by J. F. Penn
"Genealogy research is the next step, for if we can interbreed those of you with these genetic gifts, we can create the mind-soldiers of the future, those who can work in the shadows of intelligence and return our country to the glory of Empire." Crowther placed the vials of blood into a plastic box and slipped it into his pocket. "Some of my colleagues see the mentally ill as dross to be bred out, but I want to sift through you all and find the hereditary gold." His eyes narrowed as he stepped towards the bed. Blake leaned back as Crowther loomed above him. "Your family is particularly special, Blake, and many of my colleagues are interested in trying their experiments out while you have your visions." He bent to the cabinet next to the bed, pulling out an electric razor. "But I get first crack, and we'll start as soon as the tequila poison is flushed from your system." Crowther switched on the razor, and pressed the button on the drip a few times, increasing the flow. "We'll need your head smooth for the equipment. Stay still now and this won't take long."
The buzzing filled Blake's mind and a cold sensation crept slowly up his arm from the drip. He tried to twist his head away but it was too heavy and his neck wasn't strong enough to move. As the drug-induced darkness descended, Blake heard Crowther begin to whistle softly as he worked.
Chapter 19
Marie Stevens placed her leather-covered Bible on the narrow shelf in front of her, its beloved pages well-thumbed and marked with notes. She knelt on the embroidered cushion as the Reverend began to speak, his deep voice echoing through the nave of St Paul's Cathedral.
"Let us confess our sins in penitence and faith, firmly resolved to keep God's commandments and to live in love and peace with all."
Marie felt the impression of her knees snug on the cushion where so many of the faithful had knelt before, and it gave her comfort. She began the response, words she knew so well that she barely even registered them anymore at a conscious level. This was her ritual, the foundation of her week, and had been for the last forty-two years. She had sat in this cathedral with her parents, now beside God in Heaven, and she had met her husband here at one of the prayer groups. A fleeting uncharitable thought crossed Marie's mind, and she pushed it aside, offering her pain to Jesus.
"We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen."
Her weak ex-husband would get his just rewards in the hereafter. That was what Marie held onto during the lonely nights. That, and the touch of the Reverend's hand after the service, when briefly she felt his special blessing upon her.
Marie looked up towards the quire as the sun streamed in, a momentary glimpse of the holy here on Earth, a shimmering haze of gold dust illuminating divine miracle. In one alcove, Jesus was portrayed as crucified on the tree of life, the cross transformed by branches, leaves and a golden sun, with water running from the base in folds of blue and indigo, crested with gold. The sunlight picked out rich color on the wings of angels, the feathers of peacocks. Then, a cloud passed over and the moment slipped away.
The Reverend finished the prayers and took the Eucharist himself as the organ quietly played, encouraging a penitent calm. A line quietly formed, each waiting their turn for the Host as the faithful knelt at the altar. Marie walked slowly to the front, calming her heartbeat as she knelt again, hands cupped before her.
"The body of Christ," the Reverend intoned, placing the wafer in her hands.
"Amen," Marie whispered, meeting his eyes and then placing the wafer in her mouth.
"The blood of Christ," he said, and tipped a little wine between her lips. The chalice was cool on her mouth, and for a moment, Marie thought she felt the Reverend's fingers brush her neck.
The wine tasted unusual today, a little stronger than last week. It felt like fire down her throat, with a warming aftertaste, like a good whiskey. Marie said her silent prayer, thanking Jesus for his sacrifice. She stood and walked, head down, back to her pew where she knelt in contemplation for a moment. As she moved to sit up again, Marie's head began to spin. She reached out a hand to steady herself. She looked towards the altar and it seemed as if the gold from the mosaics had lifted off the walls and now rained down on the congregation. The painted Eden on the ceiling of the quire pulsated with energy, as if the garden would erupt with fecundity and spill down the walls, so they could dwell again with God in that holy place. It was beautiful, surely some kind of holy vision.
A single voice rang out in the quire, one of the choristers intoning a holy prayer. Unusual, but beautiful, Marie thought. She lifted her arms towards Heaven, prayers so fervent in her chest, she thought she would burst with joy. She noticed other people around her beginning to weep. Something was happening. Was this the outpouring of the spirit promised in the book of Acts?
Even as holy exultation welled up inside, Marie became aware of a malevolence behind her, a cold shadow that threatened to sweep over the congregation. She looked towards the back door of the cathedral and saw a darkness in the shadows where the sun could no longer reach. The people who sat there looked misshapen, deformed, and they were swaying and moaning. Marie sent up a prayer to Jesus, knowing in her heart that this was Satan attempting to stop the holy visions, trying to prevent the purposes of the Most High. But the Evil One must not prevail, could not prevail in this holy place.
As she looked to either side, Marie saw there were people nearer to her twisting into grotesque shapes, some bent double and vomiting as they morphed into their true demonic forms. Her eyes fell on an angel, standing with a scythe in the portico of a doorway. As she watched, it stepped down and began to swing the weapon, its face turning from heavenly contemplation into the visage of corruption, the promise of torture in its eyes. Marie knew it was a fallen one that wanted to take its victims to the depths of Hell, as company in the darkness and the agony of separation from God.
Marie watched in horror as undulations of other forms erupted from the stone around her. The monuments to the war heroes rippled with energy and figures with swords and knives awakened to seek victims around them. With muscled torsos and strong arms, they raised their weapons to bring long-dead vengeance to this place. Held captive for so long in stone tombs, they now rose again to smite those the Lord had decided to punish. The whispered prayers of the desperate caught in the ornate decorations, decaying as they rose, stuck on their journey to an uncaring God. The cross as the route to salvation became the instrument of torture once more and Marie watched as Jesus writhed in his death agonies.
Angels launched themselves from the dome, voices like a chorus of waterfalls, crashing into explosive sound. Birds of paradise flew out from the Eden above, their wings an iridescent blue, their song turned into a souring roar by the rasp of teeth in their beaks. Their blue feathers split open to reveal rotten black, their taloned feet poised ready to rip the flesh from the faithful. The sun that had been shining down in rays of gold now turned into streams of piss, stinking and dirty, the stench soaking the parishioners who twisted under its impurity. Marie clutched her hands together in prayer, whispering to herself. "'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.'"
A crash came from the altar as great candles were pushed to the floor by a choir that rampaged in righteous anger, beating the young boys who had turned into demonic hosts. As flames caught, smoke filled the air, shrouding the cathedral with a thick grey mist. Warped figures thrust out of the fog, talons clawing for more flesh to rip apart. Then Marie saw the Reverend, arms outstretched to his flock, his body transfigured as he bellowed words from the book of Daniel.
"'There before me was a fourth beast – terrifying and frightening and very powerful. It had large iron teeth; it crushed and devoured its victims and trampled underfoot whatever was left.'"
The Reverend's eyes were red and his skin crawled with maggots that burrowed into his flesh, making him an undead freak. The smell of rotting flesh filled the air, overlaid with the scent of incense as from a tomb. Marie heard a scream and realized it came from her
own throat as she looked on his sickening visage, but hers was no longer a lone voice. Her shouts were part of a chorus of screams and moans that came from the thickening horde around her, as demons slithered from the cracks in the floor to torment the souls around her.
She watched two men pull a woman to the floor, one holding her down as the other pulled up her skirt. Marie could see demons cleaved to the backs of the men, their vicious mouths urging violence, long tongues licking at exposed flesh. The woman screamed, even as her mouth was smothered by a fearful creature with lizard frills about its neck and smoke rising from its back.
The organ sounded as a cacophony, polyphonic doom rippling through her skull, but it couldn't drown out the coughs of the evil ones, their throaty roars and hacking hate. Had God abandoned them to this evil? Or was this a test that Marie must overcome for Him to pour out His blessings again?
People around her had faces of demons now, their hands misshapen claws, stalking towards her to rip off her skin and eat her flesh. Marie had to stop them reaching her. She stood up on the pew, grabbing her Bible. She swung it down onto the head of what had once been a woman next to her. The thing fell to the floor, and as she opened her mouth, Marie saw a smaller demon inside, the jaw expanding to allow the fetid parasite to escape. Marie felt the wrath of God rise up inside her as she beheld the abomination of God's corrupted child. This would be her victory, this would be her offering to the Almighty. By vanquishing Satan, she would be able to sit at the right hand of God with Jesus and all the angels.
As the demon began to emerge, its body hairy and misshapen, Marie used the heavy Bible to beat at it with both hands. The wet thwack resonated through her, the weight of it sounding as a drum pulsing with the power of God. She felt the muscles in her arms tense, flooded with the strength of His army to vanquish the wicked and she heaved it against the woman's head again and again until blood and bone stained the leather Bible, a perfect sacrifice in this now-corrupted place.
BBC News Report
The Christian community are holding prayer vigils throughout London tonight as nearly two hundred people were taken to hospital following an incident at St Paul's Cathedral during the afternoon service. Three fatalities have been reported, one from heart failure and two others from the brutal violence that broke out within the cathedral. Other injuries include trampling, shock, various degrees of physical trauma as well as poisoning. Five victims of rape have also been reported.
"The victims from St Paul's have tested positive for a strong psychoactive drug," Police Commissioner Malcolm Jordan said in a statement to the press. "It's thought to have been administered through the Communion wine and quickly brought on hallucinations that caused the outbreak of violence within the church."
Survivors who had not taken Communion say the cathedral had descended quickly into madness after the Eucharist was taken.
"It seemed as if some kind of collective madness took hold of most of the congregation," parishioner Eric Smythe explained. "I couldn't believe it at first, as some couples began to behave sexually and others with violence, in the middle of a sacred church service. Within a few minutes, it seemed certain that something was very wrong. That's when I called the police … The whole thing only lasted about fifteen minutes, but I will never forget what I saw in this church today."
Chapter 20
The clatter of metal instruments woke Blake and for a moment he didn't recognize where he was. His body was heavy, his mind a blur. As he remembered, he raised his arm, the restraints still locked on his wrists. Looking towards the end of the bed, he saw the chair with the head brace. That hadn't been his imagination. Crowther was setting up equipment and he glanced over as he heard Blake's movements.
"Good morning." The doctor was cheery, enthusiasm oozing from him.
"If it's such a good morning, how about unshackling me?" Blake tried.
Crowther smiled, his perfect teeth glistening. "It's actually a good morning for experimentation. For that, you need to remain restrained – for now." He licked his lips as he looked at Blake, as if about to swallow a tasty morsel of flesh. He pulled a plastic gown on over his white coat, the kind that would keep bodily fluids from staining his clothes, and then began to prep a syringe of pale green fluid.
"This will make you uncaring of shackles anyway, you'll be so lost in its embrace." Crowther tapped the syringe with a fingernail. "It's an amnesiac as well as – let's say, a mind relaxant. Something to deaden the prefrontal cortex, release the inhibitors to perception. You don't need drugs to see your visions, Blake, but this will intensify them, make them even more real. And whatever happens here, whatever horrors you experience, you'll only see them again in your nightmares." He hesitated a moment, his eyelids flickering. "Of course, some cannot separate the nightmare from reality but perhaps we can help you find some peace, Blake, some escape from the visions that torment you. But first, let's see how far they go."
Crowther advanced on the bed, and pushed the syringe into the cannula on Blake's shackled hand. Blake watched the green liquid as the plunger pushed it into his bloodstream. Part of him wanted to scream and jerk his body away, stop this drug from polluting him, but another side welcomed its embrace. For years he had wondered at his abilities. Perhaps this would help him push his ability to the limit and work out what it really was. If it didn't break his mind first.
Within a minute, the light in the room intensified. Blake could see every pore on Crowther's skin, every pixel of color in the man's heterochromic eyes. The sound of the air conditioner was heightened and he could hear his own heartbeat, steady and rhythmic. The overpowering smell of antiseptic made his nose wrinkle, and under it, he sensed a note of decay, a hint of something that had died here.
"Come and sit in the chair now. You'll find it very comfortable." Crowther unlocked the handcuffs and helped Blake from the bed into the reclining chair. A tiny part of Blake's mind saw a glimmer of escape, but it was smothered by a wonder of heightened sensation. What did his life matter when the world was so expansive, when he was just part of a grander whole? It was as if he had found his true place in the universe and he wanted to stay there forever.
Crowther rubbed a cold jelly on his shaven scalp and Blake shivered at the tendrils of pleasure that wound down his spine from the pressure. Crowther added a heavy mesh of electrodes in a skullcap. It seemed as if the world was in slow motion, and Blake felt anticipation rise in his belly at the thought of how his visions would be intensified. Crowther turned to the bench and opened a drawer. He pulled out a plain blue book, the edges worn.
"This is a family heirloom," he said, his fingers caressing the pages. "I know what it contains, but to prove the truth of your visions, I want you to tell me what you see."
Blake reached for the book, a tingling of expectancy in his scarred hands. He closed his eyes as he felt the weight of it in his palms and the veil of mist descended.
The smell of vomit and piss made him gag and Blake opened his eyes to find himself in a large room. A wooden apparatus was built around the walls and from it hung a chair. Strapped into the device was a young woman, her head lolling forward as she continued to puke and cough. Her clothes were dark with sweat, and between her legs, clear evidence that she had wet herself. Her hair was matted around her forehead, her eyes dull with pain. A man knelt next to her, lifting the woman's chin, making sure to avoid the mess around her mouth.
"Again," he said tersely, rising and walking away.
"No," she moaned. "Please, no."
From the side of the room, Blake heard a clack of gears and then the chair was raised. The woman lunged, trying to escape, but she was strapped firmly to it. The chair started to rotate, first in small circles and then it swung out as it revolved faster and faster.
"Another half an hour and she'll be a lot more docile," a voice behind him said.
Blake yanked his hand from the book, emerging once more into the pristine lab. He gasped, heart thumping at the peculiar torture of the woman and the impli
ed threat of what awaited her afterward.
"What did you see?" Crowther asked, leaning close.
"Some kind of spinning device, a woman strapped into it." Crowther's smile was predatory, and Blake saw recognition in his eyes. "What is this book?"
"My ancestor, Bryan Crowther, was the surgeon at Bethlem Hospital between 1789 and 1815. The device you saw was known as rotational therapy, spinning the mad to induce vomiting, purging and vertigo. The book is his personal notebook of the experiments he did on the living – and the dead. Now, you must go back in. I want to know more."
Blake shook his head. "No, I don't want to see anything else."
He made to get up and Crowther moved swiftly, pushing him back down and using a strap to secure Blake's neck to the chair. Quickly, he secured Blake's hands to the arms and added a waist strap and ankle restraints.
"Then we'll just have to do this the hard way." Crowther placed the book under Blake's hand and wrapped a series of bandages around it, holding the pages against his bare skin. Blake fought the undertow of the visions, but the drug made his descent even faster. His eyelids flickered.
It was the smell of rotting flesh that greeted him this time, and Blake opened his eyes to find himself in a dark room lit only by a few candles. There were windows open to the night air but they did nothing to disguise the stench of the dead. A man was bent over a body on a gurney, focused on its head. With a knife, he cut around the forehead and peeled back the skin to reveal the skull. Blake sensed an echo of the anatomists he had encountered in the last case. He shuddered as the man picked up a saw and began to rasp the blade against the bone.
The man's breath was labored as he finished cutting through the skull and pried the bone cap off with a small flat bar, revealing the brain. With bare hands, he pulled the jelly-like organ out into a dish, cutting away the vessels that held it, and placed it on a wooden board. The man wiped his hands on his apron and scratched some notes into a book. He cut into the brain, picking up the chunks and examining them next to the candlelight. A smile twitched around his lips as he worked, and soon, the brain was reduced to mush on the bench. The man swept the pieces back into the dish, wiped his hands on a piece of linen next to the bench and walked to the next gurney. The body was covered with a sheet, only the head exposed, and Blake could see it was the young woman he had seen on the rotational device. The man picked up the knife and walked to the head of the gurney.
