Cult of Dave

“Dave will be displeased.”

No one ever spoke of Dave being anything other than displeased. For that matter, no one spoke of Dave above a whisper other than the Head of the Council.

The Defendant looks up at the Head’s silver mask and says, “I did nothing…”

“Silence!” The black gloved hand of The Head is held up. He - it is assumed The Head is a man - sits at the center of the Council’s semicircular table. “You will have your chance to speak.”

I sit at the left end of the table in my black mask and red robes, a junior member of the Council. This is my first hearing. I'm surprised at how high the table is set above the council hall floor.

“You've been to the Sacred Halls.” The Head's voice is altered, deepened artificially and booming through dozens of speakers hidden around the torch-lit hall.

The Defendant, unmasked but in his gray robes nods. There is no point in lying. Security cameras see every square inch of the compound.

“I need not say that is forbidden.”

The Head was once a gray robed novice like the one trembling before him now. He may be one of my initiates for all I know.

The Defendant nods. Expulsion is rarely an option. If he'd been elevated beyond novice, his unmasking earlier in the hearing would have guaranteed the Helmet. Now, though, the Helmet is merely likely.

“You must be truthful,” booms the voice of The Head. “Dave is listening. He shall know if you are lying.”

No one, I'm sure not even The Head, has looked on Dave's face. Rumors of who Dave is abound within and without the compound, of course, spoken in hushed tones among trusted Fellows, but they will never be confirmed or refuted.

The Defendant nods again, his hands wringing anxiously in front of himself.

“Why did you venture to the Sacred Halls?”

I'm now a member of the Council and have not seen the Sacred Halls beyond the metal tube the transports one down to them.

“Curiosity…”

“Liar!!!”

The Defendant and all non-Councilors in attendance jump at the outburst. Its echo reverberates around the room, a swirl of ghostly accusation fading away.

“Bring in the Defendant's belongings.”

Two novices in gray robes and with red ropes cinch about their waists signifying they are near promotions drag duffel bag to the center of the hall. In front of the Defendant, the dump out the bag’s contents with total disregard to the fragility of the items. It is impossible to see whether they're enjoying this moment or feel sympathy for the Defendant. They are masked, of course, and they're body language is stoic. They stand on either side of the Defendant who has now begun to shake in fear.

“Show me the gun,” commands The Head.

One red roped novice bends and holds aloft a pistol.

“The weapon of law enforcement.” The Head speaks this for the benefit of us lower council members. “Show me the identification.”

The other red roped novice does the dame as the first. He holds up a bi-fold wallet flipped open to reveal an FBI identification card. Even from my seat high above the Defendant, I can see the photo on the card is him.

“The badge of law enforcement.”

There are other items in the pile. The Head instructs the two novices to show us each item, the same process used for the pistol and ID card. We are shown a holster, a radio, an eavesdropping device, a pocket camera. The evidence against the Defendant is damning.

Finally, we have seen all items dumped from the duffle bag. The Defendant’s guilt is obvious to us all. But The Head is not ready to dole out sentencing.

“I'll ask one more time, now that you've seen what we have on you,” says The Head. “And remember, the evidence presented so far doesn't include video from the security cameras…”

The Defendant shakes more.

“Why did you go to the sacred halls?”

“I-investigation…”

It's obvious The Head is smiling beneath his mask. “Go on.”

“The Helmet...trying to discover what...what it is…”

“Your superiors know of it, no doubt.”

The Defendant nods. He's been a novice for nearly six months. Plenty of time to hear many of the rumors, none of which, no doubt, are true. Regardless, the plain facts are enough to attract the interest of Federal cops.

“Yes. Dave will be very displeased.”

Dave, I realize, must be long dead. That is unless the rumors that he succeeded in discovering the Death’s weakness are true

I have my doubts.

“The Bureau knows where I am…”

“Naturally.” The Head doesn't sound worried in the least.

“There will be an investigation…”

“More successful than the one you're conducting now, I hope?”

The Defendant is quiet. He knows he's failed. I wonder, though, how much the FBI knows.

I also wonder how he'd been allowed to come as far into the Fellowship as he has. Membership is not entirely secret. Initiates are vetted. There's a record somewhere in this old building that once served as a research facility and before that, I believe a box factory, that lists my full name, that I'm a tax accountant by trade, and that my wife now lives with her sister up near Seattle. How did an FBI agent get so far as novice-hood?

“You're curious about the Helmet,” comes the booming voice of The Head. “We'll show you more about it than you'd ever wish to know.”

For the first time, the Defendant appears to accept his fate with dignity.

And for the third time, I wonder why there is a council at all. The Head's verdict is his own.

“Salvatore Morretti, you are hereby expelled from the Order of Witt.” Also known as the Fellowship of Dave. Or, in hushed tones outside the compound, the Cult of Dave.

The Defendant, Salvatore, seems relieved. Apparently he believes his expulsion means only that he must leave. They must not require too high an IQ at the FBI.

“Expulsion at the Helm!” There is a boom as the left foot of everyone seated pounds the floor once in response to The Head’s decree.

Few know what the Helmet is or what it does. I am not one of those few. I do know that Expulsion at the Helm is punishment while Helmet Transcendence is the most sought after reward in the Order. No one comes back from either. Rumor has it they are the same.

The two red rope novices grab Novice Morretti by each arm and drag him along. The Head has descended from the council's high table. He leads the way through a hidden door built into the wall just below where he sat during the hearing. The Defendant, now the Condemned, is next, the novices pulling him through the door. Then we remaining council members follow in single file in descending order of seniority. I am last, so I close the hidden door, leaving the members of the Order who witnessed the hearing to go about their own business.

We file through a secret tunnel. As the ornate wood paneling gives way to sterile stainless steel walls, I reflect on the research I've done. Research that took me years to compile as well as a large outlay of cash. Research, of course, I have let no one else know about.

This compound was once owned by a large research corporation called Q-Tech. It was a secret facility at the time, disguised on the outside as an abandoned factory. Q-Tech owned the entire block and saw to it all the buildings had the same abandoned look. It is no different now that this building belongs to the Order.

Through the tunnel, Morretti screams for mercy and struggles to free himself of the novices’ grips. Pointless. The tunnel ends at a stainless steel slab that slides to the side to reveal a large room with walls as sterile as the tunnel’s ending.

I’ve seen this room. So has Morretti. He is condemned because he wanted to see more.

At the center of one wall is the elevator that leads to the Sacred Halls.

Q-Tech employed a researcher by the name of David Lightfoot. This was a hundred years ago. I believe, though I have no idea if I'm correct, that Lightfoot was the Order’s founder and inventor of the Helmet. From there, it's no large imaginative leap to think the Sacred Halls are where David Lightfoot conducted his research.

The red rope novices transfer Morretti to the second and third ranking members of the Council. The elevator opens and they, Morretti, and The Head enter it.

Morretti is still begging for his life. Just beneath his protestations I can hear The Head saying something. Being the farthest away, it is very difficult to make out any distinct words.

“...ectrodes will...attach...I hear it's painful…”

With no amplification and artificial voice effects, I think The Head might be a woman.

“...you should be greeted by Witt...iousness ripped from your brain…”

The doors close on Morretti looking more fearful than ever.