"Were you watching TV again?"
Something wavered in Jacobs' eyes but was snuffed out. He nodded and looked away. When his gaze fixed again on Forrester, the snarl returned.
"Mr. Morgenstern isn't going to be happy about this mess, Jacobs," Forrester lectured, as if to a child. "You've met the people he sends to clean up messes."
Jacob's didn't even flinch, clearly too far under the machine's influence to care.
"Why did you watch the TV when I told you not to?" Forrester asked, almost rhetorically. "Where were your glasses?"
"Why do you care?"
"Fool! You've been here a few weeks! You know what the machine does."
Jacobs muttered something, a guttural word that never made it to Forrester' ear.
"How does it feel?" Forrester leaned forward. "With the selective targeting, I never see the results."
"Can't you hear the humming? Make it shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!" Jacobs grimaced and balled his fist over his ear again.
Oblivious to Jacobs's rant, Forrester fancied he really could hear the humming, despite the soundproofing in the staff room. Jacobs was right. Everywhere he went, the hum, or its phantom, was his constant companion: the legacy of such close proximity to the machine.
"Yes." Forrester closed his eyes and strained for the hum. "That's how it gets into your system. The resonance built up through the TV. Tell me, were you watching Channel Four?"
Jacobs didn't reply. He just stood there, lost in his own inner world, scowling and staring though him from across the table.
Forrester felt calm settle on him as he, in turn, studied the younger man, even when Jacobs revealed the fire-axe from behind his back.
"I bet you didn't know," Forrester said, "the machine has a one hundred percent success rate with the test subjects. Within an hour of watching certain channels, usually Four, every subject, every single one of them, murdered their friends and loved ones in the most barbaric ways imaginable. It has other side-effects as---"
The axe whistled through the air, biting into the tabletop mere inches in front of Forrester. He flinched but remained seated, searching the frenzied eyes of his colleague for any signs of redemption. Watching Jacobs rip the axe from the table with violent force, eyeing him like a snack, he knew nothing human remained.
"Stop!" Forrester produced a tiny remote control from his coat. "One press of this button and the guards will be here in ten seconds."
"That's a pencil, you psycho!" Jacobs screamed, in the throes of delusion. Leering like an untamed beast, he raised the axe again.
An explosion rocked the room from beneath the table, driving Jacobs back mid-swing. He thumped to the ground, losing his grip on the axe. It clattered along the floor.
A powdered hole was obvious in Forrester's coat pocket when he rose from his seat. Removing the gun, he walked in solemn procession over to the prone body of his colleague. A pool of dark blood seeped onto the floor from the hole in Jacobs' side.
Jacobs clutched at Forrester's leg, wrapping vice-like fingers around his ankle and squeezing. Forrester kicked out in pain but was unable to shake the man's grip.
"It's not too late," Jacobs stammered through gritted teeth. "Fight it."
Glazing over, Forrester absently dropped the pencil from his trembling hand. It rattled on the floor before rolling into the expanding tide of blood.
Forrester blinked. His purpose was clear once more.
Two more shots boomed through the common room. Rocked by a series of spasms, Jacobs relaxed his grip. Blood ebbed from the bullet wounds in his chest, soon mingling with the original pool of blood by his hip. The room had filled with the smell of gunpowder.
Forrester shook off the twitching hand and stepped away before the blood could touch his shoe. He stared at the body, all the while pocketing the gun and circling well clear until he reached the door.
In moments, he was free of the staff room and standing in front of the machine. Caressing the finish of the sleek central hub, he was surprised to find it warm to the touch.
"That was number six. They're going to be asking more questions before they send the next tech." He stroked the black metal. "One of these days, my sweet, it will just be the two of us."
The machine hummed to him as Jacob's said it would, corrupting every corner of the complex with its sinister song.
* * *
Burning a Hole in the Sky
"Mr President, the vampires have turned back our assault on Sydney."
"Turned back?" President Smythe raised pupilless eyes to his aide. It was a sight Darren Robilliard would never get used to.
"Massacred," Darren murmured. His thoughts turned to his sister Valerie, still trapped in a camp to be bled like an animal. A fate the President had shared before his escape.
"What happened?" The President's voice was atonal, emotionless.
"137th regiment pushed toward the CBD from Campbelltown, distracting the vamps from our main thrust down the Western Motorway."
"Did the army make it to Parramatta?"
"Yes." Darren wiped his brow. The humidity in the executive bunker below Capital Hill was almost unbearable. "They liberated the camp there but met heavy resistance."
"How far did the 137th get?"
"They made it to the Bankstown complex, where they were pinned down. Without their support, our main mechanised infantry column didn't last long when the vamps sprung their trap."
The President reclined in his chair, lost in thought as he steepled his fingers together. Whatever those thoughts were, they didn't touch his eyes. Nothing did.
"Mr President?" Darren prompted.
"What's the status of their feeding camps?"
"The army didn't make it to Homebush." Darren shook his head. "Reconnaissance flights confirm the camps at the SCG, North Sydney, Chatswood, Newtown, and Cronulla are still in operation. We suspect they're holding thousands more in the CBD, concentrated around Martin Place."
"And the fighter sweep?"
"We cleansed twelve city blocks and most of Redfern in the strafing run."
"Losses?"
"We gave them everything, but when the vamps' magnetic arrays and missile defences kicked in, they took out the entire wing. By all reports, it was a swift and brutal fire-fight."
"Yes, fire ... that's the key ..." President Smythe trailed off and stared at the concrete ceiling. The Australian flag hung limp behind him, its spirit as defeated as Darren's.
"What do we do now?" Darren gripped the edge of the desk in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. They'd rolled the dice and lost. The defeat and the emotional vacuum surrounding the President had all but sucked him dry.
President Smythe tapped out rapid-fire commands on the keyboard embedded in his desk. The low-slung monitor flashed the instructions up too fast for Darren to read. Lines of light cast the President in a ghostly data mask.
"Sir?"
"Today will be great day in the history of the Australasian republic." President Smythe wove his fingers together and resumed his meditative pose.
"How do you mean?"
"A new dawn will break over Sydney at midnight tonight. Our last remaining strike bomber will drop its nuclear payload on the city."
"You can't! There's more than a million people still trapped there! My sister ..."
President Smyth eased his collar open to reveal twin red moons on his neck surrounded by a web of puckered veins. "They're already dead. She's already dead. All cattle now, like I was."
"But you escaped! Maybe we can free the rest?" Darren tightened his grip on the desk.
"Did I?"
Darren edged away. The flag, the phoney bookcase, and all the trappings of presidential power stood mute to his turmoil. "What are you saying?"
The President stared at his aide with those unreadable black beads. He tapped at a single key in compulsive repetitions. Within seconds, the metal door slid open, admitting two Kevlar-suited soldiers. Both brandished compact sub-machineguns. Vials of ho
ly water were slung around their necks.
"Remove him." Smythe waved a hand at Darren.
The soldiers complied, clutching Darren by the arms before he could react. He thrashed as they dragged him through the door. The scuffle resounded to the echo of stomping boots.
"Don't do this!" Darren's cry reverberated through the bunker. "Don't ... Valerie ..."
His final glimpse as he was dragged away was of President Smythe's dead eyes staring back at him and the Australian flag standing wilted in the glow of Smythe's computer screen.
In that moment, the inevitable became clear to Darren: monsters beget monsters. The vampires that terrorised Sydney would be vaporised, but in the instant Smythe burned a hole in the sky, all hope for rebuilding Australia's future would burn along with it.
* * *
Memoirs of A Teenage Antichrist
January 28
Crows gather at my window, especially at night.
It's a full moon tonight. Thirteen crows are there, staring in at me from the tree. One of them scratches and pecks at the glass. The rest caw amongst themselves. Sometimes, just sometimes, I think I know what they're saying.
February 14
I've started having nightmares. Not your usual naked-at-school dreams. These are so vivid, I can practically hear the screams and smell the burning flesh when I wake.
April 2
Aunt Lucia believes I'll be ushering in the apocalypse in exactly 66 days. She told me so at dinner this evening. At first I thought it was some belated April Fool's gag, but no, she was deadly serious. She doesn't have a sense of humour. However, she did have a whole bunch of mouldy old scrolls and prophecies and mystical doo-dads to prove her point.
Word for word, she said, "ushering in the apocalypse". That's too much shit for a sixteen-year-old to take. A thousand years of Hell on Earth for Christ's sake! That's what she said. A thousand freakin' years.
April 3
I lied. I'm not sixteen. Not yet, anyway. It'll be my birthday in soon. June 6. I've been told all I'm getting is my birthright: fire and brimstone and the sum total of human sin. Nothing special.
All I want is to get laid. Is that too much to ask?
April 5
I call the crow at my window Abigail. The name just fits, somehow. She visits every night now. Her twelve brothers and sisters lurk in the tree, cawing at each other.
Abigail sang me to sleep last night. For the first time in a long time, the nightmare didn't return.
April 6
Aunt Lucia caught me praying in my bedroom tonight. She flogged me, the old witch, flogged me till I bled and couldn't sit down properly. She was scowling while she did it, but it looked like grinning to me, like she took pleasure in it. Then she lectured me for an hour about my "place" in the scheme of things. If there's gonna be a thousand years of Hell on Earth, I've got a nice little lake of fire in mind with her name on it.
April 9
I'm seeing things that aren't there. Black things, shadows, wandering the halls at school, moving between the crowds. Sometimes they pass through people, and when they do, that person faints or dry-reaches.
I thought I saw these things when I was younger, but it's happening all the time now. It doesn't freak me out as much as it probably should.
I hear things, too, like people's inner thoughts. Their 'soul murmurings' Abigail told me. I hear other sounds, too, but the less said about them, the better.
April 12
I still pray, usually in the dead of night, when Lucia should be deep in her hag sleep. Abigail watches over me, but I'm not sure about the other crows. If they hear me, and they must because their ears are damn sharp, then Lucia comes barging in to check up on me. Never in time to catch me but often enough to keep me on my toes.
April 13
People bruise when I touch them, skin on skin. Aunt Lucia and the nannies wear gloves and long sleeves. I remind myself of this because Brendan Amery, the new kid at school, grabbed me. He must have been trying to score points with the popular crowd by beating up on the weird kid. The moment he grabbed my arm, he recoiled as if he'd been bitten by a snake. The bruise sprouted from right beneath his fingers and leached out to the back of his hand.
He spat at me and said a few things I won't repeat (but I've memorised for later use), which made me do a stupid thing. I pushed him. By the face. He tumbled backwards, holding his face and screaming. I won't ever forget his puffy purple cheek bloating under his puffy purple fingers, and especially the way his eye drooped because of it. And the screaming. There's always the screaming.
I guess that's something extra to add to the nightmares.
April 14
If I'm supposed to be this big bad Antichrist guy, then why I can't I speak to God or the Devil? God must be too aloof to chat. Too cool for school to chat to his opposite number's brat.
"Dad" ... well, I never had a Dad, but he's flying under the radar, too. I've never had a father-figure (unless you count that sleazy old Brit who keeps sniffing around Aunt Lucia). If Satan is evil incarnate, I guess being a deadbeat Dad is something he has to do. It's part of his nature, right?
Anyway, it's Good Friday today. Nothing much good about it in my book---I've been sick all day. Speaking of books, I wonder if people will write a bible about me? It would be a pretty thin book!
April 16
Easter was a massive disappointment. I had to steal my only Easter egg. School organised a Sunday church service but I weaselled out of it. It's like they're trying to overcompensate for something.
My palms bled, just a little bit, at lunchtime. Lucia saw me wiping my hands on a napkin at lunch and smiled that tight, smug smile of hers.
April 20
I read the Book of Revelations tonight. I had to sneak the bible in from school and hide it from Aunt Lucia. She stared at me like I'd been wicked when I came home, but she didn't say anything.
Abigail sat on the window sill and watched me read---and what a load of shit it was! Revelations my arse! Dragons. Lakes of fire. False prophets. Plagues. That stuff is so last millennia. If I have my way, my apocalypse will be like all the horror movies come to life. Zombies, vampires (scratch that, vampires are pussies and can't hang in my apocalypse!), and that guy with the hockey mask from Friday the 13th.
I threw the stupid book into the wastepaper basket in my room. It caught fire the moment it left my hand. I scorched one of my pillows putting that damn fire out! Despite the smoke, Lucia didn't charge in. She never even mentioned it at dinner. I think all those robed loonies she calls friends are distracting her.
April 29
God's still not answering me. I stopped trying to talk to the other guy (my "Dad") a while ago.
May 3
I don't want to be the Antichrist, not after what Lucia and her friends told me. Bunch of robed freaks. I threw up and couldn't seem to stop. I think I fell asleep on the bathroom floor but I woke on my bed. I don't remember being carried. Abigail was there on my window as always. She sang me back to sleep.
May 7
With all Lucia's talk of New World Orders and smiting and punishing the do-gooders, I feel like a pawn in someone else's chess game.
If I ever have a say in these things, here's a note to self: robes are uncool. Seriously.
May 12
Christianity is shitting me. They tried to spring it on us at school today, some lunchtime prayer thing.
The visiting reverend started praying, but I think he could tell I was annoyed. In fact, he couldn't help but keep eyeing me off suspiciously. Beady little eyes he had, like coals. He ran screaming from the room shortly thereafter, clawing at those coal-like eyes. I think I saw smoke between his fingers. Seems appropriate, doesn't it?
Abigail was there, looking in, watching out for me.
We were all allowed to go home early. God really is forgiving.
May 17
It's not just the crows that hang around me like a bad smell. A pair of big black dogs (Dobermans, I think) are ke
eping tabs on me. When I first stumbled across them and they began growling, I thought they were going tear my throat out. They charged at me and I just froze. The world stood still. I mean really stood still, the drizzle shimmering in front of my nose suspended in the air. But the dogs didn't attack me---they ran past me and chased down a nearby guy in a robe. More goddamned robed freaks! A dagger clattered to the ground when this guy bolted.
I don't know how it turned out for the dude who dropped the dagger, but the dogs padded back to me with blood on their muzzles. They kind of looked content.
If I'm supposed to be this Antichrist guy, I want some danger money. Or at least some fringe benefits, you know, like getting laid. I think God's having a good chuckle to himself/herself/itself.
May 18
God must be a woman a lot like Aunt Lucia. A man couldn't have come up with such a convoluted scheme to screw my life over. Well, not any man I've ever met. At least I didn't see any robed freaks today. There were the dogs, of course, and the crows, always the crows.
May 22
I don't know whether I'm supposed to be AN Antichrist or THE Antichrist. Seems like a lot of work for just one person.
May 24
There's so much sin in the world. Wicked thoughts. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. So much hate, I can feel it welling up, soaking into me so much I have to put my hands over my ears to shut the world out. People are seriously screwed up.
My birthday is in a couple of weeks. I just want to get laid.
May 26
I call the dogs Max and Rex. They let me pat them now. Lucia even allows them to sleep outside my door. I guess things aren't so bad.
May 27
Every time I walk past a piece of glass, whether it's a mirror or window, it shatters. Always inwards, too, like I'm some cosmic glass magnet. After the third or fourth time this happened, I stopped to count the pieces while waiting for an adult to come and tell me off.
666 shards exactly. Coincidence? I think not!
I wonder if this shit happened to Jesus?
May 28
I thought about killing myself tonight. I cradled the pills for what seemed like hours. Abigail was watching me the whole time, her yellow eyes boring through me. And the dogs! They wouldn't stop growling the whole time! It made it hard to focus any kind of resolve.
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