Samson sits back, stunned. “You really think that?”
“I do. And I really think we’re the Chosen Ones. How about you, Samson? You think you’re a Chosen One, too?”
Samson says nothing, but deep in his heart he knows the answer is no.
“Samson,” says a voice. He feels someone shaking him awake. “Samson, we need to talk.” At first Samson thinks it’s Cyrus, but as he comes out from the haze of sleep, he recognizes the voice. It doesn’t have the scratchiness he’s grown used to, the warble of bad speakers, but he knows it just the same.
“Reverend King?” Samson says, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up from his tangle of blankets on the studio floor.
“Call me Jim, Samson,” King says, sitting cross–legged in his blue suit on the floor. He smiles with teeth so white they seem to sparkle in the darkness. “We’re friends, after all.”
“Are you real?” Samson says. “Is this a dream?”
“No dream,” King says. He stands, reaches down for Samson’s hand, pulls the larger man up to his feet.
“You’re shorter than I thought you’d be,” Samson says.
King laughs. “Height means little to the Lord,” he says. “Beneath God’s gaze, we are all equally judged.”
“You said that in season three, episode twenty–seven,” Samson says. “When you were talking about that basketball player.”
“I did. You’ve got quite the memory for that sort of thing.”
“I remember the important stuff,” Samson says. “Not much on reading and writing, though. Can’t seem to get a handle on that.”
“That’s all right, Samson. Cyrus over there, he does plenty of reading and writing for the both of you. You know why I’m here?”
Samson shakes his head. He’s still having trouble with the idea that King is standing in front of him. It doesn’t feel like a dream, but then dreams usually don’t.
“I’m here because you have doubts.”
“Oh no, sir. I—”
King stops him with an upraised hand. “I know you don’t doubt me,” he says. “You know what I say is true. I can tell. In your heart of hearts, son, you know that mine is the Word of God, the Almighty. You’re no Unbeliever like those sodomites and catamites out in Hollywood. But I know you have doubts about yourself.”
Samson looks at the floor. He can’t bring himself to meet King’s eyes. The shame burns in him like hot coals. King touches his chin and Samson looks up at him. King is suddenly taller, towering over Samson, his head brushing the ceiling of the studio, a heavenly light glowing all around him.
“Do not doubt yourself, Samson. I know you have done sinful things. Things you don’t believe can be forgiven.” King’s voice booms in Samson’s ears. “But the way to wash those sins away is to follow God Almighty and enact his plan for the Earth. For you are one of the Chosen. You and Cyrus will carry my words to the far reaches of the world, you will bring the Faithful into the fold, and you will lay waste to the Unbelievers. The sinners will fall beneath your hammer as you smite them in God’s name.”
Samson is crying, tears running thick tracks through the grime and dust on his face. All his doubts are washing away in the light coming from King’s glowing form.
“You will be my champion,” King says. “You will be my voice.”
Samson is heaving with huge, wracking sobs. He has never felt so complete, so right. Finally, he has a purpose. He falls to his knees, his hands in prayer, King’s words burning deep into his soul.
“You will spread my Word across the land,” the Reverend says. And he tells Samson what he wants him to do.
“Get up,” Samson says.
Cyrus rolls over, looking up at Samson towering over him. There’s something different about him, but he can’t put his finger on what. Like he’s got a glow about him or something.
“What’s got you all riled up? Something on fire? There looters in the tunnel? Swamp water risin’?”
“No,” Samson says, and that’s when Cyrus figures out what’s different. Samson’s smiling.
In the years that Cyrus has known him he can only remember a handful of times he’s seen the huge man smile. And every time it ended badly.
“I thought you said you weren’t gonna do no drugs no more, Sammy. Remember last time you got into all that Salt? Hollywood wouldn’t let us in for three weeks after what you did with them whores.”
“This is better,” Samson says. “I saw Reverend King.”
“You what? You found another tape?”
“No. I saw him. Here, in the studio. He came to me last night and told me his plan. You were right, Cyrus. We are the Chosen Ones. He wants us to spread his Word to the rest of the world, build a great army for God and wipe the Earth clean of the Unbelievers.”
Cyrus stares up at Samson, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He had hoped Samson would go for the whole Chosen Ones bullshit, but he never thought he’d take it this seriously.
The idea that they could start a cult using the teachings of James King had hit Cyrus about a week ago. There were lots of cults in L.A. after all, though “gang” was probably a better word for them. Cyrus figured that if they could get one going, they could pull in some people, maybe make them do the looting and scavenging for them. Hell, if they got some of those whores from Hollywood to join, Cyrus could be neck deep in as much pussy as he wanted.
He’d been trying to subtly nudge Samson into thinking he’d come up with the idea himself ever since — dropping hints, playing up the “miracle” of finding this place. Play it up like it was Samson’s idea. He was always easier to maneuver when he had the illusion of being in charge.
Of course, subtle didn’t always work on Samson. He wasn’t stupid. Just not much of a thinker. His plans didn’t go past figuring out his next meal. Cyrus was getting ready to ditch subtle and come right out and tell Samson his plan. To hell with having him think it was his own idea.
But then subtle went and won out anyway.
Cyrus smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Okay. We can do that. What are we doing?”
Samson tells him, and the more he talks, the more Cyrus realizes that this might be much bigger than he ever thought possible.
—4—
“And God said unto them, ‘Take my teachings and spread them across the land. Those who believe will follow, and those who do not will fall beneath my vengeance.’”
Samson hasn’t been out of the bunker in three weeks. He pulls at the dirty white smock Cyrus made for him, a silver cross on the front made out of duct tape.
They talked about the plan for three days before Samson said he was ready. It’s a simple one, really. Go out and spread the Word. He’s memorized a really good sermon and he’s itching to try it out. After that, though, it’s a little muddy.
Samson’s been struggling with what to do if the Word isn’t accepted. He knows what James King wants, knows he can do it, but he’s still hesitant. There’s something about it that makes his gut feel hollow. He’d prefer if Cyrus were with him, but the little man said he wasn’t up for the long walk. And besides, he had to do all the hard work of writing up the sermons so he could teach them to Samson later. Samson thinks Cyrus is just being a lazy asshole, but he didn’t argue the point.
They figured it’d be best to skip the gangs at first. The Echo Park Locos probably won’t like hearing the sermons, and though Samson forged an uneasy truce with them when he killed nine of their best three years ago after they jumped him, he doesn’t want to kick that particular hornet’s nest. Yet. He can still feel the chunk of the bullet in his scalp from the last time.