by Alex Myers
The part of his brain called the thalamus and the whole interthalamic adhesion was experiencing the biggest change of all. Known as the central processing plant for sensory impulses, it doubled then nearly tripled in size. The descending fibers from the thalamus that communicates with the cerebral cortex transformed from the size of the thinnest silk thread to the diameter of a shoelace; expediting the processing of sensory information tenfold.
In the deepest recesses of his mind he knew that the woman was looking into his memories like they were pages of an open book. There was little he could do to mask or slow this vile rape. The most basic of human functions—just living and breathing were nearly all he could manage. Stimulus such as taste, sight, sound and smell were nearly enough to overload his mind.
He was vaguely aware when the woman released her bite on his neck, the few questions that were asked afterwards, and then of movement. He was more aware of the bombardment of sounds in his ears, odors in his nostrils, the hardening of his skin, and human heartbeats in the distance. His eyes were shut and his feet dragged on the pavement of the parking lot. He was off to see the wizard.
As Bill first opened his eyes, it was only for a quick glimpse. He stood on the edge of a large gathering of people. The handholds on his arms had slackened, but nonetheless, were still there. The sights and sounds of the humans in the Reverend Ira's congregation almost more than he could stand. An emptiness in his stomach was turning into a desperate hunger. It was on a level beyond that of normal cravings, it was an all-consuming need for blood. A buzzing similar to that of the buzzing heard when he used to be close to an Apoc was now present in his entire soul. This clamor came from the humans and the sweet intoxicating sounds of their heartbeats.
He struggled internally to regain control over his thought processes. He was constantly distracted from the thoughts of feeding by a larger beacon, that of the man standing and speaking behind the microphone, his sworn enemy, Abaddon.
"You heard it from his own lips, ladies and gentlemen," Abaddon said pointing to the Reverend Ira, yet focusing on the cameras. "I'm sure nearly all of you have witnessed the cruel, inhuman behavior that members of my faction have committed on your television screens. Ask yourself where have most of these images come? Let me help you out a little bit here—while I am not standing here denying the fact that some of those things have taken place—most of the infamous images were staged by the Reverend Ira Swanson. Why? Another easy question. Where was the Glorified Church of God before the outbreak of the MDR-V6 Virus? I'll tell you where . . . in bankruptcy, that's where."
"Do not listen to the words of the demon! He's merely trying to seduce you with his lies! He is the Son of Perdition."
"Lies? You said lies, Reverend Ira?" Abaddon asked turning toward him. "It's not me lying this time." He turned again to face the cameras. "We were invited to this gathering tonight not by the members of the band 'Devil's Reich’. There has never been contact from any band member or any of their representatives and an Apoc before today. These were lies started and perpetuated by the church. We merely acquiesced because Ira provided us with something we desperately needed—exposure."
"But what about the phone conversation between Steve Getz and the good Reverend?" a reporter wearing a GCG button asked.
"Ah, the phone call," Abaddon said smiling. He was hoping someone was going to ask this question. "Why not ask him yourself?"
Abaddon nodded and a group of Apocs to his left parted and out stepped Steve Getz. He walked next to Abaddon and up to the microphones.
In a high-pitched, near-whine he said in his distinctive British accent, "They're lies I tell ya, mates. I've only spoken with Swanson once since the congressional-thing-a-ma-bob. It was three days ago when I told him not to connect the band in any way to the Apocs. This is ridiculous, simply ridiculous. We're a band for christ’s-sake. We're in the business of making music. Christ, we'll leave the religious mumbo-jumbo to you pious types."
"Then how do you explain the telephone interview?" a reporter called out.
"Oh bloody hell man, surely you're familiar with editing. And let me tell you, all of you," he was speaking directly into the camera, "this interview and this man," he was pointing at Ira, "are all bullshit."
He threw the crowd and camera the finger and retreated in the direction he came from and left the audience and reporters in a state of bedlam.
"I have one more convincing piece of evidence against the Reverend Ira Swanson, then we'll turn to more important matters," Abaddon said as he retook center stage. "And it concerns a now infamous scene in which a man torn over the loss of his wife and family is fighting with a Apoc. I'm sure you are all familiar with the piece I’m talking about—Swanson has broadcast it widely. I'm here to say that it was all done as a publicity stunt. The first—I might add—joint venture between the GCG and the Apocs. Here as more proof are the featured characters in that piece."
From the same direction that Steve Getz had appeared a man, a woman, two children and the Apoc attacker all appeared. All looked fine and were waving and smiling to the crowd.
"I guess you don't have much to say for yourself do you Mr. High and Mighty?" Abaddon asked.
The Reverend Ira—all the fight appeared to have been beat out of him—simply hung his head and wept.
Nattie appeared and beckoned Abaddon to her. She whispered something in his ear and then he returned triumphantly to the podium.
"I have just received unbelievable news. We now have a spokesman who has been charading as a Norfolk police officer who is actually a member of the United States Naval Investigative Service; better known as the NIS. He reports directly to the Secretary of Defense—his uncle I might add—and he is here to tell us an interesting divulgence on the origins of the MDR-V6 Virus."
Summoning all the powers of control he could muster, Abaddon called forth Bill. He was directing him like a puppet.
"Could you please state your name and your job?" Abaddon demanded.
"My name—ah—is—Lieutenant William C. McCullough of the Norfolk Police Department." Bill struggled in vain not to speak.
"But you also work somewhere else, right."
"I—ah—wo—work for the NIS, part of the Naval Security and Investigative Command. I was recruited by my Uncle Admiral Prescott and report directly to him.” The words seemed to drain the last shreds of vitality from his ravaged body.
"And working so close with the Secretary of Defense what have you discovered about the Apoc disease?"
"I don't know all the details, just that it was developed by a scientist working for the Center for Biological Warfare, a Dr. Wojick. It was supposed to be a cure for HIV, then Cancer, but something went awry. The virus was first spread through the Navy and that's why I was called in to help with the case."
Smilingly buoyantly, Abaddon said, “Well there you have it. And you blamed us for the destruction that has taken place—HA!"
"I blame you!" a man whose face resembled a scab more than anything human stepped from the crowd of Apocs. He was holding a gun that took all the strength his emaciated body could muster. He was wearing dirty slacks and a gray sweatshirt that didn't quite cover his burnt-scarred arms. The gun was pointed at Abaddon.
"And who—I guess 'what' would be a better word—are you?" he still smiled his greasy smile.
I knew you wouldn't remember, you bastard! You left me for dead after murdering and raping my sister. My name is Jimmy Barnes, and you ripped my sister Holly’s head off. She was all I had in the world. You nearly murdered me. You told your men to burn my body. It was only through my determination to give you what you deserve that I drug myself off that burning rubbish pile. People might have looked to you as a savior, but instead they'll look at you as a martyr."
The crack of the gun went off as the flash of lightning filled the darkening sky.
Abaddon shoved Bill into the path of the bullet and his right shoulder began to ooze a yellowish-red blood mixture. He was whirled around and fell in
to Abaddon.
A dark wet stain formed on the front of Reverend Ira Swanson's pants.
The scene that followed was pure chaos
Apocs attacked members of the congregation, members of the congregation attacked Apocs and it seemed everyone was attacking the news people. The unknowing concertgoers were caught in the crossfire.
Captain Murphy of the Hampton Police ordered the attack.
"But who do we attack?" a policeman yelled over the pandemonium.
"The Apocs!” Captain Murphy screamed as he drew his weapon and fired into the crowd.
The problem was no one could tell who was who.
"Just who do you think you are? We had a deal! Let me go!" Ira screamed.
Abaddon had crawled out from under Bill and now had a hold of the Reverend's lapels. "I've heard of 'holy shit', but never 'holy piss'. It looks like you had a little accident, Your Excellency.” Abaddon laughed his vile breath into the Reverend's face.
The sounds of howls and shrieks filled the night air.
"Don't let them get me. Please Abaddon! I'll give you anything!"
"Anything?"
"Oh yes, anything!" Tears commingled with the rain and ran down the Reverend's chubby face.
"Will you give me God's blessing?"
"Oh yes, anything! Just don't let them get me!" His cry turn into a wail.
"But, dear Reverend," Abaddon said with a smile, "I don't think God’s blessing was ever yours to give."
"SAVE ME FROM THEM . . . PLEASE!"
"I'll save you from them Reverend Ira . . . " Abaddon's teeth seemed to grow before Ira's eyes, "by making you one of them!"
And he bit down hard.
CHAPTER 31
THAR SHE BLOWS
"Just remember," Captain George Murphy said to his men, "this is pretty much a free for all. Once a person gets tangled up with one of these Apocs, they'll probably end up being one. So that means if anyone, and I do mean anyone—even a police officer—makes an aggressive move toward you consider them changed."
The men within earshot of the Captain looked at each other as if they were already considering an infiltration. They were inclined to flee, to throw down their guns and run, but the greater injustice taking place held them fast.
"Stay in groups of four. We do know this much: when a person gets changed, they have a tendency to hunt in packs. So groups will provide us extra protection. Plus it’ll give us the opportunity to cover each other's backs. You men go and pass along the order."
Murphy knew this was being redundant; Lieutenant McCullough had covered all this in the assembly before the concert. He just wanted to be assured if it came to putting down a fellow officer the men wouldn't hesitate.
The sprinkles turned into bigger and more frequent raindrops and howls of agony could be heard from the Apocs.
Even with the reiteration by Captain Murphy the men were still hesitant to shoot at someone unless they were a bona-fide Apoc, resulting in dozens of casualties to the force.
Captain Murphy and the three men with him were one of the few groups that proceeded with an unnerving gusto. The three men were propelled into action following Captain Murphy's lead. The three men had no idea the captain was desperately searching for any sign of his son.
The people who showed up merely to attend the concert were suffering the greatest losses. They were the only group that hadn't been aware of the danger. The Apocs showed no mercy and were having a field day killing and changing them over at will. The changed over congregation members could only remember their intense abhorrence, and descended on the Band’s fans in droves. The same reaction was happening with the concertgoers with their built-in loathing of the police and authority figures.
Each group of four officers consisted of two men with shields and batons, while the other two guns. All four members of Captain Murphy's group toted weapons. A semi-circle of police formed along the east end of the parking-lot and was moving in on what appeared to be concert-goers turned Apoc.
One by one, head-shot after head-shot, was delivered by the police officers turning vicious Apocs into quivering masses of pus-oozing soup.
Murphy saw Abaddon, Nattie and two other Apocs slowly moving away from the entrance area and toward the Apoc trucks. The two Apocs were dragging a body with them. Murphy knew it had to be Lieutenant Bill McCullough.
Murphy ordered his group of three men to follow him.
"But, captain, sir, we have this group cut-off," one of his men said.
"It's Lieutenant McCullough, and that Abaddon guy. Come on, keep up, don't break up the group."
They didn't notice a group of the concertgoers turned Apocs, break off from the pack and begin to follow them.
The group of four officers passed between two of the large diesels and saw Abaddon and Nattie step into the bus. The two Apocs dragging Bill were waiting to enter.
Captain Murphy shouldered his rifle, aimed, and fired.
The head of one Apocs exploded and splattered the side of the bus. His lifeless body sagged to the pavement with one hand still holding Bill's arm. He re-aimed and fired disposing of the second Apoc like he had the first. He saw Lieutenant McCullough slump to the ground.
He turned to urge his men toward the bus just as the group of concert-Apocs attacked from behind.
Two of his men were taken to the cement by four Apocs dressed in 'Devil's Reich' T‑shirts, a fifth Apoc held his other officer in a full-nelson.
"SHOOT HIM, CAPTAIN! PLEASE!" the officer begged.
He saw the Captain drop his weapon and stand motionless.
"PLEASE SIR, DO SOMETHING—AHH!"
Rain fell hard on the face of Captain George Murphy of the Hampton Police as he watched his son sink his teeth into the neck of his fellow officer.
"Put him in here," Abaddon said as he unlocked the partition in the rear of the bus.
"I think that rain has revived him a little," Nattie said as she lowered Bill's body onto the bag containing the explosives.
Nattie and Abaddon had pried the hands of the two Apocs from Bill's arms after the group of other Apocs had attacked the police officers.
"Why do you think he's having such a hard time with the changeover?” Nattie asked, as she stepped out of the small room.
Neither she, nor Abaddon had noticed the busted window.
"I'm not sure," Abaddon said as he climbed in the driver's seat, "I've only seen one other person change over like that." He started the bus and put it into gear.
"Who was that?” Nattie asked knowing the answer, but wanting to hear him say it.
"Your husband."
He pushed on the gas petal and moved the bus from the circle. Police cars had blocked off the exit to the expressway. The fighting mob blocked off the other exit.
They could see steam rising from the bodies of the Apocs engaged in the fighting. The rain was killing the old ones and cleansing the new. He moved the bus toward them and increased the speed.
"Aren't you going to stop for them?” Nattie asked.
"Stop for them? Are you on crack or what? Those people have had it. There's nothing we can do for them now—that is, except keep their dream alive. And the way to keep their dream alive is for me to stay alive."
"You're going to hit them! I can't watch!"
She didn't and he did. Half-dead and dying bodies thudded off the bus like falling bowling pins. It sounded more like thumping a watermelon; dozens of thumps on dozens of watermelons.
Everyone was running everywhere to escape the carnage, that is, except one Army National Guard Corporal who spoke into a small, but powerful, hand-held walkie-talkie.
"Are you going to live, partner?” Henry asked as he held Bill's head in his lap.
Bill opened his eyes not as a man waking up from a dream, but instead, a dream waking up in a man. He truly felt philosophical, "‘The true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap’. And
I, my friend am ready not ready for the scrap heap—George Bernard Shaw."
"Henry Pigott, and it's nice to meet ya. I thought your name was McCullough?"
"Bill," Bill said as he tried to get his bearings.
"Now I'm confused all to hell."
"Me too. Where are we?"
"Right back where we started from—the bus,” Henry said.
Bill tried to sit up but fell back into Henry's lap. "What are we doing here?"
"We ain't having no book club meeting that's for sure. Don't know what you're doing here, but I came back to set the timer on the bomb."
"I thought you already did that?"
"Didn’t get a chance the first go around.” He looked into Bill's eyes.
"Wait a minute, how did I get here?"
"I kind of lost track after you was up on stage talking about how the government caused the Apoc virus."
"I said what? Then what happened?"
"I don't know, like I said that's where I lost track of you. Somebody started shooting and I figured it was my chance to get back in here." Henry put his finger through a small hole in the shoulder area of Bill's sweatshirt. He examined it—no blood. "You think you can try sitting up now?" Henry asked.
“I’ll give it a try.”
As Henry moved Bill he perused the back of Bill's shirt. There was a hole the size of a grapefruit made by the exit of the bullet that hit him. He could see scar tissue almost healing and disappearing before his eyes. "How do you feel cowboy?” Henry asked leaning over Bill.
"Fine. A little groggy, weak as hell, thirsty as shit, but all right I guess. Why you looking at me like that?"
"How's that ringing in your ears?"
"Hey, it's gone," he said with eyes opening wide, his eyebrows nearly arching up to his hairline."
"That's what I thought. No buzzing in my ears either."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I think you're one of 'em, partner," Henry said. "At least as much of one as I am."
Bill closed his eyes and was silent. He stayed this way for so long Henry had thought he passed out again. The bus lurched forward and Henry fell on top of Bill.
