I read on and it became clear that, among the various subtexts, was one stressing the infallibility of the Master, which was written in contemporary English. There were references to what seemed to be a previous regime-‘the false leaders’-who had diluted the Antichurch founder Jeremiah Dodds’ ‘fiery words, forged in the cauterizing cold of the white North.’ I took that to refer to Maine, where the cult had been founded. At least, that was what Mary Upson had told me after I escaped from Rothmann’s camp up there. It seemed that followers of the ‘false leaders’ disputed this, saying that the Antichurch had been born in the ‘broken, burning South.’
The Antigospel was about as clear as a muddy brook at midnight, but meaning was less important to the faithful than the symbolic power of the language. It did seem clear that there had been more than one faction, but that Rothmann’s side was in charge now. I almost felt sorry for his opponents, even though they were crazy devil worshippers. I had the strong feeling that the current Master had consigned many of them to the inverted cross and human sacrifice-which made me think about the imminent annual rite. I had heard vehicles arriving regularly, accompanied by shouts and cries of greeting.
Toward the end of the book was a list of the great rites-Beltane, All Souls’ Night and so on. Most of the description seemed to be standard satanic claptrap involving obscure folk beliefs and perversions of Christian services, with a lot of violence and death thrown in. The current Master seemed as enthusiastic about that as his predecessors and opponents, stressing that ‘Lucifer is at His most triumphant when his followers engage in human sacrifice and mutilation.’ The annual rite, on ‘the eve of the liar Jesus Christ’s birthday,’ was the Antichurch’s greatest festival, the one that brought most glory to Lucifer. The climax, which definitely bore the mark of the Rothmanns, was a ceremony called ‘self-coffining.’
I had a bad feeling about that for two reasons. One, my watch had been taken and I was unclear about dates-I suspected today was December 24th. And two, even reading the word self-coffining made hairs all over my body stand up and sent electricity sparking across my brain. I knew that coffining was part of the indoctrination process, but this sounded even worse. Had I been conditioned to take part in some sacred suicide pact?
Abaddon had parked in a clearing over three miles from the location she had been given and set off through the woods. The Crockett National Forest wasn’t as thick as some she’d seen and she made reasonable time through the undergrowth. At least there were fewer insects here. The ground was drier and the air didn’t have such a mephitic stench as the swamps farther south. It was late afternoon when she got her first sight of the cluster of buildings called Big Barns. There looked to be clear ground all around, meaning she would have to wait until dark to cross it. She scanned the area through binoculars, noting potential danger points.
She sat against a tree trunk and went through the rucksack she’d been carrying, drinking some water first and then eating two apples. A chill was coming down over the trees and she put on the black waterproof jacket tied round her waist. Checking that the Heckler amp; Koch machine pistol was ready for use, she put three extra clips in her pocket and slipped the pistol inside her belt next to the flashlight. That left her laptop. She considered sending a message to her employer, but decided against it-there would be time enough after the attack. Besides, she would need to work out what to tell the company. Her brother would help with that.
Abaddon thought about Apollyon. Their father, the fifth leader of the Antichurch, had given them the names, the Hebrew and Greek alternatives for ‘the angel of the bottomless pit,’ according to Chapter 9 of the Book of Revelation. That was the only book of the Christian Bible afforded even partial credence in the cult. Until the Enemy had stolen the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant’s name, Abaddon and Apollyon had been heirs to the throne. Their father had died a year ago and now they were going to take back what was rightly theirs. The businessman Jack Thomson had claimed that he knew nothing of the Southern branch of the cult, saying that he was following the Antichurch set up by Jeremiah Dodds in Maine.
Trouble was, Jeremiah had fallen out with his brother Jasper, the real founder of the cult, in 1847. They had grown up in Atlanta, in the house her brother still lived in, though he didn’t use the Dodds name anymore. Jasper realized Jeremiah wanted to be leader and threatened him with violence if he persisted. That made Jeremiah tremble, so he up and left for Maine, where his version of the Antichurch was taken apart by the FBI after the attack on the President.
But Jasper had been smarter. Just as bloodthirsty as his brother, he was much more careful. Using profits from his brewery, he established links with the Klan and other supremacist groups, ensuring the cult’s safety as well as providing it with a steady stream of members. There was no shortage of victims, either-originally they had primarily been blacks, but recently the Antichurch had become an equal opportunity killing machine. Abaddon’s professional activities had been a useful source of funds as well as expertise, though Apollyon was no slouch when it came to violence: he just preferred to spend more time playing politics in Georgia, constructing the image of a trustworthy family man and conning people. The Lord Lucifer must have been very proud.
Looking out across the open ground through her binoculars, Abaddon noticed small, uneven sections. Landmines. There would be intrusion sensors of one kind or another, too, she was sure of that. She didn’t care. She had enough grenades to cause a major diversion. When the guards came running out, she would observe their access route and then mow them down.
Besides, the fools inside would be busy with their heretical version of the annual rite. Apollyon and she had agreed that they would mark their joint leadership with a ceremony on the eve of the New Year.
That year would be dedicated to the Lord Lucifer Triumphant, who would surely be delighted with the blood that was about to be spilled in his name.
They came for me when the last of the sunlight had gone from the skylight in the small barn’s roof. I was sitting like Buddha, concentrating on empting my mind of superfluous material. I hoped that would include any more triggers Rothmann had planted in my subconscious, because I was going to make a move during the rite. At the very least, perhaps I would manage to do Rothmann some damage before his boys got to me.
As it happened, one of the pair who came for me was a young woman-just as unyielding as her male comrades and her blue eyes were icy.
‘So, how’s it going for you guys?’ I asked, trying to shake them up. ‘Looking forward to the human sacrifice?’
They didn’t even glance at me as they latched onto my upper arms and pulled me from the barn. The space between the buildings now contained several vehicles, ranging from top-of-the-range off-road giants to rusty old pickups. There were more guards around, though most were heading in the same direction as we were.
I was taken to a door that opened at the young woman’s triple knock. I found myself in a kind of multi-sex dressing room, except I’d forgotten the dress code-the faithful at Antichurch rites were naked. An undressing room, then.
Fortunately, I was allowed to keep my clothes. Perhaps I had to be formally inducted by Rothmann before I was allowed to join the pale-skinned masses-and pale-skinned was what they had been in Maine.