Opening a parchment scroll, Dixon put on a pair of reading glasses and declaimed, “James Sandoval, you are all hereby charged with blasphemy, heresy, and conspiring against all the Angels, Prophets, and Living Saints, in the person of Their chosen representative on Earth!”
Sandoval laughed. “You mean you?”
“I am now Prophet and Apostle rolled into one. How plead ye to these charges?”
“Ye? Come on, ye can’t be serious.”
“Oh, the charges are extremely serious.”
“Well, I don’t acknowledge your authority, Torquemada. Go stick that in your hat.”
Delightedly, Chace cried, “Guilty! Did you hear that? Did you all hear that? The accused has freely confessed that he denies the True Prophet! By rejecting the Apostle of Adam, he rejects Adam’s Word!”
“Adam doesn’t give a damn about you,” Sandoval said, “and neither do I.”
“Guilty! To deny the authority of Lord Adam’s appointed vassal is to deny Adam Himself, and to deny Adam is to deny Our Heavenly Father.”
“You know what? I’m not really religious, but I seriously doubt that God needs any help from a bug like you.”
“Guilty! The accused admits to opposing Our Lord and Savior. ‘Not really religious,’ he says, which is the same thing as saying he is irreligious, antireligious! There is no middle ground-the Lord accepts no compromise! Therefore, it becomes our solemn duty to save this man from eternal suffering. To scourge his physical body that he may repent and be saved.”
The guards seized Sandoval and forced him to his knees. Striking a dramatic pose, Chace cried, “O Heaven bestow thy Flaming Rod, to smite the Foe of Man… and God!”
Chace raised his scepter. It was made from an electric cattle prod: a forked steel bar wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags, with a copper core and an insulated handle. When he flicked the switch, a blue-white spark bounced between the poles, igniting the rod in a wreath of yellow flame. At night the effect was quite spectacular. He swooshed it back and forth a few times for good measure.
“Now, Heathen,” he said ominously. “Tremble before the Mighty Scourge of Heaven!”
Sandoval’s defiant face twisted away from the burning staff.
That’s when the ambulance came to life, popping into gear and lurching forward. Several disciples barely had time to leap aside as the vehicle charged. Gathering force, it smashed through the dockside railing and shot out over the water, landing hard. The hood buckled, and the windshield caved in. In seconds it sank out of sight. No one emerged.
“What the hell was that all about?” Chace asked.
“I think you just lost all your Immunes, buddy.”
Dixon’s eyes widened with comprehension, then hardened. “That’s okay. That’s okay. All it means is we have to speed up our train schedule. We have enough doses left for a couple of weeks, and I’m pretty sure there’ll be no shortage of Immunes once we get to Xanadu. I’m not worried.”
“You should be. Those people will defend themselves, and you’re not immune against them.”
“They won’t be expecting us. We’re the Peace Train! We’ll come tooting in there like Thomas the Tank Engine, and they’ll never know what hit them. The only ones left when it’s over will be the Immunes.”
“Then I guess you have nothing to worry about.”
“You got that right, Jim. But you do.” He raised the sizzling torch. “You definitely do.”
“I guess I’m caught in a trap,” Sandoval said.
“Yes, you are.”
“I can’t walk out.”
“No, you can’t.”
“You want to know why?”
“Why?”
Out of nowhere, there was a blast of amplified music, and a booming voice sang, “Because I love you too much, babyyyy.”
Chace jumped in surprise, craning his neck to find the source. “What the hell?”
It was coming from the top of a giant oil tank. There were people up there, a whole rock band. The soldiers hurriedly fell back to see better.
“What is that?” Chace demanded.
Awestruck, one of his men said, “It’s the King.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FREE CONCERT
The singer’s face was partially obscured behind large sunglasses and a glossy black forelock, but the weirdness of that familiar husky voice jerked the heartstrings of all below, as though they were hearing a voice from a tomb. He wore a white suit with bell-bottom pants and a silver-ornamented jacket with an upturned collar. He was frozen in a running stance, only his leg jerking to the drumbeat, and on either side of him were rows of disco-dressed Xombies, all matching his moves with perfect precision.
“No it isn’t,” Chace said with dawning wonder, climbing the dock ramp. “It’s Miska.”
A series of small pyrotechnic explosions went off, raining showers of cool sparks down on the troops, then the boatyard was filled with the sound of a Hammond organ and electric guitars… and suddenly Elvis was moving! He was singing and dancing! The guards started cheering uncontrollably as the long-deceased King rocked above them, his pelvis thrusting and his sexy undead dancers thrusting in sync. The song resumed in an explosion of energy. It was deafening, booming down from a dozen speakers: a command performance of the Elvis classic “Suspicious Minds.” And it was beautiful.
Resistance collapsed before this surprise live appearance by one of the greatest entertainers of all time performing one of his greatest hits. It was insane. It was impossible. Yet it was good. Hardened warriors who hadn’t felt such joy in years gave in to the pure bliss of the moment, grinning uncontrollably as they rocked to the beat and sang along with the choruses. When the song ended, wild applause broke out, men whistling and howling for an encore. The ovation was deafening, causing Dixon to shake his head in wonder.
Elvis called out, “Thank you very much!” then vanished from the roof. The Xombies scattered with him, abandoning their instruments and costumes like a squad of poltergeists. Suddenly, it was very quiet.
Gathering his wits, Chace said, “Son of a bitch, my rod’s gone out.”
He turned around to deal with Sandoval, but Sandoval was gone. As Chace’s eyes traced the only path the man could have taken, he was blinded by the sun glaring off the water… a glare that had not been there before. Something else was missing. His mouth dropped open as he realized the cheap magician’s trick that the Devil had just played on him.
The yacht had disappeared.
As the EMT vehicle sank, freezing water had galvanized its stunned passengers to action-air bags or not, that crash had hurt. Trading breaths from an oxygen mask, they waited until the ambulance was completely flooded, then Ray led them out the broken windshield. He was a good swimmer, a champion in summer camp, but the water back then was never so cold.
Surfacing their heads in the narrow space under the dock, they could hear loud music starting above.
Ray said, “Okay, this is it-wish me luck.”
“Fuck luck,” Todd said. “Just hurry, dude, I’m freezing.”
Working his way to the end of the dock, Ray took a last deep breath, then ducked below and swam under the yacht. Its draft was quite shallow for such a large boat, designed for scuba trips on Caribbean reefs. Knowing he was taking a dangerous gamble, he felt his way along the keel to the dive well, praying the external hull panel was still off.
The panel was to cut drag when under sail, but in port it was left open as a convenient latrine for the carpenters since there was no other working toilet. As beautiful as La Fantasma looked from the outside, the vessel’s interior was still all raw plywood, its planned refurbishing postponed indefinitely by the long work holiday of Agent X.