***
The group ascended the tower staircase – main body of the cultists first, led by the chief acolyte and Sister Reedy. Then came the captives with their guards. Star came next and the messiah brought up the rear, keeping a close watch on everything, especially Star. She favored him with a single backward glance, noting his lascivious leer.
Despite herself, she experienced some lascivious thoughts of her own.
Careful, girl, this is life and death!
After walking down a gloomy, torch-lit hall, they came to the door of a large, empty chamber.
“Keep them here under guard,” the messiah ordered. “I will seek a vision concerning their fate.”
“Yes, Father!”
Armed men shoved Winston, Iri and the mech wolves inside the room. Two others grabbed Star’s arms.
“Not this one,” the messiah said. “Send it to my quarters.”
“No!” Winston cried.
A guard silenced him with a whack of his rifle butt.
Star gasped.
“Not too rough, now,” the messiah admonished.
He turned toward Star.
“We don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?”
The men holding Star remained inert, baffled by the order they’d received.
“Did you say to your quarters, Father?” one of them asked.
“Yes,” the messiah snapped. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
“No, Father!”
“I need to interrogate it closely,” the messiah said, “without interference from anyone.”
“Yes, of course, Father, please forgive our impertinence.”
The men gripped Star’s arms tightly and began to draw her away.
“Gently now,” the messiah said.
The men released her arms. Star glanced back, then continued down the corridor loosely flanked by her escort. She had enough room now to swing her hips properly.
The messiah watched her go, an immodest little smile creasing his face and wrinkling the corners of his magnetic eyes. His funk was officially over.
18. Detention
Winston sat against the wall of the spacious, barren room directly across from a large window. Iridium lay beside him, muzzle resting on his paws. The great canine’s dour expression would have been almost comical under different circumstances, but Winston hadn’t felt like laughing for some time.
The backpacks had been thrown into a far corner, Fang and Ripper occupied another corner. Two armed guards standing in the middle of the room completed the scenario. Gas jets provided dim illumination.
The chief acolyte jabbed his bald head in from the corridor.
“Keep an eye on that window,” he barked at the guards. “We don’t want those birds coming back.”
The guards snapped to attention. “Yes, Chief Acolyte!”
They moved to take up positions by the window. One of them held a pump shotgun, while the other brandished an assault rifle. Winston had already nicknamed them Shotgun and A. K.
The chief acolyte turned to another armed man standing in the hall.
“You remain by this door until further orders,” he said.
“Yes, sir!”
With a final, malevolent glance around the room, the chief acolyte closed the door. Shotgun and A. K. craned their necks out the window to view the tower summit.
“Not a peep out of them birds now,” A. K. said. “They must be scared real good.”
Like all the upper windows, this one was open to the elements. The messiah had ordered the plasti-glass removed so that his “visions” could circulate freely about the tower. There was no telling when the Heavenly Father would want to speak to his messiah, the thinking went, and nothing should get in the way of these sacred communications.
With generally moderate temperatures, even at this altitude, there was little problem. During the occasional storm or cold snap, cultists merely retreated to the lower stories – except for the messiah himself, who had the means to secure his own chambers against the weather.
A breeze was whipping through the window now, and it provided acoustic cover for conversation.
“Who are these people?” Iridium said in a hushed voice.
“A religious cult,” Winston said. “Somehow they survived the final plague.”
“How fortunate.”
“The worst effects must not have reached this altitude,” Winston said, “although many of them did perish. Dr. Rackenfauz saw their corpses scattered around the lake when he first arrived.”
Iridium grunted. “Good riddance.”
Winston glanced toward the guards, then back to Iridium. He spoke hurriedly.
“Dr. Horvath would term their leader a ‘persecutor’ – a psychopathic, narcissistic individual craving adoration and control.”
“A total whack job, in other words,” Iridium said.
The guards looked toward them, then turned their attention back to the window. Winston lowered his voice further.
“The armed ones are true believers,” he said. “The others look terrorized. They’ve probably lost faith and are kept in line through mental and physical abuse.”
“We’ve all got problems, don’t we?” Iridium said.
Shotgun turned toward them. “Keep it down there!”
“Yes, sir,” Winston replied. “Sorry.”