The Last Creationist

Chapter 1

         Caspar Theadore Higgins VI possessed a near genius IQ, yet as a young boy growing up in Watsonville, CA, he developed the cold heart and weak mind of a wicked recreant. As a nine-year-old he took to shooting songbirds with his vintage Winchester air rifle, the one his father restored and gave to him for Christmas that year. He laughed like hell whenever he made a clean shot and the barn swallows fell straight to the ground.

     "Holy crap, did you see that?" He exclaimed, laughing and pointing in the direction of the sweet little bird he just killed. "Jesus, it went down like a rock filled sock!"

     "Hey, I thought we came out here to shoot targets!" His best friend Altan Caspian Briggs Jr. shouted. "And I don't think you should be doing that. I mean, aren't they God's creatures too?"

     Caspar scowled at Altan, wondering at the strange yet exhilarating feeling of power killing the defenseless animal gave him.

     "Yes, they surely are." He agreed. "But we're superior Altan, we have dominion over all our Lord and Savior's creatures. My daddy says so and it's in the Bible."

     At age eleven Caspar and Altan went to Corralitos Creek to catch frogs. They started on opposite sides of the rivulet and began hunting.

     Altan captured the first amphibian and hollered excitedly, "I got one!" 

     He looked at it, held it up for Caspar to see, then threw it right back in. 

     "Hey, why'd you do that?" Caspar complained. "I wanted to look at it! If you catch another one, bring it to me, okay?"

     "Okay!" Cried Altan happily.

     For a while they hunted unsuccessfully, but at last Altan got lucky again. 

     "Got another one!" He boasted. 

     This time he ran straight to Caspar and handed him the fully grown Sierran tree frog. 

     "It's big!" He bragged.

     "It surely is." Caspar replied. 

     Caspar held the critter up close to his sunken brown eyes and carefully examined it. Then he grinned, put the head of the frog into the side of his mouth and chomped down with all the bite force his human jaw and molars could provide. Tearing at the flesh, he bit off the head and spat the bloodied piece of flesh into the shallow water at his feet. 

     "Ew, disgusting!" Altan screamed. "Why the hell did you do that? Are you crazy?"

     "Crazy as a loon," Caspar answered, wiping away tissue from his bloody maw with the back of his hand.     

     By the time they reached their teens the pair reigned as the town's top bullies. Nothing escaped their mean, watchful eyes, including noticing when the Ballard twins started building a new fort in the interior live oak tree planted at the far end of their expansive back yard. Caspar and Altan hadn't been invited to the treehouse like some of the other local kids had, and this made them both jealous and angry.

     One night Caspar said, "Hey, Altan, come with me to the twin's new treehouse, I want to check it out."

     "But it's 11 PM." Altan whined. "Can't it wait until tomorrow? I mean, no one's going be up over there to show us the fort this late at night."

     "That's the point, Altan. We're taking a private tour."

     "Well, okay, now we're talking." He bubbled. "But we're going to need a flashlight, it's really dark at the back of that lot."

     "Already have them." Caspar stated, pulling out two from his coat pocket and handing one to his buddy.

     "Alright then, let's go partner." Altan replied.

     They arrived at the Ballard's tall chain link fence, hopped it, and crept to the fifty-foot timber's massive base. About four yards up the giant trunk of the mighty tree eight gnarly branches sprouted out at weirdly disjointed angles, sideways then upwards towards the sky. Using the oak's huge limbs as a foundation, the twins had built the flooring, walls, and roof of a simple box-like fortification using scrap wood pillaged from the Big Creek Lumber Company.

     Caspar and Altan easily climbed up the nailed down plank ladder and reached the top of the blockhouse. Caspar knelt down, opened the hinged trapdoor entrance and peeked inside.

     "Hello, anybody down there?" Caspar satirically bellowed.

     "Shhh! Quiet." Altan bristled. "They'll hear us." 

     Ignoring Altan's warning, Caspar stood up, turned off his Fenix, and howled like a wolf.

     "What are you doing?" Altan whimpered. "Are you trying to get us caught?"

     "Just having a little fun, Altan." Caspar said, laughing like a wild lunatic. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

     Caspar unbuttoned his jeans and yanked them down to his ankles.

     "What the bejesus!" Griped Altan.

     Snickering, Caspar pulled his underwear all the way down too.

     Altan gasped. 

     "Hey, you're not going to..."

     "I sure as hell am." Caspar assured him.

     With a devious smirk plastered on his portentous face, he squatted above the rooftop hatch and began to shit, blithely wiggling his ass as each soft stool plopped onto the plywood floor below.

     "Someone's coming!" Altan screeched. "Look, flashlights!"

     Quickly pulling up his underwear and pants, Caspar switched his mini lamp back on and bent over to examine his handiwork. The feces sat conglomerated in a mushy pile of steaming poo.

     "Nice little present for the Ballard boys." Hissed Caspar. "Now, time to scoot."

     "Hey, who's out there?" Mr. Ballard yelled, watching two figures hurriedly ascend his fence and leap to the opposite side. Running as fast as they could and not looking back, Caspar and Altan answered him with bursts of mischievous teenage giggling.

     On his fifteenth birthday Caspar and his sidekick Altan took incivility to the next level. Now a cruel and contemptable human being, and bored of sniping birds and western gray squirrels, the demented teen decided to raise the stakes by doing something purely evil to the Ballard twins.

     He and Altan sat side by side at a concrete picnic table in Pinto Lake County Park, smoking hand rolled cigarettes with tobacco Altan had stolen from his grandfather's stash. Puffing away on their cigs, they mulled over ideas on how to put some serious hurt on the Ballard's.

     "I hate those cocksuckers," admitted Caspar, taking a long, deep drag off his rollie. "I want to do something really bad to them Alt, something we've never done before."

     "We could jack their ATVs," Altan offered. "I wouldn't mind taking those Yamahas for a spin. We could drive them around the dunes for a while and then dump them into the bay."

     Caspar sat silently for a few moments, imagining the look on the twins' faces when they noticed their identical Raptor 350s were missing. He peered wistfully out at the lake with cavernous brown eyes as big and dark as Belgian truffles, squinting in the bright afternoon sunshine and remembering the many times he and his father had caught fish in it together. It felt like such a long time ago.

     "Naw, it has to be a lot worse than that." he said. "Something...sinister."

     Just then, a family of four came traipsing into view with a girl about 10 years old holding the leash of a German Sheppard. All at once a devilish thought crept into Caspar's nefarious mind.

     "That good for nothing dog," He muttered, almost to himself.

     "What?" Alton asked, leaning in a little closer to his best friend.

     "That's it!" Caspar shouted. "I'm going to kill Rocky, their 10-year-old Labrador Retriever."

     Alton gasped, "Jesus Christ, Caspar, don't you think that's a little hardcore? I mean, what did the Ballard's dog ever do to you?"

     Caspar ignored the question. He didn't give a rat's ass about their mangy old pooch. He only cared about making the Ballard's suffer, paying them back for all the times they'd made him feel inferior. Like the time they reeled in the biggest largemouth bass ever caught in Pinto Lake and had it stuffed, mounted, and put up on the wall at the Cadillac Cafe. Just thinking about it made him gnash his teeth.

     Caspar took one last drag off his smoke and tossed the butt down to the tightly manicured grass. Using his left hand for support, he stood up from the cement bench and wiggled his legs out from under the table. "I'm hungry," he announced. "Let's swing over to El Jerry for some tacos."

Chapter 2

     The Higgins family came from a long line of corn and soybean farmers who migrated from Shreveport, Louisiana to the Golden Coast in 1902. The clan purchased 5,000 acres of farmland in northeast Watsonville and promptly founded the Higgins Horse Ranch and Agricultural Farm.

     The patriarch of the family, Caspar Theodore Higgins Sr., paid $125,000 in cash for the sizeable tract of pristine Pajaro Valley earth. Upon it he built a large American-style barn with an attached corral and a big garage for storing and repairing farm equipment and vehicles. Nestled among a picturesque grove of Monterrey pines, Higgins Sr. broke ground on his dream home, a 10-bedroom California ultimate bungalow with a wide veranda facing due West.

     It took nearly a year to finish all the construction, during which time the family stayed in town at the Mansion House Hotel. Higgins Sr. shelled out $45 a week to rent rooms for his wife and six children, his younger brother James Buford Higgins and his wife, his older sister Mary Lucille Willis and her husband, plus 11 nieces and nephews.

     The ground-hugging residence featured deep sloping eaves, stained-glass windows, an artistic chimney made of shore rocks and brick, and a pergola front porch overlooking the yard and garden. Sparing no expense, Colonel Higgens built the family home using local Douglas fir and redwood along with imported teak, mahogany, silver, and mother-of-pearl for the exterior and interior inlays.

     Caspar Sr. and his wife Clara christened their newly built home with a prayer service led by pastor Lawarence Sebastian Bartholomew of the First Christian Church. On a warm Sunday morning in June 1903, the family along with a strategically selected contingent of influential townspeople sat in rows of folding wooden chairs on the front lawn of the impressive residence to take in Pastor Bartholomew's longwinded preachment before digging into a picnic brunch immediately afterwards.

     At the 20-minute mark, all 11 of the Higgins' children, along with five of the townsfolk's whelps, began fidgeting, whispering, and pointing at the newfangled A-frame rectangular picnic table covered with minced meat pies and croquettes, cucumbers, fruits, jams and piles of baking powder biscuits, to the point that Clara had to stand up and sternly shush the juveniles back into obedient silence.

     Pastor Bartholomew noticed this, and being tired and hungry himself, decided to finish his talk posthaste. "And so, dear brothers and sisters," he chirped, "it is with great pleasure and gratitude on this glorious day in the year of our lord, 1903, that I happily bless this house and the food we are about to partake, in the name of our glorious lord and savior, Jesus Christ."

     Higgins Sr. and his wife Clara had three boys and three girls. A week after moving into their new abode, the couple's eldest child, Caspar Theodore Higgins Jr., turned eight. For the boy's birthday, against the wishes of his spouse, Higgins Sr. bought his son a brand-new Winchester Model 1903.

     "Well, you don't see that every day." Higgins Sr. said to no one in particular, as the General Store owner, Mr. Pilcher, busily wrapped the rifle in manila paper.

     "Don't see what, sir?" The portly shopkeeper absentmindedly replied, glancing out towards Union Street.

     Stroking the thick whiskers of his barber coifed salt and pepper beard, Higgins Sr. chuckled. "Well, what we got here is a 1903 rifle in 1903, Mr. Pilcher." He jovially replied.

     The old proprietor's bored face suddenly perked up, and a youthful sparkle returned to his kind, bespectacled eyes. "Why yes indeedy, Mr. Higgins," he laughed, "yes indeedy we certainly do."

     Upon receiving the gun Caspar Jr. began hopping up and down like a pogo stick. "Oh, thank you, father!" He exclaimed.

     The gangly child took one last leap into his father's burly arms and hugged him with all his peewee might. Caspar Sr. gently bear-hugged his son, letting the Holy Ghost's deep paternal love take hold of him. Strong and stocky as an American bulldog, the burly elder statesman disliked getting choked up, feeling weak at the knees and the sting of inexplicable waterworks that welled up in his chestnut size brown eyes whenever he held his firstborn child. Such tender moments made him feel powerless and unmanly. Yet, for his heir apparent Caspar Sr. would and could endure just about anything.

     Looking proud as a peacock caught in the headlights, Caspar Sr. spied his comely wife sitting steadfastly at the Victorian dining room table. Clara smiled lovingly at her husband, knowing how hard it was for him to take pleasure on such occasions. The matriarch stoically brushed a tuft of ginger hair away from her rosy right cheek, tears of thanksgiving pooling in her hazel-colored Irish eyes.

     "Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you, sweet Jesus!" She blissfully proclaimed.

     Caspar Jr. immediately craned his neck in his mother's direction, allowing his father to release him.

     "Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you, sweet Jesus!" Caspar Jr. aped, running open armed towards his mother.

     "Amen!" Declared Caspar Sr., feeling his vigor and composure instantly returning to him.

     Later that afternoon in a hayfield out past the barn, Sr. instructed Jr. on how to shoot the rifle.

     "Never point a gun at another human being," cautioned Caspar Sr., "and never shoot anything you do not plan to eat."

     "What about rats, father?" Jr. queried. "Can't I shoot at some rats?"

     Caspar Sr. carefully contemplated the question, raising up two ebony eyebrows as bushy as a black chipmunk's tail.

     "I suppose," he said, scratching his head. "But only after we finish your training."

     For three quarters of a century the Higgins' flourished as one of the county's top horse breeders and produce suppliers, harvesting strawberries, apples, cauliflower, broccoli, and artichokes. Their prizewinning horses won best of class at the annual Santa Cruz County Fair year in and year out.

     Caspar Jr. got married in 1923, to a woman named Christine Lowell Smothers, eldest daughter of Sherriff Clarence Alexander Smothers. The couple had five children, their eldest a girl they named Betty Grace Higgins, and their second born a son, whom they named after his grandfather, Caspar Theodore Higgins III.

     Caspar III grew up and in 1945 got married to a gal named Georgina Abigal Jones, the pride and joy of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, owners of the Jones Garage. They had three girls, including one who died at childbirth, and finally a son, born in 1948, whom they named Caspar Theodore Higgins IV.

     Then, in 1983, Caspar Theadore Higgins IV began selling off enormous chunks of the estate to developers who gave him offers too big to refuse, and by 2000 most of the original acreage had switched hands. With mountains of cash but no businesses to run, Higgins IV took to gambling.

     He frequented Reno, Nevada, and later the Thunder Valley Casino Resort in Lincoln, CA. His pastime became a habit, then an addiction, and big financial losses soon followed. When the old man entered hospice care in 2008, Higgins IV had lost nearly eighty percent of the profit he'd made from hawking so much of the family's land and farm equipment.

     Caspar Theodore Higgins V assumed leadership in 2009 and out of the blue decided to become a preacher. Using the remaining family cash and assets, he erected the Pajaro Valley Christian Church on the property, which then included the original house, outbuildings, and 300 acres. He also opened a roadside fruit and vegetable stand on State Route 152, calling it Higgins Family Farms.

     In 2019, when membership at his church suddenly plummeted, Higgins V turned to heavy drinking. His congregation had been steadily declining for nearly a decade, but that year, mostly due to the Great Dechurching, the number of parishioners fell by more than half. Thousands of houses of worship closed in the US during the time period, with more and more Americans expressing no religious preference, and the COVID-19 pandemic greatly accelerating the trend.

     "Where did all these non-believers come from?" Higgins V asked his family one late Sunday afternoon during supper. "I just don't understand it. Have these people gone and lost their minds?"

     "It's just a sign of the times, dad." Higgins V's oldest daughter Lydia interjected. "Lots of young people are looking for alternatives to finding spirituality because they disagree with how the church looks at political and social issues. Not to mention the growing number of people who simply don't believe in a god anymore. I mean, there are so many atheists now. My friend Debbie at work says she thinks it's because Christianity is outdated."

     "Debbie Mackenzie's a heretic and a fornicator!" Eleven-year-old Caspar Theadore Higgins VI smugly shouted. "And you shouldn't talk like that in front of father. It's heresy, and it isn't right."

     Preacher Higgins continued the harsh verbal assault. "Heed your younger brother's advice young lady," he scolded. "How dare you use such talk at our Sunday supper. You might be 18 now but I'll not tolerate that kind of talk at my table. Not now, and not ever!"

     "Amen poppa!" Caspar declared.

Chapter 3

     The Catastrophic Nuclear War of 2152 had killed off 99 percent of humanity, with only about 3.5 million people surviving in the USA. During the global conflict every major metropolis in the United States had been vaporized. Carpet bombings from Chinese and Russian planes damaged or destroyed most of the smaller towns and cities from coast to coast, leaving a majority of the country in rubble and ash.

     Everyone who managed to survive the explosions, raging firestorms, horrible burns, and radiation sickness hunkered down in the ruins of a nuclear winter that lasted nearly five years. Soot and dust blocked out the sun, all the forests and crops died, and fishery numbers plummeted. Seafood, including seaweeds and kelps, became the planet's sole source of nutrition, and of the original 3.5 million USA survivors, another 2.25 million perished during the long fallout, succumbing mostly to hunger and hypothermia. Death hit older folks the hardest and claimed every life in areas of the country without ocean access or drinkable water.

     When the haze finally settled, and the sun came back out, the growing of edible foods hastily returned. By the time of the first new harvests, people were beginning to feel healthier again, stronger both mentally and physically. People started to have children once more, and many rebuilding communities began trading and bartering for their goods and services.

     As life became more stable and organized, residents formed seats of government, with all leaders blaming the war on religion. Before the holocaust nearly ninety eight percent of the US population had already converted to atheism. The disbelief in God as the new faith had sprung from a firm belief in science and the guiding principles of human psychology. Soon a new religion grabbed hold, and a majority of society became members of Factual Science Faith, a spiritual belief steeped in rational and logical human living based on current scientific truth.

Chapter 4

     "You goddamn son of a bitch Harley!" Higgins IV hollered. "You can't tell me what to do on my own land!"

     "Mr. Higgins, please control yourself." Ms. Hutchinson demanded. "Need I remind you that this is a county council meeting, and proper decorum must be maintained at all times? If you continue with these outbursts, I'll be forced to have you put out."

     Mayor Harley Hutchinson chaired the council meetings, and also sat as President of the district's Factual Science Faith group.

     "Mr. Higgins, we haven't ratified the amendment yet, it's still in discussion. But rest assured, most of Watsonville's ninety thousand residents are atheists, and we believe your inane religious practices are a determent, if not a danger to our community. There are barely twelve-hundred Christian's in the entire county sir, with about one-hundred twenty-five attending your services, and we feel it's time for you folks to let go of your archaic beliefs, embrace logical, rational science, and join the rest of society." NICE

     "Over my dead body you goddamned son of a bitch!" Higgins IV screamed.

     "Bailiffs, please remove Mr. Higgins!" Mayor Hutchinson ordered. "And I hope you have a more peaceful day, sir."

     As two powerful ushers physically removed a struggling Pastor Higgins from the chamber, he vehemently screamed his final words of rebellious violence: "To hell with your decorum, to hell with your amendment, to hell with your science, and to goddamn hell with all of you!"

Chapter 5

     Chief UHPA Science Officer Stanley Stan Mortinson stared morosely out the big windows of his office on the third floor of Building 1, looking down at the vast fields of Opuntia, commonly known as prickly pear cactus, stretching out across the Mojave Desert as far as the eye could see. He worried about his daughter Morty, a captain in the PEEU, currently leading yet another mission to apprehend more Tier-One religious offenders hiding out in the war-torn ruins of what used to be the city of Watsonville.

     Based on the latest intel, this particular Christian sect began leaning to the radical right after a botched PEEU raid in March, when two of their members were killed. During the San Fransisco RTO incident, a PEEU soldier had mistakenly switched her weapon from Hi-Wat stun to Lo-Den live, accidentally shooting a young couple. 

     First offence RTO is a Code-D1 misdemeanor punishable by 6-12 months in a Factual Science Faith detainment center, and news of the dreadfully unnecessary shooting spread fast. Infuriated West Coast Christians called the UHPA's overreach of power an atrocious murder and soon a much more radical group sprang up led by their new Divine Leader Rector Caspar T. Higgins.

     Higgins called himself and his followers Holy Joes, and they'd taken up residence somewhere in the vicinity of Watsonville's Palm Beach State Park. Preaching fire and brimstone to his flock of monotheists ten-thousand strong, the zealot talked of turning his religious fanatics into a band of kamikaze cultists ready to give up their lives in the name of Stone Age religious dogma.

     All Christian adherents still believed in the Good Book, and as irrational religious holdovers, still clung to the medieval and moribund belief of life after death. Blind to what most habitants of Earth now saw as indisputable space-age scientific truth, the disciples would not and could not accept the facts of empirical discovery. Conditioned and convinced to the point of no return, they vowed to remain in the shadows fighting for the prehistoric beliefs of their imaginary god.

     Doctor Mortinson frowned and shook his head nonjudgmentally at the thought of a city being named after angles and wondered how inhabitants of planet Earth 500 years ago had considered such a thing. Very abnormal, he thought. The big bang scientific theory had fast-forwarded to the year 2525, and the passage of time had naturally and rightfully changed the lay of the land.

     Religion, long gone. Places of worship including churches, synagogues, shrines, mosques, and temples, now ruble and dust. Science and observational truth ruled the day, erasing every antiquated spec of theological folklore and mystical mythology from a post WEW world of thinking men and women.

     Suddenly, a familiar voice from behind pulled Dr. Mortinson away from his somber thoughts.

     "Stan, they're ready for you now," said his assistant, Dr. Roberta Richardson.

     The renowned professor turned around and smiled. 

     "Thank you, Robby," he replied affectionately. "Let me just grab my notes."

     Roberta had been his assistant for five years, and during that time she oftentimes remined him of his daughter. They were both about the same age, looked a little bit alike, and even had some of the same mannerisms. The way they tossed their long brown hair back with both hands when laughing hysterically at one of his jokes, or the way they bit their bottom lips whenever they needed to make a difficult decision.

      As Stan and Roberta made their way towards the auditorium, she briefed him on the latest developments. 

     "Not everyone's here." She began. "Dr. Abimbola's still recovering from surgery and sends her apologies. They've sent a new scientist in her place, Dr. Kanye Benhaim. This will be his first world conference."

     "Good, good, always nice to see a new face in the place," Dr. Mortinson said, grinning to himself at his rhyme. 

     As they walked briskly along a cavernous, white-carpeted hallway, Stan began reviewing his notes. Huge portraits of previous UHPA scientists and dignitaries hung ceremoniously on the walls, and at the end of the foyer, where the corridor reached the lyceum's octagonal lobby, hung even larger portraits of the Founders of Factual Thought.

     As the preeminent agnostics, atheists, and nonbelievers of their day, these fathers of logical, knowledge-based thinking represented the UHPA's current Articles of Faith, founded upon rational and reflective principles of tried-and-true scientific observation and experimentation. These notables included Sigmond Freud, Stephen Hawking, Hypatia, Andrei Sakharov, Ayn Rand, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Rosalind Franklin, Karl Marx, and Alan Turing.

     In addition to the timeless paintings in the rotunda, a silverplated plaque had been erected beside the chamber's colossal, great barium French Doors, engraved with the names of many other luminaries in the field of godless belief, including Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, Joseph Campbell, Carl Sagan, and S'Chn T'Gai Spock. Above the magnificent gate, inscribed in massive gold leaf lettering two meters high, read the words: There are no gods; therefore, there can be no representatives of gods.

     As Stan and Roberta passed through the glorious entryway into the high-ceilinged, acoustically domed Democritus Amphitheater, their ears immediately picked up the faint but unmistakable echo of powerfully vibrating Larynx Hertz Mods, which translated all human speech into a variety of dialects and languages. The enormous gallery percolated with vigorous energy, with all 98 attendees representing the three UHPA Nations already fully engaged in lively discussions.

     Stan Mortinson made his way to the empty rostrum at the front of the amphitheater and switched on the Rayon Radionic Amplifier system, automatically engaging the daises' built-in wireless microphone and large capacity Hertz Mod system.

     Stan cleared his throat and officially got the meeting started. "Brothers and sisters, may I have your attention, please."

Chapter 6

     The People's Elite Extraction Unit darted away from a fleet of ivory white Quid-Grav Transporters shouldered on U.S. Highway 1, traversed down a short rocky embankment and crisscrossed stealthily into a dimly lit parking lot.

     The olden asphalt lay in crumbled ruins, deeply rutted and marked by piles of broken rubble, yet still contained a bevy of electric junkers, mini cars and trucks produced during the early years of the Fossil Fuel Ban. The oil and gas injunction, now enforced by the United Humanitarian Peacekeeping Alliance, had been agreed upon by all surviving nations emerging from the World Extinction War.

      The nimble squad moved like shape-shifting comic book phantoms, cutting quickly across the car park and disappearing one by one into the shadows of semi-darkness at the edge of the lot where the weak SolCell lighting ceased to penetrate the night.

     Captain Cheryl Morty Mortinson led the raid. She stopped behind the outer wall of a porte cochere and raised a tight-fisted right arm high into the air, bringing the 20-person crew to a halt by her side. She waited in duty-bound stillness as they settled in close, then spoke to her team using the untraceable Audi-Comm technology all PEEU C-Core Helmets came equipped with.

     "Okay people, this is where the birdbrains are." She cooed.

     The tumbledown but still inhabitable Hampton Inn & Suites sat directly off US1 in Watsonville, another partially bombed-out American city where bands of self-subsisting atheists and outlaw Christians still lived. Power to the commercial district had been cut off during the early rioting years, and a soupy blackness now blanketed the entire distance between the parking lot and the Inn.

     As per UHPA intel, the suspects occupied all three floors of the dilapidated building, its fixed windows heavily cloaked from the inside. Morty noticed the faint glow of low output prozzinol orbs coming from behind the outer edges of the draperies. Most of the glass windows had been broken out, the frames re-covered with thick and heavily bolted torch and cut-resistant cage wire, which made entering and exiting without the use of Crotung tools impossible.

     The Sat-X space technology Morty needed to see and hear everything going on inside the warehouse had been lost ten years earlier when the UHPA's Central Comp-Com Network crashed. The CCCN controlled most of the UHPA's Ult-Tec capabilities, and losing the system dramatically reduced the PEEU's capacity to safely and efficiently do its job.

     Morty moved her tactical headgear to the right, stopped at two o'clock, and queried, "Now, we're gonna take these poor souls into custody just the way we planned, right Carlson?" 

     Silence.

     "No screw ups this time, Carlson, we can't afford the fallout." She continued. 

     "No screw ups, Captain." Swore Carlson. "Cross my cunt and hope to die."

     A quiet snickering surged through the group, forcing Morty to re-raise her fisted right arm. Everyone went silent and came back to attention. 

     "Weapons check. Set for stun. Activate night vision." Morty ordered.

     She waited for all 20 soldiers, especially Carlson, to whisper check, then gave her team their final instructions.

     "OK, you guys enter through the delivery dock at the back, and you guys take the fire doors on the north side. My team will take the front entrance."

     The teams then split in fours, each team trotting methodically to their assigned entrances. Sergeant William Smitty Schimdt and five others stayed put, while Morty and her five-person squad continued on towards the second entrance, another set of wide doors located at the north end of the building.

     Out of nowhere, chit-chat crackled in Smitty's pod. "I crossed Carlson's heart once and got creamed," one-lined Private James JJ Lancing.

     "Too under evolved for my taste, JJ." Private First-Class Gigi Spoons Carlson calmly shot back. "And now that you mention it, I have no idea how you passed your psych evaluation."

     A few ohs broke out, but Sgt. Schmidt squelched them.

     "Shut it down right now, all of you." He ordered. "And you two," the sarge continued, placing a gentle hand upon each of the two privates' shoulders, "we're sorry things didn't work out, but now's not the time or place. Zip it and focus people."

     Perfect order resumed, and Smitty's team waited silently for the go signal.

     "Smitty," called Morty, "we're at the north entrance. Blow the doors in two-minutes, on my mark."

     "10-4 captain." Smitty replied. "Two minutes everyone, Salinas, wire the hatch."

     Corporal Richard Ricky Salinas worked speedily, setting up four Tech-Neut Charges, one per hinge point, in less than a minute. He then took position against the bulkhead with the rest of the fighters, three right and three left, with Schmidt and Salinas just eight feet away from the blast zone.

     "Night vision off." Morty whispered. "On my count. Five, four, three, two..."

     Both entrances blew perfectly, nearly straight forward, leaving gaping, splintered holes where the large wooden doors had once stood. At the moment of impact all eleven PEEU members activated their High Illumination Actinic Body Cams.   

     "Go, go, go!" Morty yelled, each team storming through grey-black smoke and into the ziggurat.

     Both groups raced ahead, rendezvousing as planned at the bottom portion of the building's central staircase. LOPO illumination from the second floor filtered down through the cavernous stairwell, showering faint light on the reunited soldiers standing at the base of the stairs. All eyes peered cautiously upwards, searching for any signs of movement.

     With a flick of her wrist Morty sent Smitty and Spoons on patrol to secure the rest of the first level. It looked like most of the interior walls had been demolished, and two inches of water covered the concrete floor. The air reeked of Sulfuric Mercaptan, and all of the usable furnishings had been moved up top. 

     In less than a minute, Smitty hollered, "Clear!"

     "Clear!" Spoons echoed.

     The pair returned and Morty instructed, "Here we go people, watch for rogues." 

     They reached the stairwell's wide, midpoint landing without confrontation. Then, Morty and half the corps climbed cautiously up the second tier of stairs to the top. Still no suspects in sight. Zero resistance. Anticipating an ambush, Morty crouched down low near the last step, searching for attackers. None came.

     The top level looked in much better condition, with one dividing wall separating the warehouse into two separate, nearly equal compartments. The bulkhead had a 10-foot wide, reinforced steel sliding door in the middle, shut tight. Morty whistled, marshaling everyone up from the stair's landing, and then signaled Smitty and Spoons to double-check the room.

     Rows of tattered cots, bunkbeds, and dressers filled the space on one side, with grungy chairs, tables, loungers and sofas on the other.  In-between stood a makeshift kitchen, with two long counters, two sinks, multiple cupboards, one Prop-Gel stove, two Prop-Gel refrigerators, and one Dri-Tec freezer, all badly beaten commercial models.

     "Clear!" Smitty chimed.

     "Clear!" Seconded Spoons.

     "We've got them." Morty announced. "Cover."

     Morty's troops immediately took cover behind the beds, tables, sofas, and dressers, while Morty descended four steps into the stairwell. She unclipped a powerful M150-OM2 from her utility belt and pressed it to her lips.

     "Attention, attention! This is Captain Sheryl Mortinson of the PEEU. We have the exit covered. By order of the UHPA, you are now officially detained and under arrest. Please open the door and come out one by one. You have 10 minutes to comply."

     At the ten-minute mark, with absolutely no signs of surrender forthcoming, Morty raced over to the makeshift kitchen and rallied her troops. 

     Once gathered, she said, "Okay people, they're not coming out, so we need to go in." Morty pointed to a utility conduit located high on the long wall separating them from the Holy Joes.

     "I need two on intel." She flatly stated.

     Five or six hands shot up at nearly the exact moment yet staggered just enough to recognize the order.

     "Okay, Spoons and JJ." Judged Morty. "Smitty, what did you see?"

     "Spoons and JJ." Agreed Smitty. 

     "Let's get to it then." Finalized Morty.

     Working synchronously together, the unit moved a thickly legged kitchen table and tall dresser over to a spot below the duct, then lifted Spoons to the top of the dresser. She used a screwdriver from her PEEU Mult-Pak to remove the vented plate, then pulled herself in. JJ followed and also vanished into the crawl space. 

     "Cover." Morty ordered, and all nine repositioned themselves behind ratty pieces of furniture.

     "Attention, attention! This is Captain Sheryl Mortinson of the PEEU. Please, we're here to help you. Open the door now and come out one by one. Failure to comply will result in the use of TNCs, and no one wants that. So, I'm asking one last time, please open the door and come out peacefully, one by one. You have ten minutes to comply."

     About three minutes later, Spoon's voice crackled into the CCK's. 

     "I've got eyes and ears Captain. About a hundred subjects, half men, half women, maybe ten children. Hard to tell from this angle. They're huddled up against the far wall, behind what looks like a stage with a pulpit. There's a giant crucifix on the wall above them. Most are on their knees, heads bowed, praying, I think."

     "What about Higgins?" Morty asked. "Can you get positive ID on Higgins?"

     JJ inched past Spoons to get a better vantage point and scanned the room in facial recognition mode. "Eyes and ears Capt." he began.

     Morty and the rest of the team waited anxiously for 10 seconds of tense transmission silence.

     "Bad news, Capt." JJ advised. "It's a negative on Higgins. But wait, who's that? It's Briggs, Capt. I've got positive facial rec on Briggs. Sorry Capt., Higgins is a no show."

     Worship Minister Altan Josephine Briggs Jr. sat at the right hand of Higgins. A big old burly brute of a man, both cunning and tenacious, Briggs commandeered Caspar's entire national network of Faithful City Dweller Zones.

     Briggs peered hard into the disquieted eyes of Student Pastor Danny Ormond. 

     "How much longer?" He asked impatiently. "I need it done son. In the name and honor of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ, the time has come."

     He raised his voice so that everyone in the room could hear him. 

     Almost shouting, he exclaimed, "Our lord and savior Jesus Christ forgives us for our sins. Jesus weeps for us now. He weeps for our families, our friends and loved ones, those who will miss us oh so very much. But he has a plan and a promise! Oh yes, thank-you Jesus, our dear God in Heaven, we thank you. Sweet Jesus, our wonderful, beautiful Lord and Saviour indeed is waiting for us in heaven, where we will have everlasting life! In the name of Jesus Christ and our Heavenly Father, amen!"

     "Amen, Amen!" Wailed the flock of Holy Joes. 

     "Wait, what's that?" JJ asked himself, already knowing the answer. "Stack!" He squealed.

     His vocal fear, nearly palpable enough to be felt through the electronic devices, curdled the blood of all who heard, and for a second froze each to that one moment in time. A beat went by.

     "Get out of there!" Morty screeched. "Move!"

     The terror in her commands greatly motivated the entire unit, and everyone scrambled towards the staircase. 

     "Get to the north entry!" Morty desperately ordered, as she and the others reached the first flight of steps. 

     "10-4 Captain." Spoons responded. 

     She and JJ began belly crawling frantically for the open hatch. As they went, their hands and knees crashed heavily against the corrugated metal of the tube, creating loud clanking and thudding noises.

     "Dear God, almighty, they're inside!" A woman yelled.

     "Out, you devil!" Her husband harangued. "You won't get us! You have no power over us!"

     "It's ready Minister Briggs." Danny said shakily. "What should I do?"

     Morty and her nine raced out of the stairwell, turned left and flew for the north exit. Spoons leapt from the ceiling onto the dresser, toppling it, as JJ came out right behind her. They both fell onto the dresser, then on top of one another, hitting the table hard and rolling down to the floor.

     "I love you JJ." Laughed Spoons.

     "I love you too, baby." JJ purred.

     "Do it now son." Briggs whispered. "And may the Lord have mercy on our souls!"

     The blast ripped through the old wooden structure with such force it turned the church room into kindling.