by Tim Curran
He crouched there.
He waited there.
In night-black arteries of crumbling brick, in flooded byways of gushing, stinking water afloat with rodent corpses, leaves, twigs, and the occasional putrefied dog or cat, he waited. He coveted the stigmata of sores that covered his body, smelling the sludge and filth in his beard, fighting against legions of rats and squishing the swarming dung beetles that nibbled on him as he slept, thinking, always thinking in the crowded cellar of his mind, that the beetles were the Americans who sullied his homeland, handled it and dirtied it with money-stinking fingers. Infidels, yes, nothing but infidels, corpse-worms and dung beetles that have turned an oasis into a festering corruption where they can feel at home. For like the Israelis, filth is their natural element. And being that he was Muslim, he knew he was far better than them. Here in his sewer-den of rot and dripping ooze, he felt superior.
But he was not alone.
No, never alone.
There were others and he had seen them in dank concrete corridors where the roots of trees reached through cracks like skeletal reaching fingers and mats of luminescent green mildew grew in profusion and toadstools plump and round felt like warm, pulsing flesh. Oh yes, they were here. Sheikh Sa’ad had seen them more than once, the burrowers, the things with faces like soft fruiting pulp. They beckoned to him with fingers webbed by fungi and grinned at him with faces like moist yellow straw. Once they had been nothing but crawling human vermin grown accustomed to the seeping darkness and clotted waters, but now they were something more, part of something bigger than themselves. They had found their god and they gave worship before it.
Their god had no name.
But Sheikh Sa’ad had seen it. In clammy hollows and slime-dripping vaults of congested waste where the dead things wash up and go to green mulch and bone matter, he had seen it. There where the women gathered, their faces swollen white like juicy subterranean mushrooms, collecting dead things to feed upon.
It had been among them.
The great white worm.
When Sheikh Sa’ad had first seen it, he had lost his nerve and whimpered like a child. It was immense. A great pulsating white worm that was easily twenty-feet in length, each milky segment fat and ripened, its yawning mouth dripping a noxious slime. He had looked upon it and though it had no eyes, he knew it saw him for he could not only smell its toxic syrupy sweetness running like sap, but feel its sinister and polluted mind brush against his own. Its mouth was like a tunnel ringed by concentric rows of teeth that were licked by perfectly obscene rasping pink tongues. Its worshippers clung to its bloated, oily body, watching Sheikh Sa’ad and opening their own mouths in imitation of their god to show him the blossoming and succulent heads of their own parasitic worms.
Even down here, he had thought. Even down here the worms have infested.
But it was more than that and he knew it. For down here in the boggy and sluicing drainage of the dying city, something had happened. A ghastly mutation had taken place that could never have come to term beneath the eye of the sun. This worm, this great white worm, this progenitor worm and mother worm, had spawned and mutated into the horror he saw. It had infected the sewer-dwellers and disenfranchised, and now they held it in reverence, running pocked hands over each of its egg-bloated segments which must have held enough pulpous ova to inundate the entire city in squirming white larvae.
Knowing that he had brought it to being, that Allah had spurned him now for inadvertently creating this monstrous spawn, this freak of all that was holy and natural, Sheikh Sa’ad wept. His world was a prison, a narrow cage of his own making and he wept for the ruin of his life and its wasted potential.
For above he was hunted.
And below he would be prey.
No more would he know the tranquility of the prayer mat and the sweet music and comforting hand of a just and loving god—
That sound. All that is holy, what was that sound?
But he knew and knowing, went pale to his marrow. It was the sound of something colossal and undulant moving down the tunnel in his direction, its bulk sliding through thick, tepid water and over greasy decaying leaves, brushing the walls and moving ever closer. Like some gigantic jungle serpent slithering free of a green tropical pond in search of human prey.
But it was no snake.
It was the worm.
He heard it moving ever closer so that it might glut itself on his blood and meat. With a manic and hysterical cry, Sheikh Sa’ad jumped off the concrete shelf where he had been resting. He splashed through the standing water, slipping and sliding but never losing his forward momentum as the worm crept after him. The sound of its angry mewling filled the tunnel. No longer could Sheikh Sa’ad smell the slopping and noisome waters around him, for another odor had canceled this out: the cloying vinegary sweetness of the worm’s juicing secretions. It was the sweetness of rot and death and perhaps something black and invasive beyond these things.
He screamed.
Screamed with pure atavistic dread.
The worm would have him now for the viscous stench of its sweetness was horridly strong, overpowering him, weakening his resolve and turning his legs to warm rubber. He was slowing. The worm would bury him beneath its coils, it would take him into the catacomb depths of its throat and peel his skin with those waiting rows of serrated teeth. He would be its food, its sacrifice.
But then—
Allah was good and gracious. For ahead, shining beams of God’s sunlight reaching out to him, calling him free of the vaporous, stinking underworld. Sheikh Sa’ad ran for the light and saw that a manhole was open above. He looked back once and saw a rushing, titan blur of whiteness coming at him and then he climbed up and out, crawling over the pavement and screaming:
“THE WORM! THE WORM THAT FEASTS! THE WORM THAT TURNS! THE WORM THAT WAITS BELOW!”
And then he was on his feet, running through the sunlight, gibbering in Arabic, thoroughly insane, smelling and slicked with shit, crying out for the mercy of a just god.
One of the sewer workers standing nearby, gape-jawed, said, “Did he say worm?”
But the man with him just shook his head and pushed the manhole cover quickly back in place. With an involuntary shudder, he thought he saw something down there, something with an immense maw widening. But it couldn’t have been, and he refused to mention it. There was a rumbling from below, but he told himself it was a nearby train. That’s all it could have been.
WASHINGTON, D.C:
WHITE HOUSE, OVAL OFFICE
10:03 A.M.
One of the things Maddie Hughes liked about visiting the President was that he always served good wine to his guests. It didn’t matter if the meeting was trivial or critical, wine was served. And today it was an especially good vintage—a 2007 Liber Pater that was excellent.
She sipped from her glass and said, “What we have here is an abuse of power, Mr. President. This S5 business goes back to the late 1940s. According to what my people have been able to glean, S5 has been providing our military with exotic battlefield technologies since then. They were employed in the Korean War, Vietnam, and every conflict since.”
“And under the nose of every president since Truman,” the President said.
“Yes. But just try to find records of it.”
“Bob Pershing would have them, I’m thinking.”
“Yes, he’s dead center of this mess with BioGenesis. That’s a given. But he hardly stands alone and I think we both understand that,” Maddie explained. “His accomplices are just about everywhere—on the hill, in the intelligence services, and the military-industrial complex. And I have no doubt, members of your own cabinet. S5 has strong connections with Congdon BioTech and dozens of other research enclaves in the private sector. To put it bluntly, Mr. President, Bob Pershing and S5 are well-connected, well-placed, and very powerful.”
He thought over what she said.
She knew none of it could possibly have come as a surprise to him. Certainly he h
eard the rumors just as she did. She watched his eyes, wanting him to know that, without question, as secretary of the DHS she was 100% loyal to his administration.
“This entire Bob Pershing thing bothers me greatly.”
“It is disturbing, sir.”
“I’ve known him for years. He’s a spook and I know better than to trust his kind, yet… yet, I was always certain he had the country’s best interests in mind.”
“In his own twisted way, he may actually believe that. That what he is doing—alleged to be doing—is the only way to save this country.”
The President sipped his wine, then slammed down the glass on his study desk. “I don’t care for black budget programs. Never have. Never will. I’m a strong believer in not only accountability but transparency. When I learn about this bullshit going on in secret, being orchestrated by the very people I put in power, it sickens me. I think of the taxpayers. All their hard-earned taxes being used for this…this goddamned corruption.”
Maddie cleared her throat. “Sometimes, I suppose, it’s necessary for security of the nation.”
He looked at her, his eyes blazing. “Don’t hand me that old chestnut. I’ve had plenty of this nonsense cross my desk and I’ve okayed more than I’m comfortable with. But this… BioGenesis… it’s disgusting. It makes me wonder how much of this special access crap is going on under the table.”
“Sir, I think with people like Bob Pershing, this kind of thing is old hat. It’s part of the game. They subvert funds and resources for their pet projects.”
“Yes, yes, yes. But this is far worse and we both know it. This puts the country at risk. It puts the whole damn world at risk. The political pushback on this is going to be catastrophic. That’s the only reason I okayed Yankee Alert—to save this country and the integrity of this office even if it is a sham.”
Maddie let him stew a bit on that. She wasn’t about to risk riling his temper, which was legendary. Let him compose himself before touching upon more sensitive issues.
After a time, he said, “Go ahead, Maddie. There’s something you want to say, and I know it.”
She swallowed. This had to be broached carefully. “The biggest problem here may not be Bob Pershing and his alleged circle of conspirators, but who stands behind them.”
“You mean the aforementioned power players?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to sound like an alarmist or a conspiracist, Mr. President, but for many years there have been rumors of a group known as The Collective. Whether there is any truth to that is unknown.”
“You’re talking about the shadow group who orchestrate world affairs?” He sounded more than a little skeptical.
“Yes, more or less. A reputed clandestine executive branch.” She held her hand up. “I understand your skepticism, sir, believe me I do. But if there’s anything to this, we need to move on it. We need to find out who these people are and what their agenda might be. If all of this—from BioGenesis to the conspirators—have been engineered, we’re dealing with omnipotent enemies with unbelievable amounts of power and persuasion. Bob Pershing and the rest might be nothing but puppets that they play.”
The President stood up, walking back and forth across the room like a nervous, expectant father. Finally, he stopped. “If you would have come to me with this two weeks ago, I would have insisted you step down. But now with everything else going on, I’m just not sure. I’m not sure of anything.” He cleared his throat as she had seen him do so many times at the podium. “The subject has been discussed in this office more than once. I’ve dismissed it as nonsense again and again. And simply because there is no quantifiable evidence for their existence.”
“None,” she said.
“And yet, I’ve heard of this for decades. When I was governor of Rhode Island. During my terms as a state senator. This bugaboo has been broached more than once by the House Intelligence Committee and tabled every time. Yet, the rumors persist.” He shook his head. “Imagine: an illegal cabal with enormous amounts of public and private resources that lords over an ultra-secret empire of the most powerful people on the planet. Moving them like chess pieces, manipulating world events. It’s frightening.”
“And, all the while, to the general public across the world,” Maddie said, “it’s all a matter of coincidence, of chance.”
He sat back down. “This is a dry hole, Maddie. Unless you’ve got something for me, finding these people would be like tracking down bigfoot.”
She nodded. Now was the time for her gambit. The President would either take her seriously or he would call her a fool. “What I’m going to suggest is not an easy thing, but I believe we have enough evidence to bring in Bob Pershing. To sweat him a bit. You’d have to confer with your counsel, but if Adam Tiggman green lights this, it might be worth asking Mr. Pershing some hard questions. If he was given immunity from prosecution in the matter of treason and sedition, maybe he’d be willing to give up The Collective or at least point us in the right direction.”
The President thought it over for some time, staring at his glass of Bordeaux. He sighed and then rubbed his eyes. He had slept very little in many days. “What you’re asking me to do is to make myself look like a fool. To sit here with a bomb on my lap and hope it doesn’t go off and scatter me to the four winds.”
“It’s a chance, sir. Nothing more.”
“And a terrible risk. I’d be taunting a power structure that could destroy me.”
“Yes, certainly. But if there’s anything to this, if The Collective actually exists, then exposing them would tie-in nicely with Yankee Alert. This entire mess would be their doing.”
He looked hard at her. “I’ve had quite a few people say these very things to me, usually after too many cocktails, but they’ve always seemed to lack one thing—conviction. You seem to have it. You seem to be sure The Collective is a living, breathing entity. Why is that?”
This was the question she had been waiting for. “Because certain names have come to my attention again and again since the BioGen fallout began. They’ve come from reliable sources and CIs. I believe they hold water. I believe I know who our enemies are, the puppets of The Collective.”
“And would you like to share their names with me?”
Smiling and confident, Maddie did just that.
DETROIT, HOLY CROSS HOSPITAL:
DETOX WARD, 1:19 P.M.
Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing.
Bertie was gone now. How briefly she had passed through his life. He had only known her a matter of hours and in that time, somehow and someway, Johnny honestly believed that he had fallen in love with her. Was that even possible? Could such a thing really be? He did not know. Romance was hardly something he had a lot of experience in so he figured anything was possible.
It was a big, crazy sort of love, he thought, wiping tears from his eyes. A movie love. The kind you see on the screen but not in real life. That’s how it was for us.
Had he met her ten or twenty years before… hell, thirty years before… it would have made a big difference in his life. He would have done something important. Something big and impressive. He was sure of it. Her love would have… well, it would have lifted him up like the song said.
Poor old Bertie. She never woke once she went into her fugue. The worm was in her. It owned her. Johnny sat with her comatose form for hours… then when he slipped off to piss and grab some food for them, he’d seen the white-suited biocon teams sweeping around. He’d hidden in a closet. They’d taken Bertie away with them. He wanted to kill them for that, but he knew it was inevitable.
Those stinking rotting sonsofbitches.
Johnny jumped as something in his guts twisted like the dull blade of a knife. He knew what it meant. He’d been having them on and off for hours now and there was no denying what was causing it. Goddamn wonder it hadn’t happened earlier. Entire hospital was infested.
He sat there, thinking, wondering, worrying. How long would it be until he wasn’t able to do anyt
hing? Until the worm shut him down?
His stomach spasmed as if in answer.
He stood up. Well, if he was going to die anyway, he decided he would die in a big fashion. He’d discovered a couple dead soldiers in his travels. He went back to them now. They’d been gunned down by their own people. He pried the blood-spattered rifle from the cold, dead hands of one of the corpses. It wasn’t an M-16 like he’d carried in ‘Nam, but it was close enough. It was shorter, but the action looked the same. It felt good in his hands.
His plan, which wasn’t much of a plan, was to fight his way outside. To get out into the air and sunshine one last time before cashing it in. It wasn’t the greatest of ambitions, but he’d already decided he would not die staring up at sterile white walls and fluorescent lights.
He took the stairs, pausing several times when his stomach kicked and when he heard soldiers moving in the corridors. Third floor. Second floor. Not bad. Not bad at all. He was actually going to do this. Nobody was going to stop him.
Then two soldiers stepped into the stairwell from the first floor fire door. They looked up at Johnny through their plastic bubbles. He looked down at them. Before they could raise their weapons, Johnny wasted them.
And damn if that didn’t feel good!
At least for a moment or two…but the sound of the automatic rifle in the stairwell was loud, jarring, echoing. Johnny’s head began to feel funny again and Bertie wasn’t there to talk him down. He was all by himself and everything got confused because—
Because the goddamn Cong were running the perimeter!
“Shit,” Johnny said under his breath.