The APOCs Virus

by Alex Myers

  The Reverend swiveled away from the table and faced the well‑lit grounds of the Glorified Church of God’s compound. "Full steam ahead on project Daniel," Ira said. A look of surprise shot across the faces of the men in the room.

  Brother Christopher, accountant for the Church, for the first time, felt like more of an accountant than a true believer.

  "But Ira," he said. He saw the scornful look because he didn't address him as Reverend. "People will die."

  "Let it be so, then. Let it be done with the glory of God. Let them, and all like them see and learn of the carnage, the destruction, that awaits those who disobey him."

  Reverend Ira and members of 'Devil's Reich' had faced each other before. It was two years ago at the senate hearings on pornography. The hearings, many people thought, were the turning point toward fanaticism for Ira. Instead of approaching it from the logical angle, he went in with fire and brimstone. He made a fool out of himself in the eyes of the Elders, and many followers of the Church. Donations and attendance had never sunk so low in the twenty‑seven year history of the ministry.

  He not only said that members of the rock group were followers of Satan, but he accused them of being supernatural demons. His rantings didn't stop there, though. He also accused anyone that listened to their music—even rock music in general—of being demons. He urged a severing of family ties and isolation of the violators. Once this isolation was achieved he said the people should be executed.

  It was quite an emotional point in the hearings. Ira in a near state of frenzy pulled a hardened, sharp, wooden knife from his briefcase and attacked the band's bass player. He had to be physically removed from the senate chambers. He eventually had to pay $100,000 from the Church's already depleted coiffures to Steve Getz, lead guitar player in lieu of prosecution.

  The Reverend had obviously picked the wrong band wagon to jump on to generate new interest in an already sagging organization.

  His Sunday Morning TV Worship suffered the most. The show became so unpopular it was dropped from twenty of its ninety affiliates. People would tune in expecting to hear a few Bible verses or to see a faith healing or two, and instead, they got a wild‑eyed maniac telling them their own children were the devil incarnate and should be put to death.

  He organized what became known as the 'God Squad'. They harassed and incited violence at rock concerts, nightclubs and record stores.

  Two things ended his all‑out assault on rock music: members of the subversive group the 'skinheads' were comingling with his group of agitators; but more importantly, the Elders of the Church proclaimed, either the persecution ended or he would be replaced as head of the Church. The ultimatum was something Ira would never forget.

  He talked his way out of the association with the skinheads, claiming they were not part of the Church, and that they had caused the violence. The other threat he had to take heed to, though. The Elders had blamed him personally for the abatement of interest in the Church. Plus he knew, replacing him was an option that they could and would do. He wasn't about to let his dream and life's work go down the drain.

  He dropped the crusade.

  When the disease that turned people into killing zombies came to light, the Reverend Ira had found his personal salvation. Interest in the Church and in him personally, had never been higher. His Sunday morning show actually hit number twenty in the Nielson ratings for the month of June.

  He had the answers for a country that was asking questions. Through a tip from one of his investment companies he invested heavily in Meredith Pharmaceuticals and he was able to get in on the ground floor of the crisis.

  When the first attacks occurred in Norfolk, his camera crews had been there to film them. He was looked to as the authority on a subject John Q. Public was eating up. Any and all information, no matter how outlandish, was gobbled up. He developed a quasi‑news propaganda show that went into a bidding war with the networks. The program was finally picked up by CBS. The half‑hour program called APOC topped the Nielsens. Many thought the Sunday morning show was a shoe‑in for number two within a week's time.

  No one called Reverend Ira Swanson a radical now. With the increase in popularity also comes an increase in his personal power. He gave convincing Biblical reasons for the things that were now happening. The last program was dedicated to finding the antichrist. A 10 million dollar reward was instituted by the Church for his capture, dead or alive. The program was based on the premise that the Apocs were actually a very organized group. And that their leader was the antichrist foretold of in Bible prophecy. Loosely made conjectures were given to help this all make sense.

  What started as an idea he harkened from his own father, now was turning a profit of over a million dollars a week for the Church. Reverend Ira's father had made the family fortune preaching the end of the world in the late 60s and 70s. The cold war and the atomic bomb were on everyone's mind. So it seemed only natural to Ira that when a disease that was so lethal and terrifying fell into his lap he'd scored the holy touchdown. All that was left to be done so he could do the end-zone boogie were a few equivocal, but ominous Bible verses. When it came to ominous bible verses, he was the best.

  "I want film from an actual meeting of the Apocs for this Wednesday's telecast," Reverend Ira said to the Elders. "We need to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Apocs are intelligent, organized, dangerous, and most of all have a master plan."

  Panic broke out among the Cabal, all except for Brother Kenneth. Kenneth was the oldest member of the council; he was quite the 'nuts and bolts' of the Church. Kenneth was a Ira’s father’s friend and partner, doing much the same work now that he did then—only on a much larger scale. He personally helped Ira build the Church into the multifaceted conglomerate it was today. Brother Kenneth controlled the Church's purse‑strings, making almost all of the outside investments.

  Every person in the room, including Ira, watched the ninety-year-old man stand on weak legs and point a crooked finger at him.

  "Ira I'm warning you," He was the only member of the Elders, or anyone, that addressed him by his first name only. "If you send a camera crew into one of their meeting places and we lose the crew-if they get killed . . . the publicity could ruin us."

  "Brother Kenneth," Ira spoke confidently. "Even if we do lose a crew, we'll deny it. No one will have to know they're from the Church. If they can get the footage we need, they're heroes. If they can't, we've never heard of them."

  "Ira, I stood behind you during the nonsense with the rock music. Lord knows it wasn't a popular stand to take among members of the council, but everyone knew we needed something to generate interest in our little family. If and when this disease blows over, we just might chase away every convert we've made."

  "Brother Kenneth," Ira said thinking the man was quickly loosing his usefulness. He stood up and leaned toward the older man. "There is no 'if' this disease blows over, only a 'when'. And when it finally does, people will get down on their knees before me. I'll be king! I was talking with the Lord . . ." Ira said looking toward the ceiling, inspired. It was said with such conviction that he didn't see the concerned glances from members of the committee. He had often said to his followers that he spoke with the Lord, but never in front of the

  Elders. “The lord outlined the 'way' for me."

  "Would you mind sharing with the rest of us exactly what that plan is, Ira?" Kenneth asked.

  "Not all of it yet, but I will tell you this much. We need to liquidate all of our outside investments. I need cash, lots of cash for this . . ."

  Reverend Swanson buzzed the intercom and two orderlies brought in the prototype for his plan laid out on giant poster-board.

  CHAPTER 10

  OCEANVIEW

  "I thought you said you knew where it was going to be?" Ethan asked as he wheeled the Jeep into a tight u‑turn. "How many people were going to be involved?"

  "Quite a few," Bill said. "This thing is a massive operation between the city police and fire dep
artments, state police, the National Guard, and the Navy. There’s supposed to be a bunch of folks.”

  “I’m just wondering where they all are? They are giving this thing a big priority, right?”

  “This is the last step before martial law.”

  "Maybe . . ." Ethan trailed off unable to come up with a suitable answer.

  "I don't understand it," Bill said looking around puzzled. "These past three blocks were supposed to be barricaded off. We should at least be able to see the fire."

  “Call. I’ll pull over here so we don’t drive further out of our way.” Ethan said.

  He pulled into a closed 7‑11 and Bill called headquarters.

  “I’m going to get out and look around.” Ethan said stepping out of the Jeep. Bill acknowledged and started talking to someone on the other end.

  Ethan surveyed the area peering into the shadows of the nearby buildings. A beep sounded on his watch, it was eight o'clock. The sun was just sinking below the western horizon. The unnatural darkness was enhanced by the tall buildings and the fact that every light in the previous two miles was off. Streetlights were out as well as store signs. There wasn't even the glow of a home with a generator. The skin on Ethan's arm had turned to goose flesh and icy knots of anticipation circled his guts. He anxiously perused the scene as he tried to rub down the bumps. In the past he had confused the feelings as being one of fear, now he knew that it was his body's way of preparing for a fight.

  Then the strangeness of the situation finally hit him. For the two miles past, and as far as he could see ahead, the only light of any kind, was here in this lot. The mercury vapor light was thirty feet from the store in the corner of the parking lot.

  If somebody had meant for th em to stop here, it wasn't to attack them, Ethan thought. Of course, isolating them against an empty background might have precipitated a sniper attack. That also left observation. If someone had counted on them stopping here, it was to observe them. But why, Ethan wondered? Were they right now being watched through binoculars from somewhere? Ethan was wrong on all counts.

  There was not a tree or bush of any kind anywhere around, they were completely in the open—totally exposed. He turned his attention back to Bill, visibly shaken. Bill blinked with what looked like bafflement and looked at his phone. He hesitated, and then gently and slowly put it in a flapped pocket. He started to pull it out again as though he was going to make another call and put it back. He stepped out of the Jeep, and over to Ethan.

  "What's wrong?" Ethan asked. "Why did they cancel the mission?"

  "They didn't," he said looking away into the distance. He knew his buddy and he knew bewilderment. Bill was staring at the churning waters of the bay.

  "Well then where did they move the location? Let's get over there."

  "You know Ethan, for a guy that's usually very perceptive, you just don't get it, do you?" Bill said looking back at him. "They didn't move it anywhere. This is where they're all supposed to be. Right here."

  "Maybe we just drove by them, passed them on one of the side streets?"

  "That's not it. This exercise was supposed to be very visible. One reason was for the remaining citizens to know that we were doing something about their situation. The other reason was to send a message to the Apocs. There's something I haven't told you. They haven’t had contact with the team in the last half-hour."

  The light on the pole clicked off.

  “No GPS, no dash cam videos, nothing?”

  “Nothing. They disappeared, nothing. What the hell? Let’s go.” Bill said.

  Ethan could smell the danger as they climbed into the Jeep and threw it into reverse.

  "Wait!” Bill exclaimed. "I hear engines, somebody's coming."

  They both turned to their left in time to see one of the big hook-and-ladder trucks jump the curb and head into the field straight at them. The vehicle was traveling fast enough to go up on three wheels. Following close behind and keeping tight formation were other mission vehicles. All headlights of the entourage were off. There were men visible on the fire truck and open‑topped troop transporters.

  "They're forming a circle!” Ethan said. It was truly odd that they didn't slow their speed in the tight ring. It reminded him of a circus.

  "What the hell are they doing?"

  "Something's not right here. Let's go!" Ethan said.

  “This is completely wrong.”

  A fire‑truck blocked their escape from the parking lot.

  In one fluid movement, Ethan changed into four‑wheel high and shifted the Jeep into first gear.

  "Let's not get too close," Bill said cautiously. He checked the chambers of the big handgun one more time, sitting as straight as possible in his seat.

  “I am going to get a little closer," Ethan said. He reached under the seat and pulled out a Luger semi-automatic. He sat the gun in his lap as he removed four twenty-round clips from the glove box and placed them on the recessed dash. "Get the handheld light that's on the back seat."

  "I can't see shit, they're really kicking up some dust out there," Bill said. He plugged the halogen light into the Jeep’s cigarette lighter.

  "Let's skirt the perimeter on top of that dune,” Ethan said. He pointed with one finger, so as not to take his hand off the steering wheel. "Don't turn on the light until we get close enough."

  The Jeep hit the curb flying straight for the soft sand of the dune. Most of the larger vehicles wouldn't be able to follow them. Ethan picked up the clip, inserted it in the handle of the handgun and snapped it securely by slapping it on his leg. They took the hill at a forty-five degree angle, staying near the harder‑packed top.

  Moving to within fifty yards, Bill turned on the high intensity quartz beam. The light cast a tight shaft of illumination on the back of the hook and ladder truck. Between driving and watching, Ethan had his hands full. Drive in a crack he thought, and break our goddamn backs.

  Bill brought the cast of the light to the front of the fire truck and let out a gasp. Before he could think what to do next he heard the explosion from Ethan's gun go off very near his ear. The zombie with the dead yellow eyes sprouted a fountain in the middle of its forehead. They watched its arms shoot out and shake in convulsions in front of its body. It looked like a baby waving mad goodbyes with both hands. The inertia flung the still shaking Apoc off the moving truck and into the path of the oncoming cavalcade. They watched the military trucks run over him several times before they finally looked away. It was eerie, Ethan thought. How they didn't even break formation or slow down for it.

  Another yellow-eyed Apoc with wrinkled skin was riding in a squad car, two vehicles back from the fire truck. He had his arm out the window like a father on a Sunday drive. Bill held the light with one hand and the gun with the other. The big pistol went off with a blaze of fire making the creature's head simply vanish. Evidently the bullet had not completely mushroomed out until it had also hit the driver sitting next to him.

  The police car swerved toward the Jeep before swerving back again into the line and overturning in a cloud of dirt. Two of the following squad cars plowed into the overturned car and all three exploded into a blaze of fire. The next vehicle deviated from its course and pulled away from the burning cars. It came to a stop right in front of the now-stopped Jeep and cut off its engine. The remaining cars and trucks followed suit. One of the police cars pulled about ten feet closer than the others.

  A huge wrinkled man with a police uniform and loudspeaker in his hand got out of the squad car. Bill swung the light up and illuminated the Apoc. They had time to see the telltale- jonquil-yellow, lifeless eyes that seemed to consume the light instead of radiating it back. They saw its cracked and peeling, hideous face and patches of its remaining hair.

  "Turn off, and keep off that light if you want to see your men again Lieutenant McCullough," the creature said into the speaker. It spoke with a deep resonant tone that had the force of a cannon blast. "And Mr. Bell, I would suggest you put down your weapon also if y
ou want to hear what I have to say."

  "That damn thing knows both of our names," Bill said as he switched off the light.

  "That's better," the thing said. "Now we can get down to the business of being friends."

  Both Bill's and Ethan's eyes were darting around, Ethan watching for a trap. He was mentally working out their options, and escape if necessary.

  "So what do you say Lieutenant? Friends?"

  "Fuck the friends stuff, Apoc. Where are the men you stole those vehicles from?" Bill yelled. He was standing up on the floorboard with his head through the Jeep’s open convertible top.

  "They're in the transports," he said as he nodded to the Apoc in the back of the truck. Fifteen men hidden in the truck's interior now stood with their hands bound behind their backs. "The others are in there," he said pointing to the other transport. "That is, the ones that are still alive," he laughed. "If you cooperate our friendship can be beneficial to both of us."

  "It's not fair," Ethan said with a sourness in the pit of his stomach. "That you know our names and we don't know yours."

  "I am Abaddon," the beast boomed. "Leader of what you call the Apocs. We prefer to think of ourselves as the 'Chosen'. But call us whatever you like, just don't call us late for supper." Abaddon's cackling laugh was like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  "Just what is it you want from us?" Bill asked.

  "Number one. I need you and your friend Mr. Bell—Ethan, I'm sorry, I forgot we were all friends, to lay off the heroics. You have already killed several of my men tonight. And how many in the last three nights of your little raids? Ten times that amount?"

  "It's not something I feel guilty about. What else do you want?" Bill asked skeptically.

  "Here's the list. May I send one of my men over to give you a copy?" Abaddon didn't wait for either one of them to answer before sending over the Apoc from the police car next to his.

  Ethan and Bill watched the smaller Apoc approach them with a sure gait. He was wearing a black sleeveless Devil's Reich T‑shirt and blue jeans. His face was accented by the deepening wrinkles set off by the red bandanna tied around his forehead. The bandanna was holding down matted blondish hair.