by Tim Curran
He could feel them not just in his belly, but in his head and behind his eyes. They were corkscrewing in him and the pain was unbelievable. He tried to think, to reason, to make sense of what was going on, but who and what he was was gradually fading. He was quickly becoming a non-entity, a host, a vessel. Yes, yes! That’s it! A vessel for the greater doom of the world! Then even this was gone.
He stood up, hovering over Sheikh Sa’ad, a mindless thing, a worm zombie with no will of his own. He was only aware of the hunger that spiked in his belly. There was nothing else.
The skin of his face was pulsating, his belly quivering. He opened his mouth and screamed as his eyes blew from their sockets like rotten, slimy eggs and worms emerged, twisting hungrily in the air. Another, larger parasite emerged from his mouth like some immense, oily white phallus. All of them opened their mouths, mewling, demanding to be fed.
Quillan brought them in close to Sheikh Sa’ad’s fear-distorted face. They were hungry and he let them eat.
CHICAGO, RIVER NORTH:
THE WAREHOUSE, 9:31 P.M.
The Old Man was not happy He was tense, nervous, possibly even frightened. Dr. Benheim had never seen him like that before and it scared him.
“We don’t have the time for nonsense. Call everyone in. And I mean everyone. I want the entire Op Center shut down, sterilized, and packed up tonight.”
Benheim shook his head. “That’s not possible. It’ll take twenty-four hours at the very least. We set it up in eight, but taking it apart is an entirely different matter. I think you know that.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“Maybe if you could tell me what this is about.”
The Old Man shook his head. “The country is in chaos and this city is poised to become a war zone.”
“But we’re safe here. The compound is secure.”
“I don’t have time to debate this. Orders are orders and this one comes from the very top. This facility is to be dismantled today. I want all animals and specimens incinerated along with all samples and contaminated medical waste. I want all files backed-up and computer work stations packed away. Equipment can left behind, but it must be sanitized and destroyed. Tomorrow will be too late. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I’ll cut the order. I just wish I knew why. We were making significant progress in—”
The Old Man hooked Benheim by the elbow and towed him into his makeshift office. They had worked together many years in one project after another. He not only respected the man, but he liked him. He was one of the very few people he considered a friend. What he had to say could only be between the two of them. Problem was, he feared they were being listened to.
“Hell is this?” Benheim asked, not used to being handled like that.
The Old Man got in very close to his face, so close it looked like he wanted to kiss him. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “According to latest estimates, this city has a 74% rate of infection. We’re fighting a losing battle here. Unfortunately, our superiors are throwing in the towel. They’re cutting their losses and that includes us.”
Benheim swallowed. “And then what?”
The Old Man looked around. “That’s what worries me.”
“How so?”
“We’re going to be shut down.”
“Then we’re shut down. So what?”
“Don’t be so naïve. You know what kind of people we’re dealing with here.”
Benheim did. He did not like them and never had. But in the field of pure biological research, their resources were unlimited. He wouldn’t have been the first scientist they wooed and won with handsome pay, benefits, and the opportunity to toy with things that were generally thought to be the province of science fiction. Technologies that were exotic and unbelievable.
“There are dozens of temporary Op Centers like this across the country. And every one of them is going to be shut down, erased, eradicated. The entire thing will be blamed on domestic terrorists. I got that through clandestine channels. Tomorrow an armed group will hit this place with everything they have. When they leave, they’ll leave nothing left alive. They’ll burn everything.”
“They’re going to kill us?” Benheim said. “Dear God, we just did what they asked. We were only following orders.”
The Old Man nearly laughed. Such naiveté. How had this man survived in the business this long? He nearly felt sorry for him.
“We’re nearly out of time.”
“But can’t you call your people at CBT—”
“They’re not even answering my calls.”
“There’s no way out, is there?”
“I just don’t know. It could happen tomorrow or ten minutes from now for all I know,” the Old Man admitted.
Seconds later, the entire Op Center exploded and went up in a roaring fireball that spread burning wreckage for two square blocks.
CHICAGO, RIVER NORTH:
SEDGWICK STREET, 9:45 P.M.
Shawna looked up when she heard the explosion. It seemed to rock the world. Like the other stragglers out on the walks that evening, she wondered what had happened now. The world certainly was becoming a strange place. There was danger and disaster everywhere.
She watched as people scurried about. As police vehicles came screaming up the road, followed by several Humvees of the National Guard. High above, a helicopter swooped down, shining a spotlight down onto the dying city.
It was quite a night.
Shawna stood there, thinking. Whatever was in her mind passed quickly enough. She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rising into the sky a few streets over.
She wondered where Harry was.
She had to find him.
It was the most important thing she would ever do.
CHICAGO, BUCKTOWN:
ST. MARY’S, 10:20 P.M.
Tonight, for the first time in many years, Elaine Geddes felt the power of the church. She felt the presence of Christ within her and without her as she prepared to commune with God and offer her soul unto him.
And not just for me, she thought, but for Shawna. I need you, oh Lord, to watch over her and bring her back into the fold if you can.
The church was nearly full tonight. The faithful had been called upon to this special emergency mass to pray for the country and the horrendous suffering on every front. Elaine watched as people received the host and she was certain that they felt the hand of God as she did. Some of them could barely walk afterwards—they were swept up in the mystery of faith, feeling what she had been feeling all day, that the holy spirit was reaching out to them.
She had not been this excited in church since she was a child! Oh, how she wished Shawna was there because she would have felt it, too, despite her terrible lifestyle and misguided atheism. This would have been the night that would have changed everything for her. She would have been recreated as the Lord God intended.
Now the usher was guiding Elaine’s row up to the altar. No one was forgotten. It was all very orderly and respectful. That was even more important tonight as they asked Jesus Christ to intervene on behalf of the nation.
Elaine approached Father McHale. He did not look well. That was the first thing she noticed. He was pale, sallow, his eyes bloodshot. He was overdoing it again, sacrificing himself body and soul for his congregation. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
He held a chalice in his left hand which was odd. But, then, tonight of all nights, it was not her place to question. She need only accept and her acceptance was acquiescence of God’s plan.
Pressing her hands together in prayer, Elaine closed her eyes, opened her mouth and extended her tongue.
“The body of Christ,” Father McHale said, placing the host upon her tongue.
Elaine gagged as she felt something squirming in her mouth. The ushers took hold of her as it slid down her throat. There was a moment of absolute terror and absolute repulsion as the worm invaded her… then, a state of grace. This was communion. This was the blood and body of the a
lmighty living God. She understood as she had never understood before.
She was made one with Christ.
CHICAGO, W. MONTROSE AVE:
RAVENSWOOD
11:45 P.M.
Harry approached his building with more than a little trepidation. His mysterious benefactor at Ping Tom said that he was no longer wanted by S5, but he had a little trouble believing that. For all he knew, he had just been set up with an elaborately-crafted trap that he was now waltzing right into. The problem was it was nearly curfew time. And if he was caught out in the streets, he would be detained, arrested, or even shot on sight. The latter seemed more likely given the rioting and burning that was going on in the city.
Warily, tense, he let himself into his building with his key card.
Okay. That was a beginning. At least he hadn’t been gunned down out in the street. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be waiting in one of the corridors or in his apartment once he stepped through the door.
He said I was no longer a target.
Sure. But do you believe that?
He sighed. He’d been out of the game too long. He didn’t know what to think. In the old days, he lived by his wits with a healthy sense of paranoia concerning everything and anyone. It had been second nature like breathing and pissing.
But now?
It just wasn’t in his blood anymore and he was certain he was making mistakes, putting himself in terrible danger. He took the elevator to his floor and as he stepped out, someone was waiting for him. His heart jumped in his chest, but it was just Linda, the building super.
“Oh, Harry,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
And here his paranoia flared like an ulcer. He looked at her with a combination of fear and trepidation. Oh Christ, not Linda. She can’t be one of them. He nearly laughed at himself for his naiveté—of course she could be one of them. The intelligence services hired people from every walk of life. The best cleaners were the ones that were the most non-threatening, the ones nobody would suspect.
“Well, here I am.”
“That friend of yours came by earlier. She said she needed to see you. She said it was important.”
“What friend?”
“The girl. The pretty one.”
He felt hope surge inside him. “Shawna?”
“Yes, I believe so. She stopped by, said it was important she talk with you. She gave me a number. I slid it under your door. I was going to put it into your mailbox, but then I thought, what if he doesn’t check his mail?”
“Thanks, Linda.”
“Is something wrong, Harry?”
“Oh no. Just worried like everyone else with what’s going on.”
“Hang tight,” Linda said. “This, too, will pass.”
Harry thanked her and went to his apartment. This, too, will pass. American optimism that in the end, everything would be okay. But she didn’t know what was going on, what was about to happen. If she did, she would not sleep tonight. Much like the staff of the Washington Post would not be sleeping tonight with what he had sent them.
The corridors were empty. He fumbled his access code twice before getting it right. Then he was in. He shut the door and locked it, threw the dead bolt. He saw the slip of paper on the floor that Linda had spoken of. Okay. With trembling hands, he picked it up. He read the number on it three times, shaking his head.
It made no sense.
The number was for Abe’s landline.
AUGUST 29
WASHINGTON, D.C:
WHITE HOUSE, OVAL OFFICE
12:09 A.M.
As the President stared at the empty wine bottle on his desk (as he had been doing on and off for many hours now because it was green, green, it was emerald like the city, his city), he remembered that it had been a gift from Bob Pershing, his Director of Central Intelligence, Bobby Boy, Booby, bub-bub-bub boo-boo-boo, the last loyal patriot in the country.
No!
NO! NO! NO! NOOOOOOO!!!!
Bob Pershing was a traitor. He was trying to take over the country. He was attempting to stage a military coup now that the nation was on its knees because of the worm outbreak. Dirty stinking goddamned turncoat! Memories of the meeting with Pershing flashed through the President’s mind. But like so many other things, it was no longer making sense. He wavered between seeing things with a disturbing hallucinogenic clarity to seeing them as blurry, abstract ideas and half-formed possibilities.
“Damn, but that was good wine,” he said.
“It was delicious,” Maddie Hughes agreed, nodding her head. She was sprawled on the sofa across the room, using her finger like a paintbrush as she drew images in the air, trying desperately to describe the things she saw in her mind, which were at once silly and frightening.
Adam Tiggman, White House Counsel, was still there. He was standing before the doors leading to the Rose Garden and watching the world.
“How goes our great Union?” the President asked.
“I wonder if I stare out this window long enough if my image will be impressed upon the glass?” Tiggman said out loud, though he was certain he only thought it.
Lemmings, lemmings, lemmings, the President found himself thinking. They’re following me right off the cliff!
There were a series of explosions that shook the White House. It was pure anarchy out there now and he wasn’t really sure what was going on. Gunfire and explosions, shouting and screaming and dying, of course. Lots of dying. Lots and lots and lots of dying. His personal guard, Marine sentries, and Secret Service agents were firing at rioting crowds pressing up to the fence from Pennsylvania Avenue. Not that any of this was surprising in his tight, delusional world. The shit had definitely hit the fan. D.C. was a mess. The National Guard were fighting pitched battles with private militias and bodies were piling up in the streets, according to what was coming across his desk, none of which was good. Great sections of the city were burning now, and no one seemed interested in fighting the fires. Rioters were raiding from one neighborhood to the next. Sooner or later, they would reach the White House. That’s what the President was told by what few advisors he still had left.
The majority of his staff was dead now.
With Maddie at his side, he had toured his domain from the West Wing to the East Wing, from the Press Briefing Room to the lobby, Map Room to the Presidential Library to the State Dining Room. What he saw was disturbing, horrible really, but in his current state of mind he was unable to process any of it correctly. Much of his staff had committed suicide, everyone from cooks to maids, secretaries to economic advisors to communications specialists to security personnel. They had hung themselves, slit their own throats and wrists, blew their brains out, swallowed poison…in fact, they had destroyed themselves to avoid what was taking the country. Even death was better than becoming a host. It was going on across the city and across the country, and maybe even the world.
The President didn’t know because he was no longer taking international calls (or domestic ones for that matter). His security chief—who was out there battling crazies—had recommended that he leave the White House again and again. Marine Helicopter Squadron One was standing by to chopper him out of the city, but he wasn’t having it. Let MHS1 stand the fuck down.
“A king does not abandon his castle when it’s under siege,” he told Maddie and she agreed completely.
In the Oval Office, he kept a tight eye on his kingdom, particularly the hub of the city, the central business district—7th Street to Pennsylvania Avenue to Mount Vernon Square and on and on—which was the most important part of D.C. in his opinion. He had live video feed from around his kingdom so he could watch the rioters surging down F Street, National Guard units firing at them, pitched battles between various military units, and people, what seemed hundreds of people, jumping off the roofs of tall buildings and splattering on the streets below, armored military and police vehicles rolling right over their remains.
Yes, it was quite a day, quite a day.
/> His last sane act of the day was to invoke the Insurrection Act of 1807 which gave him the power to deploy military units domestically to put down rebellion. Fort Bragg was standing by, as was Fort Stewart in Georgia, and the Marines at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.
“THEY THINK I’M WEAK! THEY THINK I HAVE NO RESOLVE!” he shouted. “BUT THEY’LL SOON KNOW BETTER! I WILL DESTROY THIS COUNTRY BEFORE I HAND IT OVER TO TRAITORS!”
His voice echoed through the Oval Office and as he listened to it fade away, he began to laugh with a high, hysterical sound. Both Maddie and Tiggman looked at him with wide, glazed eyes as if they thought he was some kind of madman.
“What now, Mr. President?” Maddie asked.
There were a series of concussive booms that made the world shake and tremble. Something shattered down the corridor. The smell of smoke grew stronger.
“Airstrikes, sir. We’ve got quite a situation out there,” she explained, studying her iPad. She seemed unconcerned that Adam Tiggman was relieving himself a few feet away. “There are terror bands seizing key locations in the city. We suspect they may be Blackpool and SOG units activated by Bob Pershing. SEAL Viper Teams and Delta Force Black Mambas are engaging them as we speak. I believe they just called in an airstrike on them.”
“Excellent! I never trusted that bunch!”
That would show them that he would not bend nor sway in his dedication to the nation and the principles it stood for. He’d grind D.C. to rubble if he had to, but those bastards would not survive their treachery. Yes, yes, yes! It made him feel bigger than he had ever felt before in his life, omnipotent, a veritable god which clutched the destiny of the free world in his fist.
“THEY WILL NOT WIN! I WILL NOT ALLOW THEM TO WIN! THIS IS MY KINGDOM AND I RULE ABSOLUTELY!” he shouted. “IF I HAVE TO, I WILL CALL HELL DOWN ONTO THIS CITY TO PROTECT IT! THEY BETTER UNDERSTAND THAT!”