Apocalypso x-3

by Walter Greatshell

  “How’d they all get here in the first place?”

  “Some are Red Cross workers and National Guard who tried to set up a safe zone during the outbreak. The rest are poor suckers who made the mistake of taking shelter here. I figure there are around twenty or thirty thousand of them altogether. Once the disease got loose among them, it was all over-we locked the doors and barricaded them shut. It’s terrible, I know, but at least they’re not suffering.”

  “Not suffering? It looks like Auschwitz down there.”

  “If these things suffered, they’d be dead by now. They’ve been in here almost four months without food or water. Do you smell any rot or decay? No. They don’t die; they don’t feel pain. In the early days, we wasted a lot of ammo on them before we realized they don’t stay dead, either whole or in pieces. Good thing, too, because now we have a big supply of Hellions for the Prophet to convert. He does a few every Sunday.”

  “Convert how?”

  “They are Sealed with the Sacrament, just as you were.”

  “If you say so. Listen, this is freaking me out-can we go?”

  “In a minute. I want you to see something first.”

  “What?”

  “Here, put this on.” He handed Ray a safety harness and donned one himself.

  To the right of the balcony was a metal ladder up to the roof beams. Dixon checked Ray’s harness, and together they climbed up there, clipping onto a safety line as they followed the steel beams to an electric winch in the middle of the ceiling. Attached to the winch was a large hook intended to hoist heavy stage lights or other equipment. With a thumbs-up, Dixon affixed the hook to Ray’s harness and pushed the boy off the edge.

  “Whoa, hey, shit!” Flailing wildly, Ray swung out into space. Then Dixon pressed the DOWN button.

  “Stop!” Ray shrieked. “What are you doing?” The Xombies rustled at the sound of his voice, swaying like a field of reeds in the wind.

  Dixon ignored his cries. As Ray slowly descended, the blue masses cleared an opening for him, a bare atoll in that sea of yearning faces. Ray screamed for help, sobbing, begging, trying to climb the wire, anything, but there was no escape.

  The Xombies stared upward, intent on his progress… though not nearly as frenzied as he would have expected. In fact, they looked a little bored, as though they had been through this routine many times and didn’t have the energy. Perhaps it was too easy for them, no challenge-why should they have to work for it? Scrunching his body into a fetus-shaped kernel of anticipation, Ray dropped right into their midst.

  They made no move to touch him. In fact, they dismissed him entirely, turning all their attention back on Chace Dixon.

  Oh my God.

  Dixon called down, “Pretty neat, huh?”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Hold that thought.” He hit a wall switch, and the winch raised Ray to the catwalk. In a moment, both men were out of their harnesses and back on the balcony. “Not bad, huh?”

  “What does this mean? How did you do that?”

  “Not so crazy now, am I?”

  “How are you controlling them?”

  “I’m not controlling them-God is.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean this is all real, Ray. Blind faith no longer required. I wanted to demonstrate to you that the Lord really is on our side if we choose to serve Him. There really are angels and demons waging a war between Heaven and Hell, and it’s up to us to choose sides. You’re not dealing with deluded religious nuts. This is not like the Grammy Awards or the Super Bowl, where the winner thanks God and everybody rolls his eyes because it’s such bull. This is for real, an actual miracle. As long as you’re with us, you are Hellion-proof.”

  Ray was still in shock; he could barely stand. Voice quaking, he asked, “H-how?”

  “The Prophet has interceded on your behalf. You’ve been through the purification ceremony, been anointed with the blood of the lamb; now your sins are forgiven.”

  “But that’s all just symbolism. How can that make a difference?”

  “There are no symbols anymore, no empty ceremonies. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Ray! Everything is exactly what it seems.”

  He took Ray back outside and chained the doors.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CONVOCATION

  The next day an assembly was announced, and the dazed new recruits joined a parade of soldiers marching up to the State House lawn. They were handed paper scrolls and symbolic scourging rods. Men congratulated Todd and Ray and welcomed them into the family-a euphoric experience after their ordeal.

  Entering the capitol grounds, they noticed that all the trees had been cut down for firewood. An artificial grove of X-shaped steel frames had been erected, and dozens of laborers were dismantling old military barricades, building new wooden bleachers, and digging pit latrines around the perimeter. The workers were filthy, exhausted, and demoralized from being jeered at all day and pelted with trash.

  “Oh shit,” Todd said. “What is this, a giant hazing? I am definitely not feeling this.”

  “More new arrivals?” asked the supervising Adamite, a former Army Ranger named Sheldon Barnstable.

  His fellow cleric, a former bank manager named Lester Mead, said, “Yeah-they’re the guys who came in riding bikes.”

  “Bikes! Are you for real?”

  “I saw it myself.”

  “No shit.” To Todd and Ray, he asked, “Where did you guys come from?”

  “Fox Point.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Todd said, “Talking to Elvis.”

  “You should be down on your knees thanking Adam that we found you before the Hellions did.”

  “Oh, we are,” said Ray.

  Lester Mead said, “I just want to go on the record as saying I think it’s kind of uncool that you guys have special privileges over those of us who have been in the Adams since before the Tribs.”

  “We do?”

  “Oh yeah. I have your orders right here. No ditches for you boys; you’ve both been bumped up to custodial detail at the hotel. That requires clearance from the top. Looks like you’re even quartered there-sweet gig! Pays to have friends in high places, I guess.”

  “That’s great,” Todd said. “Can we go?”

  “You’re to report as soon as convocation is dismissed.” The man lowered his voice. “You know, this is not going to make you very popular around here. Little friendly advice? If I were you, I’d request billeting with the other acolytes. The Prophet will be better off having more experienced guys change His sheets, and you’ll have a chance to learn the ropes. It would be a gesture of solidarity.”

  “I don’t think so,” Todd said brightly. “But thanks!”

  “Your funeral,” said Barnstable.

  The men gathered on the hillside under the capitol. At the bottom of the field was a fenced compound containing rows of RVs, a combination trailer park and concentration camp. Laundry lines hung between the trailers, and women young and old could be seen washing clothes in tubs. A few of them were waving or calling to men they knew, their brothers, husbands, fathers, or sons. The men furtively waved or pretended not to hear them-others whistled or mocked.

  Todd asked, “I don’t get it. If women are no threat, why are they still being quarantined?”

  “They’re an endangered species,” Captain Barnstable explained. “They have to be protected.”

  “You mean from Xombies?”

  Barnstable looked at him as if he was stupid. “From us. We worked too hard to find these; we can’t take any chances of losing them. Especially the Evians.”

  “Evians?”

  “Daughters of Eve. Brides of the Prophet.”

  Ray started to react, but Todd stepped on his foot.

  “What’s with the trailers?” Todd asked. “Aren’t there enough empty buildings to house everybody?”

  “Trailers are easier to police and maintain. And transport, of co
urse.”

  “Jesus.” Ray erupted. “You’re treating women like animals in a zoo. They’re human beings.”

  “Watch your language, punk. I’m letting you off with a warning this time because you’re new, but we don’t blaspheme around here. Next time, the penalty is scourging. And for your information, treating men and women equally is what brought down the whole human race.”

  Shaking his head, Ray opened his scroll. It read:

  WHO IS THE RISEN PROPHET?

  As an acolyte of the RISEN PROPHET JIM SANDOVAL, you may well wonder, “Who is this PROPHET of OUR LORD?” The answer is simple: Born of a virgin, the PROPHET witnessed his mother’s struggles in the face of creeping socialism and the decline of American values. Early on, He developed an interest in politics, believing the System could be changed from within… but He soon learned the System was Rigged. Witnessing the corruption in Washington, the PROPHET realized it was impossible to run for higher office and remain Pure, so He quit the gutter of politics and devoted His attention to the Mogul Foundation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting Real American Values. The PROPHET’s wisdom was revealed in the choice of His first APOSTLE, CHACE DIXON, as the Voice of MoFo. The CHACE formula of high-energy talk and Apocalyptic prediction was a hit with millions of listeners worldwide, and CHACE’s interfaith ministry quickly expanded to include a publishing wing, a high-traffic Web site, and a cable TV show broadcast in over twenty countries, with corresponding outreach programs and affiliated churches, all dedicated to the Bible’s teachings that all ailments can be cured by prayer, and that atheists, witches, socialists, and homosexuals are abominations in the eyes of the LORD. There were many who called CHACE a crackpot, who derided his prophesies as nothing more than the ravings of a “shock jock.” Soon the world would learn that CHASE DIXON was a LIVING SAINT, whose words were all too true… but for most it would be too late. They would join THE ACCURSED, possessed by Miska and damned to roam the land for eternity. As followers of OUR LORD ADAM, we have been spared this fate! ADAM has shown us His favor by bestowing upon us the RISEN PROPHET JIM and the APOSTLE CHACE, hallowed be Their names. Thanks to these LIVING SAINTS, we need not fear either DEATH or UNDEATH, knowing that when that glorious day comes, our bodies will return to the Earth, and our Souls will be released to HEAVEN’S EVERLASTING PEACE. GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH!

  “Anything good?” Todd asked.

  “Same old, same old,” said Ray.

  Suddenly a voice yelled, “The Prophet! Prophet on deck!”

  “Holy shit, here we go,” muttered Barnstable.

  The disciples jostled each other into loose ranks. From around the hill, a large group of bicycles appeared, their riders humming Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” They all wore gray robes and tall, cylindrical helmets. Gliding in their midst was a dramatic figure on a gold-ornamented chariot. With his boots and riding breeches and trailing white scarf, he looked like an old-time aviator. The flying motif extended to his electric scooter, which sported a figurehead of an angel with spread wings.

  He was the Prophet James Sandoval.

  Ray remembered his reaction when Sandoval first told him and Todd the news of his holy title:

  “You?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t act so surprised-it’s not as if I haven’t performed my share of miracles.”

  “What miracles?”

  “Saving all these people, for one thing. Before I came along they were like you, hiding out in ships and underground bunkers and sewers-you name it. Enter the Prophet James Sandoval, patron saint of radical Fundamentalist militias, and now the world is their oyster. Yours, too, for that matter. You may be aware of my considerable public holdings, including that submarine plant that was so dear to all of us. I actually have much bigger stakes in more obscure commodities, and the connections to move them. It’s an industry that thrives the more society breaks down-my partners and I call it our rainy-day fund. Women have always been a staple of this black market, but their value dropped to nothing after Agent X. Any that didn’t become Xombies were killed by fearful men, and the few that survive are still shunned or shot on sight. But not by us-not anymore. Thanks to me, we have no more Xombie problem, and thus no more need to hate or fear women. In fact, women are now our most precious resource, so we are gathering as many as we can find.”

  Ray asked, “How many have you found?”

  “Not nearly enough. Maenads are incredibly hard to catch now that we’re immune to them, so the women we have are mostly elderly survivors or very young girls. The girls at least offer some hope for the future, but in the meantime, they’re a logistical nightmare. Part of the problem is I’m dealing with a lot of men who are still reliving the Xombie Apocalypse. A lot of these guys probably never liked women to begin with, and now all they want to do is kill them. I thought with a little forward progress we could start toning down the macho bullshit, but it hasn’t worked out that way. God’s approval has only made them more fanatical.”

  Todd asked, “Excuse me, Mr. Sandoval, but I don’t understand how you survived in the first place. I could have sworn I saw you get killed at Thule. Weren’t you run over by a tank?”

  Sandoval sighed. “It’s a long story, son. Suffice it to say I had unfinished business, and I never shirk when it comes to business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “What kind of business do you think? I’m here to save the world.”

  As the Prophet’s entourage approached the clearing, a larger group swept in from the street on the opposite side, chanting and spreading incense. The chant sounded like Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise.” These men were not on bicycles but on in-line skates, identical with their scythe-bladed hockey sticks and black hooded sweatshirts-a mob of street hockey Grim Reapers. Rolling among them was another vehicle liberated from mall security, an electric cart with a small freight bed, on which a huge gold crucifix stood like an uprooted tree. Ray recognized its driver as the Apostle Chace Dixon. The Living Saint.

  After his recent encounter with Dixon, Ray had ransacked his memory for what he knew about the man. There wasn’t much. He knew Dixon had been incredibly wealthy-which his followers took as the surest sign of God’s approval. His success had drawn the mighty to him, particularly those who were less interested in the meek inheriting the Earth than in Congress repealing the inheritance tax. Oh, they had tithed richly for that gospel, and Dixon was only too happy to give it to them. His pulpit had aimed squarely at a certain breed of militantly prosperous Christian who was ready to ditch fuddy-duddy traditions of charity for a dose of stronger dope-and Chace was just the doctor to write the prescription.

  The two groups met in the middle.

  “Welcome, Your Greatness, welcome,” Dixon said grandly, assuming the role of host as he bowed before Sandoval.

  Sandoval impatiently gestured for him to rise, saying, “Thanks, Dix.”

  Hopping lightly up to the microphone, Dixon said, “Thank you, O Holy One.” Was there perhaps just the slightest tinge of sarcasm in his voice? Gesturing toward the marble dome of the State House, he indicated the gold statue on its summit and addressed the assembly: “Divine Providence! Since the founder of this city was a clergyman, I feel that at long last it is time to raise a cross atop our capitol. The glorious unification of church and state has finally been achieved-hallelujah!”

  Sandoval said, “What about the statue that’s already up there?”

  “Hah! The Independent Man?”

  “The Independent Man, yes.”

  “What a monstrosity. That’s what you want representing your state: a big gold sociopath with a spear.”

  “As opposed to a big fat sociopath with a cross?”

  Turning red, Chace pretended he hadn’t heard, saying, “I always hated that thing; it looks like a kitschy lamp. Not to mention, it’s a contradiction in terms: an iconic iconoclast. So absurd! Most human beings are dependent by nature-it’s not a bad thing. Hey, that’s why civilization was invented, folks, in
case you didn’t know. Let’s have everybody be a loner, good idea. See how many bridges and tunnels that gets you. But that’s exactly the kind of liberal thinking that brought down the whole country, the whole world.”

  Facing the crowd, Chace shouted, “Hey, gang! How we all doin’?” This was one of his most popular catchphrases, and the audience responded with customary enthusiasm. When the noise abated, he said, “Everybody doing good? Fantastic. Nice day. Speaking of which, has anybody noticed anything… unusual?”

  He was answered by cheers and applause.

  “That’s right. We are standing in the open, under the clear blue sky. Can you believe this? Barely a month ago, we were desperate scavengers, barricaded inside that mall. Then we were visited by an Angel of our Lord Adam, who told us to go north and seek the Prophet Jim. Now we return from our journey in triumph, the Prophet at our side, to stand outdoors in the light of day! With no high walls protecting us, no armored convoys, no weapons. And listen! What do you hear? Nothing. Nothing but sweet, sweet silence.” He paused. “Ladies and gentlemen. I am here to tell you that this land… is our land!”

  Someone handed him a guitar and he broke into a slightly pitchy rendition of the Woody Guthrie song. But the crowd went wild. Everyone sang along, even Todd and Ray, and when it was over, the cheering and victory chants went on for ten minutes.

  Finally, Chace called for quiet. Grave-faced, he said, “But there is a threat.”

  A chill swept the audience. He nodded slowly, panning his cold gaze across the crowd.

  When the suspense had built enough, he continued, “Yes, it has just come to my attention that there is a threat to our mission of salvation and purification. Eighteen days ago we received transmissions from a substantial party of survivors in Washington, DC.” The crowd gasped. “Yes. Apparently they have established a Godless, socialistic society called Xanadu. And they are recruiting more heathens by the minute!”

  This caused a tremendous stir.

  Breaking through the hubbub, he bellowed, “Should we tolerate this new Gomorrah in the heart of our nation’s capital?”