by James Ryke
“God will provide a way—”
“If God is in control, then where is he? Where did he go? How can he stand to watch millions of people killed by starvation or worse? Where is your God in all of this chaos? Where are the miracles? Where was God when my wife and child were murdered?” By the time he finished speaking, his eyes were thin, knife-like slits.
Isaac paused for a moment, carefully selecting his words. “I can’t answer why your wife and child were murdered—I don’t have an answer for that. But I will say this. The crisis we now face was caused by evil people that had an evil purpose, not by God. People forget him when everything is great, but then seem to blame him when everything goes bad. And in the end, Rick, you and I aren’t worth saving if we are not good people. We will not be good people—if we don’t help them out.”
“Why these people?” Rick asked. “What about all the other people that we saw leaving the city? You didn’t try to save any of them. What’s different about these people?”
“Honestly, I don’t know, that’s something I’ve been thinking about. Maybe I was just scared, I don’t know. But if we don’t help them, they will all be dead in a matter of days.”
Rick shook his head again, disbelief spread across his face. “You’re a fool, Isaac. You do what you have to do, but I won’t be part of this. You are literally putting random people ahead of your own family, and in the end, we will all end up dead because of it.”
TWENTY-SIX
Day 65
Chass looked over the dead body, his gaze locking on the deceased man’s eyes. He probed his emotions, but he felt nothing. His memories were faded and blurry, as if he was looking at them through an old pane of glass, but he remembered that at one time, killing someone like this had been wrong. He did not feel that way now—he did not feel anything. Wrong in what sense? Was it wrong because it would land you in jail? What was wrong about it?
The dead man was worn and skinny, his features wide-eyed and panicked. Chass laughed. What a pathetic creature. He barely gave up a fight before I cut him down. Was I once weak like that? He pushed the corners of his memory, straining them for any indication of who he once was. Things only came to him in patches, or at least, that is the best way he could describe it.
He looked at the blood on his hand and breathed deep. A calm wafted over him, spilling through his body. It was good I killed today. I will need to be in control when I reach the church. Chass slid his two swords into the sheath on his back and searched the man’s possessions, finding a few cans of food but nothing more. He took them and spat on the body. He then continued on his path at a run. Besides blood, running was the only thing that seemed to give him focus. He knew where he was going, but he had forgotten why. He picked up his speed, pushing himself harder. It was a long while before his lungs started to feel the strain—even though he did not. That was odd to him—he remembered that it had not always been that way. When someone ran, they would become tired, and their body would let them know. Now, Chass felt so disconnected from his body; he had to guess when his heart was about to burst. It was almost like watching someone else run or doing some exhaustive labor; he could tell there was a high level of exertion, but he could not feel it. He had seen the others run themselves until their hearts burst and, although he had no fear of death or pain, he had a task to complete before he would allow himself to give in to the killing.
The quicker he ran, the more his memories floated back to him. The vaccination—it changed me. What was it called? Serum 71. He pushed his pace up to a full sprint. A memory flashed in his head: he was standing next to two individuals. He knew them, but he could not think from where. He narrowed his eyes as he forced more focus into his mind. Rick and Isaac—they’re my brothers. That’s where I’m going. And almost as if the thought conjured the building, he broke the tree line and spotted the church, its three steeples standing out proudly on a distant green hill.
He slowed his pace down but not by much. He reached the church not long after. His lungs were heaving for air, but he did not feel it. He stood in front of the church and closed his eyes. He focused his thoughts on the blood on his hands, on the man he had just killed. I can’t snap when I see them. Calm yourself—you have a work to do. He breathed deeply and waited. It might have been several hours or maybe just a few minutes—Chass could not tell the difference—but eventually, the church doors opened, and someone screamed. Chass did not open his eyes; he kept focusing on his recent killing, forcing everything else out of his mind. Think of the blood. Stay in control. Moments later, there were more sounds. A crowd had begun to gather.
“He’s covered in blood,” someone said.
“Stay back. He looks dangerous.”
“Move aside. Rick’s here.”
Chass felt a ripple of recognition when he heard the name. He focused his memories on Rick. He’s your brother. He’s your…older brother. Remember the time, he coached your junior high wrestling team…. He racked his brain, his brow slick with sweat from the effort. He…was in high school…and you in middle school. Your father had just died. Chass clung to the memory like a drowning man to a life preserver, but it soon faded, twisted, and finally vanished.
“Who are you?”
Chass’ eyes snapped open. There was a mess of twenty people gathered on the church steps. One face in particular stood out to him—it was Rick, or so he thought. The man had a rifle against his shoulder and was pointing straight at Chass.
The bloody man’s arms twitched, a sudden urge to kill cascading through his head. Kill them. Kill them all. Chass took another deep breath. Focus on the recent kill. Focus on the blood on your hands. That’s your brother. He pushed his emotions aside and focused on Rick’s face. “Don’t you recognize me, brother?”
Rick looked confused.
Isaac suddenly appeared. “Chass? What happened to you? Are you injured?”
At these words, Rick lowered his weapon ever so slightly. As Chass heard the long arm click on safe, he charged in, moving with so much speed that there was no time to react. There was a collision of force as the two men impacted. Rick fought back, but the attack was so swift that before he knew what was happening, he was thrown to the ground—the air forced out of his body. He pulled a knife and scrambled to his feet only to find that Chass was not pursuing him any longer.
The bloody man laughed—a mocking, cold sound that echoed in the crowd’s ears. He pointed a red finger towards Rick, “It’s good to see you too, brother, but next time we meet, and you point a gun at me, I will end you. This goes for all of you. I don’t like to be stared at or touched. Keep your distance, or you will die.” He paused for a moment to let the words sink in. After a moment longer, he continued, his cold, calculating voice sending a chill down Isaac’s spine. “I bring you news. Unless you leave here, all of you will soon die.”
***
“Who spotted him,” Isaac asked.
“One of the Late Comers,” Rick answered. “A little girl.”
The two brothers were standing just outside Issac’s office. Chass had been left alone inside and given a plate of food.
“That poor little girl,” Isaac said. “After everything she has already gone through, she had to be the one to see Chass covered in all that blood.”
The “Late Comers,” as people had taken to calling them, were the ones that had recently come over from the other church. Outwardly, the Congregation warmly embraced these new people, but inwardly, and behind closed doors, most people viewed the Late Comers much like Rick saw them—as competition. They seemed different and odd—even untrustworthy. They were distant and traumatized; their expressions usually blank and devoid of any emotion.
In their weakened state and with their food supply all but depleted, Isaac felt sure that the Late Comers would have died in another two or three days if he had not found them. For the first week, very few of them could perform even the most basic chores such as eating, standing, or defecating without assistance. This create
d a significant burden on the Congregation. Isaac had to assign almost everyone collateral duties, and even then, most chores were neglected. Tensions rose, and a few times, harsh words were exchanged, but Isaac was always able to diffuse the situation before it turned into an all-out fight. There was talk about everyone occupying some of the closer homes—to allow them room to spread out—but Rick flatly refused, saying that the limited amount of firearms would leave everyone outside of the church vulnerable.
The Late Comers were still a sore subject, so Isaac tactfully redirected the attention back to Chass. “You think we should talk to him?”
Rick rubbed his jaw, trying to massage words into his mouth. “Something is wrong with him. I think that was human blood he was covered in.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There was a lot of it, and it was fresh. Not many big animals
in the area anymore—except for humans.”
“What are you saying? He killed somebody?”
Rick shook his head. “Yes, and not only that, he bathed in the victim’s blood. I don’t think he could have gotten all that blood on him unless it was intentional. Do you have a weapon?”
“He’s our brother. I’m not going to scare him off.”
“I’m not worried about him being scared off; I’m more worried about us staying alive.”
Isaac nodded. “Well, let me take the lead in there.”
“All right, fine. But I’m going to have my pistol at my side.”
Isaac nodded and then stepped into the office, Rick following close behind. Chass attacked the food that he was given, sloppily spilling much of it on the floor. The man did not clean the blood from his hands before he ate, and it all mixed together, leaving a red stain around his lips. Isaac had a difficult time trying not to stare at his brother. He was so much different from only a few months ago. His body was toned and extremely muscular; his face was sharp and defined, as if it had been shaped by a chisel. Despite the drastic physical changes, it hardly compared to the change in his demeanor. Gone was the pot-headed and carefree youth who was always asking for money. His eyes were now distant, his facial expressions cold—as if he was constantly recounting some horrible memory. Before the world changed, Chass would constantly smile, as if he was making royalties off each grin, but now, whenever he did smile—which was seldom at best—it looked more like a grimace. He was riddled with poorly sewn stitches that zigzagged across his body. The more Isaac looked at his brother, the more he was surprised that he was even alive, much less able to move around without being crippled by pain.
Isaac finally could not contain the questions that were rifling through his head. “What happened to you?”
Chass wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That doesn’t matter—that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to tell you what’s going to happen to you—to all of you.”
Isaac stepped closer. “I understand, but you’re my brother, and I need to know what happened. You’re…different.”
Chass narrowed his eyes, as if the words were triggering some distant memory. What happened to me? Where am I? He blinked his eyes in quick succession, forcing focus into his mind. He looked at the two faces in front of him, at first confused by their expressions. He studied them carefully, and slowly recognition seeped back in. Isaac and Rick—my brothers. But they move so slowly. Is that really Rick? I thought he was…stronger. His memories were so hazy, as if he was trying to recall a movie he had seen several years before.
Isaac repeated his question. “Chass, we can help you, but we need to know what happened.”
“Serum 71,” Chass said. These words triggered a flood of memories that came crashing in, smashing into the sides of his skull. Chass took a deep breath and straightened his back. His mind and body kept flashing between the present and the past, blurring them together as if they were one. “Before the Change, Rick called me—told me…the family was meeting up at the church. I didn’t make it.” The bloody man said the last few words as if he were asking a question. “Fort Bragg.” He strained his eyes. “I was with Jessica, my girlfriend—she was the reason I left so late. Do you know her?” He did not wait for a response. “What does she look like?” His hands began to shake. “What does she look like?” Anger flashed through his mind, his hands itching to grab the swords on his back. I can kill them both. But how quickly could I do it? I could snap the skinny one’s neck. The muscular one would be fast to react, but I bet he’s not quick enough. A slice to the neck should finish him. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. They were your brothers once. Think of the blood. Think of the recent kill.
“What happened at Fort Bragg?” Isaac asked carefully.
“Jessica became sick with the…God Flu,” Chass growled, barely able to contain the violence building up inside of him. “Jessica was the first to get sick—it took a week for the disease to start kicking in. Why can’t I remember what she looked like? She was covered in…blisters that quickly spread over her body. She screamed for hours on end…pathetic…weak. She begged for me to end her life…but I couldn’t. Why didn’t I kill her?” Chass seemed generally puzzled at the memory as if it was not his own. “The blisters ruptured, revealing a flesh-eating virus that slowly…consumed her. She said it was fire. Was it day? What time was it? It spread to the soft tissue of the face—I can’t recognize her. Damnit, why can’t I remember what she looked like? She was still alive for seconds longer, but then a soldier put a bullet in her head. Why didn’t I kill her?”
Isaac swallowed.
Chass continued. “I was sick too. The blisters felt like thousands of shards of glass that tore into my flesh. Was that me? Why was I in pain?” He looked at the blood on his hands; the sight of his crimson fingers seemed to focus his thoughts. “The army began to withdraw from the camp. I remember crawling to a medical tent, begging…for help. Was I begging? That must have been someone else. There was another soldier in the tent; his body reeked of sickness. He told me not to ‘use the cure.’ He kept saying, don’t touch Serum 71. Serum 71…Serum 71…Serum 71. It changed me. Yes, I remember now.” Chass clenched his hands into fists. “Yes, it changed me—was it in a day or an hour? Was that me? Yes, it was. I gave Serum 71 to everyone else. I was helping them?”
Chass regained any confidence he lost. He clenched his jaw. “I am not weak. I don’t have pain. None of us did, and when the Executor arrived, we killed hundreds of them. Covered in red.” He brightened more as he spoke. “Covered in blood. Bodies everywhere. Hundreds of them.” He rubbed his hands over his nose, taking in a whiff of the tacky blood on his fingers. “We joined him. Yes, after the fighting ended, he approached us. We joined him.”
“Who’s the Executor?” Rick asked.
Chass’ demeanor changed quickly at Rick’s demanding tone. “Watch your tongue, you little shit.” His anger was so explosive, so volatile.
Rick nodded. “Sorry.”
“The Executor is one of you—slow, weak. Where he went, I killed. The others died, those with Serum 71, but I lived. The last of Serum 71. Most of them snapped. They could not stop…the killing. No control.”
“Who is the Executor?” Isaac whispered.
Chass looked up at the ceiling. It was a while before he spoke, and he seemed unsure of his words. “He’s…he was…he is…the Mayor. He…lives in…Norwich. Yes…he was there before the Change.”
Rick looked at Isaac. “It’s Marcus McKeet.”
Silence fell over the room. Isaac finally spoke. “Do you want more food?” The question went unanswered. Chass seemed distracted by his memories.
Isaac tried a different question. “Did you just kill someone?”
“Yes,” Chass said. “I have to kill—it helped them…it helped me…remember. I must see red.”
“Can we trust you?” Rick asked, his voice much softer than before.
Chass laughed. “You are pathetic…holed up in a church… rats. Does it matter? The Executor kn
ows you’re here…he’s coming back.” He shook his head. “Why am I here? I’m here to warn you, right? Why am I here?” Chass seemed genuinely curious by his own question. “Why am I here?” He sniffed the blood on his hands again. They were once your brothers. You’re here because of them. Chass stood, throwing his empty plate to the floor. “If you want to live, you’ll leave. If you don’t, you will die.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Day 65
“Quiet everyone, quiet,” Isaac said as he rapped his fingers against the podium.
The church was ripe with whispers and hisses, like a wild wind forced through a group of trees. Isaac told only his closest Atriachs about what Chass had said, and even then, he swore them to secrecy. Somehow, despite the extra precaution, however, the news spilled out and spread amongst the Congregation. The stories had twisted and changed until Isaac found himself on the receiving end of all sorts of odd questions.
The Pastor was able to gain control of the Congregation after only a few more knocks on the podium. “Brothers and sisters, it’s with grave news I call you together. Most of you know that we’re in danger. And now, we need to decide what has to be done. Just so we don’t have any misconceptions, I have asked Rick to explain the situation exactly. Rick.”
Rick took the podium, and Isaac sat down. In his gruff, deep voice, Rick explained what Chass conveyed the night before. He also added his assessment of the Executor and what to expect when he arrived. He explained how the old Mayor was assassinated and how the Executor came to power; he explained in great detail how ruthless the Executor was in dealing with individuals who opposed him and how he systematically consolidated and expanded his influence. Some of the information was old, but most of it was new.
Rick paused for a few moments, allowing the information to sink in. “At first this man’s actions confused me. His survival instincts seemed to be so much more ahead of the curve, but it was Jane who was able to predict this man’s actions from the very beginning. Like Jane, this man has studied history—studied the great and powerful people of the past. Every decision that he makes has already been made a hundred times before. But the men and women he models his decisions after are not the great leaders or the compassionate kings and queens—but that of the most powerful, depraved tyrants. His army is stronger, I imagine, than anything on the East Coast, and better equipped. Each city he raids, he grows stronger. When he left this city, he had around four thousand soldiers, according to our best guess at the time, but now, Chass is reporting that they have around seven thousand. And the Executor is planning on returning to this city to wipe us out.”