The wood cracked off the back of Jeremiah’s skull. The thunk echoed off the cinder block walls and metal lockers. Jeremiah went limp, sprawling across Morton’s body.
Oh God, I didn’t kill him, did I?
Freddie flung away the mop as if it were an electric cable. Morton rolled to one side, shucking his attacker.
“Are you okay?” Freddie asked, bending over to help the man up.
Morton glared at him with fiercely burning eyes, veins standing out in his forehead, blood seeping from the rips on his face and neck.
Jeremiah lay on his side, eyes closed. Freddie put a hand over his mouth.
“Is he breathing?” Morton asked.
“No. God, no.”
Jeremiah’s eyes snapped open and his teeth clamped down on Freddie’s fingers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That evening, Twitter, Facebook, and cable news networks lit up with chatter about the mass murders at the Ted Stevens airport.
Eight people were dead, and everyone braced for news of the expected lone gunman—the paranoid white male who would be studied for clues that revealed nothing but everyday sociopathy. A few hoped for an honest-to-God foreign terrorist, which would fuel massive tax spending for national security and the military while also opening the door for more government limits on civil rights. But as details leaked out, the gun-control advocates and thoughts-and-prayers crowd were both left shaking their heads in confusion.
Because there was no murder weapon.
Law enforcement officials at the scene said the initial assailant was a disgruntled employee who attacked his boss and a second employee, but then the boss had killed two people while the second employee wandered into the passenger terminal and killed a traveler before being shot in the head by TSA agents. The prevailing theory was that the three men had formed a murder-suicide pact, but that didn’t explain why they’d also attacked each other.
Even though Robert Morton was ranking supervisor of the three men, the criminal investigation currently centered on Jeremiah Drew. He was the only black suspect. Social media silos divided up by race and ideology, parsing out blame based on preconceived beliefs. Few people paid attention to the police’s statement that the assaults were committed with hands instead of guns or knives, and only the Dark Web wondered why employees at an airport hadn’t instead opted for high-grade explosives to inflict maximum damage.
The president made no official statement, being away on a golfing vacation. The vice-president praised law enforcement and stated it was a terrible tragedy on the eve of Good Friday, members of Congress expressed their “deep concern,” and the Alaskan governor pledged to review all hiring practices at the airport.
Then a report leaked that the two suspects killed by police refused to go down after suffering multiple gunshots. An Alaskan State Trooper noted the attacks were similar to those occurring that morning at an upstate research station, where a scientist had apparently mauled two men before being shot to death. However, authorities saw no connection between the two incidents.
Then Fox News broke the story that the murderers had used their teeth during the assaults, leading to a “Cannibal Killers?” tagline in garish red as talking heads traded bizarre speculation. CNN countered with a panel discussion about copycat killers while MSNBC blamed the deregulation of workplace rules creating stress on the job.
The first use of the word “zombie” in connection with the attacks originated from a twelve-year-old comic book fan at around 5 p.m. The sarcastic hashtag #EatMe quickly blossomed as a trending topic on Twitter. Cynics delighted in mocking the absurdity of the moment, claiming Congress would soon label teeth as weapons of mass destruction and eradicate the few remaining public health dental programs. Slightly more serious people said it was #TooSoon for macabre jokes.
The twitterati were still volleying over the airport murders when another gruesome report came from Seattle. A rash of killings erupted in the metro area, all apparently unconnected except for the mode of attack—physical assaults with no weapons involved. The various news outlets switched over to the “developing story,” since the airport massacre was apparently over. Before the police could get a spokesperson on camera, another fatal assault occurred back at the airport.
At 6:47 p.m., an officer responding to an apparent riot in Los Angeles opened fire and killed three people. A bystander recorded a cellphone video of the incident, which showed two suspects attacking victims on Wilshire Boulevard. The shaky video footage wasn’t definitive, but it appeared to show a third man being attacked and then in turn charging the policeman. The policeman then opened fire after the suspects didn’t respond to his commands. The bystander uploaded the video to Facebook, posting that she’d seen two men biting the third.
Chaos erupted as Internet, radio, and television channels were overwhelmed with reports of more assaults across the country. Speculation centered on a coordinated terrorist attack and several radical groups immediately claimed responsibility, but with no common nationality or race among the suspects, the theory stayed down the alt-right rabbit hole. The first Canadian attack was reported shortly before eight, and fifteen minutes later came mass murders in Osaka, Japan.
Bites were the primary cause of death in all cases.
The president reluctantly put away his golf clubs and declared a state of emergency, activating the National Guard in all fifty states. Members of the opposition party initially questioned the president’s legal authority for the order but were ignored. The White House press secretary appeared in a hastily arranged press conference, assuring the pool of reporters that the president was taking the situation seriously, personally overseeing all emergency response, and urging everyone to stay calm.
CBS interrupted its regularly scheduled sitcom to broadcast a map of the United States, digitally marking the locations of attacks as they were reported. Although the first outbreaks occurred in Alaska and the West Coast, soon a cluster appeared around Louisville and Indianapolis.
CNN interviewed retired Brigadier General Davis McKinley about possible defensive strategies against such random civilian assaults. McKinley engaged in a rambling discourse on the Iraqi War and how the Sunnis and Kurds fought one another even while American troops invaded their country, proof that you couldn’t fight the enemy within. He was cut off midway with a remote feed from New York City, where a field anchor in a windbreaker reported on a mass attack in Central Park. The camera operator provided live footage of a woman leaping atop a fleeing man and dragging him to the ground while biting at his arms and shoulders.
The terrifying phenomenon was now undeniable and widespread, and all that remained was to give it a brand name. Facebook unfolded the drama with viral speed, featuring zombie memes from The Walking Dead television show; classic movies like Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, and World War Z; and the Left 4 Dead videogame. Humor gave way to horror as people named the attackers “feeders,” “eaters,” “biters,” and “hungries,” but nobody believed the feeders were actually animated corpses. Of all the ways for the world to end, nobody expected this because it was so firmly rooted in the realm of fiction.
Forensics studies and preliminary autopsies on the perceived “Patient Zero,” Werner Lang, revealed an advanced stage of necrosis that didn’t match the recent time of death. The gunshot wound to his head damaged the brain, but tissue samples suggested unknown cellular mutations consistent with a rapidly evolving bacteriophage. The Centers for Disease Control coordinated the collection of samples from different geographic areas, hoping to isolate a cause.
Concurrently, clinics and hospital emergency rooms were swamped with people complaining of nausea, severe headaches, and muscular spasms. Most cases were dismissed as viral infections that would soon pass. Some doctors prescribed antibiotics primarily as a placebo. Local health departments soon noted the number of cases amounted to the beginning of an epidemic. The illness was dubbed the “Klondike Flu” because of its Alaskan origins.
Dow futures
on the New York Stock Exchange dropped by more than twenty percent in an hour. Heads of the Department of Homeland Security, ICE, the FBI, and Department of Defense held a joint meeting in Washington, D.C. The president proposed an executive order to activate the military in circumvention of the law. State and local law enforcement agencies called in off duty officers to help with the crisis. But there was no identifiable enemy to combat and no border to protect, so conventional strategies were useless.
Shortly after 11 p.m., the first deaths occurred in England, Germany, South Korea, and Brazil. China and Russia refused to officially acknowledge the crisis, and the United Nations Security Council was unable to convene a special meeting. All fifty governors declared martial law and imposed a curfew, requiring all citizens to stay indoors from midnight until dawn. Armed vigilantes gathered in bands and took the law into their own hands, opening fire on anyone they suspected of being a feeder. In Texas, some people were shot just for exhibiting symptoms of the Klondike Flu.
A radical sheriff in Kentucky explained his process for dealing with suspected flu victims. “First they’re dead,” he said to the eagerly rolling cameras. “Then they come back deader. And you got to shoot them in the head to make them deadest.”
“Dead, deader, deadest” went viral, and soon most newscasters were referring to the zombies as “deaders” because “zombies” sounded too impossible. Just as many people called them zombies while others described them as fallen angels from the Book of Revelation.
Apocalyptic fever wasn’t the sole domain of the religious. Survivalists who’d been disappointed by Y2K, 9/11, Brexit, and every divisive presidential election believed their time had come at last. Crowds defied curfew and broke into grocery stores and ransacked grocery stores. Urban areas were awash in sirens and strobing emergency lights, and sporadic fires broke out amid the riots. Those who remained behind closed doors weren’t safe, either—some of the sick turned on their families and left visceral reminders that love didn’t last forever.
A series of unusual natural disasters compounded the problems. A series of tornadoes cut a swathe from Texas to Missouri, a wildfire in the Eldorado National Forest threatened evacuations in Reno and Carson City, and the Chilean earthquake had been followed by a tsunami that claimed an estimated seven thousand lives. A triple-digit-heat wave in Australia shut down parts of the power grid as people huddled in air-conditioned buildings.
Manmade disasters joined in on the fun. Refugees from the Karachi meltdown flooded into India, creating international tension. Riots in Greece set a third of Thessaloniki ablaze. Syria launched Russian-supplied missiles into Turkey, with four U.S. soldiers included in the death toll. A Neo Nazi terrorist cell in Germany assassinated a vice-president of the Bundesrat, sending the legislative chamber into an emergency session.
By the time the sun rose on Good Friday, the world had become the bloody hellscape it was always destined to be.
CHAPTER NINE
Cameron Ingram checked the hand mirror one last time before passing it to his personal assistant.
His hair was perfect. The upswept curl over his forehead added just enough of a youthful touch to offset the mature gray at his temples. No one could tell that most of his hair was dyed a darker shade, certainly not via a television camera. The pancake makeup and eyeliner were so familiar to him now that they were a second skin.
He’d been scheduled for a live service at his 10,000-seat Promiseland megachurch in downtown Raleigh, where his prosperity gospel found a fervent following among the local bankers, government employees, and real-estate developers. But once news of the outbreak spread, he recognized the opportunity the Lord had provided.
The Lord had even told him as much. Not directly—he certainly didn’t believe in hearing voices, because that only happened to crazy people—but in a bone-deep certainty that the Time was near. So instead of delivering a ten-minute sermon in a church service resplendent with music and well-polished pageantry, he opted for a personal message broadcast live from his on-site television studio.
“Two minutes until air time, Mr. Ingram,” another assistant said. The assistant, Candace, was young enough to be his daughter. Her modest skirt and blouse did nothing to stifle the lust she evoked. He made a mental note to have her transferred to another department, perhaps staffing the phones for love offerings. That seemed appropriate and would remove temptation from Ingram’s eyes.
That was how the Lord worked: He gave you the free choice to save yourself, if only you called upon Him for help.
He smiled with gleaming, capped teeth. “Thank you, Candace.”
His makeup artist moved in for a final tweaking based on the director’s command. The brush danced delicately across his cheeks. Such a soft, sensual pleasure, with the warm lights shining down from above.
The Lord was good, despite the suffering all around. Or perhaps because of it.
“Mic check, please,” said the sound engineer, which was repeated by the director. All told, the crew consisted of eight people. They were nervous not only due to the live broadcast, which required technical precision, but also the deep trials sweeping across the world. Ingram considered their fear a lack of faith.
When the hour came, the faithful would not only be saved but rewarded.
Which reminded him of a verse from Matthew 24, with which he tested the microphone’s sound level: “But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.”
The technical director gave a thumb’s up and the three camera operators checked their focus. The crew would mix the different angles to heighten drama and add power to his image and words. Ingram was comfortable under the lights. After twenty-three years as an evangelist, he’d embraced the persuasive talents the Lord had blessed him with.
The surrounding studio lights dimmed, which isolated him under the spotlights.
“Rolling in ten,” the director intoned, and Ingram drew in a meditative breath and closed his eyes for a moment as the countdown continued. “…three…two…one…action.”
He stared directly at the tiny red light on the camera in front of him, which informed him the lens was live. He imagined a face behind the lens, a frightened sinner who meant well but was faced with so many challenges in these uncertain times. The face morphed from his grandmother to his father, and Ingram forced himself to remain calm.
His father Luther was a Southern Baptist legendary for small rural revivals that eventually grew into stadium-sized multimedia extravaganzas. He’d served as spiritual advisor to several conservative presidents. Ingram initially rebelled against the constraints of the “family business,” preferring fornication and drink, but eventually he saw the error of his ways and came home to Christ. At his father’s deathbed, Ingram vowed to carry on the old man’s ministry.
But he still doubted he’d ever please the father looking down on him from above. So he changed the channel like he always did—he moved Luther Ingram out of his thoughts and let God move into his heart.
“Hello, brothers and sisters in Christ,” he began, his standard opening, but he delivered the next lines with grave solemnity. “This is a time of great troubles. Satan has been set loose upon the world. His hand is evident in these reports of murder, obscenity, and chaos. Satan chose Easter weekend to mark his return to the Earth because blasphemy is one of his favorite tools.
“We are weak in our faith, because we all tremble before the unknown. But if we trust in the Lord, we know He has foretold all of this and more.”
The camera switched to the left. The lens was positioned at a slight upward angle to subtly imply power. Ingram modulated his voice to suggest empathy for his viewers, which likely measured several million on three Christian television networks, as well as an additional five million radio listeners worldwide. His message would reach millions more when clips were played on regional and national newscasts and spread on YouTube.
Ingram had become a familiar spokesperson for religious conservatives. I
ngram’s stances on sociopolitical issues made him a lightning rod for criticism, but it was all part of serving the Lord. Jesus faced much worse. Instead of harsh words, Jesus took nails to the flesh.
“The Bible warned us of these dark days. Indeed, the Book of Matthew tells of false prophets and wars and pestilence, and how we all shall face great tribulation before the Lord’s return.”
Ingram avoided the eschatological minefield of parsing the differences between Rapture, the Great Tribulation, and Revelation. This wasn’t a time for intellectual nuance. This was a time for emotion. Souls were at stake.
“No man knows the hour, but what else are these murderers but servants of Satan? What other force could summon such sheer evil?”
He raised his voice, careful not to sound shrill. His face contorted according to his whim. “They eat flesh!”
Ingram gathered himself, allowing a dramatic pause so the audience could savor the implications. He then reminded everyone that the horror and pain were necessary, drawing an allegory using the Lord’s own passage from death to rebirth. He quoted Thessalonians and obscure fragments from the Book of Daniel, salting his message with evidence of God’s purpose. Using all his craft and experience, he oscillated between inspiring and frightening his audience, all while building toward a climax designed to put the sinners on their knees.
He became swept up in his own monologue, unashamed to reveal his own visceral fear of the flesh-eating creatures that once walked among them as humans. He followed each display of vulnerability with a renewed determination to trust the Lord. At one point he wept, reminding them all of the tortures the Lord had suffered on Calvary.
Arize (Book 1): Resurrection Page 5
