Another spasm wracked his body. He had to empty his mind to control the madness, but the unbidden review of his early life was proving to be wondrously indulgent. The metal archway that lead to the Honnecker School for Military Studies flashed through his mind. It was a brutal, primitive place that changed little while the world beyond its stone walls experienced cataclysmic change, but Klaus Reisch had found himself there.
Unconsciously, he began to rub the small tattoo on his right wrist. In faded black, the words ex chaos ordo were into his skin. Out of chaos, order. He had done it himself, and the beating he received because of it only made him all the more proud. It was the school motto, and it had taken him more than three years to fully understand its meaning; a moment of epiphany prompted by public humiliation. His philosophy professor had asked him to explain the phrase’s apparent contradiction in the context of the ancient Greek belief in a god of order and a god of chaos. Klaus couldn’t remember his response only that it caused his teacher to launch into a tirade that somehow ended with Klaus being removed to the disciplinary cells. Hours latter, as he sat in the dark on the cold concrete bunk, his thoughts of revenge and violence slowly being consumed by a growing exhaustion, his mind began to clear and an understanding crept into the void: he was completely alone. He had no family; by mutual consent he hadn’t seen his parents in years. His schoolmates feared more than respected him, and he was fairly certain that most of the faculty held the same opinion. He had no one to trust, no one to tie him to a society that he found both restricting and absurd. If he was going to survive, he would do it alone. From the chaos that threatened to stifle and control him, he would create his own order. It was in this moment that Klaus Reisch was born.
For the next six years Reisch reworked himself. In public he fought to control the innate abilities that were viewed by others as antisocial, but in private he honed them to a fine edge. When he was sixteen, on a school trip to Berlin, Klaus killed a man simply because he felt that the experience would be beneficial. His victim wasn’t important. Death was a personal and special event for the individual involved, but Klaus was only interested in generalities. He stalked several people before he found his test subject, a middle-aged man who had the misfortune of turning, at the wrong time, into a dark alley to urinate. Klaus stabbed him in the back four times and then quickly turned the slumping body over so he could watch the man’s dying face. All Klaus saw was a pained look of surprise as the man bled to death. No soul left the body; no great insight was muttered with a dying breath. The man gasped, then shuddered a little and was dead. Moments earlier this decaying mass had been a living breathing human being, with thoughts, desires, a future, maybe even a family, and Klaus had taken all that away with the slightest of actions. A very small part of him reveled in his power, his ability to effect great changes with the smallest of actions, but a greater part of him was disappointed. Human life was so fragile, so easily extinguished, and so inconsequential. Where was the dignity, the sanctity of human existence? Perhaps, he thought, it’s only reserved for a select few, a very select few. Klaus left the body and found his group at the hostel. No one had missed him, and life went on exactly as it had all his sixteen years.
A snowplow rumbled down the street below Reisch’s room, its blade scraping snow and pavement and grating his nerves. He opened his eyes and cursed; the reminiscent spell broken, he was left with only the shaking chills and the imminent madness. He crawled out of bed and pulled back the curtains of the hotel room intent on killing the driver of the plow, but the truck had already turned the corner. It had snowed again. God, how he had learned to hate snow; as a child, it was one of the few things that he had loved, but after six weeks of watching it fall unceasingly, he could die quite happy if he never saw it again.
It was still dark but close to dawn, and a handful of people filed into the large church across the street; for a moment Klaus watched them. He felt the smallest measure of kinship with those poor souls. They sought understanding in a world filled with chaos, and prayed for transformation, not just for themselves, but for society as well.
“Fools,” he said. The order they sought was false, artificial. They denied their true selves, sacrificing in the name of a greater good. God, society, it didn’t matter what they called it; all they accomplished was to contribute to the very chaos they feared. Human society was the greatest force of disorder ever devised, and religion was its most potent weapon. Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Buddha were all agents of chaos. Each of them, in their own way tried to supplant the natural, universal order with their own perverted version.
Klaus let the curtain fall; it was cold and he had to start moving. There would be no stopping the madness now, it had a hold on him; he could already feel the gnawing inside his belly. “An incomplete immunity,” the virologist had told him long ago, “similar to shingles.” Reisch rubbed the blisters and the usual yellow fluid ran down his hand. The image of Jaime Avanti floated through his mind; the virologist had helped to save his life seven years ago, and up until the end, had a pivotal role in the overall plan, at least until he had tried to betray it. He would be with the Americans now, unless he was dead.
Reisch smiled again. Everyone, from Avanti to the terrorists to Reisch himself, had their own agendas, and it was the sticky yellow fluid that steadily oozed from his blistered hands that held them all together. It was the true agent of transformation. He was the first to experience its power and was convinced that Amanda was the second. The thought of her produced a wave of desire that bordered on panic. He had to find her, and, if it was appropriate, protect her from the forces that wanted to destroy her.
Another, more powerful rigor wracked him; the demons were stirring. For a moment, his desire and their needs were balanced, but as always, the equilibrium was fleeting. Amanda would have to wait, because the madness wouldn’t.
Klaus took less than ten minutes getting ready. His movements becoming more frantic as the need grew. Normally, he was meticulous in his grooming and presentation, but for the time being basic hygiene was all that was required. A part of him hated the madness, the periodic and unpredictable interruption in his life to feed the demon that lived inside him was demeaning; a little like defecation, necessary but repugnant. Still, it was a small price to pay.
“Ex chaos ordo,” he said while stepping into his shoes.
His jacket came next, and as he slipped into it, he wondered if Amanda had her own demon and, if so, what it demanded of her. The thought of Amanda quickened his pulse, but she would have to wait, his demon was almost overwhelming conscious thought. He never considered himself a violent man. It was true that for almost twenty years he had made an excellent living from the strategic application of violence, but it was never a random act. The planning, the anticipation of obstacles, and finally the dispassionate execution were intellectual tasks that demanded precision and clarity. Violence for the sake of violence was new to him, but it was the price his demon demanded of him.
And now, his demon needed release. He needed to feel a knife in his hand as it tore through human flesh. He needed to hear that sharp intake of breath as surprise and pain flooded through his victim. He needed to feel hot blood spill over his blistered hands. Klaus closed his eyes as the madness overwhelmed him. He had to find someone and quickly, a little while more and all caution and reason would be lost. He began to run down a list of potential victims. He knew the whereabouts of at least a dozen people, all related somehow to his search for Amanda.
Or someone new? It was an exciting thought that entailed more risk. It took him a few moments of consideration to reject the idea; after weeks of idleness, he wasn’t up to his usual standards and needed the advantage of knowing his victim. But who?
“The pathologist!” Reisch said triumphantly. The dour image of Phillip Rucker filled the German’s mind; it was never very far away, particularly of late. Reisch had become irritated with Rucker’s newfound resistance. He could still overwhelm the American, as he had done the d
ay before, but it was requiring more and more effort. He had found Phil through Greg Flynn four weeks earlier. The two had briefly met at a downtown coffee shop where they discussed the recent violence; Klaus had listened in on their conversation but quickly became fascinated with Phil. Rucker had a towering intellect but was without a doubt the most unstable mind he had ever visited. He began to follow the pathologist, and within a week, Phil had become a passion. He researched his professional works and learned his routine, and the more he learned about Phil, the more he had to know. Rucker was special in every sense of the word. He worked out like a professional athlete for seemingly no reason at all. He didn’t have any relationships, sexual or otherwise, and he rarely left his home. Yet, his brilliance was legendary. At the age of thirty-seven, he had been appointed chief coroner for Colorado Springs despite the fact that each of the other three pathologists had greater seniority. Yet no one seemed surprised or upset by his promotion. He had authored thirty professional articles in his three years as chief coroner, and not even one had a co-author. Yet he did all this with his sanity hanging by the thinnest of threads. Reisch had made a practice of fraying that thread a little more each day. No, he thought, it can’t be him. It would be much more fun to snip his thread.
There was always the priest—Reisch’s other obsession. But here again, there were reasons to allow him to live. He had been infected for more than a month now, and unlike all the others, showed no signs of dying, or evolving as Reisch had. He never really expected the priest to evolve, but then he never really expected to have to kill him, either. Like Rucker, Father John Oliver had come to the attention of Reisch through Greg Flynn. Newly retired, Flynn began spending a fair amount of time volunteering at Sacred Heart Catholic Church and working with its associate pastor, a short, stout Chicago transplant in his early sixties. Thinking that the priest could be an easy avenue to Amanda, Reisch had introduced himself to Father Oliver as a new parishioner.
“I have come ahead of my wife and son. They are still in Brighton.” Reisch used his British high-society accent. It was one of the few times he had directly engaged someone, but the risk was acceptable. The priest would not remember his visitor well, except possibly that he was very tall.
“So you’re from England. Is your wife English as well?” The priest seemed sincerely interested, which unnerved Reisch.
“Actually, she grew up in Colorado Springs and graduated from this very high school. I was supposed to look up some of her old classmates, but I have been having a bit of trouble tracking anybody down.” Reisch smiled at the cleric, hoping he would take the hint.
“Well, we are a fairly mobile society. Do you know if any of them are still members of Sacred Heart?” Oliver asked.
Reisch fumbled in his jacket for a moment and retrieved a PDA. “No, I’m afraid I do not. All I have is a list of names and old addresses. I would guess that a number of the names have changed as well. Does your parish have an online database that would be helpful?”
“We’re not nearly so organized. Was there anyone in particular you were hoping to find?”
“Yes, my wife’s closest friend was Amanda Larson. She married a young man named Michael Flynn. I think they have a son who should be school age by now.” Reisch felt the priest’s mind darken. Suspicion played around his face.
“Michael and Jacob died several years ago in a plane crash,” Oliver replied. “It was before my time, so I don’t have very many details.” His affect and demeanor had changed almost instantly with the mention of Amanda. He looked up at Reisch with open skepticism. “Tell me why you really want to find Amanda,” he said bluntly.
Reisch was surprised. The priest had seen through the subterfuge fairly quickly, and while that was somewhat remarkable, what really impressed the German was the fact that Oliver addressed the deception so directly. Most people when confronted with an obvious lie are more circumspect, less confrontational. Reisch tried to search the priest’s mind, but all he saw was Greg Flynn. Oliver had no idea where Amanda was; in fact, he had never even met Amanda. Reisch realized that he had wasted his time with this silly little man. He tried to cloud the priest’s mind and blur his memory of their encounter, but the priest, now on guard, resisted the confusion and remained focused on the tall, dark man. Reisch backed off, his mind withdrawing from Oliver’s. “I don’t mean anyone harm, Father,” he lied, then quickly grabbed the priest by the neck and exhaled strongly into his startled face. Caught off guard by the sudden and strange assault, Oliver’s guard fell, and Reisch seized control of his mind. Five minutes later, Oliver awoke in his office alone and confused. His encounter with Reisch now as fragmentary as a nightmare. He coughed violently, but it was much too late. Virus particles by the hundreds of millions had already penetrated his lungs and were invading all of his major organs.
But the priest didn’t die as Reisch had wanted, and that meant he was worthy of further study and manipulation. Maybe have him commit suicide during Sunday mass? Reisch smiled at the thought. That would be beautiful, but it would take preparation, and his need for violence was immediate. So, whose life would satisfy both his intellect and his monster? Then the perfect solution came to him.
Father John Oliver walked through his dark church collecting missals. It wasn’t actually his church; it belonged to the Roman Catholic Church and the diocese of Colorado Springs. He wasn’t even its pastor, just associate pastor. For five years, that had been enough. Associate pastor was all he had ever wanted or would want. It fulfilled every spiritual need without overly burdening him with the worldly responsibilities that running a church demanded. He had earned the respite. For twenty-two of his twenty-nine years as a priest, he had been a missionary. He had brought the Word of God to some of the most remote places on earth. Like Saint Paul before him, he had laid the groundwork, sometimes literally, for churches all over the known world. His role was to get things started, and then turn the fledgling parish over to someone else. Fourteen churches carved out of deserts, jungles, and swamps bore his blood, sweat, and tears. At the age of fifty-two, he had his first heart attack. By fifty-seven, he had two more and a triple bypass. God had decided that John Oliver was needed elsewhere.
His order had sent him to help the pastor of a burgeoning parish in Colorado Springs. Oliver had never even been to Colorado and had never really been a parish priest. He arrived in the dead of winter, when the ambient temperature was eight degrees below zero, and there was a foot of new snow on the ground. Father Francis Coyle had picked him up at the airport. Father Coyle, a sixty-four-year-old Dominican, had been an academic for most of his professional life. He spoke four languages, not including Latin, and could read ancient Aramaic. He had taught philosophy at the University of Notre Dame for twenty years before asking his bishop to grant him the opportunity to put philosophy to work. Like Oliver, he had been sent to Sacred Heart as an associate pastor, and also like Oliver, when he had started, he had felt like a fish out of water.
By the time they reached the rectory, Oliver was starting to feel at ease with his new boss. Over the next four years, the two got along very well, despite their widely different backgrounds. They were often found embroiled in philosophical debate that to anyone else looked like a heated argument. Father Oliver approached problems from a pragmatic, reality-based point of view, while Father Coyle preferred the academic, idealist approach. They were a formidable team, and the parish prospered.
Oliver’s only sister had called six months earlier and broke the terrifying news that she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was an especially cruel twist of fate because Mary’s deepest desire, to have and raise children, had never been fulfilled because of a condition called primary ovarian failure. Eugene, her husband, had died nine months earlier, which meant Mary was facing her ordeal alone. Oliver took a leave of absence and flew to Chicago. He hadn’t been home in almost thirty years, and his unease grew when he found a mere shadow of his beloved sister in a hospital room. She was dying, and dying badly. She lo
oked more like a concentration camp victim than a fifty-eight-year-old social studies teacher. She didn’t have the strength to lift her head and kiss Oliver, and before either could say a word, they both started to cry.
Oliver stopped collecting the missals and recalled his sister in her younger days. He remembered the glow in her face while she raced her spider bike around the block, pigtails flying, skinned knees pumping away at the pedals, and peals of laughter echoing off the neighbors’ houses. He refused to believe that this person lying in that bed could at one time have been that little girl. He had seen terrible, horrible things in his work for God, but they all paled to insignificance when compared to his realization that this was his sister. It was an obscenity beyond compare. How could God take one of his most perfect creations and distort it so? Every priest had crises of faith, and John Oliver was no exception, but he had always been able to find his way back to God. Despite all his experiences, his belief had never been truly tested until he watched cancer devour his sister, cell by cell. She was in severe, unremitting pain, and nothing the doctors or nurses did seemed to make a difference.
He stayed with her in the hospital for seven weeks, and with every tablet of Dilaudid she was forced to take, Oliver cursed his indifferent God. After the first month, he had stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and stopped being a priest. He didn’t doubt the existence of God; he blamed Him directly for his sister’s agony.
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