This Plague of Days (Omnibus): Seasons 1-3

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “Does he travel often?”

  “Yeah. Some of the children get sick.”

  “What? Our children?”

  “The Alpha children. Misericordia takes them in the helicopter with Vigilax. There was a human doctor he was looking for. I guess he found her and they’re working on a cure. None of the kids come back. Misericordia doesn’t want to risk contagion. As soon as he finds a child in the tribe is sick, they’re isolated for observation and then he takes them to the doctor.”

  Shiva’s eyes narrowed. “What sickness are Alpha children suffering precisely?”

  “I don’t know. Misericordia says — ”

  “Shiva says you’re an idiot.”

  “Yes, my queen.” When he saw she wasn’t joking, his smile died. “What — ?”

  “We’re perfect. There’s no illness among us, but I suspect there’s some sickness in the tribal chief’s busy little head.”

  “My queen, please be careful. The last person who questioned Misericordia got his arm ripped off. He’s not like the rest of us. Not like those Alphas you killed. He’s stronger.”

  “Like me,” Shiva said. “And you, Rahab. You’re strong enough to watch my back, especially when the baby comes.”

  The baby kicked harder and Shiva sat on the edge of the bed. She began to sweat. “It’s finally time, isn’t it my little parasite?”

  “What will you name her? ‘Parasite’ doesn’t sound very princessy, er…my queen.”

  Shiva smiled. “Princess Parasite. It is alliterative.” She rubbed her belly and felt a tiny shoulder slip under her palm. “Breach. This kid has been nothing but trouble. Takes after her father.”

  “Who is the father?”

  “A colleague at Cambridge. What he lacked as a man was made up for by access to excellent laboratory facilities.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “If he’s still alive, I expect he’s nearby. He wants my parasite. If he were as smart as he thinks he is, he’d be running away. If he was as good as he thinks he is, he’d be here already, fighting for his child.”

  The first contraction took Shiva by surprise and a rush of white energy shot up her spine. She gasped and straightened. “You know, I think I’ll call her Eve. Adam Wiggins was my first Alpha creation. The ones before him turned into brainless Sutr-Z types. Before I made Misericordia and he fancied himself a tribal chieftain, he was Adam. I’ll call his sister Eve. She’ll be even more powerful. With every heartbeat, I can feel it. She’s an engine of energy.”

  “Yes,” Rahab said with reverence. “I feel it. I see it.”

  “We’re Alphas. We should all be this healthy. Soon everyone will be. And once we sort out what Misericordia is doing with the children…well, Eve will never have to worry about her place on the throne at the center of the world…beside me.”

  Rahab offered his hand. “Why don’t you lay back? I’ll deliver the baby.”

  From high above, there was a sound. It was the weight of someone letting go of a handhold in a perch high above the bed concealed by curtains. For a fleeting instant, Shiva thought it might be Sinjin-Smythe on a suicide mission, but it was not a man and the mission was murder.

  Her acute senses detected the barest shadow growing bigger on the thin canopy above her head.

  Misericordia, naked and furious and savage, crashed through the fabric and landed on the bed, driving a long, steel fencepost through Shiva’s liver, through the mattress and deep into the concrete floor with a chunk.

  “Lovely to see you again, my queen!”

  Shiva looked down, terrified. Searing pain made it difficult for her to breathe. Worse, the fencepost was a wide, hollow pipe drilled through with holes and ripping metal burrs and barbs. Shiva bled profusely and the wound could not close.

  Misericordia turned and kicked Rahab in the face. The Alpha rocked back but Misericordia reached out, his arm a blur, and clutched Rahab’s hair to pull the pilot into an elbow smash. And another. And another. Rahab’s teeth shattered. Muscles rippling from the effort, Misericordia threw the Alpha against a wall of glass.

  The clear, reinforced wall cracked but did not shatter. It took Misericordia two more attempts before Rahab, limp and unconscious, flew through the control tower window head first.

  Rahab awoke halfway down. The ground rushed up.

  His name was not Rahab, angel of violence. Geary. His name had been Colin Geary, a helo pilot from the HMCS Illustrious.

  There was time for one last blink. As a hammer drives a nail, the concrete drove the Alpha’s head between his shoulders.

  He had no time for repentance.

  * * *

  Shiva struggled to rise on her elbows and grabbed at the blood-slick pole, trying to pull it up and out.

  Misericordia was on her again, too fast. The vampire gripped the makeshift spear and swung around on it like a stripper’s pole, widening the wound.

  Shiva screamed. She might have lost consciousness then, but her baby’s energy soared, keeping her alive and awake to explore every facet of impalement’s exquisite misery.

  Her eyes rolled up. Shiva screamed louder and louder. At first, it was just a way to try to export the pain from her body. Then it was an agonized plea to her unborn child. “Let me die!”

  But Eve would not allow her mother to die. The energy kept coming, rising in a burbling heat from Shiva’s womb.

  “I know a way,” Misericordia said. He didn’t exactly smile. He bared his teeth.

  Shiva choked up blood. “I made you, Adam!”

  “You made me Misericordia. I’d like to meet my sister, now.”

  * * *

  Dr. Sinjin-Smythe had seen a man thrown through a window once before. The computer’s camera at the Brickyard had captured the image of his old boss, Dr. Daniel Merritt, flying through the glass. It was shocking, but that scene had nothing on this one. The falling man had not made a sound. Sinjin-Smythe managed a gasp, but there was no time to scream. The virologist was sure he’d never forget the sound a body made upon impact with the ground.

  Head. Concrete. The doctor winced at the sight. Bug. Windshield.

  Shiva’s screams issued from the tower and echoed off concrete walls. Sinjin-Smythe forgot the escape plan and ran for the control tower. Shiva and, he was sure, his baby were at the top.

  The doctor did not feel brave, but he felt the energy of necessity racing through his nervous system. He hoped the weight of Desi’s Walther in his fist would give him comfort and courage. Sinjin-Smythe was ready to face Shiva and Misericordia alone.

  The fool still hoped to get out alive with his child.

  Find what waits beyond the dividing line

  Phillip Bruce spun the wheel, steering the two-and-a-half ton truck as wildly and as fast as he dared around a few abandoned cars. The big truck tipped more than once but Phillip kept the pressure on the gas pedal as the engine roared and whined.

  Behind him, a propane tank clanged against the wire mesh door that separated the driver from the cargo compartment. Gasoline sloshed forward as the road dipped down. The smell was sweet and pungent and the fumes made his eyes water.

  Phillip had driven a bread truck the summer before he met Nancy. It was just a lousy, part-time job that required he get up too early in the morning, but he knew how to drive a stick. He pressed the accelerator closer to the floor as he spun the wheel to avoid an armored vehicle, spray painted with a neon orange X.

  As the sign welcoming him to Charleston’s Joint Air Base flashed by, Phillip slammed the gear back into fourth and leaned forward, peering through the glass.

  Ahead, two men, using bright orange cone flashlights, stood at the foot of a huge building. They stood on either side of a gap just big enough for his truck and waved him toward it as if they were directing a passenger jet pilot the last hundred feet to an airport gate.

  Phillip laughed and reached for the road flares bouncing in the passenger seat. “I’ll see you soon, Nancy! You, m
e and Ed are going to meet again and we’ll do it up right this time! We’re going to do right and be right!”

  Slower.

  It was the voice in Phillip’s head. It was the boy named Jaimie Spencer. The messenger had promised Phillip he’d see his son again. The boy promised he’d dance with his wife. Phillip never doubted Jaimie for a second. Not until he reached for the road flare, swerved a little and the flare danced out of his grasp to the floor on the passenger side of the truck.

  The big truck slammed into the side of the door to the underground arena, shearing off the right front fender. Phillip spun the wheel left, overcorrected, and the truck’s body screeched and squealed against the concrete, grinding its way down the long ramp in a shower of sparks. By some miracle, Phillip’s payload did not detonate.

  The truck rocked to a stop near the bottom of the ramp and Phillip’s head bounced on the steering wheel, dazing him. The truck’s deadly cargo shook on weak springs and barrels crashed to the floor of the rig, but no flame bloomed.

  Trapped behind the driver’s jammed door, bleeding and confused, Phillip remembered he had to ignite the road flare. It was such a simple plan. An accounting degree had taught him nothing about explosives, but his favorite professor had taught him the KISS rule: Keep it simple, sexy.

  He was pinned in his seat and his chest felt too tight and small to take a deep breath. Bleary, he looked through the windshield, horrified.

  The Alpha tribe stood before him. Some were frozen in place, bent over their meals. They ate humans. Spinal columns, picked clean of meat lay out in elaborate geometric patterns, serving as both grisly art and, he supposed, trophies.

  The messenger had told Phillip that the Sutr-A strain created cannibals. He had understood, but the boy had not described the depth of their evil. Jaimie hadn’t told him some would be naked, fornicating before the others, heedless and animalistic in their carnal labors.

  Each Alpha turned, no matter what they were doing, white eyes burning. The messenger had not mentioned they’d all be covered in blood, rivers and tributaries of black and red gore tattooing their skin, tracking from their jaws to their waists. Nothing had prepared the accountant from Wilmington, Vermont for the sight of vampires eating human bodies raw. The tribe appeared to eat humans as Native Americans had hunted the buffalo. They used every part of their prey. Worse, a few of the cannibals were children.

  Worse still, they were coming for him.

  Phillip’s hands, shaking and cold with shock and fear, fumbled stupidly at his seatbelt. “God help me.”

  That moment gave birth to Phillip Bruce’s first kernel of doubt that there might not be such a thing as God.

  * * *

  “Bloody eejit,” Desi said. “It’s not blown!’”

  Brother Bob cursed.

  The Garda started through the great doors and down the ramp. He didn’t get far.

  Vigilax, Misericordia’s pilot and right hand, raced past the truck and driver. “Misericordia! Misericordia! We’re under attack!” The vampire pounded up the ramp.

  Desi raised his M-16 but the Alpha clotheslined him with a brawny, brown forearm across the chest before Desi could get off a shot.

  Bones cracked in Desi’s back as he hit the concrete and pain shot down both his legs. Desi’s machine gun clattered and slid, down the ramp and away. Desi tried to take a deep breath and found he could not.

  Ribs broken, he thought. And worse.

  Despite the pain, Desi tried a feeble grab for Vigilax’s legs and missed. The Alpha ignored him and grabbed Brother Bob’s machine gun by the barrel. The monk pushed with all his weight, but Vigilax threw the old man backwards against the wall with one hand.

  “The boy sent you, didn’t he?” Vigilax asked.

  When Brother Bob didn’t answer, the vampire raised his scythe, ready to cleave the monk’s skull. On hands and knees, Desi lunged for the scythe and yanked. The long, curved blade scraped down the concrete wall. The blade’s sharp tip left a white trail in the stone. Brother Bob let go of the machine gun and twisted away. The vampire threw the M-16 aside and threw the monk to the ground. Desi pulled on the scythe with both hands but the Alpha held fast as he pinned Brother Bob with one bare foot. Desi felt like his back and legs were on fire, but he managed to pull himself to his knees.

  The monk drew a long hunting knife from its sheath at his waist and drew the blade across the vampire’s Achilles tendon.

  The vampire screamed and stumbled back. With the blunt end of his scythe, he punched Desi in the gut. The big policeman went down again, gasping.

  More vampires swarmed around the truck, ready to jump on the intruders and feed.

  “Stay back!” Vigilax screamed down the ramp. “I smell gas! That truck is a bomb! Get to the other side of the arena! Stay back!”

  Desi reached for his machine gun. Despite his injury, Vigilax threw himself forward and seized Desi’s wrist, pulled back viciously and drove his forearm into the policeman’s elbow. Desi’s left arm snapped. Desi collapsed, screaming curses.

  On his way out of the Rec building, Vigilax picked up the monk and threw him against the ramp wall again. “Eat you later.”

  Vigilax limped off as fast as he could, headed for the tower to make sure his master was safe.

  Desi gritted his teeth against the pain and stood slowly, cradling his useless arm. He almost vomited but swallowed his gorge.

  Brother Bob struggled to his feet and scooped up his weapon, gasping for breath. He leaned on it as if it was his walking stick. When he rubbed the back of his head, his hand came away slick with blood.

  “Jaysus, Bob, we’re banjaxed!” Desi said. “It’s not bleedin’ deus ex machina if it doesn’t work!”

  Murder Machines, teeth gnashing

  “This attack would have gone a lot smoother if the bad guys were a little more stupid,” Brother Bob told Desi. “But no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

  Desi nodded down the ramp. “Screw battle plans. We won’t survive, either. There's no chance at a second contact with the enemy!”

  Despite Vigilax’s orders, a young male vampire opted to be a hero to the tribe. He appeared by the truck, intent on murdering them both barehanded.

  Brother Bob grabbed Desi by the lapels and pulled him to his feet. The monk pushed the policeman toward the opening at the crest of the ramp. “Close those doors!”

  “But — ”

  “Shut up and chain them! From inside or out, but we have to contain these things!”

  The young vampire wore nothing but a brown fedora and blue Speedo trunks. “Things?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Harsh, man. I am not a thing. Or if I am a thing, I’m the best thing since Bolivian marching powder and Nutella.” He smiled at the old man and strode forward, so confident the monk suspected he was high.

  Brother Bob fired his M-16 as the Alpha ducked. The fedora flew off his head. He remained unharmed.

  The vampire lunged at the monk, cackling. Brother Bob’s second shot cut the monster’s laughter short. A small hole in the young Alpha’s forehead blossomed to a large cavity in the back of his skull. Brains painted the back door of the truck in a spray of red and pink mist.

  Brother Bob raced forward and pulled the passenger door open. He climbed inside and slammed the door just as another Alpha reached the truck. Brother Bob locked the door. The vampire, a female with long dreadlocks, smiled at him through the glass. She pointed at the knob of the lock, signaling for him to open it. Brother Bob shook his head and pointed at his M-16.

  She smashed through the glass with her bare fist and grabbed the machine gun, wrenching it from the his hands.

  It was Phillip who pulled Brother Bob away. Stumbling back and slamming against each other in the tight space, Phillip pulled the monk through the wire mesh door, slammed it shut and scrabbled to slide the deadlock home.

  “Out the back!” Brother Bob yelled. He yanked on the rear door. It gave a metallic squeak but
hardly budged. Brother Bob grimaced as he pulled harder, opening the way to a chance at escape. Another small squeak. The door rose another inch. The truck’s crash along the ramp wall had jammed the roll-up door in its tracks.

  Phillip took a turn at the handle. He squatted deeper and, legs and arms straining, pulled on the handle. Metal screeched against metal. The door rose, but only five inches. It would rise no farther. Neither man could escape.

  They turned to find the female vampire pulling at the door’s mesh, snarling and cursing.

  “Well?” Brother Bob asked. He held a lighter in his hand.

  Phillip Bruce held up a road flare. “I’m afraid. I wasn’t before. I thought it would be over quicker.”

  The men nodded to each other, held hands, and slid to the fuel-soaked floor coughing on gasoline fumes.

  The vampire was almost through the door. Still, they hesitated to ignite their cargo.

  It will be okay. It was Jaimie’s voice, a message only the men could hear. You don’t need to be brave anymore. It’s not bravery to set off the bomb now. Desperation will serve. Light it and the monsters won’t get you.

  Phillip stayed Brother Bob’s hand on the lighter. “Tell me again that I’ll see my wife and son!”

  Jaimie Spencer appeared before the men. There seemed to be no detectable transition. He was not there and then he was, as real and tangible as if he stood before them in person.

  “I’m sorry,” Jaimie said.

  “I’m not,” Phillip said. “I’ll see my wife and son in a moment, right? Say it. Tell me again. Just once. Tell me.”

  “Perhaps you will.”

  Phillip looked at the boy, stunned. “But before you said — ”

  “What you wanted to hear.”

  A large, snarling male Alpha shoved the female vampire aside. He began peeling the thick wire mesh farther back.

  “You lied to us,” Brother Bob said.