Yourself, you crazy fuck. King was a lie that you bought into and Cyrus fed. Cyrus has never been a believer, you know that, right? Do you know Cyrus wanted me to assassinate you on Wilshire? He thought you were getting too big for your britches. I was supposed to shoot you and blame Hollywood for it and start a war. Dumb fuck didn’t know it was already on. You’ve been betrayed, Samson. By King, by Cyrus.”
“By you.”
“I’m not sure I count,” she says. “I mean, I’ve always been your enemy. You just didn’t know it. You know, the funny thing is that for all the horrors you’ve brought into the world, you’re an honorable man. You always treated me right, your people right. You even cared about the ones you murdered. I wonder who you’d have been if you’d never found King. Never found Cyrus.”
“Why did you come here? Why show me this?”
“Because I knew you didn’t die in the street. Hoped, at least. I wanted to see the look on your face when I showed you the lie you’ve been living for all these years. I’m sorry, Samson. I pity you, but you’re a monster. And monsters should be broken before they’re put down.”
Volkov pulls a pistol from her pocket.
Samson’s mind reels. The video changes everything—King’s teachings, the murders Samson and the Church have conducted in his name, God’s plan. It’s all built on a foundation of bullshit. Samson is a killer for a cause that never existed, the follower of a charlatan. All because he wanted something to believe in. He can feel it all coming apart in his mind. All the things he thought he knew disintegrating like sand in the wind.
“I can fix this,” he says. He has to fix it. If King’s teachings were all lies, then this isn’t God’s plan at all.
Volkov laughs. “Can you now? Can you bring all those people you murdered back to life? Can you rebuild the camps you’ve torched, the families you’ve torn apart?”
“No, but I can change the Church. I know where they are. I can take this to them. I can turn it around.”
“Sorry, Samson. It’s too late for that.” Volkov fires, but Samson jogs to the right and instead of punching through his chest, the bullet digs into his arm, a searing pain blossoming through his entire left side.
He launches himself at her, tackling her to the floor. He doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to keep up the lie, but she shoots him again, this time grazing his scalp, and he punches her in the face over and over as the red rage fills him up and blinds him. When he comes back to himself, Volkov lies motionless on the floor, her head a pulpy mess of blood and shattered bone.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll fix this. You’ll see. I’ll fix it all.”
“I don’t see how you can.”
Samson turns to see King leaning against the doorjamb, half his head missing, chunks of brain plopping onto the floor.
“What are you doing here?”
“Weren’t you listening to her? You’re insane. I’m here because I’m your crazy, fucked–up brain. Maybe I’m a stroke. Or maybe I really am James King, here to lead you on the path of righteousness. Or maybe I’m the devil. I’m Satan and you’re just my puppet.”
Samson shoves the heel of his hand into his eye. Wishes it would all go away, that it would all make sense. He slows his breathing, counts to ten. Opens his eye.