Queen of Wands-eARC

by John Ringo

  “What…are you?” Downing asked, carefully.

  “As it turns out, your worst nightmare,” Barb replied. She reached for the soul of the afflicted and paused. “Jesus Christ,” she said, softly.

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to curse,” Kurt said.

  “That wasn’t a curse, Special Agent,” Barb said. “That was a prayer. This person is dead.”

  “Dead?” Dr. Downing said, snorting. “I can assure you, as a physician—”

  “With what’s riding you, there’s no way that you heal,” Barb said. “So calling yourself a physician, Doctor, is a stretch. Research. Poke. Prod. Possibly advance science. But that…thing in you isn’t going to allow you to ever heal. And when I said this person was dead, I was very specific. This…thing has no soul. None. No ka. No ba. It is a walking dead thing.”

  “Zombie?” Kurt said. “Please, not zombies.”

  “Not the movie zombie,” Barb said. “I’m not sure what it is or how it was created. But this person has no more soul than a rock. How it’s continuing to exist is a real question. There is power coming from somewhere that is continuing to give it the semblance of life.” She stepped back and started to close down. Then, just as an exercise, she fully Opened her Power.

  Dr. Downing immediately took an involuntary step backwards and grunted. In the distance, one of the patients started howling, setting off others.

  “What just happened?” Kurt asked, looking around.

  “That is what I am, Doctor,” Barb said. “Is that clear enough for you?”

  What was clear was that it wasn’t simply the neurologist that inflicted the place. It stank with evil, and shadows filled every corner.

  “Yes,” the doctor said in a strained voice.

  “God has given me the grace to be His sword upon this land, Doctor,” Barb said, softly. “Your Master cannot prevail against me, for I wear the armor of righteousness, and the power of the Lord is held in both right hand and left. So fill us in and quit playing power games. I have neither the time nor the patience, and this place quite frankly wants me here slightly less than I want to stay.”

  “I have a short video I’d like to show you.”

  * * *

  The video started with Darren apparently asleep in the traditional rubber room. He was slumped in one corner, his mouth open and flaccid but his limbs twitching.

  “I thought these things were a myth,” Kurt said, looking at the view.

  “They are not a preferred environment,” Dr. Downing said. He’d managed to calm down a bit on the walk to the meeting room and was still trying for suave and debonair. However, he was keeping the special agent between himself and Barbara.

  “But there are conditions in which they are useful. Such as this one. I wanted to observe his actions under a variety of stimuli, and given the reports of his admission, I was unwilling to do so outside of a controlled environment. He was heavily sedated when placed in the room, and the first part is rather boring. I’ll fast forward.”

  The digital file skipped forward until, in fast motion, Darren lurched to his feet and started walking.

  “There,” the doctor said. “Note the nature of the motion.”

  “He looks like a zombie,” Kurt said, his brow furrowing. “Christ, why’d it have to be zombies?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Downing said, smiling faintly. “He does, doesn’t he? Arms extended, although more to the side than the traditional zombie look. And that would be why?”

  “His balance,” Barb said, nodding. “He’s got real balance problems.”

  “Due to the lack of reflex,” Dr. Downing said. “It gives him the equivalent of an inner-ear infection, and he uses his arms to maintain his balance.”

  Barbara leaned into the video and nodded.

  “His lips are moving,” she said. “Is there audio?”

  “There is,” the doctor said, turning it on.

  The syllables were harsh and guttural, mixed with moans and occasional shrieks.

  “It appears to be random babble,” the psychiatrist said. “Not entirely idiosyncratic, but uncommon. Normally the patient would be speaking recognizable words but disconnected in syntax. Along with occasional disconnected threats or pleas.”

  “I’m not sure that’s babble,” Barb said, listening for a moment longer. “Get me a copy of the audio file. Actually, copies of the audio and video.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Downing said, fast forwarding again. “However, after this had gone on for some time, I sent in guards to restrain him again. And…watch.”

  The two guards entered fast when Darren’s back was turned. They were wearing some sort of full-coverage white body armor including helmets and gloves. They looked like they were suited up to work with an attack dog. They also carried clear plastic shields, and one of them was carrying an air injector presumably filled with a tranquilizer.

  A third guard shut the door when they were barely in the room, but before they could even approach the subject, Darren turned, showing more coordination than had previously been evident, and charged, screaming a ululating cry of what sounded like rage and pain. He hit the shield of the guard with the syringe so hard the man was thrown off his feet, and the patient fell on top of him, screaming and scrabbling to get past the shield.

  The guard flipped the syringe out from under the pile and the second guard picked it up quickly then fell onto the patient, pinning him between the two guards and injecting him in the back of the neck.

  “And that’s about it,” Dr. Downing said, turning off the video. “The patient is fast and strong beyond the norm, but very clumsy. In part, I believe, because of the lack of reflex response. The patient’s balance is particularly bad probably because, at some level, he has to think about standing up. It’s notable that when the patient has had to be…restrained, he falls down quickly and tends to fight on the ground. The precise symptoms have never been recorded in literature. I’m considering doing a paper on them. It’s possible it may be an entirely new psychiatric condition. If so, I’ll have to name it.”

  “Chattanooga Zombieitis?” Kurt asked.

  “Thank you for your input,” Dr. Downing said dryly. “But…no. Among other things, ‘itis’ is the suffix for irritation and swelling.”

  “Neurological indications?” Barb asked. “For laymen?”

  “Due to the nature of the problem, we were, fortunately, able to fund a full neurological workup,” Dr. Downing said. “Various tests I won’t detail. Certain neurotransmitters appear to be out of sync as well as various hormones. Testosterone and adrenaline levels are abnormally high, for example. Dopamine levels as well. Which may explain the lack of reflex response. Glutamate appears to be inhibited and certain portions of the brain are acting in uncharacteristic ways. Mid- and rear-brain activity is overexcited, while forebrain activity is virtually quiescent. The medulla in some of the older patients appears to actually be swelled. We’re monitoring that because we’re afraid that if the condition progresses it will lead to death.”

  “Forebrain is conscious thought,” Barb said musingly. “Mid-brain is sort of higher animal, the puppy brain, and rear brain is the old animal, the lizard hindbrain.”

  “In layman’s terms, more or less,” Dr. Downing said.

  “So…they’re thinking like animals?” Kurt asked.

  “I would hate to put it that way in any sort of report,” the neurologist said. “But…yes. Very angry and vicious ones.”

  “What about treatment?” Kurt asked.

  “So far there doesn’t seem to be one,” the neurologist said. He seemed indifferent to the possibility.

  “Trust me, Kurt,” Barb said. “These things are beyond treatment. Not. Alive. Take my word for it.”

  “Wait,” Kurt said, his brow furrowing. “PCP is a glutamate inhibitor. Right?”

  “An NMDA uptake inhibitor,” the doctor corrected. “But it has the practical effect.”

  “So it’s like they’re on PCP?” Kurt asked. “Sort of PCP zo
mbies. Ouch.”

  “Again, I did not say it,” the psychiatrist said. “But the effects have some similarity to PCP overdose. That was the initial finding of the admitting doctors. But it’s not PCP. What it is, we’re unsure. As I said, psychotic break, homicidal, cause unknown.”

  “Double ouch,” Kurt said. “Cannibalistic PCP zombies.”

  “And I don’t think that will be in any reports, either,” Barb said, nodding. “Good summation. That’s enough.” She looked at Downing and snorted.

  “I don’t know exactly why you let that thing ride you, but you did. And apparently with some understanding of what you were doing. It wasn’t a good choice. It wasn’t even an intelligent choice. But it was a choice. And for that, Doctor, you are damned.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Literally, not figuratively. How you could have been that stupid, I don’t know. I’ll just mention, in passing, that Jesus is pretty forgiving. If you can get your head around getting that…thing out of you, you might just be forgiven. On the other hand, if you keep on your current path, you’re choosing one life of whatever it gives you in exchange for eternal torment. Again, your choice. But I’d suggest that you start thinking about alternatives.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Downing said, frowning slightly.

  “Me, I’d damn you and be done with it,” Barb said. “But I tend to be rather Old Testament. Jesus is the forgiving one.”

  * * *

  “So,” Barb said as they headed back to the office. “Tell me about PCP. You said you were a street cop once, right? Ever deal with it?”

  “Rarely,” Kurt said, holding onto the door handle as Barb weaved through traffic. “It’s not as big as it was in the eighties. When something gets a bad street rep you know it’s bad. But, yeah, I had to handle a couple of guys on it.”

  “How bad?” Barb asked, slipping into a narrow gap between a semi in the left lane and the truck ahead of her in the right. “I hate semis that go slow in the left lane and just barely pass other trucks.”

  “Pretty bad,” Kurt squeaked. “They don’t feel any pain so when you hit them with a K-11 it’s like you might as well not even bother. They’ll dislocate their own bones if you put them in a lock. You pin them to the ground and they end up doing one-handed cop push-ups. They get ahold of you, and you’d better have some good escape techniques. They bite like nobody’s business. Lost a chunk of flesh on my forearm to one. You start to recognize the signs after a while and call for backup if you’ve got time. The best bet is to do a Rodney King on their ass, but departments frown on that. And, hell, hitting a guy on PCP with truncheons just pisses him off. You get enough Tasers on one, you can knock him out. That’s about your best bet, five or six Tasers more or less simultaneously. And hope he’s got a good heart.”

  “Don’t have to worry about killing these things,” Barb said. “They’re not human anymore.”

  * * *

  “You think you’re going to find anything in here?” Kurt said, setting down another stack of folders.

  “I have no clue,” Barb replied. “I hope so.”

  “Because one thing you’ve probably noticed is that these attacks have been getting closer and closer together,” Kurt said. “The first one that we’ve pinpointed as being similar in nature was two years ago. Then a year after that. Then three months. Then four in the last six. The last three in the last two months. That’s when we got called in.”

  “I’ve noticed the pattern,” Barb said. “I’m looking for any indication of what may be causing it.”

  “That’s what over a dozen agents have been doing for the last two months,” Kurt pointed out.

  “They weren’t looking for what I’m looking for,” Barb said. “Most of this seems to be looking for an environmental cause. A drug that’s not detected by the usual tox screen. Some environmental toxin they’ve been exposed to. You’re not going to find a mystic cause by taking a surface swab. The good news is, it’s not movie zombieitis.”

  “That would be bad,” Kurt said. “You’re sure they’re zombies?”

  “That or something damned close,” Barb said. “Did they go nuts then lose their souls? I suspect it’s the other way around.”

  “So what are you looking for?” Kurt asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Barb admitted. “Patterns that normal investigators would dismiss. Unfortunately, so far I’m going over tilled ground. All males in their twenties.”

  “Tilled,” Kurt said.

  “So I’ve noticed,” Barb replied dryly. “Mostly students at the University of Tennessee, Chattanooga branch. All residents of the Chattanooga area. But none of them from the same area of Chattanooga.”

  “UTC is a commuter college,” Kurt said. “Most of the students don’t live on campus. They’re making more dorms but it’s still mostly commuters. That’s just FYI.”

  “Thanks,” Barb said. “Some of the information I need about them isn’t even in these files. The investigators talked to people who knew them, but they weren’t asking the right questions. I need to…talk to some of the same people.”

  “Most of them lived with their parents,” Kurt said.

  “And most of them went to school in the area,” Barb said. “I think it might be better ground to talk to people who knew them for a while but are less…disinterested than parents. I need to know who these guys really are, not what their parents want people to think they are. Were. Religious or atheist, subculture…”

  “Teachers?” Kurt asked. “Fellow students?”

  “Guidance counselors.”

  * * *

  Karen Gill was medium height with long, dark hair, a lined, tan face and bright black eyes. The guidance counselor’s office was small and cluttered, with the most notable feature being a large inspirational poster on the wall of a man standing on a mountaintop. The title was “Success,” and the inspirational quote was “Success means knowing who you are.”

  Barb was not much given to cynicism, but she wondered if the counselor considered her life a success.

  “Darren was not a natural student,” the guidance counselor said, sitting in her chair after ensuring her guests did not want drinks. “He struggled through his courses. I give him credit for his efforts in that regard.”

  “Ms. Gill,” Barb said carefully. “Darren is currently in long-term psychiatric care for attempting to eat another person. He is but one of seven recent cases of similar problems. We are trying to prevent a reoccurrence and, if possible, find what happened to him so that doctors may be able to give him a normal life. I’m afraid we really do need something besides ‘He was a nice boy and not a natural student.’”

  “I am an accredited psychological counselor,” Ms. Gill said, making a face. “Communications with my clients are privileged.”

  “Can you tell us anything that is not from a counseling session?” Barb asked. “Was he counseled frequently?”

  “As an alternative, we could come back with a court order,” Kurt said. “I’m not making a threat; I’m just saying if that would help…”

  “No,” the counselor said, sighing. “The thing is…I’m trying to balance my professional distance with my…personal distaste.”

  “Oh?” Barb said, raising her eyebrows. “For Darren?”

  “Yes,” Ms. Gill admitted. “I did counsel Darren on a number of occasions but never with much success. I won’t delve into those discussions absent a court order, and I don’t think I need to. The truth is, I counseled his…victims far more often than he.”

  “Victims?” Kurt said, pulling out a notebook.

  “Not physical,” Ms. Gill said, then shrugged. “Well, in two cases physical. Darren…Darren was a bully. From what I’ve gleaned from talking to his earlier counselors, he had been since he was a child. He was always picking on other children and intimidating them. We try to keep physical violence to the minimum in school, but kids learn early that if you stand up to a bully they don’t always back down. In two cases, when he was a freshman here, he got
into fights. He was suspended for both. The second one, he was very nearly charged with assault. I call them fights but what they were were massacres. In the second case he beat a sophomore boy to the point I felt he should be sent to the hospital to be checked. The principal…overruled me on that, so he was treated by the school nurse. Jacob’s parents didn’t press charges when Darren was suspended.

  “He was somewhat larger than the majority of the freshmen, or even seniors, and very…well, he was just nasty. Mean as they come. Being more professional, Darren had anger management issues. But from the description of his actions on the news, his actions go so far beyond that, it is hard to believe.”

  “But he wasn’t just some nice boy?” Barb asked. “That is certainly the indication I’ve had from his records. I’ve even looked at clips about him on the TV. That was sort of the theme. ‘He was a nice, normal kid.’”

  “No,” Ms. Gill said, taking a sip of herbal tea. “He was not a nice boy. He was on the basketball team in freshman year and got benched for the last half of the season since he almost invariably fouled out. He was a decent football player, but only on defense. And even then he received frequent fouls for ‘unsportsmanlike conduct.’ He was popular only to the extent he was feared. In two cases I suspect him of date rape but was unable to get the girls involved to come forward to testify or even make charges. He was a brutal, nasty, brutish bully. All that being said, killing someone and then attempting to eat them is far beyond his normal unpleasantness. Is there any indication of what caused it?”

  “Not so far,” Barb said, stroking her hair in thought. “But this has been helpful. Thank you.”

  * * *

  “So he got into fights,” Kurt said as they drove back towards downtown. “I got into fights in school. Big deal.”

  “It’s more than that,” Barb said thoughtfully. For a wonder, she was driving sedately, but that was clearly because her mind was elsewhere. “He was filled with rage. Anger, rage, except in certain specific circumstances, is a sin against God.”

  “I’ve got a short temper,” Kurt said. “Does that mean I’m going to go off the deep end?”