by Rick Jones
When the door to the shuttlecraft opened, everyone onboard took the steps to the bay’s landing where they were greeted by Eriq Wyman, who was wearing the company’s formal wear, a black leisure suit with red piping around the sleeves and collar, and razor-sharp pleats on the pants. On the left breast pocket was the company logo.
When President Michelin deplaned, he cordially extended his hand in greeting.
Eriq took it and gave it a hardy pump that was fueled by an inward hatred for the man. Obviously Michelin didn’t remember him as the one who led his team of superior combatants, The Force Elite. “Mr. President,” he said evenly.
“Good to be onboard your ship, Mr. . . .” he led him.
“Wyman. Eriq . . . Wyman.”
The president’s smile faded immediately, recognizing the name. “Eriq Wyman? The unit command leader of the Force Elite?”
“Up until two years ago, Mr. President. Right up until the moment you dismissed me . . .”
“Thaaaat’s a discussion for another time, Mr. Wyman. As you can see, we’re pressed for time here. So if you’ll lead the way.”
Eriq stared at the man for a moment with indifference before speaking. “Of course.”
From the shuttlecraft’s loading bay, the governor’s coffin was loaded onto an antigravity sled, an airborne platform that hovered four feet off the ground and maneuvered by coordinates typed into its GPS programming.
Since the freight elevator could carry no more than 2500 pounds per transit, two trips to the Observatory level had to be made. Eriq Wyman and President Michelin chose not to ride on the same trip.
When the VIPs gathered at the burial site, the stars above the Observatory were in full-stargaze mode with the universe representing itself as an eternity of glittering gold specks. The scenery was spectacular.
“This is amazing,” stated Elysium Senator Andrea Hines, eyes skyward.
“For 750,000 Elysium dollars,” returned Senator Newel, “it should be.” Then he laughed as if he had just said the funniest thing ever.
Senator Hines rolled her eyes before sidling up next to Michelin. “Mr. President.”
Michelin turned, surrendered a false smile, and extended his hand. “Senator Hines. How good to see you again. Too bad it wasn’t for better reasons.”
“Mr. President, if I may. The bill I’m proposing to the Senate regarding--”
He cut her off by raising his hand and patting the air. “Hold on there,” he told her. “This is not the time or place to be discussing political matters. We’re about to begin a ceremony here.”
“Mr. President, I’ve been trying to reach your office for more than six months now. I’ve been leaving messages--”
“Senator Hines, please. Out of due respect for Governor Anderson--”
“Honestly, Mr. President, I don’t even know her. I’ve never spoken to her. But it seems that I have to go to such lengths just to get an audience with you. I need to discuss--”
“You will discuss nothing with me, Senator. Not when there’s a mass to be held.” When the president turned to walk away, she attempted to follow, but a member of his Detail, a large and beefy man, spoiled her effort by blocking her path. The look on his face was enough to curb her anger.
“I’m sorry about that, Father,” Michelin said as he took his place by the governor’s tomb. “Some people just don’t have respect. None whatsoever.”
Father Gardenzia gave a barely perceptible nod while flipping through the pages of the Book of Common Prayer. Though slight in stature, the priest had an indomitable way about him. A good listener to those in need, he also had the ability to cull those who were truly plastic from the fold because he knew some people were unable to find God in their heart. And Michelin was one such person. This he could feel at the deepest core of his soul. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. President.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Those in attendance gathered around the tomb as the sled maneuvered into position above the opening. Slowly it began to descend into the opening of the sarcophagus, the sled a perfect fit as it gently lowered itself until it was seated.
The governor’s daughter, Lisa Millette, suddenly burst into a racking and uncontrollable sob, which drew a mortician’s expression from Michelin, that of a false veneer of woeful misery.
From a distance Eriq silently clicked his tongue and shook his head in disgust. Michelin, he considered, was still a man of revulsion. And standing beside the president, a man Eriq didn’t recognize, stood John Eldridge, a mousy-looking individual who had his hands folded in front of him. At least he stood in the manner of showing respect, whereas Michelin continuously glanced at his watch during the sermon.
“ . . . In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Michelle Anderson, and we commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make His face to shine upon her; and be gracious unto her, and give her peace. Amen.”
“Amen,” whispered Michelin, who gave the sign of the cross even though he didn’t have a religious bone in his body.
And that was when everything began to change.
Chapter Fifteen
Though soft and soundless while traveling through space, it was a god to some and a demon to others. For those who were dead, a resurrecting angel; for those who remained alive, a demon without any true shape or form.
It appeared benign and beautiful, its colors and shapes moving kaleidoscopically, always shifting, and never the same color twice.
Licks of tendrils lapped at the surrounding space with a single extension as long as ten thousand miles, the wispy shoot sampling its environment.
And then it came upon the outskirts of the third planet. Solar winds coming from the sun began to deflect the mass onto an alternate route toward the Orion Belt. Before its diversion it had swept across the terrestrial plains, the cosmic dust grazing Earth and all its satellites.
The Second Coming had finally arrived.
#
The golden glitters of starlight that was beyond the Observatory viewport moments ago were there no longer. They had been eclipsed by a dust mass, the stars disappearing behind a green veil with electrical bursts of light flaring within as muted flashes.
From a distance it appeared magnificently beautiful. But up close, this harbinger of doom appeared deeply menacing as the clouds boiled with anger and lightning flashed with threatening strikes.
“It’s all right!” Eriq called out from his position. “It’s benign! It’ll pass!”
But it wasn’t even close to being benign. Not by a long shot.
Outside the mausoleum the ship’s geospheres began to falter as spidery crackles of blue flame radiated from the orbs, the electricity frying internal components. Some of the orbs simply burst as if their casings were no stronger than eggshells. Whereas others malfunctioned until they were rendered impotent.
Then the ship began to lean heavily to the starboard side as the geospheres floated away, the mausoleum now drifting toward deep space and away from Earth.
The metal plates forming the hull began to creak, the seams connecting them beginning to stress. Above them the dust mass canvassed the bubble, causing a shadow to pass over them like a blanket. Lights battered off and on in malicious teasing until they completely winked off, which enabled the backup system to kick on as red globes illuminated feeble lighting, and the air became electrically charged, causing hairs to rise on end from static electricity.
When the ship threatened to roll, everyone reached for a guardrail that wasn’t there, the people losing balance, until the mausoleum righted itself and began to float evenly in space.
The blue-gray cloud mass above that was marbled with lines of purple continuously fired up in flashes as angry bursts.
People screamed.
Then things began to stabilize as the cosmic dust began to retreat as the solar winds began to sen
d it in a new direction.
The bordering edges of the mass began to thin away as wispy commas of smoke and dust, becoming transparent enough to see the star-point glitters of light and distant galaxies.
And then it was gone, the cloud moving on to new and distant shores of the universe.
But it had done what it was meant to do.
It gave life.
#
Earth
The people within the Fields of Elysium had seen the cloud mass from a distance, saw its putrid colors in the shades of dead flesh. Dust had swept over the planet as infinitesimally small grains that were unseen by the naked eye, but there nonetheless.
Charges of static electricity crackled the air, causing a prickling sensation across the skin and the scalps of those outside watching. Those who had taken cover in the basements had felt a slight itching and nothing more.
As the cosmic cloud ebbed away into deep space, the sky began to take on a deep blue hue that was ringed with a tinge of yellow.
Life, or so everyone thought, had returned to normal.
But everyone was wrong.
#
The Wastelands.
The savages had banded together as a source of comfort when the grains littered the Earth, and when the cloud mass eventually disappeared, and the sky went back to its natural state, they could sense a difference in the air.
Pops and snaps of electrical charges sizzled, and the air smelled of ozone.
But as the hours passed and things had settled, life, as miserable as it was, had become so much grimmer.
Suddenly the earth beneath their feet had erupted as dirt and dust heaved and pitched into the air.
And without saying a word, everyone in the clan knew why.
Something beneath was rising.
#
The Old Cities.
Though the Old cities were not protected by high walls, the skeletal remnants of ancient buildings were still managed by a semblance of a government body often run by sadistic gangs.
Each community had its identification marks, such as wearing an overabundance of body jewelry, bearing facial tattoos, or wearing Mohawks with hair so starched that they resembled the feathered plumes of a Roman centurion’s helmet.
But on the day that the cosmic cloud passed over their cities, they all had one thing in common: armies much greater than those from Old New York or Old Detroit would be much greater and far deadlier than they had ever seen or fought before.
Especially when one can’t kill what’s already dead.
Chapter Sixteen
Mausoleum 2069
It began as an itch to a single cell, and then to several cells, culminating in an overall reanimation of all cells, giving life where there was death to those inside the tombs.
Fingers that were as long and thin as the tines of pitchforks began to move and flex, the skin that had stretched tight over the contours of bones were once again in play. Crusted eyelids opened, as did their mouths. Bone joints began to snap as tendons as tight as piano wires began to distend like rubber bands, and primal urges and needs took root as a driven force to feed.
Instincts took over as those within the crypts sought escape. With powerful thrusts of their legs, most were able to kick the plate free from the mausoleum wall, the broken marble skating across the floor. Whereas others who were too old and decayed lacked the power to do so, their tomb remained just that: a tomb.
Others having been buried in sarcophagi found no problem removing the lids of their containers free, as stone ground against stone until the cap finally fell free.
In deep pools of darkness they stood from their longtime graves, shapes that were blacker than black, and began to mount the sides of their chambers.
Eighteen levels onboard Mausoleum 2069 had become reactivated with life that was not life, but with the living dead.
Their moaning was a language in itself, a calling similar to echo location to discover the whereabouts of an available food source, something with living tissue.
Though they were able to intuit that there were resources to feed from, it was not enough to sustain them all.
But resources existed, nonetheless.
And in space there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
Chapter Seventeen
The moment the cosmic dust cloud passed, the pilot of Air Force Six was doing a diagnosis of the shuttlecraft’s system when the entire mausoleum started to list badly to the starboard side.
Anything not tacked down, such as pens and navigation logs, fell from shelves.
The pilot braced himself, expecting to flip.
But after a very long minute the mausoleum righted itself—not quite level, but at a minor slant.
The pilot immediately engaged the console instruments and quickly noted the minimal shift in positioning.
Not only was Mausoleum 2069 listing, it was also moving.
#
Eriq was aiding the governor’s daughter to her feet, while others helped those who had fallen as well.
After gathering themselves, everyone looked skyward.
Beyond the glass bubble of the Observatory, the stars were no longer stationary but gliding smoothly by.
“Oh, my God,” Eldridge murmured. “We’re moving.”
Eriq concurred, seeing the stars pass slowly by. “We’re free from the geospheres,” he remarked.
“What does that mean?” asked the president.
“It means that we’re adrift.”
“You mean, like floating in space adrift?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“Then get us back on course, Mr. Wyman.”
Eriq turned to the president with angry eyes, one blue, one pale, with the darker eye more dominant. “I can’t,” he told him. “This is an anchored vessel, not a maneuverable ship. We have minimal thrust drives to set us into place. It was the geospheres that anchored us so that we could maintain position over New DC. This mausoleum is nothing more than a geosynchronous warehouse.”
“So you’re saying that you have no drive capabilities whatsoever to get us to the original location?” asked Eldridge.
Eriq looked heavenward. “’Fraid not.”
The mausoleum seemed to wobble slightly like a boat riding the crests of small waves.
“Mr. President.” Eldridge turned to Michelin, looking panicked. “Air Force Six is not equipped for deep-space travel, should we go beyond the limits of its capabilities. If we get too far out . . .” He let his words hang.
But Michelin got the gist. “We need to get to Air Force Six immediately.” Then to Eriq: “Can you get us there?”
“Of course.”
“Then see us through.”
#
Jen Jacoby was manning the helm and had every monitor in operation showing different parts of the mausoleum. Some of the images were dark and grainy with zigzagging lines running through them. Others were like watching an old black-and-white feature, the pictures steeped in shadows.
But she was able to see silhouetted shapes moving along the corridors.
“What the Hell,” she murmured to herself, trying to fine-tune the images.
Shapes and shadows by the dozens moved quickly through the mausoleum’s warrens, far too many to be the presidential party.
She quickly got on the comm system and flipped a toggle switch. “Eriq?”
The shapes were racing down the hallways, fast and quick.
“Eriq, are you there?”
No answer.
She switched on a monitor to her level.
Running shadows were making their way to the comm’s control center.
And she was by herself.
And there were no weapons on board.
Jen immediately jumped from her chair and ran to a wall panel, and removed the cover. Inside was a red-stopper button. With a slap of her palm she hit it, hard, and set off the alarm.
“ . . . Warning: the ship has been breached . . . Warning: the . . .”
“. . . ship has been breached . . . Warning.”
Sheena was inside her chamber when the alarm went off, so she turned on the room’s monitoring camera posted outside and above her door, and watched for any movement on the screen.
But the corridor was clear.
She immediately went to her comm mike and pressed the button. “Jen!”
“ . . . Warning: the ship has been breached . . . Warning: the ship has been--”
“Jen!”
“—breached.”
Jen answered, sounding frantic and almost in tears. “Sheena, Eriq isn’t answering the call!”
“What the Hell is going on up there?”
“They’re all over the place!”
“Who?”
“Get Eriq!”
“Who’s all over the place?”
Through her speaker Sheena could hear the measured pounding against the comm-room door.
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
“Jen! What’s happening up there?”
. . . Bang . . . Bang . . . Bang . . .
Just before the speaker went dead, Jen Jacoby screamed.
Sheena ran from her quarters.
#
The pilot of Air Force Six thought he’d seen something run below the cockpit window, a fleeting shape that ran along the periphery of his vision before disappearing into the shadows.
He shut off the cockpit lights, which gave him a better view of his surroundings beyond the shuttlecraft. The docking area was illuminated by red globes that hardly put out any light at all. Just as he was reaching up to switch the lights to the shuttlecraft on, another shape raced across the docking bay’s floor. It was quick and fast—a blur, actually—as it appeared to be closing in on the ship.
The pilot reached up and flipped a toggle, turning on the exterior lights.
When he saw that there was nothing out there, he shut them off and waited.
As the pilot of Air Force Six, his skills were strictly delegated to flying the shuttlecraft. If the president was thought to be in jeopardy, then it was the responsibility of his Detail to get him to safety. And since the mausoleum was drifting, he was confident that the president was quickly making his way to the docking area.
