The Last Church Read online

  She was pleased with her six months of diligence. Her shoulders, back and arms were firmer, the persistent baby fat was barely visible, and she felt great.

  Her arms and shoulders prickled with goosebumps. There was a slight chill in the dome this morning, and she had a feeling it would be colder in the barren lands; a pair of jeans and a light sweater were in order. And they had to be new.

  The news channel was playing on the wall vision. “...in a brave move, United President Williamson stated he will no longer supply the DNA Energy Protein X since the German/Arabian union has reneged on their part of the deal to dispose of two hundred electrical warheads. The decision has not only angered the German/Arabian nation, but also supporters of...”

  “Shopping channel,” Rachael said, and the wall flickered before turning black. A moment later, the shopping channel appeared. Below the large red sign were a list of categories and pictures of the hottest items. “Jeans and sweater combos.” Rachael watched a picture list flash on the screen and waited until she saw a set she just had to have. “Stop. Okay, I’ll take them.”

  “Item number Z.E. 92203747,” an invisible voice said. “Three hundred credits have been removed from your account. Please inspect at docking bay and confirm.”

  Rachael went to the docking station between the bed and the wall on the other side of the room. This wall flickered also, but she didn’t have the money to have them fixed. Visual optics in old houses was too unreliable. Pretty soon she’d be staring at a white wall, and she didn’t want that, but what could she do? Students were poor. It was a fact of life.

  If worse came to worse, she could always hang pictures. That was a bit of history not taught in classes. That was the type of lesson she needed to learn to answer her questions. The poster her team had found on their third dig was of a band dressed in torn leather called W.A.S.P. A disk was also found in a stereo, but it was too old and too exposed to the elements to be of any use. It couldn’t be saved, although Rachael had tried her best. She really wanted to know firsthand what kids of the eighties and nineties considered music. What type of music did this band W.A.S.P play? Were they contemporary, modern pop, or something more? Each dig gave more questions than it answered.

  Today’s dig sounded exciting. The professor had found the location of the richest self-made man in New Zealand. Peter Clement’s books were in digital format and were an instant government funded download into the optical centre-processing unit available for research at any time. He was considered one of the greatest motivators of the twenty-first century. And the professor wanted her team to work their way into the basement of what used to be his house.

  She was pleased with the assignment. As a child she’d had a major crush on the man. His eyes did it. They were alluring and downright sexy. He was perceived to be the kindest of souls in every book she had read. He was everything she hoped her future husband would be.

  The location was probably yet another error. Unfortunately, the professor was having difficulty locating the exact spot. It seemed the new maps were not reliable, except for the present day. At least it was safe to go into Zone Three now.

  Her jeans and sweater combo were waiting for her, nicely folded and still in the foam packaging.

  To the screen, she said, “Confirmed and accepted.”

  “Thank you for purchasing at the shopping channel, and visit us again soon. We have everything you need.”

  The screen vanished and was instantly replaced by an image of a wood paneled wall. It flickered.

  Rachael removed the set from the docking bay and instantly the foam turned to white dust, covering the clothing. She placed the combo on a second panel and said, “Clear packaging remains.” A clear light rose from the side of the panel and covered the articles. It slid through the clothes and a light flashed. All were clean now; even the tags had gone.

  The flickering wall beeped.

  “Receive,” she said.

  Ami’s face appeared. She was smiling. Her black hair curled around her shoulders, and her dark eyes twinkled with excitement. It was a full body shot showing her wearing black tights and a white business-like shirt on top of another tee shirt. The business shirt was opened to the third button.

  “Dressed for the occasion, huh, doll?”

  “I feel comfortable in these clothes. You of all people should know. Rachael, are you going like that—in your birthday suit?” Ami laughed, old expressions were a favorite game the two of them played. Often the team members had no idea what they were talking about, and the two girls liked the mystery of it. They liked to be looked at, especially when those looks were confused stares. “Oh,” her voice went up a notch, “have we been shopping?”

  “Yes, we have, doll.” Rachael smiled. “Three hundred clams and not a credit more.”

  “Not trying to impress Dean, are we?”

  “He’s not in my life anymore, thank the heavens.”

  Ami’s smile vanished. She grimaced, realizing her mistake. “Yeah, but he wants to be,” she said softly, trying to cover up.

  “Not after Michele,” Rachael said, successfully hiding resentment and anger.

  “Babe, I heard Michele took a hell of a beating when she told him it was over.”

  Rachael looked at the floor, softly chewing her bottom lip.

  “How’s your optical sensor?”

  “Repaired.”

  “Good. Now, change of subject, forgetting all jerks and assholes. We got a dig today, young lady. Are you pumped?”

  “Are you pumped?” Rachael repeated. Confusion clouded her words. “I don’t remember that one. Is it new?”

  “Yep,” Ami said. Her smile widened. “Found an original Stephen King book from the nineties. Shall I e-mail it to you?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I think it means are you ready or excited or something like that.”

  “I don’t like it. Pumped sounds very forced. It’s a waste of disk space.”

  “You don’t have to use it, Rach.”

  “Why the fancy clothes for the dig? It’s probably a wrong location anyway. I mean, this is the third time. Remember the others? We found asphalt and a few pieces of tarred stone. We can find that here without looking.”

  “Forth time’s a charm, kid. Do I need to e-mail you Peter Clement’s chapter on keeping positive?”

  “No,” Rachael answered. “It’s too depressing.”

  They both laughed.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What is it?”

  “What’s the time?”

  “It’s about eight thirty,” Ami said. She laughed. “You better get dressed or you’ll miss the teleport to the university. Oh, shit, that reminds me. I gotta go, honey. See you at school.”

  “Okay. Bye for now.” The screen went blank and switched back to the wood paneled wall. It was her favorite choice of scenery for the bedroom.

  She quickly put on her new clothes and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Every time she saw the sink it amazed her. People didn’t need to wash dishes these days; sinks were a thing of the past. The “CREATOR 2700” was all anyone used. Order the food, eat the food, and let the creator reuse the damn dishes. She had tried the sink when she first moved in, but it didn’t seem to be attached to a water line. Now they were expensive—expensive and useless. The water was contaminated. There was no drinking or swimming allowed. Earth 2 was a different story. Everything there was clean, if not a hundred percent natural. It was Rachael’s goal to live there one day. But to have the money and grab the next shuttle was a far away dream, possibly one that would never come true. But she had to have a dream. She needed something to aim for or else there would be no point.

  “Creator 2700, latte with three sugars please.”

  “One half credit has been removed,” the machine said as a steaming cup of latte materialized. She picked up the cup and the machine added, “Be careful, it’s hot.”

  “Sure thing, buddy,” Rachael answered, “but I don’t have time to t
ake it easy.” She brought the steaming cup to her lips and sipped. She went into the living room to collect her things when suddenly a buzz sounded throughout the entire house.

  “You have three minutes for teleport,” a computerized voice warned.

  “Thank you, alarm.” She rushed back to the kitchen and forced down a couple more mouthfuls of latte. Then went to the front door and opened it. Outside, she locked it with her fingerprint.

  The public teleport system was very conveniently located one door down from her house. And it was crowded as usual. Students always had to wait for the salary men to be beamed away first. After all, they were the paying customers.

  She stood with a group of other students, all of whom she didn’t know, and waited patiently. The salary men swiped their cards through a slot and entered a capsule sized room. There was a flash of bright light, and then it was the students' turn.

  It was cramped as usual. Rachael always had a fear one day she’d end up with an extra arm or leg while another student laid on the floor screaming in pain, having lost theirs.

  The flash of white wasn’t noticeable in the chamber and a second later she was being pushed through the exit with a group of students lucky enough to be at the front.

  Ami was waiting for her at the exit bay. She had changed her clothes and now wore jeans, a tee shirt and a black jacket. Standing next to her were Josh Evans, Michael Fuller, Penny Lacort, and Eric Wise.

  Seeing Eric, Rachael placed a telepathic transmitter in her ear.

  Hello, Rachael, new clothes?

  “Yep. What do you think?”

  Nice and casual.

  “The professor’s waiting for us,” Michael said. His long brown hair was tied into a ponytail at the back. He was the second in command in regards to expeditions, and it was clearly obvious he resented being number two.

  Ami came up beside Rachael with a huge smile on her face.

  Rachael noticed for the first time they were all smiling. She asked, “What’s with the grins?”

  Ami looped her arm around Rachael. “The professor is one hundred percent positive this is the place.”

  Josh Evans laughed. His voice was deep and coarse. It belied his actual physical size, which was thin. He had almost no body fat. When he took off his shirt at previous digs, his ribs and backbone stretched his skin in ugly ways.

  “What’s so funny, Mr. Serious?” Penny Lacort’s accent was very strong today. She was an exchange student from California. Why she had chosen New Zealand for her three-year course was unknown. She was a typical blond with a firm body and a breast size Rachael thought about getting. Most guys at this university were interested in Penny. She had a mysterious quality about her. She never talked about her life in the States, and her personal life was a secret. Her group of friends at the moment was countless boys who complained to their buddies that she never gave anything away, always saying no. She was labeled as a cock teaser, yet they still wanted to be with her. Her only real friends were in this team, and she seemed to like it this way.

  “The look on Rachael’s face when she sees what the professor has to show her,” Michael answered.

  What’s he going to show us? Eric asked. He looked at the others to see if they knew what Michael claimed to know. From the six of them, only Josh seemed to share Michael’s knowledge. Come on. Don’t let us hang in suspense.

  “You’ll see soon,” Josh said.

  Hey, Rachael, shall I pound it out of him?

  She laughed. Eric was a big boy and this was the first time she had heard him use an old expression. Maybe her and Ami’s little game was rubbing off on those around them.

  Eric trained every day at the local fitness centre and was very muscular. It was considered he’d deformed his body with muscles to compensate for his loss of hearing and speech during an aqua-ride when he was ten years old.

  “No,” Rachael said. “You’re wearing a nice shirt. I wouldn’t want you to rip it when you flexed.”

  His smile was wonderful.

  Quietly, Ami said, “He likes you. You do know that, don’t you?” Her smile was different, it was mischievous and her eyes sparkled with fun.

  “Be quiet,” Rachael answered, trying to hide her own smile. The thought had occurred to her but she’d never had the courage to act on it. Maybe one day it might happen, but not today.

  Eric folded down his screen. The yellow plastic covered his eye. With his index finger he punched the air and started to read the message.

  Eric told the group, The professor is waiting for us.

  “Let’s not keep him waiting then. Shall we?” Michael motioned to the entrance of the main building.

  Chapter Two

  Christchurch 2014

  The sound of night insects was louder than usual as Peter Clement put the last of the dishes in the dishwasher. He pushed the start button and left it to do its thing. It was eight o’clock, and he was depressed; everything he knew and loved was about to end.

  After twenty long years, it was time for him to give his blood to the dark prince.

  He was a seller of antiques, having taken over the business from his parents. Customers were few and far between, most of them just looking or curious about what had become of the shop after his father retired. Most people who knew him knew he didn’t want to run this shop, knew he had no interest in it. But they also knew he didn’t want to see it go down, even though his dream was to open a computer shop. He’d been very interested in that thingamajig called the Internet...until he found that book, the one with strange writing on the cover.

  That was twenty years ago, almost to the day. The day he became a member of Riley and Hans Antiques. The day he was dusting the books and his ladder with wheels decided to take a short journey out from under him...

  Christchurch 1994.

  He grabbed hold of the bookcase shelves, intending to balance and straighten out, when the bookcase tilted. A loud crack signaled its demise. The books on that shelf dropped, covering both him and the floor in dust.

  Peter fell, twisting his ankle on the edge of a thick hardcover. A scream ripped from his throat as the bookcase, filled with hundreds of tomes, loomed towards him, dropping a few of its offerings in a threatening preview of what was to come.

  Desperately, he tried to maneuver out of the way, but his leg hooked a table from the early eighteenth century, bringing him crashing to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bookcase tilting, and flung his arms across his face in an attempt to protect himself.

  He waited for the inevitable crashing of heavy wood against his thin bones. The thought squeezed his eyes shut and formed a lump in his throat that proved hard to swallow. Oh God, the pain was going to be enormous and Peter could do nothing but wait for the ensuing madness. His bladder was ready to lose its contents and tingled madly as the seconds ticked away.

  He waited.

  Nothing happened. No crashing of wood, no pain. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes and spied the bookcase still upright.

  A heavy sigh of relief pushed the fear away. He slowly got to his feet and picked up a couple of books, preparing to put them back in some kind of order, when the phone rang.

  Peter didn’t want to answer it; he knew it was the bank. They phoned every two or three days, constantly checking up on him, seeing how things were going, wondering about missed payments. The insurance company also wanted a piece of him, but they never phoned, preferring instead to visit for friendly face to face chats.

  He stared at the phone, waiting for the answering machine to get it. On the seventh ring, he heard the familiar click followed by his voice, “Thank you for calling Wondrous Antiques. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. You are a valued customer, so please leave your name and number after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Instead of a voice at the end, there was a series of shrills, and his fax machine roared to life. A long sheet of paper rolled out of the machine. The automatic cutter did its th
ing and the sheet fell to the floor near Peter’s feet.

  Squatting down to fetch it, pain shot through his ankle. It was hot and fiery. He quickly picked up the sheet and hopped to his chair. He could feel the ankle swelling.

  The fax was from the bank, warning of their intent to foreclose in thirty days if payments weren’t met in said period of time. Following this was a copy of the agreement he had signed.

  Where the hell was he going to get nine thousand dollars? He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  Without realizing it, Peter fell asleep. He dreamed of the books falling on him, of being crushed to death. In the dream, his dead eyes spied a thin, leather-bound book wedged between the bookcase and the wall. A book he needed when he was alive. This dream led on to countless others: bank managers with automatic weapons, insurance salesmen trying to sell him a coffin, to other things which would be gone the instant he awoke.

  Which he did, late in the evening, with a cool breeze blowing through the open door, a door he was sure was closed when he started dusting.

  The shop was dark.

  He couldn’t see anyone moving about, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t hiding in the shadows. He checked his watch and found it was five thirty in the morning. In another thirty odd minutes the sun would rise, sending tiny rays of light into the shop.

  But Peter couldn’t wait that long. Fear was building a bridge of ice in his chest, and he slowly rose from the chair. Keeping his eyes on the store, he blindly felt around for the baseball bat he kept under his desk for such emergencies. He failed to find it.

  “Be brave,” he whispered as he moved to the wall and located the switch.

  He blinked against the sudden white harshness and rescanned the shop now that he could see everything. Nothing looked gone or out of place, even the books he’d failed to pick up lay where they had landed.

  Something about the books sparked a memory too vague for him to retrieve. There was something about the books he needed. He struggled to remember when an image of a wedged book floated before his eyes. It was there only for a second. That ‘something’ kept nagging at him and kept drawing his eyes to the bookcase. He sighed loudly in frustration.