Dread Uprising

by Brian Fuller

Helo grabbed a king-sized Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup package. Dolorem threw him a weak-sauce look. The man in front of Helo wore athletic clothing and checked his cell phone for the time every thirty seconds. When he finally got to the front of the line, he was in a huff. “You gotta pick it up, lady,” he said. “I’ve been in the line forever.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Angelina apologized. “I’m doing the best I can here.”

  “With service like this, this dump will be out of business.”

  Helo knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t help himself. “Lay off, dude,” he said, tone edgy.

  The man spun with an angry retort on his lips, but when he found two intimidating bikers behind him, he modulated his response midstream.

  “Why don’t you—well, look I’m just in a hurry.”

  “Don’t hurry. Be happy,” Dolorem said in his wise, pastor-like voice.

  The man snatched his change and fled.

  Helo was next. Angelina smiled and shifted her weight to another leg. Judging by the bags under her eyes, she hadn’t slept well.

  “Don’t you have any help around here?” Helo asked as he plopped his items down.

  “Larry’s around here somewhere, probably on smoke break again,” she said, scanning the items. “Is this all?” she asked, eyeing Dolorem’s armful of items in comparison.

  “Trying to watch the gut,” Helo explained, patting the slightly protruding belly of his biker morph.

  She smiled again and collected his money as the line behind them grew again.

  “Larry smoking out back?” Helo asked.

  “Probably,” she answered.

  “Well, I’ll tell him you need some help.”

  “Wait for me, bro,” Dolorem said. “Larry rhymes with scary, if you know what I mean.”

  After stashing their haul in the saddlebags of the bikes, they wandered around back and found Larry standing in a field of cast-off cigarette butts by a rusted dumpster. He had stick legs crammed into tight jeans. A stained light-blue shirt ballooned over his waistline to accommodate a distended belly that hung down to his crotch. Thick black hair sat atop a meaty head, a middle-aged face pock marked by acne scars.

  The red aura was no surprise, and neither was the surly look.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked, staring at them challengingly with his beady eyes.

  “The lines backing up in there. Angelina needs some help,” Helo said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

  “Oooooh! Angelina needs help,” the Dread said in a singsong, mocking voice.

  “What’s your problem?” Helo asked. Dolorem put a hand on Helo’s shoulder and squeezed it. Helo tried to calm himself. He couldn’t get out of control. The Dread might get suspicious.

  The Dread flicked his cigarette at Helo, hitting him expertly in the center of the chest. The ash trickled down, the tobacco smell sharp. Larry strode forward to stand toe to toe with Helo. He sized him up. “You think you can take me, biker garbage?”

  Dolorem stepped in, pushing Helo back and reaching out to put his hand on the Dread’s shoulder. “We don’t want any trouble, Larry.”

  Larry brushed Dolorem’s arm aside and punched him square in the face. “Don’t you even think about touching me. You biker pricks all think you’re so tough.”

  Helo turned to Dolorem, who had reddened his face where the fist had hit his cheek. Amazing he could remember to do that in the heat of the moment. Dolorem nodded toward the front of the building, signaling for Helo to follow him.

  “You two ladies run off and get married or something,” Larry yelled as they rounded the corner.

  They got to their bikes as the thunder pealed, a sprinkle trickling down and picking up speed. Dolorem retrieved his swimming pool of a drink from the seat, and they retreated back inside the store. They shrugged at Angelina, who was still beset by a horde of customers.

  “Thanks for trying,” she said.

  The rain spat against the windows, low thunder rumbling. They worked their way to the opposite side of the store while Helo dialed Magdelene and reported what they had found.

  “We’ve seen no one at the school,” she said. “Keep a low profile, there. We can’t make him suspicious.”

  “Is the Scholus ready with the Witness Protection Program papers?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find out and call you back.”

  Helo was turning to update Dolorem when Larry strode in through a service door near the register counter. He spied them in the back and shouted over to them. “What’s wrong, ladies? Can’t stand a little rain?” He sounded like a fifth-grade bully dumping on a couple of sissies. The other customers eyed each other nervously.

  Helo clamped his jaw. He couldn’t endanger anyone however much Larry deserved the beating of an after-lifetime.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Larry taunted. “Every time one of you biker idiots opens his mouth, all I hear is—” The Dread treated them to a long, loud symphony of flatulence that disgusted some and delighted others. After seeing he’d get no response from the victims of his ridicule, Larry actually helped a few customers out on a second register. Once everyone had cleared out, he lit a cigarette.

  “You can’t smoke in here, Larry,” Angelina reminded him.

  He blew the smoke in her face. “This is my store, honey. Don’t forget it.”

  Helo gritted his teeth, and even the more levelheaded Dolorem was squeezing his drink until soda leaked out the top. The phone rang and Helo answered, turning away from a scene that called for Larry’s immediate and painful demise.

  “Yeah?” Helo said.

  “They’re ready. They’ve got a Michael team outfitted as FBI ready to roll. If we can scoop them up now, we don’t need to worry about the Dreads at all. We’ll call the convenience store and tell her to meet us at the school immediately. You two follow her in and make sure she no one is trailing her.”

  “Can we pleeaaaase kill the Dread here?” Helo asked.

  “Not unless he interferes or looks like he’s going to contact someone.”

  “Got it.” Helo glanced at Larry. The Dread was definitely interfering.

  No sooner had Helo hung up than the store’s phone rang. Angelina answered it while Helo relayed the information to Dolorem. Slowly, they worked their way to the front of the counter. Outside, the rain started to let up, though ragged clouds still sailed through the troubled sky.

  Angelina hung up, eyes wide and mouth slack. “I’ve got to go,” she said to Larry, who threw her a sour look.

  “You still got four hours, honey,” he said. “You ain’t going anywhere till your shift is over.”

  Helo saw his chance. “What’s wrong, Larry? Can’t you and your little toothpick legs handle the store all alone? Or are you scared to be left here all by your lonesome with a couple biker pricks?”

  Larry’s sinister grin of delight let Helo know he’d hit the right nerve. Larry put his cigarette out by grinding it slowly into the back of his hand. Helo knew his fraud; such an act wouldn’t hurt a Dread.

  “You know what, honey?” he said. “Why don’t you wait here while I escort these two idiots out of the establishment? You two want to head out the front or come see me in my office out back?”

  It was Helo’s turn to grin. “So the dumpster is your office! Is that where the king of garbage sits on his throne of cigarette butts?”

  Larry’s smile turned anticipatory, and he signaled them to the service door.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Dolorem asked quietly.

  “Magdelene said we had to do something if he interfered.”

  “Oh! Good.”

  Angelina watched them nervously as they hopped the counter, the old wood groaning under their weight. The service door opened into an actual back office and then out to the side of the establishment, where they had exchanged words before.

  Larry stood by the dumpster with a smirk, igniting another cigarette. “Give me your best shot.”

  Helo was happy to comply. He bo
osted his Strength and pounded Larry’s face. The Dread’s aura flared just before his fist hit. It felt like hitting a bag full of cement mix. The Dread barely moved. Helo had never hit someone with the Bestowal of Toughness before, but he hoped never to do it again.

  Larry’s eyes shot wide. “Trash An—”

  Dolorem blasted him with Glorious Presence, Helo relishing the shock that washed over Larry’s face just before he became absorbed in a world where he was forced to relive his crimes through the eyes of divine light.

  “Let’s get him back inside,” Dolorem said. They opened the outer door and lowered him carefully to the floor in the ratty office. Helo cracked open the door to the convenience store, and finding Angelina still alone, stepped out.

  “Larry says you can go now,” he informed her. “We actually work with the FBI team that called you and will escort you to the school. We’re, uh, debriefing your boss. Go to your car, and we’ll be out momentarily.”

  “Oh! Okay,” she said, relieved.

  Helo returned and broke all the major joints of Larry’s body while Dolorem searched through the office.

  “Bingo!” he said, holding up a bowie knife he found in the bottom drawer of Larry’s manila yellow desk. “You want to do the honors, Helo?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Slit his vocal cords, too, so he can’t scream.”

  Once Helo extracted the heart, Dolorem threw it in a grungy microwave sitting in a break area nearby.

  “How long do you think it will take to incinerate a heart in a microwave?” he asked.

  “How would I know?” Helo answered. “Just crank it up for an hour on high, and that ought to do it.”

  “Okay. You go lock the place, and I’ll strip Larry here so that all anyone will find is a pile of dirt.”

  In a few minutes, they had disposed of Larry’s clothing in the dumpster and locked the front of the store. The unpleasant smell of microwaved heart already wafted through the building. Angelina waited obediently in the Toyota until they gave her the thumbs up. In minutes they were in front of the elementary school, watching as the Michael team, dressed in dark suits, herded the Morse family into a van and sped off.

  Helo closed his eyes and let the tension in his muscles go.

  Corinth and Magdelene, morphed back to adult size, met them on the wet curb. Magdelene paced back and forth, phone glued to her ear. Corinth gave Dolorem and Helo a fist bump while they waited for Magdelene to finish up with Archus Ramis.

  She closed her phone and sighed. “It’s odd reporting to someone whose job I had less than a week ago. The family’s safe, and they’ll send in a Michael team to finish off the Dreads around the house, hopefully before they get wind that something has happened. Ramis recalled Cassandra and Goldbow to Deep 7, but they didn’t make it in for this morning’s packet delivery.”

  “That’s not cool!” Corinth exclaimed. “If Goldbow gets wind of what just went down—”

  “We know,” Magdelene replied, “but we haven’t been able to get ahold of either of them so far today.”

  “Then he might already know!” Corinth exclaimed.

  “She might already know” Helo said. “Can you track their phones?”

  “No,” Magdelene said, keeping a calm tone. “They were allowed some time to get away together, so they haven’t been in constant communication with the AAO. Their phones have been turned off most of the time. The last ping we have put them somewhere in Tennessee.”

  Corinth threw his hands up. “So that’s the special mission I couldn’t go on? A nice little vacay sponsored by the Ash Angels to get Cassandra back together with the worst mole in Ash Angel history? Fan-freaking-tastic. Well done.”

  Magdelene frowned. “Look, this took everyone off guard. If there’s any reason I’m glad not to be on the Archai anymore it’s because I don’t have to deal with the fallout. If Goldbow can do what he did and keep his aura, then anyone can be used in the same way. Helo, you’ve been called to Deep 7 tomorrow morning. I’ve got to stay here to make sure cleanup goes smoothly. They’d like you to come in too, Dolorem, if you’re willing. I’ll follow in two days.”

  “I’ll stick with Helo,” Dolorem said. “Almost have him converted to the ways of—” Dolorem’s face suddenly went slack, eyes rolling back into his head. With a groan, he fell hard to the sidewalk, convulsing on the ground for several seconds.

  “He’s a Visionary!” Magdelene said, crouching down beside him.

  “Yes,” Helo confirmed. “I’ve never seen him actually receive a vision. Is this what happens to them?”

  “To most, yes. It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to come back to the AAO. He’d spend the rest of his days in seclusion. Help me get him up.”

  Dolorem’s shaking tapered off, and he stared blankly at the sky for several moments. They grabbed him under his armpits and lifted him to a sitting position, his neck not quite up to supporting his head.

  “Why the seclusion?” Helo asked.

  “Visionaries are too valuable. They tend to see events that are proximate to their location so we spread them out all over, creating a network. Visionaries are rare, and losing them would cripple the AAO almost as badly as losing Blanks.”

  Dolorem’s pupils finally focused, and he stood as if hit by a cattle prod.

  “What did you see?” Magdelene asked.

  “She’s here,” Dolorem said. “And she’s going to die.”

  “Who?” Magdelene asked.

  “Cassandra.”

  Chapter 34

  Pictures and Frames

  Helo followed Dolorem to the motorcycles. “What did you see? Where is she?”

  Dolorem pulled his helmet off the handlebar of his bike and affixed it to his head. “She was at the Morse house sitting in a chair. The desire to die . . . I could just feel it.”

  “When?” Magdelene asked.

  “Now!”

  Helo threw his leg over his bike and grabbed his helmet.

  Magdelene jogged forward, hands up. “Wait! There are three Dreads around that house in an area dense with normals. This needs to be planned out!”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Corinth said as Helo and Dolorem kicked their engines to life. “Get her!”

  “I’m her friend too,” Magdelene yelled over the rumble of engines, voice breaking. “But you have to remember that saving Cassandra comes after ensuring the well-being—”

  The rest of Magdelene’s words were lost in the guttural roar of motorcycle engines, her entreaty left behind in the exhaust. Helo scanned the street for cop cars and then twisted the throttle back. The rain drizzled down cold, filming their leather jackets, wind streaking the water on the chrome. A sprint and two lefts brought them to Pearson Drive. The damp grass and caked leaves muffled the echo of their growling engines.

  Cassie’s Cadillac sat slightly askew on the street, beads of water collecting on its red enamel paint. Helo gunned his bike. The door of the female Dread’s house hung open. So did the Morse’s door. Helo squeezed the brake hard, back tire fishtailing on the slick road. Rubber smoke rose, the road chewing the wailing tire until the bike jerked to a stop mere inches from the Caddy. He jumped off, motorcycle falling to the concrete. They had to be on time. Dolorem wouldn’t have had a vision if they didn’t have a chance.

  Dolorem squealed to a halt behind him as he raced to the white door they had knocked on the day before. It hung open about six inches, the square window cut into it lifeless and dark. He slowed. The white curtains were drawn over the living-room window, cracks in the glass streaking down like lightning on two of the panes.

  “Cassandra?” he said through the gap between the door and the frame. No response.

  With the toe of his boot, he tried to push the door open, but the arm of a body blocked it—the black Dread from across the street, facedown, head mush. Putting his leg into it, Helo shoved the door hard, Dolorem coming up behind him. Helo craned his head inside.

  Cassandra sat in the living room in the red cus
hioned chair by the entertainment center. She gazed at something on her lap, blonde hair spilling over, a damp veil concealing whatever she held. The clouded sky and drawn drapes gave the room the feel of a freshly opened mausoleum. All three of the Morse’s Dread neighbors lay twitching, blasted with holes, broken necks, and joints, reminding Helo of his nasty encounter in the Hammer Bar and Grill. Squinting in the dark, he stepped over the first Dread and into the room. The hum of a faucet and the splash of running water came from somewhere to his right.

  Cassandra wore loose tan slacks and a white sweater, both stretched and ripped. He could tell what was in her left hand now. A picture. Her right hand hung down, gripping a BBG. She raised it and pointed it at Helo.

  “Get out,” she ordered, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve.

  “We’ll leave when you do,” Helo said softly, hands in the air.

  Cassandra lifted her head, face wet and eyes dead. A scratch ran down her left cheek, carving away a thin flap of skin. She regarded them balefully, her tears dripping on the picture’s glass. “Dolorem, get out. I mean all the way out on the street. I need to talk to Jarhead. Alone. Move!”

  Helo nodded to Dolorem, who backed out and shut the door. Eyes on the gun, Helo took a slow step forward, but Cassandra snapped the gun back to his head, and he stopped.

  “Come on, Cassandra. Put it away.”

  “Did you meet her, Jarhead?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Angelina Morse. Did you meet her? Was she nice and sweet and baked cookies?”

  Helo swallowed. There were no right answers to her questions. “Yeah. She seemed nice. I barely spoke with her when we were investigating the place. Look, what Goldbow did was wrong, but—”

  “Don’t give me any ‘it’s not your fault’ crap, okay? I want to talk to Trace Evans. Not Jarhead. Not Helo. I want to talk to Trace.”

  “You got it. I’m here.”

  Her eyes softened a little. “Do you think it was your fault your wife cheated on you?”

  Trace looked away. “I don’t know why she did it.”

  “I asked you if you think it was your fault.”

  He exhaled. “I don’t know what I think now, but I did. I just thought I wasn’t what she wanted. I don’t know if that’s my fault or not.”