The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [185]
A devastating blow nearly severed Bendigo's left hand at the wrist; bones shattered, hanging by a thread of flesh. Sheets of blood cascaded down his face from cuts along his scalp; agony informed every word he spoke, and Eileen thought she could hear an occasional desperate cry break through beneath the words.
" 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—to sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub—"
Bendigo screamed as he thrust the point of the sword clear through his lower abdomen below the corset, straining with both hands to break its blunt tip through the resistant skin of his back.
Eileen sobbed and turned away, blinded by tears and rage, trying to pull herself to her feet.
Reverend Day stood in front of Bendigo and began to slowly applaud, banging his simian hands together; the audience picked up the rhythm and the clapping grew into a booming, rhythmic beat.
"—for in that sleep of death ..."
Bendigo's voice failing, face collapsing, gray as ash, all the emotion breaking through, underlining his final words.
"... what dreams may come ... when we have shuffled off this mortal coil... must give us pause ..."
Eyes open, Bendigo died, suspended limply in the air. The audience rose to their feet, applause growing steadily to a thundering crescendo.
"Bravo! BRAVO!" shouted Reverend Day.
The audience amplified the mocking tribute.
Reverend Day twirled his hand; Bendigo's body revolved and bowed low in each direction, dumb acknowledgement of the only standing ovation offered to him in a long and mediocre career.
Eileen stumbled blindly to the rear wall. A lantern burned on a hook near the door. She plucked it off and hurled it at the fallen curtain; the lantern shattered, the oil spread, ignited by the wick, and began to burn.
As the flames licked up the arch, she turned and ran out the back door of the theater.
Dante had never seen a play before. Frederick and he walked in late, after the show had started, settling into seats behind Reverend Day in a box above the stage. He guessed the actors were telling some kind of story down there, but he didn't feel much interest in trying to work it out. He liked the colorful pictures of the mountains and the pieces of a castle that rolled on and off the stage, and the uniforms on the soldiers were fun to look at, too; bright red with lots of shiny buttons.
But most of all he liked that girl with the black hair and her titties pushing out the top of her low-cut dress. He slipped a hand inside his briefcase and rubbed a thumb along the edge of a knife, daydreaming about how nice it would be to use it on her. The Reverend and Frederick had made him feel so free about his work that anything seemed possible. When it was over, he might even ask them to let him have that girl to play with.
Everything started to go wrong when that big fella Cornelius rushed into the box; he said shots were being fired and some guards had been killed; and when the Reverend stood up and started screaming, Dante could see a big, red cloud come off him like a barrel of black powder exploding.
Whatever the Reverend yelled at those people below made them real scared, even Frederick went a little pale, but as far as Dante was concerned, it felt like the real fun was about to begin. Then that fat actor floated right up into the air in front of them and began to cut himself, and Dante knew that he'd been right; this was better than freaks at a sideshow.
When the fire started, Reverend Day screamed at the people in the white shirts again, "TO YOUR PLACE, GO, GO! WAIT FOR THE SIGNAL!"
Whatever had been holding up the actor's body let go, and it plopped down onto the seats like a loose hank of rope. The people in white shirts were so busy rushing to the doors, shouting and screaming, that they started stepping all over each other; couple of 'em got crushed in the stampede. Dante leaned over the balcony and watched from his seat, rocking back and forth, laughing; this