SIXTY
The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an
idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either
case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.
—E. M. Cioran
Khaled watched Dylan run into the night
from the back of the truck. He thought about giving chase. He’d
intended for the American’s body to provide the raw fuel for the
fourth corpse. But the idiot had some instincts for
self-preservation after all.
He rolled down the truck’s door before anyone
noticed what was inside.
Perhaps the fourth corpse would not rise up.
Perhaps none of them would. He would still go forward as planned.
As with all things, Khaled knew it was in the hands of God.
Khaled’s God was not merciful. He was cruel, and he
was vicious, and he was powerful. He delivered pain and rage and
destruction. The world was full of those things, which meant God
was winning.
That’s why Khaled worshipped him. That was the God
he wanted on his side.
At the center of the truck, in the middle of the
console of Konrad’s equipment, was a large knife switch. It was
within reach of the chair Khaled had chosen. Once they were all
seated, he only had to pull that and their lives would be drained
into the creatures.
Life requires death, Konrad had said to Khaled a
long time ago when they first met. And death will consume
life.
He strapped himself into his own chair, leaving
only one hand free.
He gave one last look to Gamal and Tariq. Gamal
nodded. Tariq’s eyes were closed, his lips moving in prayer.
Khaled pulled the switch. His whole life distilled
itself into this one moment. He was at peace.
The pain began a second later, but his smile never
faded.
THE MOVIES GET IT WRONG, every time. There is no
lightning, no boom of thunder. The flash is between neurons, life
returning to bodies that should have been under the ground.
Slowly, three Unmenschsoldaten began to
move. The restraints holding them snapped like tissue paper as they
rose.
The fourth corpse got up last. It moved slowly, but
it moved.
The Unmenschsoldaten lined up and began
walking. As soon as they left their platforms, a pressure-sensitive
switch activated the rear door, pulling it open again. Konrad had
thought of everything.
The rear of the truck pointed the
Unmenschsoldaten directly at their target.
Framed in the doorway, gleaming white in the
darkness, it was the only thing their limited senses could
detect.
The White House. Shining like a beacon across the
flat green plain of the South Lawn, as if summoning them.
The dead began to walk.