The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [146]
"I'm pleased to hear it. Walk with me a while, Brother?"
They fell silently into step together; the enormous hulking man in the long gray duster—The New City's recently appointed Director of Internal Security—slowing to keep pace with the stooped, hunchbacked preacher, his silver spurs jangling to the rhythm of his limp. Citizens in the street smiled and bowed low to Reverend Day, offering devotions as he passed; the Reverend waved kindly to each member of his flock, a blessing never far from his lips.
Terrified of me; keep up the good work.
"The love of our people is a wonder. Truly a gift from God," said the Reverend, as they left Main Street and made the turn toward the tower.
"Most truly, Reverend."
"And have I mentioned to you, Brother Cornelius, how grateful we are for all your hard labor on behalf of our Church?"
"You're too kind, Reverend," said Cornelius, feeling the same swelling in his chest that arose whenever the Reverend spoke kindly to him, as if he was about to bust out laughing or crying and wasn't sure which.
"Brother, you have returned my faith in you a thousandfold; you bring to the hearts of our Christian soldiers a fighting spirit, inspire them to take up arms with joy and great zeal, inarching forward as one, for the protection of our Flock and the destruction of our Enemies."
Tears flowed freely from Cornelius's eyes; he stopped in his tracks, too overcome to look at the Reverend or respond, bowing and nodding his head. Reverend Day watched him weep, patting a compassionate hand on the man's massive shoulder. No matter how many times I sling this line of bullshit at them, they wolf it down like a pack of starving dogs.
"There now, Brother Cornelius," said Reverend Day, chucking him under the chin. "Thy tears are like the gentle rain of Heaven, that give life to this dry and dusty plain; and flowers bloom where once there was a desert."
Cornelius looked at him, a shy little smile breaking through his tears.
Time for a taste of the Sacrament, thought Reverend Day.
The Reverend hooked Cornelius with his look and turned on the juice, pumping a few measured jolts into him; he watched carefully as the Power drilled into the man's core and went to work, warping his thoughts to suit the Reverend's needs.
A dark shudder ran through his nerves; he loved administering the Sacrament, the delicious sensation of reaching inside them, the intimacy of the contact, caressing the nakedness they so obligingly exposed. These moments of private violation through their eyes were the ones he lived for.
When he saw Cornelius's pupils glaze over, the Reverend pulled back the tendrils of the Power, folded them into place like a Murphy bed, and snapped his fingers in the man's face. Cornelius blinked, the connection broken. His eyes rolled in his head like runaway marbles.
After years of trial and error, the Reverend had learned to regulate his congregation's exposure to the Power, entering them with the delicate touch of a surgeon; dose them correctly and they went pliant as rag dolls for days, a drunkard's grin pasted to their skulls. Give them too little and their minds gradually returned; too strong a measure and drooling into a cup became a full-time occupation. There were more than a few of those failures planted in shallow graves outside the City.
He had to walk a razor's edge with Cornelius; the man's will was strong so he required more juice than most to keep him in line, but the Reverend couldn't risk frying his nervous system. He needed this one. Cornelius had in short order transformed an undisciplined bunch of green recruits into an army; no one in town could match his leadership and tactical skill, tempered by such gleeful barbarism.
And it all took so much effort; Lord, he was tired.
Cornelius opened his eyes. Good, the man was back in his body. Now some Scripture to lead him out of the fog:
"Incline your ear and hear the words of the wise," the Reverend