"apocalypsenovel" via ChrisTejeda in Google Reader

Chapter Thirty-nine

2009-06-24T23:56:54Z

Chapter Thirty-nine

Washington D.C. - Potomac river, near ronald reagan airport

The nuclear sub came to a stop in the middle of the Potomac river. Its wake dispersed before it in a diminishing wave that hit the western shore and lapped against the cement pylons under President Hayward’s feet. The President stood near the southwest corner of what had been Ronald Reagan Washington national Airport with a small retinue of officials and a large contingent of armed military personnel. Though the airport buildings had crumbled, the landing strip area where the group waited was clear of debris.

They had walked the nearly two miles under cloudy skies and against a stiff, cold breeze to reach the rendezvous point.

A head popped out of the sub tower, the sail, followed by others, and ropes were rolled down its gleaming black hull. Two motorized F470 Combat Rubber Raiding Crafts, usually used by Navy SEALs, approached the Russian sub. The boats had been carried from the Pentagon and inflated at the airport. Each carried a coxswain and a heavily armed Marine. As they pulled alongside the sub, two men roped down into each dinghy, and the boats turned back toward shore.

The whole pickup had lasted less than ten minutes.

Three Russian naval officers disembarked onto the makeshift concrete dock, followed by a tall civilian in jeans and a burly sweater who towered over the others by a head. President Hayward stepped forward to greet the Admiral.

“Admiral Dimitrov? Welcome to Washington. If you’ll follow me we can talk as we walk. This is Vice Admiral Villanueva and this is Director Clarkson,” Hayward said, pointing to his left and right, “I am sorry we have to meet under these circumstances - you’ll have to excuse the lack of ‘pomp and circumstance’.”

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. President. I thank you for allowing us to find safe harbor within your shores. Please, lead the way.” Dimitrov’s boots clicked on the icy asphalt as they walked away from the shore toward the Pentagon.

“Tell me, Admiral, how did you make it through the... conflagration?”

“We were conducting maneuvers near Cuba at a ‘test depth’ of of 450 meters. We were completely unaware that anything had occurred until we returned to comm depth. We found absolute silence across all bandwidths... and in this case our protocols call for silence and movement. We maintained radio silence for nearly a week, returning to comm depth every twelve hours to no avail, moving eastward in the Atlantic. We feared the worst, but never imagined what has actually happened,” Dimitrov said, speaking as if he were being debriefed, his back straight and eyes clear and steady. “We eventually surfaced near the North coast of the Dominican Republic... and not a single palm tree was standing. Nothing was.”

Hayward turned to him, “What made you surface? You had the capability to stay underwater for months, no?”

“Our ocean-floor sonar kept acting up. We needed to confirm the readings.”

“So you surfaced? To confirm ocean floor readings?”

The admiral’s eyes remained focused forward, “Yes. And the readings were quite correct. The ocean floor was indeed littered with shipwrecks.”

********************

Michael and Alice -

“What did you signal?” Michael asked, “Whom? And why?”

Anibal Ramos came to his feet slowly, unfolding like crumpled aluminum paper, “I signaled what I was told to signal - I didn’t know what it meant... I still don’t. They... the Pentagon... didn’t feel the need to explain.”

“What. Did. You. Signal! Are you understanding my question?” Michael could feel himself loosing control, his neck flushing as blood raced to his head. Alice stood by his side, holding him back.

“‘Here. They are here.’ Or something like that. I can’t be sure - it was coded. Listen, I’m sorry, but I just did what I was told. I didn’t know... I had no idea... it would lead to this.” Ramos‘ voice broke, “I’m fucking blind too. I’ve lost everything too...”

Michael let himself slump down to the sand, his hands covering his sightless eyes. Alice followed him down and nestled close. He could smell her - a strong unwashed smell - but he was comforted by her nearness nonetheless.

His despair had reached a zenith. He felt lost and at a loss. A big brother who could not even protect himself. A blind man in a blind world, unable to offer or receive help. For the first time since leaving the Cornell campus, since walking out of Ithaca in an adventure of ignorance, he realized that he was not going to live through this, much less save his brother.

He thought back to his conversation he’d had with his father seemingly years ago, but in reality only a week prior, and realized also he would be unable to keep his promise to his parents.

He wondered if this was what complete defeat felt like. Knocked out cold in the first round, destroyed at Trafalgar, the Alamo, or Bataang. Could any one person suffer more than him?

***************

Jake - 60 Miles North of D.C.

Jake came to a sudden stop and stretched the muscles on his back. He bent his head back and raised his thumb and index finger up to his remaining eye.

He pulled the tiny hatchling through the slit it had made on his cornea, and placed it on his shoulder. The creature trailed slime as it slithered onto Jake’s back.

Jake sighed and inserted his fingers into his eye socket, gave the bloody shell-like eyeball a tug, and pulled it free. He tossed it aside, coloring the white snow red, and squared his shoulders.

He sighed again.

He walked some more.

Chapter Thirty-eight

2009-06-23T02:56:52Z

Chapter Thirty-eight

Jake – en route to D.C.

Jake walked and thought.

The walking happened automatically, like a zombie moving forward with no one at the controls, forward, forward to D.C. - the proverbial one foot in front of the other.

The thinking was labored and drained him of energy - he had to work hard at concentrating. He had a sense that with every second that passed Chernobog controlled more and more of him, and he had to work to fight to keep the demon at bay. His one good eye came in and out of focus, and the bad one continuously leaked on his torn jacket collar. He could feel the crust freezing from the blood and puss in that eye, the slightly warmer liquid spilling across his cheek and dripping from his earlobe, forming a ruby red and yellow stalactite earring.

In the distance he heard a sound - musical notes - from a piano, and this was so incongruous with his barren surroundings he feared his mind had snapped at last. But the sound grew louder and clearer as he moved forward, and he was sure it came from just beyond a pile of debris twenty yards or so ahead.

As he drew nearer his feet crunched the snow at the beat of the music, first slightly off-beat, too slow, then perfectly matched to each down-beat, and he realized he was skipping, nearly dancing, as he rounded the bend. He recognized the song one skip before he saw her - the girl playing the white grand piano in the middle of the street. She was very young, fifteen or so, and she was dressed in white - a wedding dress, Jake realized - and the white dress melded with the white piano and drained its color onto the white snow till he was sure it was a mirage, but the music grew louder.

The girl’s hair was black, straight, and long, and neatly combed down her back. She sat ramrod straight on a wooden piano stool, her hands moving elegantly over the keys. Her shoulders were bare and pale.

Jake was awe-struck by her beauty and the beauty of the music, just as he was dumb-struck by the odd scene before him... its out-of-placeness.

As the song reached a crescendo he approached her quietly from behind and stopped a few feet away. He heard a sweet voice singing the words to the song quietly... to herself. A ‘sotto voce’ rendition. He leaned closer to drink from the sorrow in that voice.

She stopped when she reached the end of the song and placed her hands primly on her lap and bowed her head, her hair sliding like curtains around her face.

“Who’s there?” she asked with a lilt, “Is someone there?”

Jake’s breath caught in his throat and he froze. He dared not breathe, afraid that Chernobog would wake and hear the girl.

After a few seconds of silence the girl lifted her head and placed her fingers back on the ivory keys and began to play the same song again. Jake turned and walked away, trying to savor the sounds for as long as he could, listening intently for her soft voice as it got softer and more distant, till he could hear the music no more and his own lips began to mouth the lyrics to the song.

“In a little while from now

If I’m not feeling any less sour

I promise myself to treat myself,” he sang in a whisper.

“In a little while from now

if I’m not feeling any less sour

I promise myself to treat myself,” he sang in a whisper.

“And visit a nearby tower.

And climbing to the top,

will throw myself off

In an effort to make it clear,

to who ever, what it’s like

when you’re shattered

left standing in the lurch

at a church.

Where people saying:

‘My God, that’s tough,

She's stood him up...’ "

Jake’s voice was scraggly and raw, but as he reached the chorus he sang louder, the sadness of the song completely defeated by the fact that he had seen another soul.

“No point in us remaining

We may as well go home

As I did on my own

Alone again, naturally”

Another soul he hadn’t killed. Another soul he hadn’t infected.

Why are you skipping? the demon asked, waking.

“I want to.” Jake answered aloud.

Chapter Thirty-seven

2009-04-09T02:55:03Z

Chapter Thirty-seven

Pudge – Nuclear submarine ‘Vladimir Monomakh’

Five foot waves lapped against the metal sides of the Russian sub Vladimir Monomakh. Despite the sub’s enormous size, the boat rocked and bobbed lazily, and Pudge could feel his stomach rocking in harmony. Some fresh air drifted in through the open hatch on the sail just above the control room, and Pudge held on to the bottom rung wiping cold sweat from his forehead. He had attempted standing on the deck, but the undulating horizon made him sick within seconds of climbing the top rung. He had thrown up all over Admiral Dimitrov’s boots.

The Admiral had excused himself to change in his quarters, and Pudge was nearly mortified enough to forget how sick he felt. If it was possible to feel like the color green, Pudge felt he had it mastered.

When Dimitrov returned and found him still wobbly and attached to the ladder, the admiral asked Pudge to follow him back to the Comm Room - they had been able to bounce a signal off a Russian satellite and reached someone for the first time since the event. The Russian sub had followed the contours of the American east coast northward, maintaining a distance of one hundred and fifty nautical miles, well outside territorial waters.

Pudge was surprised to hear perfect English with a heavy Boston accent coming through the speakers in the Comm Room as he entered.

“019546 Alpha Base here, come again, Monomakh...”

“This is Russian Federation ship, Borey-Class Vladimir Monomakh. We are... er... requesting assistance... We need to,” the young officer paused and turned to the Admiral for confirmation, and Dimitrov nodded, “request access to your port.”

“Did you say Russian? Come again...” the speakers cut in and out, “...Repeat message.”

Dimitrov grabbed the mike from the Comm officer and spoke in a clear, calm voice, “This Is Admiral Dimitrov, we are requesting safe harbor. Is there an officer available?”

Pudge felt dizzy and grabbed a seat on one of the stools that were bolted into the floor in front of a station. The Comm Room was small, designed to seat four people, but Pudge was much larger than the average Russian and he felt closed in by the low ceiling and electronics that crowded the room. He bent his head between his legs and tried to get his bearings.

There was no immediate answer to the admiral’s question, just the flicker of static speaker as if the person on the other end had started to say something a couple of times and changed his mind.

Dimitrov shifted on his feet and spoke into the mike again, “This is Admiral Dimitrov of the Borey-Class Vladimir Monomakh, we are requesting succor and safe-harbor, please reply.”

“Please hold, Admiral.” Was the only reply as minutes passed.

Pudge lifted his head, “Should I leave, Alexei? Do you need privacy?”

Dimitrov shook his head, “No, Pudge, I may need your help to... as you Americans say, ‘establish my Bona Fides’...”

Pudge nearly laughed out loud. I’ll establish your bona’s alright...God, I need to grow up, he chastised himself, but he is so gorgeous...

The speakers squawked to life with grey noise before a voice came through, “Admiral Dimitrov? are you still there?”

“Yes, I am still here.” Dimitrov responded.

“Please hold for the President of the United States.”

_________________________________________________________

Jake began to walk though what remained of Harrisburg, piles of cement and brick and glass flattened into a miles-long mound with larger humps strewn about. The temperature had risen with the climbing sun and now was well over freezing. He removed his coat and tied it around his waist, careful to avoid Chernobog’s tail. The wind had also died down, and he could clearly hear his footfalls as they crunched the glass and bricks below him. A number of times he was certain he heard the crunch of bones underfoot. Bodies were unrecognizable in the detritus except for strips of cloth that might have been clothing.

He walked south-east, Washington still his destination, though his mission had been altered by Chernobog’s needs. As he walked he relived over and over the day he had killed his family. He had buried the memory, or perhaps the demon had blocked it. He wished it had stayed buried-- his child’s eyes seared into his mind, incomprehension drawn across her brow, her lips quivering in fear. Or his wife’s stoic acceptance, as if she had always expected the day to come; never even flinching as he cut her throat, running the blade deep into her jugular, and blood flowing then spurting, flowing then spurting, in a hypnotic rhythm that diminished in strength as the seconds passed and her eyes grew dim.

His stomach turned with the remembrance and he stumbled to one knee. Jake tried to think of something else, anything else, but the memory reel wasn’t done pounding him, and it picked at the darkest corners of his mind, tickling a memory he had buried for thirty-odd years...

“No,” he whimpered, “no, please no...”

But the corner was lit, and the light traveled through the reel, and the memory shined in full projection in his mind’s eye.

He pulled at his hair and punched his head trying to dislodge the reel, to force any other thought into his mind as a distraction.

But the pictures began to move, slowly at first, then reaching the thirty-two frames per second required for smooth motion and full technicolor enjoyment.

A man and a woman, his father and mother, diseased and ancient, near-cadavers and barely wisps of humanity, calling him to them.

To their bedside.

He saw their bodies arch once again, he heard their bones crunch as clearly as the first time so many years before, and the shadows moving from their bodies in a blur.

Somehow, he had time to wonder, then, why their cries sounded relieved, as if death had delivered them from something infinitely worse.

He had time to wonder this before he felt the pain for the first time, and Chernobog whispered for the first time into his mind, “Say goodbye to your parents.”

“Goodbye, mere Jean Marie... goodbye, pere Octavius,” young Jake said.

Chapter Thirty-six

2009-03-29T03:52:32Z

Chapter Thirty-six

Jake and chernobog

“Jake pressed his thumb against his eyeball, slowly increasing the pressure. How many times had he tried this before? How many times had he stopped? Dozens? Hundreds?

He wasn't stopping this time, though. He knew the demon's weakness. All he had to do was follow through and he could be rid of Chernobog for good. He was only needed as a carrier. No eyes meant no spawn.

"What do you think you're doing, Jake?" the demon asked in an unusually calm voice.

"I'm gittin' your damn spawn outta there. You dirty sombitch."

"Stop it, Jake."

Jake ignored the order and dug his middle finger around the edge of his eyeball, forcing tears, mud, and other eye-juices Jake didn't know the name for, out of his socket and onto his cheek. The pain was bad, but seemed to level off after a point. If Jake could just get his finger behind his eyeball, he could pop the sucker right out.

When he was a kid, he'd seen his uncle come home from a bar fight with his eye hanging out of its socket, a stringy piece of flesh the only thing keeping it from falling out. Jake's old man had taken his drunken uncle to the bathroom and popped the eyeball back in. Damn thing still worked fine after that, but Jake wasn't planning on repairing his eye. If he could get it out, it wasn't ever going back.

"DAMNIT, JAKE, I SAID STOP IT!"

"Shut up you filthy demon! You're the damn reason them bastards are here! They was lookin' for you when they killed my boy and Emily."

The thought of poor Emily dyin' at the hands of those alien things brought out tears in Jakes right eye; his other was beyond tear-stage now.

The demon remained quiet while Jake sobbed, thoughts of his precious Emily skipping through his brain. She'd been so loving, so loyal, so understanding of all Jake's problems. She'd been the only person Jake had really ever loved. And she now was gone forever…because of him; because of Chernobog.

Jake's sadness dissolved and anger erupted in its place. He jabbed his finger deep into his eye socket, rooted around until his dirty nail found purchase, then jerked hard, screaming out a battle cry that could have been heard a mile away had there been a person left alive to hear it.

The demon screamed, too.

The deep guttural roar rattled the very core of Jake's skull, sending earthquake-like shock waves through his brain. A horrible cramp seized Jake's entire body, forcing bile up his esophagus and into his mouth. His ears rang impossibly loud, like he was standing next to a freight train, squealing to a stop. Jake put his palms over his ears and grimaced. Blood oozed out of them, smearing his hands.

But Jake knew he had hurt the demon. And that had never happened before. It steeled his resolve for the task that lay ahead. Jake reached for the survival knife strapped to his calf.

"Don't do it, Jake." The voice was calm again.

"I'll do what I damn well please. I know how to hurt you now motherfucker." Jake unsnapped the leather strap that held the knife in its sheath.

"I'll make you remember, Jake. I'll make you remember it all."

"Shut the hell up you bastard! I damn well know what I done. The old man had it comin'. You told me so yourself. You told me how to kill him; how to shove him into the grain bin, makin' it look like an accident." Breathing heavily, Jake yanked the knife from its sheath and raised it to eye. He paused for a moment, knowing there was no going back once he cut the optic nerve.

"I'm not talking about your dad Jake. He had it coming all right, beating on you and your mom the way he did. That was self defense in anyone's book. I'm talking about Emily."

"Emily? She ain't got nothin' to do with this other than you got her killed by them damn aliens." Jake's hand shook, partly from anger, partly from the cold.

"Put the knife down, Jake and I'll let you keep believing that."

"Fuck! You!" Jake clenched his teeth, wrapped his callused fingers around his hanging eyeball, and pulled the optic nerve taut.

"DON'T YOU DO IT YOU MURDERING REDNECK MOTHERFUCKING MEATBAG!"

Jake ran the razor-sharp knife along the gristly optic nerve. Blood poured from his eye socket, drenching his face with a dirty crimson mask. When the eye came loose a pain a hundred times more powerful than Jake had ever experienced—even at the hands of his father—jolted him onto his back and sent him into an uncontrollable seizure.

Jake flopped and jerked around on the rock-hard, barren ground. His fingers bent in odd angles like he was being electrified. He dropped both his knife and his liberated eyeball, sending blood in every direction.

"AAAAAAAAGH!" The demon seemed to be experiencing just as much pain as Jake. "I WARNED YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

Jake's world faded to black.

***

Jake took a pull from his Wild Turkey bottle and tried to focus his eyes on the thing in the sky. The day's chores were nearly complete, which meant Jake was thoroughly sauced. Even though it was only 5:30 in the afternoon, the darkness came early in the peak of winter, and the black-colored air-ship was barely visible in the pitch-black sky. But it was there.

Jake had heard about these secret military blimps on the late-night radio station. The government used 'em to spy on folks, do experiments on 'em, implantin' mind control bugs and so forth. Jake wished he had his shotgun with him. He would have taken a shot at the craft, if for no other reason than to make sure it was actually real and not just a result of too much Turkey.

Heck, even a camera would have been nice. Jake was sure nobody was going to believe him about this, and pictures of a secret government blimp would probably be worth a lot of money to that guy on the internet…what was his name, Sludge? Yeah, Sludge. He was the one that had told everyone about Clinton shootin' his load on that intern's dress. Yep, Sludge would probably pay a million bucks for a picture of a secret government air-ship.

The thought of missing out on a million dollars pissed Jake off. It the damn government wanted to fly their secret ship over his land they could at least let him make a buck off it couldn't they? Jake slid his whiskey bottle into a homemade holder he'd specially made for his ATV, wrapped both his hands around the handgrips, put the machine in gear, let out the clutch, and gunned it. He was gonna give these government bastards a piece of his mind.

Jake zipped across his field at the ATV's top speed, but when he got within a hundred yards of the craft, which was hovering a mere two hundred feet above his cattle herd, an intense light flashed. Jake flinched, closed his eyes, and let up off the ATV's accelerator, but it was too late. The ATV hit a deep wash out and abruptly halted, sending Jake flying over the handlebars, through the air, and onto his back on the frozen field.

His breath gone, it took Jake awhile to gather himself up. He immediately scanned the sky, but the blimp was long gone. "Sombitch!" Jake kicked the ground. He marched over to his ATV, yanked the Wild Turkey bottle out of its holder, and took a gulp.

He tipped the bottle down and noticed his heifer, dead in the field, cut open and gutted.

***

Jake stormed through the front door of his farmhouse, not bothering to take his shit-kickers off. He was gonna call the sheriff and file a damned complaint. Someone was gonna pay for that heifer.

Emily was standing over the stovetop, cooking up the evening slop, and talking on the cordless phone, probably to her slut sister.

"Gimme the phone, Em. I need to call the sheriff."

Emily looked up from the stove and pulled the phone away from her ear. She shot Jake an annoyed look. "What?"

"I said get off the damn phone. I need to call the sheriff. One of them government ships just killed one of our heifers and the bastards are gonna pay for it. Now gimme the phone, woman!"

"You're drunk. Go to bed." Emily turned her attention back to the phone conversation, but before she spoke she snapped her head back toward Jake. "And take those boots off! You're trackin' all over my floor!"

"Fuck your floor!" Jake stomped across the kitchen flinging manure in his wake. "I said…" Jake reached his wife and grabbed the phone from her hands. "…gimme the damn phone!" Jake raised the receiver up to his mouth. "She'll call ya back." Then he pushed the off button.

"That was my sister, asshole," Emily said.

"Fuck your sister."

Emily snatched a saucepan full of bubbling spaghetti sauce and flung the contents at Jake. Tomato sauce flew everywhere, but most of it hit Jake, burning his neck and face, hurting fiercely even with a full drunk to dull the pain.

Jake flew into a rage. He snatched the pan from Emily's hand, lifted it high in the air and bashed her on the top of the head with it. Emily dropped to the floor, smacking the oven handle with her head on the way down.

Jake gazed down at his wife's limp, lifeless body, trying to process what had just happened. He thought about feeling for a pulse, but didn't bother. Em was staring up under the base of cabinets at a cobweb; her eyes blank, and vacant of life.

"Is she dead?" a shaky voice asked from the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Jake's boy stood there. He had been watching and crying, but Jake hadn't noticed. Jake wasn't sure how to answer the boy's question. Then the demon spoke.

"Tell the boy to check her body," Chernobog said.

Jake, still in a daze, followed the suggestion. "I don't know, come on over here and check her."

The boy hesitated.

"Go on, son. See if she has a pulse. I'm too drunk to tell."

The boy rushed over to his mother and placed his fingers on her neck.

Jake hovered over his son, saucepan still gripped tightly in his hand.

"Now finish him before he can tell the cops you murdered your wife."

***

Jake's spasms stopped. He lay on a bed of rocks, smeared with his own blood. A piercing wind, brushed over his face, filling the hole where is eye used to be.

"I didn't kill my wife, motherfucker. Those damn black things did and I buried her and my boy under the hickory tree."

"Did you, Jake? Did you really do that? Because the ground is frozen solid this time of year. Would have been pretty hard to dig a grave. The way I remember it, you tossed their bodies into the same grain bin you used to kill you father."

Jake rubbed his temples and sat up. The damn demon was right. He had killed Em, and his boy along with her, in a damn whiskey rage just like his old man used to get. Jake hunched forward and cried; cried for his wife; cried for his boy; cried for his everlasting soul.

Jake had had enough. He lurched forward on his hands and knees, searching for his nearest weapon. It took some looking, but Jake found the survival knife.

"What do you think you're doing Jake?"

"I'm ending this right here and now. I can't live knowin' I killed 'em. I'm taking the fast track to Hell. Ain't no sense in waitin', if that's where I'm headed anyway." Jake pulled the knife up to his face, preparing to remove his other eye.

"You don't have to live with it, Jake. I can make it so you won't remember. It's a much better alternative than Hell. In Hell, the only thing you'll remember is the night you killed your family."

Jake thought on it for a moment. Cutting his other eye out meant certain death. Chernobog would tear his spinal column out as easily as deboning a chicken. The demon would have no further use with him. Death meant hell, and even if Jake knew there was no God, the Devil was a sure thing. "And what is it you want in return?"

"You know what I want, Jake. Just keep the sharp objects away from your eye. Do you think you can do that?"

Jake sobbed like a baby boy for quite some time, knowing he was forever damned. Sniffling, he replied, "Yeah, I can do that."

Chapter Thirty-five

2009-03-29T03:51:59Z

Chapter Thirty-five

Michael and Alice

“I f any refuge could be taken from his situation, it was in the fact that he wasn’t alone. He was amidst in a sea of confused, terrified humanity, blindly plodding forward to salvation, or damnation, they didn’t know which. The anger manifested itself in a dark chorus of angry voices, spoken in low tones, as if in fear that too much noise would bring the aliens back. In a spray of otherworldly fire that they could feel but not see, they would be released from blindness and what remained of their lives. To Michael, life was the only thing left they could take from him.

He unexpectedly stumbled forward on a portion of raised Earth, created in the recent invasion. He would’ve fallen forward had he not been surrounded. Instead, he created an unwelcome domino effect in which two people in front of him staggered under the impact, pushing into the people ahead of them. The chorus changed sharply in front of him, the voices turning from confusion to irritation. “Sorry.” Michael said as he righted himself, reaching forward and balancing himself on the figure at his left. “I’m sorry.”

As the grumbling died off, warm hands took gentle hold of his arm and tugged him to the left. “This way.” Alice urged gently. “Stay with me.”

“Thank you.” Michael replied, following her lead. The warmth of the sun gradually moved to the right side of his face. They were changing directions. “Are we…” Michael hesitated, “Are we breaking off from the main group?”

“No,” Alice replied easily, “But the ground seems smoother…along this way.” She spoke the words as though she was mapping the terrain with each step. “What is your name?”

“Oh.” Michael returned. He had forgotten she had asked. “Michael…Michael Livingston.”

“Michael.” Alice repeated, committing the name to memory. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Michael had to admit to himself that he enjoyed the way his name rolled off her tongue. He tried to imagine what she looked like. Her fingers felt slender on the inside of his bicep. “How many of us are there?” He asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” Alice replied, resigned. “If I had to guess, I’d say at least fifty…most are male, middle-aged, and English is their second language. Based on what I’m hearing, I’d guess most of them were from Puerto Rican descent.”

Michael strained, but couldn’t make out one voice from another. All the voices did seem male. “You can tell all of that just from hearing this?” Michael asked incredulously.

“I was a translator before all of this.” Alice explained. Michael nodded; that made sense. “What were you?” She inquired.

Michael exhaled sadly. Their professions, their hobbies, everything about them that made up who they were…that was now the old life. In hindsight, remembering the last moments before the invasion, Michael chuckled. It seemed so trivial now. “I was…” Again, he chuckled. How many dates had he put to sleep with talks of his now-shattered dreams? “I was the Director of the Laboratory of Interplanetary Studies at Cornell.”

“Oh.” Alice said. Michael smiled; he had gotten that same response almost every time he had explained what he had been trying to do with his life. Those who had replied that way never called back.

“Looks like you kinda dropped the ball on this one, huh?” Alice quipped.

Michael involuntarily laughed. The statement wasn’t just absurd, it was extremely true. He should have seen this coming.

Michael’s mind began an internal battle. The Glessians had arrived on Earth long before they made their presence known, tearing the world apart in the process. There was no way they could have infiltrated at this level without setting off some alarms. And if humans were those aware of their presence, maybe even their plans, why were they letting the Glessians run unchecked?

Rage flashed through Michael as he remembered the barrel of Jake’s gun, leveled at him when the old man thought Michael was among those he held responsible for this mess. For the briefest of moments, Michael understood Jake’s point of view. Where was Jake? Was he even still alive? Hell, where am I? Michael wondered to himself.

“Alice,” Michael began, trying to put his mind on something else. He noted that crowd noise was dying off, replaced by the sound of rubber soles grinding against the Earth. People were dragging their feet. “Do you have a family?”

“Mm.” Alice returned, as if considering whether or not to answer the question. “Ex-husband, he moved to Italy after the divorce. You?”

“Parents…” Michael said mournfully, “…and a brother.”

“Were you able to speak with them before…before everything happened?”

“Yeah. Mom and dad were worried about Pudge, but he was fine.” Dark thoughts entered Michael’s mind as he remembered the last conversation he had with his brother. “In fact, he had come across something…”

“They named him Pudge?” Alice asked, her voice light.

Michael released a slight laugh. “No, his name is Robert…some of us just called him Pudge…Wait a second.”

A familiar voice, at the same audible level as all the others, shot through the crowd and reached Michael’s ears. No. It couldn’t be. It’d be too much of a coincidence.

Overtaken by anger, Michael snatched his arm free from Alice. Unable to make out anything but blackness, Michael raised his head, hoping to increase the range of his hearing as he located the voice in a throng of humanity. He pushed his way obliviously through people who barked their annoyance. Michael didn’t bother with apologies.

He ignored Alice, who called after him after he left her stranded. The voice was very much real, and it was instructing silent listeners on the next course of action. It was mock-friendly, but Michael knew it too well to believe that there was anything friendly about the speaker.

When the voice was almost close enough to touch. Michael walked blindly, bumping shoulders through the crowd until he ran head-on into a much shorter man. “Excuse me, dear sir.” The voice acknowledged without a hint of irritation. “You seem to have lost your way.”

“Dear sir?” Michael mimicked, clenching his teeth to keep from tearing the man asunder, “Got any ‘dear friends’ that went missing when this shit went down?”

Silence.
“Why, Michael!” The voice replied as if greeting an old friend, “I’m so glad you’re al—“

Michael would’ve sold his soul to the devil himself in order to have his vision back, for just that one second. In the most satisfactory moment he’d experienced since the conflagration, Michael sent his right fist squarely across the jaw of Anibal Ramos. There was a grunt of surprise, followed the sound of something hitting the ground. Something stung as it dug into Michael’s knuckle. Wincing, he pulled a small, rectangular object free and smiled as he recognized its form; he had dislodged the son of a bitch’s tooth.

The crowd’s collective voices rose in fear, almost panic, as they wondered aloud what was going on. Hearing Ramos scampering, Michael took two steps forward and reached down. He clutched the man by either his clothes or his skin - it didn’t matter, and hoisted him up. Michael imagined they were face to face. “What did you do to him, you son of a bitch?!” Michael bellowed, spitting into Anibal’s face. “What did you do to Pudge, you little bastard?”

“Michael, I--.” Anibal attempted, only to have Michael throw him to the ground at his feet.

Michael skipped once, sending his foot into Anibal’s stomach cleanly. Anibal coughed violently, and Michael felt Anibal’s body nearly wrap around his leg as the small man doubled over. “He figured it out, didn’t he?” Michael panted. “That second signal, that was your people, wasn’t it?! You were the ones feeding info to those fuckers! YOU’RE THE ONES WHO GAVE US UP!!” As Michael spoke the last word, he sent his foot crashing into Anibals’ stomach yet again. Anibal squealed. “If you touched him, if you did anything to him, you son of a bitch, I swear to God--.”

Michael kicked Anibal so hard that he felt a bone break beneath the impact. Anibal’s breathing was rapid, on par with Michael’s. Michael was momentarily amazed; even without his eyes, he could still make out those black spots at the corners of his mind. He had been waiting for this for years.

“Where’s my brother, Anibal?” Michael demanded.

Silence. Something moved. Little fucker was still alive.

“Where is my brother?” Michael was about to kick again, aiming for Anibal’s black heart when warm, slender arms embraced him and held him tightly. “STOP!” Alice pleaded. She had run into Michael with such force that the two were knocked to the ground.

“He’s just like you, Michael,” Alice cried, her voice cracking as she lay on top of Michael, “Whatever he’s done, he’s just like you now. Please…please stop.”

“I didn’t…” Anibal rasped, a few feet away, his voice now level with Alice’s. “I…have no idea…where your brother is…Michael…I swear it.”

Just like you…Alice’s words came back to Michael unexpectedly, and he pursued the thought. Blind.
They took from us what they don’t have.

“They can’t see.” Michael whispered.

“I know they can’t,” Alice whispered, laying her head on Michael’s chest. “None of us can.”

“No, no, not us, them.” Michael said quickly. He gently moved Alice to the right, rolled to his stomach, and got to his feet. “The aliens! They can’t see!”

“An astute…observation…of the obvious…” Anibal forced. Michael ignored him.

“Michael,” Alice said patiently, “I don’t understand.”

“It’s the eyes.” Michael persisted. “What did they want with our eyes? They have no eyes. What does that mean? Why take something from us they cannot use? Or perhaps they were trying to make us like them?”

“That’s absurd.” Anibal, as always, immediately countered. “Why would they?”

“I think you know… Maybe not everything, but you know enough. Why did they need to take our eyes?” Michael asked, “or, more to the point, why did they want us to have the same handicap as them?”

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.” Anibal spat back, “Why would I know?”

“Why indeed? I think you thought they could help us - but it went horribly wrong, didn’t it?” Michael paused for effect. “Their help came in the form of a near total apocalypse; the few survivors left without eyes. You sold us out for protection, not knowing what form the help would come in…” A murmur passed through the crowd as more people listened in.

“Not me! I knew very little. They told me to shut your brother out. They told me it would be all right, that the Glessians were going to help.” Ramos said, his voice quavering.

“Who is ‘they’?” Michael growled.

“The Pentagon.” Ramos replied in a hoarse whisper.

Chapter Thirty-four

2009-03-29T03:51:24Z

Chapter Thirty-four

Thomas, Alan, et cetera – Three hundred feet under the Pentagon

“I chose the wrong folder,” Clarkson began, “I made the wrong choice. But I didn’t know... I had no way of knowing what would come. The secret had been kept for so long, only dabs of it ever released to so few, that I did not think I needed to reveal everything to you. I am sorry.” He rubbed his eyes and gained his composure.

He stood and faced the president, his shoulders rigid, “The secret has been kept intact since the Roswell crash. Need to know only, and very few needed to know. At least few needed to know everything. Only one man in intelligence and one man in the military were trusted with the full secret... the full file. Our job was simply to disseminate as much information as was absolutely needed and keep everything else closely guarded. I was given the file eight years ago, when Major Hollister retired as NSA director.”

President Hayward interrupted him. “Who was the military link? Was it you, Admiral?”

Clarkson shook his head. “No, Mr. President, the admiral only knew about the incoming ship and the message.” He looked over at Villanueva, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you everything.” Villanueva nodded and Clarkson continued, “Mr. President, there is... much more to this than you could ever imagine. There were bodies recovered from the crash site. There was one survivor. A gray... yes, a gray, like in the movies and in all the sighting reports. Except this gray was not in control of his body. There was... something attached to his back. It took the military a long time to understand that it was a separate being, and that it controlled the gray.”

“How did they figure it out?” The president’s head was spinning.

“When they found the grey dead one morning. He had been eviscerated, and the thing attached to his back was missing.”

“What happened to it? How did the gray die?” The president asked, taking a seat.

“More like ‘what’ killed the alien, sir. It was the thing on his back. It was a separate being.”

“But how did it escape? I am sure the gray was kept in a highly contained facility”

Clarkson took a seat next to the president, “Two members of the facility, one a young corporal and the other a scientist, both from the overnight team went missing. They were never found.”

“Two? Why two? I thought you said there was only one of those things?”

“I did, sir, but there was a second one. When the doctors performed the autopsy on the gray they confirmed what had been plain to anyone who saw the grey corpse: One of it’s eyes seems to have exploded - only a deflated strip of skin remained. A later examination of the surveillance sixteen millimeter film confirmed their theory. Another alien had hatched from that eye.”

They were interrupted by a young sergeant who entered the room and snapped a smart salute. He approached Villanueva and whispered into his ear.

“Mr. President,” Villanueva said, “there is an incoming call, and I think you my want to participate.”

“Call?” Hayward asked incredulously, “From whom? How?”

“Satellites are still functioning, sir. This call is coming in through a military channel,” Villanueva answered as he rose to his feet and headed toward the door.

The president matched his stride with the admiral as they exited the room. He turned towards Clarkson at the door, “We’ll continue this as soon as I get back.”

Clarkson nodded, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

The president turned to Villanueva. The man’s enormous strides made it hard for him to keep up. “Is it the vice-president? I didn’t think he had enough time to get to safety. Is it Nevada?”

“No sir. It’s not a friendly,” The admiral chuckled. “Well... that may be the wrong term now. It’s a russian sub. They are asking for safe passage into our harbor.”

“Can you tell what it is?” Alan hovered over Lieutenant Hunt’s shoulder as she worked on a server terminal. He had asked the same question every five minutes for the last hour and she was ready to strangle him if he asked just one more time.

“Not yet, sir” She responded in a calm voice.

“Well, do you have any ideas? Is it a recording or an image? Or is it a document of some kind?” Alan insisted.

“I don’t know yet, sir. I am going through all possible programs to open it. It did not come with a how-to manual.” Hunt said.

The sarcastic response seemed to work as Alan walked away from her chair and went over to one of the encryption engineers.

Hunt returned her attention to the screen. She could not figure out the file on the thumb drive. She had two factors to work out - was it a compressed file, and what algorithm could decode it? She believed it had to be some sort of image file, because those could carry the most information. But was the message meant for them or for the aliens? If it was meant for humans, she believed that they would have used a simple format that would be common among humans. If it was not meant for humans... well then she didn’t stand a chance in hell to decode it.

“Can you tell what it is?”

Alan was back, and Hunt stood from her chair and faced him, “If you interrupt me one more time I will have agent Strum place you under arrest. Am I understood?” Her eyes burned with anger.

“Sorry... I just, well...”

“Agent Strum?” She waved toward the secret service agent.

“No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll just go over there.” Alan replied, moving quickly towards the encryption group.

Lieutenant hunt hid a smile as she sat down. Her hands froze over the keyboard.

Her screen was filled with lines and snow. She hit the return button and the escape button, but neither changed the screen. A cursor ran across her screen at the bottom as a new line filled each row. Her speakers began to pop and hiss, sounding as if there were and electric short happening.

Strum, Alan and a few of the decoders rushed over as the sound coming from the speakers rose to fill the room. Hunt was pecking at every key trying to make the sound stop.

“What is going on, Lieutenant?” Strum asked, alarmed by the noise.

“I... don’t know,” She answered loudly, trying to be heard over the din. “The system was running through a number of algorithms and suddenly it began to go crazy - the screen has filled with these crazy lines and the speakers... i can’t turn the volume down.”

Alan reached behind the screen an pulled the audio cords from the system. The sound died immediately, but Hunt could still hear ringing in her ears.

“That’s the message,” Alan yelled, jumping up and down.

“What, the noise?” Hunt asked, confused.

“No,” Strum smiled, pointing at the screen, “... that is. I would have thought a Navy lieutenant would recognize morse code when she saw it.”

Chapter Thirty-three

2009-03-29T03:50:46Z

Chapter Thirty-three

Paris, France 1957

Octavius Vieillesse returned to the hostel

that had been his home for the past five years on the Rue du Champs de Mars. He reached for the stairs leading up to his third floor mini-apartment with one hand; his other hand directed the white cane with red tip up the riser of each step. He tilted his head to see out of his one cloudy eye. He took each step with a simple pain, the kind of pain he didn’t even notice anymore.

He reached his door and pulled out his room key, hesitated, then used the key to enter the room. He had grown as accustomed to the hesitation as to the pain, for missing one inevitably led to the other. Octavius placed the key on the dresser table of his small bedroom, removed his coat and placed it on the bed, and pulled off the black eye-patch he wore over his right eye.

That eye had been the first to hatch. The demon had been kind enough to deaden the nerves to that eye during the process, but Octavius had passed out anyway. One miniature demon squirmed out of his desiccated eye. It slithered along the Frenchman’s back and attached itself to its mother. The mother was a long thin being, yellowish, and knobby with warts that constantly emanated a puss-like substance. She was attached to his back at three spots – a trio of flexible needle-like tongues boring into the soft disks between the vertebrae of the spinal column. Each connected directly to the nerves running all the way to the brain.

Within three months they found a victim to carry the rapidly growing hatchling- a young woman who directed tours of the Palace of Versailles.

Octavius sat on the edge of his bed and turned on the TV- he couldn’t watch it, of course, but the demon insisted on having it on. It seemed to delight in the white-noise nonsense. He turned to his left, felt a twinge, and turned to his right prior to lying down. He had not slept on his back in nearly ten years.

His sleep was fitful and light and dreamless. He didn’t sleep much, but when he did, he rarely had good dreams. He looked forward most to dreaming of his days back on Devil’s Island. In those dreams, the torture could be understood, measured for what it was- sadism - and, in some cases, enjoyed. Even the dreams of all the women he murdered brought him no joy - just envy - for he had given them a gift he could not give himself: escape from a living hell.

He awoke to the sound of knocking. He answered the door without asking whom it was because it could only be one person: Jean Marie, the other carrier. Her job as a tour-guide had ended when her eyes grew cloudy with its own pregnancy

Octavius recalled Jean Marie as a beautiful French flower, golden haired and green-eyed, her voice clear and sonorous as she spoke of the grand palace. He had chosen her as a carrier because of something she said during the tour, or rather, because of something she quoted.

In Marie Antoinette’s bedroom, Jean Marie had lifted a hairbrush from a bedside table, “This is supposed to be the very brush that the queen used the morning she was decapitated,” Jean Marie’s sing song voice echoed in the immense room, “While climbing up to the guillotine she stepped on her executioner’s foot. Her last words, meant for that single man, could just as easily have been meant for all of France: ‘Je suis désolée.’”

Octavius chose her then and there because of those words. He enjoyed the irony.

The young woman entered his apartment and placed her own cane by the door. She walked by Octavius without a greeting and sat on the bed. Her demon brought her to his apartment about once a week.

Where Octavius learned to live with his demon; Jean Marie never did. She had become a husk, a simple shell with no soul, no personality, and no sing-song voice - nothing more than a mode of transport and a womb for her demon.

“My left eye is about to hatch,” she said in a tremulous voice, “what do I need to do next?”

Octavius went to her, hands searching for a spot next to her, but not too close. The last time he touched Jean Marie the subsequent convulsions of pain made them both scream in an unholy harmony. No, Octavius thought, not too close.

“You need to find a carrier for the hatchling,” he said, “as soon as possible after it has hatched. It can remain for a few months attached to your demon, but no more than that. The demon will not allow it.”

She shifted on the bed. Octavius assumed she had turned to face him.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. I’d rather die,” she whispered.

“Shut up! Are you insane? They understand every word you say. Do you think I wouldn’t choose death over being a slave to pain? You can’t... we can’t. They control every nerve in your body. You’d never even get the chance to think about it before they incapacitated you.”

“So what? Merde! I’d rather fight them and loose than continue to live like this one more sec...”

Her body hit the ground with a thud. Octavius turned toward the noise, his one eye providing only a blurred view of her shape as waves of pain caused her body to convulse and spittle to shoot from her mouth. Her milky-white eyes rolled back into her skull and her front teeth shattered as her jaw clenched tight.

Octavius reached for her but a single twinge up his spine froze him in place. He knew better. She should have known better.

He shut his ears from the sounds she made with his palms. He tried to block the sounds of her head bouncing off the wooden floor and her teeth grinding against each other. He tried to ignore the smell of her urine and feces as her bowels lost control. She convulsed for a very long time. Her demon was riding her hard - it was going to teach her a lesson.

Octavius avoided even the thought of rebellion. He had come to terms with reality. Why couldn’t this damn woman understand? He knew there was no escape from hell. As long as he was good, and did as requested by the simple tugs and pulls of his nerve endings, he would not feel further pain. Just follow directions. Yes, it was hell, but it was manageable. It had rules and boundaries, instructions and penalties.

Jean Marie stopped moving and making noise.

It was all very clear. It was your choice to do as requested and feel nothing, or not, and feel unimaginable pain. The rules are simple.

A voice whispered in his head. At first he thought it was Jean Marie, but he recognized the voice, and it wasn’t hers.

“You...”

Octavius spun with the sound. Merde! I know that voice...

“...listen...”

Octavius felt his mouth open.

“...my name is Chernobog.”

The voice was his own.

The simple rules had changed.

Chapter Thirty-two

2009-03-04T06:13:18Z

Chapter Thirty-two

various

Michael – Unknown location

How much time had passed Mike didn’t know. His blindness acted to create a cocoon around him from which information could not be garnered without effort, and effort he could not give. Only the quiet cries and sad moans of those around him challenged the cocoon, and these he chose to ignore. Self-pity became his room, and fear the bars that made the room a prison.

The voice spoke again, unwilling to understand the concept.

“Michael? Michael, right? We’ve landed. The ship is off – there is no more humming – they’re coming in.”

Soft hands reached for him and found his arm. The hands of a woman to accompany the soft voice that whispered through the bars of fear. More arms reached for him and pulled him up to his feet.

Michael stood, his body sensing other bodies all around him; shoulders rubbing against his, someone’s hot breath on his neck, long hair flicking against his face. His mind imagined hundreds of people crowded around him, and then thousands, all breathing the same suffocating air, heat from all the bodies warming the room unbearably. I can’t breathe. I’m going to suffocate. He tried to take in a deep breath but couldn’t take in enough air. He gasped again and moist, stale air coursed through his throat and down to his lungs. He pushed away those around him and reached for his own throat, trying to force air down. And still no relief came.

Panic ran through his lungs and into his heart, now beating uncontrolled, hungering for oxygen. His senses dimmed, even without eyes. Darkness beyond darkness began to envelop him. He felt the other bodies move forward, abandoning him.

The soft hands reached for him again and moved him forward with the others. Michael wanted to run, for only running could express his panic, and yet he couldn’t, the press of sweaty bodies cementing him in place. That single unchangeable fact elevated his panic to the point that he gave up, and allowed fate to do with him as it would. His breathing relaxed, and fate moved him forwards, his feet shuffling and tripping on the feet ahead and behind him.

The heat hit his face, the way only sunlight could. The air rushed his nostrils, the way only fresh air could. His bare feet felt warm sand and his ears heard the metronome of lapping waves.

“Michael, I think they are leaving. They’re leaving us here,” the soft voice spoke again. “The ship rose and left all of us alone.”

Michael turned his face upward to see if it was true, but he could only feel and hear the strong wind get weaker and quieter.

“What… what is your name?” Michael asked the voice.

“It’s Alice.”

“Thank you, Alice”

The voice was named Alice.

Pudge – Nuclear submarine ‘Vladimir Monomakh’

The three young men that had saved his life slept on cots while Pudge wondered what his life had come to. He had survived a suicide attempt, the world coming to an end, a flock of crazy-looking aliens, and a chilly nighttime swim through shark-infested waters. And to what end? To feel his heart palpitate every time the Russian Admiral walked near him? He wondered what the hell was wrong with him. And wondered when he’d see the Admiral again.

A plastic Russian model had replaced his soggy cast, and the Russian pain medication worked like a charm. The sub was enormously long, and extremely narrow, allowing only a thin corridor running down the middle. Every room down the length of the sub was divided by this corridor, with the exception of the engine room in the back and the control room in the front.

Pudge limped toward the front, intent in getting information on where they were and where they were headed; if the Admiral were to be the giver of said information, so much the better. The smell in the sub was a toxic combination of salt-water, body odor, urine, and chlorine that made his eyes water as it wafted around the enclosed sub.

He reached the control room and walked into it, his eyes darting around looking for the Admiral.

“Ah, Robert! I see you are up. Feeling better, I hope?” Admiral Dimitrov’s voice startled Pudge. He must have been walking right behind him through the corridor.

“Yes, Admiral Dimitrov.” Pudge responded as he backed up against the wall, attempting to get out of the Admiral’s way.

“Alexei, please - or Alex, unless you have suddenly enlisted in the Russian navy?”

Pudge giggled like a little girl, “No… I … no I haven’t.”

“You see, my American friend, we Russians are usually very informal. Everyone uses everyone else’s first name, or better yet, his nickname. Everyone has a nickname based on his first name, you see?”

Pudge nodded, but the fact was that his heart was beating so hard he barely heard a word Alexei was saying.

The Admiral leaned closer to Pudge and lowered his voice, “My nickname is ‘Alyosha’. Why my nickname is longer that my real name I do not know. Many people think it is ‘Sasha’, but that is actually the nickname for ‘Alex’, not ‘Alexei’, you see?”

“I have a nickname,” Pudge blurted out.

“Ah, yes? What is it?” Admiral-Alexei-Alyosha asked, a look of real interest and surprise flashing across his face.

“Pudge.”

“What does ‘Pudge’ mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it may mean ‘Man who fell from balcony into heaven,” Pudge replied.

Thomas, Alan, et cetera – Three hundred feet under the Pentagon

“I want to discuss two main issues before we take on all the logistic ones,” President Thomas Hayward started, “One, I need to know about this message Agent Hunt has referred to. Two, I want to know what I don’t know. Agent Strum, we’ll start with you.”

Frank Strum looked around the room. They were located some three hundred feet below the Pentagon ruins, in a five-sided building that mirrored the now destroyed building. Nearly thirty thousand people could live in this protected, bunkered area for twenty years. Five sub-sized nuclear reactors ran all the electricity and water needs. The room they were in was also an exact replica – of the Executive Briefing Room under the White House where they had spent the last few minutes before the Event occurred.

Aside from the President, Admiral Villanueva, Lieutenant Hunt, Director Clarkson, Alan Kelly, and three other people he didn’t know occupied the space. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“As the ‘Event’ was occurring, one of the Com Techs tried to hand me something. He yelled we had received a message in response. He had something in his hand, but the room was tilted in such a way I couldn’t reach him. Then a desk hit him broadside and crushed him against a wall.”

Frank felt odd sitting in this room. It was so similar to the EBR he almost thought he could hear the President’s daughter’s voices. He rubbed his hands on his knees and continued, “I saw something fly from his hand. I can’t remember what happened next.” Strum shifted in his chair, his face scrunched, making him look much older than he was, “I don’t remember anything else until I woke up by the Washington Monument… or what remains of it.”

Strum paused and reached into his jacket, “When we arrived here I was taken to the infirmary. My clothes were removed, and this fell onto the floor.” He opened his palm to show a thumb drive, a memory device that could be connected to any computer USB outlet. “I must have retrieved it at some point.” He placed it on the table and slid it toward Director Clarkson.

The President intercepted it mid-slide.

“Alan,” He said as he scooped it up, “I want you to tell me what is on this. Hunt, you and Strum help him. I need to speak in private with the Admiral and Director Clarkson.” He turned toward Villanueva and said firmly, “They will receive all the technical help they need to read this. Am I understood?” The muscles on Thomas’ jaw twitched, his words escaping through clenched teeth.

“Yes… sir,” Villanueva responded, his face showing evident surprise at the President’s aggressive tone.

Clarkson sat further back in his chair and wiped his palm across his lips. This is it, he thought, why didn’t I choose the other folder?

The President held his gaze on the Admiral for a few more seconds. “Everyone else can leave now.”

The room emptied with the rustle of moving chairs. The three men were left alone.

“I am only going to ask once. Am I clear? Only once,” The President stood as he spoke, walking behind each of the remaining men’s chairs in turn. His voice remained steady, barely above a whisper, but clearly unequivocal. “What else don’t I know?”

Admiral Villanueva stared at the floor.

Director Clarkson began to weep softly. Every choice he had made had been the wrong one – starting with the wrong colored folder.

Chapter Thirty-two

2009-03-04T06:07:07Z

Chapter Thirty-two

various

Michael – Unknown location

The voice spoke again, unwilling to understand the concept.

“Michael? Michael, right? We’ve landed. The ship is off – there is no more humming – they’re coming in.”

Soft hands reached for him and found his arm. The hands of a woman to accompany the soft voice that whispered through the bars of fear. More arms reached for him and pulled him up to his feet.

The heat hit his face, the way only sunlight could. The air rushed his nostrils, the way only fresh air could. His bare feet felt warm sand and his ears heard the metronome of lapping waves.

“Michael, I think they are leaving. They’re leaving us here,” the soft voice spoke again. “The ship rose and left all of us alone.”

Michael turned his face upward to see if it was true, but he could only feel and hear the strong wind get weaker and quieter.

“What… what is your name?” Michael asked the voice.

“It’s Alice.”

“Thank you, Alice”

The voice was named Alice.

Pudge – Nuclear submarine ‘Vladimir Monomakh’

He reached the control room and walked into it, his eyes darting around looking for the Admiral.

“Ah, Robert! I see you are up. Feeling better, I hope?” Admiral Dimitrov’s voice startled Pudge. He must have been walking right behind him through the corridor.

“Yes, Admiral Dimitrov.” Pudge responded as he backed up against the wall, attempting to get out of the Admiral’s way.

“Alexei, please - or Alex, unless you have suddenly enlisted in the Russian navy?”

Pudge giggled like a little girl, “No… I … no I haven’t.”

Pudge nodded, but the fact was that his heart was beating so hard he barely heard a word Alexei was saying.

“I have a nickname,” Pudge blurted out.

“Ah, yes? What is it?” Admiral-Alexei-Alyosha asked, a look of real interest and surprise flashing across his face.

“Pudge.”

“What does ‘Pudge’ mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it may mean ‘Man who fell from balcony into heaven,” Pudge replied.

Thomas, Alan, et cetera – Three hundred feet under the Pentagon

Aside from the President, Admiral Villanueva, Lieutenant Hunt, Director Clarkson, Alan Kelly, and three other people he didn’t know occupied the space. He cleared his throat and spoke.

The President intercepted it mid-slide.

“Yes… sir,” Villanueva responded, his face showing evident surprise at the President’s aggressive tone.

Clarkson sat further back in his chair and wiped his palm across his lips. This is it, he thought, why didn’t I choose the other folder?

The President held his gaze on the Admiral for a few more seconds. “Everyone else can leave now.”

The room emptied with the rustle of moving chairs. The three men were left alone.

Admiral Villanueva stared at the floor.

Director Clarkson began to weep softly. Every choice he had made had been the wrong one – starting with the wrong colored folder.

Chapter Thirty-one

2009-03-01T03:54:53Z

Chapter Thirty-one

Jake - Pennsylvania

Jake’s heart pumped hard enough that

he could feel the veins in his temple throb rhythmically. He looked up to see the oncoming rush of water. He felt the cool breeze push, as if by a piston, against his face. He shifted his weight on the ATV violently, trying to release the rear tires from the slushy river pothole. As the water rushed toward him, it spilled over the sides of the banks. It gathered debris on both sides, spilling it into the roiling waters. The flow was filled with rubble and junk that bobbed and danced above and below the boiling surface of the water.

Jake figured that the water was just over a quarter mile away. He considered making a run for it, when the rear wheels caught with a sudden jerk and the ATV jumped sideways in a spasm that nearly knocked him off. He turned the accelerator full throttle and sped upriver.

What now? He thought, as the wind made his eyes water, I can’t make it up the banks. I can’t outrun it. He looked over his shoulder to compare his speed to the floodwaters. He saw that it was gaining on him. A large highway sign bobbed near the front, for a few seconds looking as if it had been placed there purposely by an enterprising advertising executive. Jake had enough time to read it and become a potential, if unlikely, customer: “HECK is for those who don’t believe in GOSH.”

Jake faced forward, searching for a way out. The riverbed banked sharply right ahead and disappeared from view. He considered slowing his speed to take the turn, but he felt droplets of water hitting the back of his neck, and heard the roaring river right behind him.

Jake took the turn full speed, the ATV riding the left bank on two wheels while he tried to maintain control. Focused on the bank, he caught sight of a glint of metal ahead. A wall, easily twenty feet tall, blocked the riverbed from side to side. The wall was cantered outward, creating a sharp-angled ramp. He hit it full speed, the jolt of the initial hit causing his hands to fly off the vehicle’s handles. He lost control of the ATV as it rushed up the makeshift ramp and fell backwards, his momentum carrying him just over the lip of the metal dam and dumping him, ass-first, into freezing-cold water.

He heard the wall of water hit the metal wall, and felt the deep tones of rumbling vibrate against his bones. The near-freezing water shocked him, and he felt his arms and legs become heavier as he struggled to swim to the surface. A curtain of water showered his head as he broke the surface. An unrelenting waterfall cascaded over the top of the metal barrier, powered by the pressure of the wrong-way river on the other side.

Jake lost control of his limbs as he felt his core temperature drop with every second he spent in the water. The eddy created by the waterfall drew him towards the wall and pushed him under. His eyesight narrowed and the he fought to stay conscious. He reached the surface once again and took a desperate gulp of air before the water pushed him under again and slammed him against the wall.

Warmth started to course through his body and he felt sleep begin to overtake him. The warmth felt good. He needed to stay here and sleep. Here… where it was warm.

His left hand floated toward the wall and touched the metal surface. Instant pain burned through his lethargy, and he reached for the surface. He rose between the cascading water and the wall and realized that the water felt much warmer. It actually felt hot. Treading water, his senses began to return.

He looked at the metal wall and noticed where its surface touched the water the silver turned to a glowing red, and water bubbles roiled furiously. A light curtain of steam rose from the bubbles.

“What the fuck?” He said aloud.

He swam toward the far bank and climbed onto dry land. His body shivered when he rose into the cold air. Jake wrapped his arms around himself, tracking the metal as it left the river and became a low wall encrusted in the earth. The wall became a shiny line that disappeared into a mountain of rubble near the horizon.

Jake looked over the edge, where the un-natural wall met the bank, and saw the furious wrong-way river fighting the wall and losing, the detritus accumulating like foam on a dirty beach. The sign he saw earlier had been destroyed, metal and wood bits splintered and strewn. One tattered piece of the sign floated face-up, its single word unbroken: “HECK.”

“Heck indeed,” Jake mumbled, his clothing hard with ice.

The reflective wall emanated heat, but the warmth dissipated quickly just a few steps away. Jake found a comfortable distance and undressed. His teeth clattered and his body shivered uncontrollably. He dropped each piece of clothing right onto the curved top of the wall, where they hissed and steamed with contact.

Jake bent his knees and sat on his back heels, cradling his knees to his chest. Whatever this wall was, it was not natural or man-made. What’s the heat source? Is this the demon’s doing? He wondered, I really cain’t take much more of this shit. ‘nuff’s-e-‘nuff, goddamit, how much can a man lose, Lord?

He didn’t expect an answer to that question. There ain’t no Lord. And if there was, he was one mean sombitch who hated me and took and took AND TOOK.

Jake trembled again, but not from cold. The devil and his demons and hell existed fo’ sure; I seen ‘em with mine own eyes. Not just now, neither, but for years. Not just the ones who took my Emily and Junior, and turned ‘em into darkness- there was also the other ‘un – been with me since fo’ ever – the one called ‘Chernobog’, the Bringer of Darkness and Pain… the Quiet One- lately, at least.

Jake looked over his shoulder, sensing someone behind him, but the landscape was no less apocalyptic or less barren. He was alone. He dropped his knees and began to crawl toward the reflective wall. The image on the wall was only slightly distorted – enlarged just a bit, but very clear at the center and fogging around the edges, like a shaving mirror in a steamy shower. He got as close as the waves of heat would let him, and stared at his face.

Chernobog been very quiet lately, he thought. What does he want with me? After all these years, what? I’ve listened careful at all his demands. I done ‘em all. Every time.

He dragged his right hand up to his face and extended his index finger and thumb, spreading two lines of mud above and below his right eye, “You in there? You in there, you sombitch?” The back of his hand began to steam as he leaned closer to the wall, both his eyes concentrated on the reflection of his right eye, “You dead, boy? You gone to meet your demon brethrens? I see you in there, motherfucker. You ain’t gonna trick me…”

With his fuck-you finger, he pressed his eyeball, mud mixing with tears.

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 30

2009-01-27T00:26:27Z

Chapter Thirty

Paris, 1947

Madame Claire was afraid to move. She had learned her lesson. Move slowly, wait for the pain, and if it came, move in a different direction. Let it guide you. Don’t speak. Ever. Point and smile. That was allowed. So was eating. She had managed to feel no pain since she entered the restaurant. It wanted her here.

She did not know why she was here, but the pain had driven her right and left and forward until this was where she ended up. Where it wanted to go. Avoid the pain, she thought.

The pain had started two days earlier. She had been in the garden, pruning her April roses, which had just begun to bud. Monsieur Leblanc, the postier, had come through the white iron gate and stood behind her.   He did not greet her, but she noticed his shadow over her. When she turned, she saw his face, racked with pain, and blood creating a puddle by his feet.

His only words came then, “Je suis désolé”, as he collapsed.

She had seen a shadow, a blur, then felt pain. It started at her back, but quickly consumed her from top to bottom as she writhed on the ground.

Since then, it had all been about training. Her training. If she moved the wrong way she felt pain. If she didn't sit when it wanted her to sit, she felt pain. She had quickly learned to do whatever didn’t cause pain. Her mind was her own, but the pain controlled her body.

She had picked up the phone to call an ambulance and the pain knocked her to the ground. A few hours later she tried again to call her granddaughter for help and she had passed out from the pain.

She stopped going near the phone.

She looked at her back in the mirror and saw the shadow attached to her lower back. A demon, she thought, I have been possessed. The demon made her turn around and walk closer to the mirror. Just a little pain on her left side had made her spin as if she were twenty years younger. It had then nudged her closer to the mirror. Pain shot up her right arm until she touched her face with her fingers. Then little pangs as she searched her own face for the spot he wanted. The pain stopped when she reached her right eye. The pain intensified again until she was pushing on her eyeball. Tears streamed from her eye as she was forced to press on it over and over.

She had nearly gone mad.

When it forced her to do the same with her left eye, madness was no longer a question.

As she sat at the table in the café, she waited for further instructions patiently, and for death impatiently. The bill arrived and she laid down the Francs to cover it. She got up gingerly, expecting pain to stop her, but none came.

She walked out of the little café and nodded at the gentleman who had helped her with her coat. She wished she could scream her troubles and have him help her. Instead, she walked out into the dimming Paris night, and took a right, hoping that she had guessed right. The night was cooler, and she buttoned her coat all the way up. She headed home.
                            ____________________________

Octavius watched the Madame shuffle by, left a twenty Franc note on the table, and placed a red cravat loosely around his neck. At the street he took a right and hurried to remain thirty steps behind his chosen sheep. The tingle in his throat had now traveled to his fingertips and his scalp. He breathed in deeply, trying to calm his mounting excitement. He knows this is the feeling he lives for, more than any other, and his gait becomes care-free and rhythmic, a wolf on the prowl.

Ten minutes later the sheep stopped and appeared lost, and Octavius pretended to arrange his cravat on a store mirror. The lady seemed to wobble a little and then took a right onto a walkway between two brownstones. Octavius looked at his reflection on the glass and gave himself a knowing smile.

                             _____________________________

Madame Claire panicked as she failed to understand what the demon wanted. It was not leading her home. She was uncertain what it wanted, and she knew uncertainty lead to more pain. She sharpened her senses to perceive any inkling of pain so she may respond quickly. She cannot take the pain anymore. Halfway down the alley she has been forced to take she suddenly felt the pain that meant STOP, and she obeyed immediately.

She was frozen, and awaited its next instruction.

                           ______________________________

Octavius turned the corner and saw that the old lady had stopped, her back turned toward him.
He felt for his Kappmesser knife, previously owned by a Nazi paratrooper, and found the hilt sticking out of his belt on the left side.

He was nearly in a trance now, elation mixed with the excitement of the kill. The knife was thirteen-and-a-half inches when extended by pressing the gun-like trigger mechanism. He had spent hours sharpening the knife before each use, and hours after cleaning it .

He pulled the knife out and closed the distance to the sheep in a few quiet steps.

                           ______________________________

The pain makde her turn and she saw a man approaching her, a knife held in his right hand high above his head. She had time to think she recognized the face before the pain at her back turned excruciating and her knees buckled, landing on the street’s rough cobblestones. She felt wetness pour down the back of her legs.

She looked at the man, who had stopped coming forward, and saw confusion cloud his eyes.

“Je suis désolée,” she whispered, and was glad she would never feel pain again.

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 29

2009-01-23T04:48:11Z

Chapter Twenty-nine

Paris, 1947

Octavius sat drinking coffee from a demitasse at his favorite table in his favorite café in Paris. The café, Le Procope, had been operating on the Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie ever since 1686. Decorated in red walnut paneling with green beaded trim, with black-checkered white marble floors and a winding staircase overlooking the bar area, it had not changed much since its beginnings. Octavius liked to sit inside, rather than at the preferred outdoor tables that allowed for the favorite French pastime of people watching, because he enjoyed watching people who didn’t think they were being watched. The small table by the door, his table, allowed him to see people walking in and, more importantly, a view of the coat hanger by the stairs, where people would stop to remove their coats as if they were removing their daily burdens.

Octavius would watch the old, the infirm, and the weak most intently. Their slow and jerky movements when removing their outer vestments provided all the insight he needed into their level of frailty. These he would mark by memorizing their face and their clothes.

The café grew busiest just as darkness descended and Paris illuminated for the evening. This was also the time the older patrons began to exit, leaving the café to the young.

Once a week, Octavius Vieillesse would choose one of the elder patrons and follow them out. If they were alone, and they happened to walk down a quiet street, the elegant Frenchman would catch up to them and strike up a cordial conversation. He usually began by asking them if they needed help to get home.

He had been surprised, when first he began his sojourns nine months prior, how many would readily accept his help and be thankful for any conversation. These he called Sheep. Only rarely did any of them ignore him or dismiss him with a curt rejection. These he called Rams. He was now very good at knowing which would be which before they even left the café. The Rams were the lucky ones. The Sheep would never be weak again, never follow again, and, certainly, never return to the café again.

This cool April evening he made his choice quickly; a little old woman, well into her seventies, was unable to hang her coat herself. Octavius obliged her befuddled attempts and hung it for her, walking back to his table after a slight curtsy. The woman thanked him with a small, confused smile. She would definitely be a sheep.

Octavius watched her walk toward a table next to the grand stairs. He noticed she had sat by herself and that the other place setting was removed by Alfonse, the Maître d’. The old lady was dressed in an expensive black dress with long sleeves and white cuffs she would pull at continuously. She wore a white cloche hat with a narrow black band which she unpinned and placed on the empty chair next to her when the menu was presented to her. The black band around the hat ended in a ribbon, symbolizing the wearer’s status as married. Octavius knew she wore it as a widower. She pulled out a pair of pince-nez glasses from her purse and placed them at the end of her nose. A tiny gold chain swung freely from the bottom of one of the lenses as she read the menu.

As he drank his coffee he would steal glances at her over the brim of his cup, his glasses fogging lightly from the steam. He considered his options. It had not yet been a week since his last choice was made; he usually waited at least a week, usually ten days, before choosing again. But Madame was perfect; perhaps too perfect. He had not gone undiscovered this long by being rash.

He watched a look of fear cross her face as she reached for her head and found her hat missing. She pulled her arm back when she realized it was on the chair she had placed it on. The tingle he felt at the bottom of his throat whenever he was ready to act came furiously this time.

His decision was made. He’d act tonight.

Octavius Vieillesse had become the Sheep.

The Lifting of the Veil - Home

2009-01-18T00:20:04Z

A free serial SciFi novel of the apocalypse

The Lifting of the Veil

January 17th, 2009

The postings of chapters 29 and 30 will bring the first part of this story to a close, whith parts 2 and 3 to follow.

I will be using the services of a wonderful editor, Annetta Ribken. Her services are available at http://wordwebbing.com/ , and she can be followed on Twitter as @Netta50

In order to implement her recommended changes, I will be re-writing and editing all of the chapters posted so far. The story will NOT change. I just have to fix the usual grammar and tense mistakes.

I will try to continue to post new chapters in the meantime, but I will probably only post one a week for 3 or 4 weeks.

Your friendly neighborhood horseman of the apocalypse,

Apocalypsenovel.

_______________________________________________

TLOTV has been selected as one of 9 finalists for Textnovel's 2008 prize.

Thank you for your support, Apocafans!

______________________________________________

Chapter 28 is now up
______________________________________________

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 27

2009-01-16T04:34:17Z

Chapter Twenty-seven

Jake
Near Harrisburg, PA

The wind chilled his face and Jake felt every wrinkle on it freeze in place, threatening to crack if he twitched a muscle. He pressed on, the ATV’s low rumble shifting to high whine every time the front wheels were catapulted in the air by the broken and shifted asphalt of Route 83.

It had taken him three days to reach the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, traveling mostly from early evenings to late dawns. He had resupplied gas and provisions at every opportunity; finding cans of food littered in small towns, siphoning gas from whatever cars he could find that had not burned or leaked all their fuel.

He had seen maybe a dozen people alive in total, mostly in pairs, but a group of six or so young men had tried to knock him off his transport. A flash of the gun and a stern warning shout had sent them scrambling. Frozen bodies were scattered wherever he went, blocking the roads and littering the small hamlets as he rode relentlessly southward. Traveling in the dark of night he had been forced to drive slowly to avoid the bodies whenever he crossed any town. Harrisburg was the biggest city he would drive through.

Despite the fact that Harrisburg was not a city of skyscrapers, the level of destruction in a city was much clearer than that of the small towns he had passed through. The city was nothing but a pile of smoldering ashes and debris piled up twenty feet high at the sides of the road, spilling onto the asphalt like the sides of a mountain, creating a valley in the middle strewn with bricks and mortar, mud and snow.

Despite all he had seen, he was unprepared for the site before him. He had reached the Susquehanna River, but the bridge had collapsed and disappeared as if it had never forged the waterway. Where the river had run now lay an enormous chasm, empty of running water, the frozen mud pock-marked with pools of ice.

The river no longer existed.

“Fuck me twice,” He said aloud.

The banks were angled inward, sloping slowly. Jake was surprised to see there was absolutely nothing at the base of the empty river. No tires. No trash. No dead fish. As if the river had rushed away and taken all its contents with it, deciding that there was no reason for a river to run through here anymore.

He removed his gloves and blew on his hands, and looked to the roadway on the other bank.

He had a way to get across, at least.

Nuclear submarine ‘Vladimir Monomakh’
Atlantic Seacoast

“Admiral?”

“Yes, Senior Chief?” Admiral Dimitrov spun to face the Petty Officer.

“Sir, our depth sensor may be malfunctioning” Senior Chief Petty Officer Konstantin ‘Kostya’ Boklov was by nature of ruddy complexion, but his face had gone completely red.

“Explain yourself, Kostia.” The admiral approached the young officer’s screen as he spoke.

“Sir, the depth gauge indicates that we are two-hundred feet deeper than we should be. It happened from one second to the next,” Kostia explained.

“”Did you read the Official Motherland Repair Manual?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Try striking it, like this,” Admiral Dimitrov struck the side of the instrument panel with the palm of his open hand

The gauge slowly showed the vessel rising to its previous depth.

“Carry on, Senior Chief.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kostia responded, his face now red entirely from embarrassment.

The Admiral turned to face Kostia again, “Only a Tsunami could cause those readings. A massive one, at that - No God would be that cruel to his sheep after what we have been through - But a glitch in the superior Russian engineering? That is a probability I can accept.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Kostia?” His voice showed less patience with the new interruption

Kostia had pushed his chair away from the instrument panel, his finger pointing at the screen, as if inviting the Admiral to take his place.

He was barely audible as he said, “The gauge is malfunctioning again.”

Jake
Near Harrisburg, PA

Jake had made it only one-third of the way across the river before the ATV broke through a patch of ice, leaving the front axle elevated, its front wheels unable to gain purchase on the frozen ground.

By rocking the vehicle, Jake could get more weight on the front and get enough of a grip to pull forward, but only for a few seconds and at the gain of a few inches before the ATV would rock back and slide deeper into the shallow depression.

After a few tries, and no forward progress, he grew frustrated and got off to get a look under the chassis. As he stepped off his boots cracked the cover ice and his feet sunk about an inch into the slushy ice. The cracking ice sounded like a gunshot in the empty canyon. Each step brought a new crack and a new gunshot sound, and when he knelt on the ground the report was loud enough to make him flinch.

The sound echoed from the banks and seemed to grow louder. Jake stood up and faced downriver. He tilted his head so his good left ear could capture the incoming sound. His right ear was nearly deaf from the many years of using the rifle.

He realized he was hearing not the echo but a new sound instead, a low growl that appeared to be approaching. He looked down at his feet. There was now over three inches of water covering his boots.

He could smell seawater.

When the ground began to tremble he wasted no time jumping on the ATV and rocking it as hard as he could.

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 28

2009-01-16T04:20:17Z

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mike
Glessian - Lander 431

He felt his left eye sizzle and pop; then his right. He felt no pain then, just a liquid running down the corners of his eyes, wetting his temple, then pooling in his ears. The liquid felt warm and thick. The smell let him know how much pain he should feel, a stench of burned hair and pork rinds wafting all around his face.

Yet the pain caused no greater fear. The darkness that he had been tossed into for the rest of his living days filled his body with all the fear it could handle. The knowledge that he was blind forever, and that he was still alive to receive further torture made his body tremble uncontrollably, though he could not move of his own volition.

His eyes couldn’t even afford him the luxury of crying.

And then he was alone. He could hear them no more, the cracking and popping electricity out of earshot.

Then he felt hands all over him, working the straps that held him down, feeling for his face and feet and hands. Mike heard voices too; sounds of sorrow and mourning, words of calm and compassion - the lilt of human voices, the comfort of human words, and the warmth of human kindness.

He felt himself lifted off the hard surface and helped to the ground, a dozen pair of hands lowering him softly to the ground. A voice rose above the others in the obscurity in clarity and whispered in his ear.

“You are safe. You are with us. We will help you,” The voice said.

"Please, what is happening? Who are you? What happened to my eyes?” He asked, tough he knew.

“We are theirs, and they have taken from you what they do not have. They have taken it from all of us,” the voice said.

“What?” He asked, though once again he knew.

“Our sight - We are all blind - As they are,” The voice said, and the voice began to cry softly.

And Michael Livingston cried as well. But no tears came.

Thomas

The Pentagon

The Pentagon had been, at one time, the largest office building in the whole world. Spread over nearly twenty-nine acres, its pentagonal shape had been chosen by President Roosevelt in 1941, simply because he felt that “something like that had never been done before. Groundbreaking for the building began on September 11th, 1941, exactly sixty years before the terrorist attacks that changed the nation and caused President Hayward to enter a life of service in politics.

The building was gone. Partial walls remained, and even part of the small chapel built to memorialize the attacks stood- though at a severe angle -but what truly remained behind was a pile of smoking rubble plagued with frozen bodies.

By this site the President and his small group stopped and rested. Thomas Hayward stood between the fire and the men and woman who had accompanied him to this point. He spoke, surprisingly, with unwavering conviction in a voice just louder than the sound from the crackling branches.

“It has been nearly a week since our world was turned inside-out and our day-to-day lives became dislodged and uncertain. I want to each of you for staying by my side. I do not know exactly what has happened. I do not know how far and wide the devastation has reached. Our greatest success is simply to stay alive. There is no rebuilding what has been destroyed, no recovering of our past. We do not have a magic wand that will make everything better again nor is there some simple step we can take to bridge the distance we have to travel. Not for those of us who have survived,” Thomas said, “We will never see the fruits of whatever efforts we undertake to make this our world again, but we have no choice but to persevere; to survive. We must take one step and then the next - and do that over again until we die. But first and foremost we must survive today and then tomorrow.”

He looked each individual in the group straight in the eyes as he spoke, and rather than look away to break the eye-contact, they felt compelled to maintain it.

“I do not know if it gets any better west of here,” he continued, “but our best chance lies in Wyoming, at Cheyenne Mountain. If anything survived this Armageddon, that facility did.”

Frank Strum stood as the President finished speaking. His dark eyes flashed with pride.

“Mr. President, we will follow you to the gates of hell... Considering where we are, they can only lead out.” He said with a smile.

The men and woman of the group nodded somberly, realizing that the road before them was likely one they would never see the end of.

Alan stood as well but instead of speaking he beseeched them all to be quiet with his index finger to his lips.

“What is that noise?” He whispered, cocking his head toward one of the smoke plumes nearby. “Do you hear it?”

They nodded in assent as each stood up and turned toward the dancing smoke. Alan took a few steps in that direction but froze when he saw debris shifting just below the plume. The small stone-slide gathered speed, and larger boulders and bricks, as a dark rectangle seemed to grow from the ground. The smoke shifted direction and partially obscured a figure rising from the darkness. The figure stepped through the smoke and peered at them, searching. He stopped when he spotted Hayward’s face.

“Mr. President?” The figure asked, his hands held tightly to his sides, the white cap sunk sharply down to his ears.

“Yes?” Thomas replied, the surreal moment throwing him.

Another man stepped out from behind the young Navy lieutenant and walked toward the President, his eyes and smile shifting toward Director Clarkson as he walked by. He saluted the President smartly, and spoke.

“Mr. President, I am Vice Admiral Alfonso Valenzuela. Welcome to the Pentagon. Please hurry, all is not lost. We have a call for you.”

The Lifting of the Veil - Honorable Mention- Avery K. Tingle

2009-01-11T03:58:18Z

Honorable Mention - Avery k. Tingle

“The Victim”

June 13, 2000

           At the edge of the horizon, the large orange orb peered over the hill, flooding the area suddenly with fresh sunlight. It forced Thomas Hayward to acknowledge its presence, along with a colder reality; he had been out here all night.
            He exhaled, bracing his hands on his knees, feeling much older than he was, and stood up. No going back now.
            Courtney, his polite, efficient secretary at the DA’s office, had scheduled the press conference for six a.m., just an hour from now. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt and ragged blue jeans, Thomas knew he hardly looked the part he was about to play. He had packed one of his suits in the trunk of his rental car just in case. He could change here undisturbed; it would be some time before the construction crew showed up.
            He allowed himself a final look at the skeletal home he had helped to create. Down the row of the fledgling block, he could see other homes in various stages of construction, including a few finished ones at the very end. This was going to be an upscale, private neighborhood in about two years, and no matter where Thomas wound up after today, he felt pride at having a hand in bringing something useful into the world.
            Thomas walked over the dirt hill to the makeshift parking lot below, where his nondescript rented hatchback awaited. His mind drifted back to the previous night, and the good times that followed. With his new wife safely away—and under guard—in a hotel, Thomas had gone aimlessly driving, hoping to make heads or tails of the recent horror that had descended upon Middlesex county. He imagined it was his father’s ghost that had led him to the future home of Cornelius Court, where not only had the construction crew welcomed his assistance, they even knew who he was. Even better, they were not passing judgment.
            For nearly four hours, he had worked with them, making casual conversation and never once touching on the tragedy. They were impressed by “the suit’s” ability to nail wood together and assemble pipelines. They were so impressed that they wouldn’t take his money when the work day ended, treating him to a few beers at the local pub. Thomas had avoided getting drunk for fear of letting something crucial slip. When they had separated, Thomas made his way back here to continue working alone. Just maybe, he hoped he could assemble this house in one night, or at least become so engrossed in his duties that time could pass him by.
            Then the sun rose, and reality set back in.
            As he opened the door and slid into the car, the bad side of his conscience sprung forth; you don’t have to do this. It wasn’t your fault. No one has to know. Just go back to work, hand over your findings, and keep your career on track.
            The voice that rose to counter in his mind was not his own conscience, but that of his father, the man who had inspired his interest in construction and so much more in life; Thomas, your word is your currency, and no one deals with a broke man.
            Closing his eyes, Thomas smiled. Thanks, dad…
            Almost without thinking, Thomas jammed the key into the ignition and turned. The car sputtered and jumped violently, and Thomas felt a flash of terror rip through him as he realized the car was rigged to detonate, and it was too late to do anything about it--
            The car started after a moment. Thomas exhaled, relieved.
            Feeling utterly exhausted, he laid his head on the steering wheel. What he was about to do would torpedo his career and political aspirations, to say nothing of his family’s safety; they would be looking over shoulder for the rest of their lives.
            He felt his father’s strength engulf him as he rose, looking through the windshield. None of this mattered in the end, because history would remember; he did the right thing.
            While he still had the presence of mind, he awkwardly changed clothes, swapping his work clothes for his professional appearance. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror; he hadn’t washed up or shaved, but he still looked like a lawyer.
            He eased the car out of the dirt lot and back onto the main road, and headed towards the Middlesex County Courthouse. As he did, his mind drifted back nearly three years, to the case of twelve-year-old Ashleigh Brighton. In life, she was not known beyond Hudson, but in death, the whole world knew her name.
            It had begun relatively simple; Ashleigh had been last seen walking to the local school bus stop. Somewhere between her home and the bus stop, separated by a block, she vanished.
            None of her friends had seen her that day, and by night, an unsettling horror had set in. Ashleigh, who got good grades and was not prone to bad behavior, became the Hudson’s first missing child in nearly two years.
            The case hit home for Thomas, who had recently been accepted as a prosecutor in the District Attorney’s office. To him, finding Ashleigh was about restoring a sense of security to his hometown. Back then, he was limited to white-collar crime, so his involvement was limited.
            There was the usual fanfare; the entire world seemed to be looking for Ashleigh Brighton, or “The Good Girl” as the press dubbed her. There was FBI involvement to bolster the police investigation, multiple news broadcasts, and even a few shots on Oprah, Maury, and the Jerry Springer show, if you could believe it. It was darkly humorous, but it was as though the world had set aside its insanity for a moment in hopes of finding this little girl alive.
            As time passed, hopes diminished. Months passed. Everyone whispered but no one said what they all knew. It became something no one spoke of. Ignore it long enough, it goes away.
            Sadly, it did go away, and Hudson returned to an uncomfortable sense of normalcy.
            A year ago, Ashleigh Brighton returned, and Hudson once again became the focus of the world’s attention.
            Ashleigh was found naked, beaten, raped, and very much dead, in a dumpster outside of a nearby Taco Bell. There were chunks torn from her body as though dogs or sharks had taken a run at her. The tragedy was that it appeared that she had never left the city.
            Middlesex County—the entire world—cried out for justice.
            Thomas threw himself wholeheartedly into the case. He seemed joined to the hip with the police; he fought for search warrants, he was present for every interrogation and spent entire days sifting through information. Although the District Attorney was the one making all the press conferences, Thomas Hayward was the face of the investigation.
            Ninety relentless days later, an arrest was made; Al Whitaker, a nobody who spent thirty years in the same hardware store, was arrested and confessed. This was his first offense; he hadn’t known what possessed him to do what he’d done.
            The confession alone should’ve assured that there wouldn’t be a trial, and when the District Attorney himself promised to see the case through, everyone assumed things would wrap up quickly, including Thomas. He had no idea how badly things would go wrong after the judge refused Al’s “Guilty” plea and remanded him pending trial.
            Although suspicious, the move wasn’t unprecedented, and Thomas didn’t think much of it. When the judge ordered a bench trial, rather than trial-by-jury, the public was outraged, but quieted by DA’s promise of swift justice. Thomas was in the courtroom for most of the trial, and the DA handled things well.
            Al was found guilty of first degree kidnapping, sexual assault, and murder.
            The judge sentenced him to life—of probation, and a quick trip out of town.
            Only members of the DA’s office were present in the courtroom when the verdict was handed down. Thomas was so outraged that he was nearly held in contempt. The DA didn’t seem adversely affected—as though he had been expecting this.
            Silently investigating on his own, Thomas uncovered a multitude of million-dollar payouts—including one to his own account. Fearful of the repercussions, Thomas desperately tried to trace the deposit and came back with nothing.
            Still, he had not touched the money.
            As always, he discussed his findings with his wife. They had come to the same conclusions; regardless of how Thomas received the money, the fact that he had it made him look guilty. He could keep his mouth shut, go on as though nothing had happened, and everything would more than likely be alright.
            Or he could tell the truth. Ashleigh had not gotten justice.
            When the time came, he moved his wife into protective custody, under the watchful care of officers he knew to be clean, and made his last request to Courtney.
            Coming back to the present, Thomas rounded the corner to the courthouse, taking in the plethora of news vans and reporters that had gathered on the front steps. All he had to do was mention Ashleigh and press from three towns over had come running.
            He parked, stepped out of the car, and leaned against it, lowering his head. This was it; he was casting away a certain future because he had been raised to do the right thing, and all he had left was his word.
            He sat up, heading towards the courthouse. He entered through the backdoor, made his way through the regal-looking interior, and exited through the front door where the press waited.
            As he took those final steps to the podium, he noticed that District Attorney was suspiciously absent.
            Thomas stepped to the microphone and spent the next five minutes relaying everything he had just gone over in his head. The press was uncharacteristically quiet during his entire speech, which punctuated with his intention to resign.
            An uneasy murmur passed through the assembled press. Judgment was being passed. Thomas, resigned, prepared to step away. “Mr. Hayward,” A male voice in the assemblage surprised him, and he turned to acknowledge the man he didn’t know, “Yes?”
            “Did you personally accept any payout?”
            Thomas quickly shook his head. “No, no, I did not, but I didn’t try to stop those who were being paid off—“
            “Mr. Hayward,” Another reporter inquired, and Thomas acknowledged by pointing, “Did you impede the investigation into Ashleigh’s killer?”
            Again, Thomas shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I did everything in my power to get justice for Ashleigh—“
“Mr. Hayward,” Janice began, standing and raising her pencil. Thomas acknowledged her by pointing. “Yes, Janice…”
            “Do you still intend to run for Middlesex County District Attorney? You’re not really going to resign your position, are you?”
            Thomas was surprised; it was a question asked with hope. He stepped back to the podium.             “Yes,” Thomas answered, surprised at the confidence in his own voice, “I still intend to run, and no, I’m not going anywhere.”

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 26 Clare K.R. Miller

2009-01-11T03:57:38Z

Chapter twenty-six by Clare K.R. Miller

The Hotel Room

Pudge fell asleep the moment his head hit the thin, hard cot. Luis was on the cot above him and Manuel and Pocho bunked across the narrow metal hall. Despite the dampness in the air and the constant knocking from the sub's hull, despite his recent narrow escapes and the horrors he had seen, he dreamed not of monsters, gore, or death.

He dreamed instead of love ... and hate...

Pudge trailed his hand along the wall to steady himself as he walked back to his hotel room. He wasn't sure he needed it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. His head was fuzzy with exhaustion and wine. He made up his mind to avoid the post-business socializing at these conferences in the future. He probably wouldn't remember he'd made that decision in the morning, but maybe if he decided it enough times, it would stick someday.

He fumbled with the card key to his hotel room, and then finally got it to open. He stumbled inside, fully intending to fall directly onto his bed (hotel sheets were just too annoying to unmake in his state) and sleep for at least several hours. But once he was inside the door, he could tell something was wrong. He stopped with his hand on the lightswitch. What was it? There was something strange about this room…

He felt arms slip around his neck and a body press firmly against his back. "Hello there, Rob," a voice whispered in his ear.

Pudge's exhaustion fell away at once. "Eduardo!" he cried with delight--softly, the door was shut, but these hotel walls could be thin--then turned to face his lover, a grin spreading across his face. Even if he hadn't recognized the voice, the nickname would have given Eduardo away immediately; he was the only person to ever call him that. His brother and, consequently, everyone else he had ever met called him Pudge. Probably in reaction to the nickname, his parents refused to call him anything other than Robert. The first time he and Eduardo had met, the younger man had immediately dismissed both names as unsuited and began calling him Rob. That was probably part of the reason Pudge had fallen in love with him. That and the strong body, the silky hair, the strong cheekbones, the supple tongue that was at this moment working its way around his ear...

Pudge stopped thinking for the better part of an hour.

When his brain started working again, he and Eduardo were both naked, damp with sweat, and lying atop the thoroughly unmade hotel room bed. Eduardo's head was pillowed on Pudge's arm. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking carefully. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but now was not necessarily the time for all of them. Better start with the most urgent. "Eduardo?"

"Hmm?" Eduardo's black eyelashes fluttered most alluringly.

Pudge tried to ignore it. "How did you get in here anyway?"

Eduardo laughed. "I made promises to one of the bellboys." Pudge frowned. Eduardo continued, opening his eyes and looking earnestly up at Pudge, "Promises I don't intend to keep."

Pudge relaxed at that. Not that he should care. To whom Eduardo made promises and whether he kept them shouldn't affect Pudge.

He forced himself to speak again. "No one saw you, did they?"

"I doubt it. With all the wine flowing at that party? I could see you weren't at your best, and I doubt anyone else is much better."

"Was that a complaint?" he asked playfully.

"Mmm. Hardly," said Eduardo, giving him a catlike smile and walking his fingers up Pudge's bare chest. "I think you could manage again..."

Pudge shook his head and pushed Eduardo's fingers away. "Look, Eduardo, we both knew this couldn't last forever..."

"No," said Eduardo, nestling his head down again on Pudge's chest. "Just for fun. Kicks and giggles. Mmm."

"Well, I'm... I'm probably getting a promotion, and I'll... be a lot more in the public eye." He took a deep breath. He hated to do it; Eduardo was lovely, good, generous... if he'd thought it wouldn't be a career-killer to marry this man, he might well do so. But his career was more important than anything in his personal life. "I think now is the time to end it."

He was greeted with silence. Then Eduardo abruptly sat up, pushing against Pudge's chest and making him cough. "Do you really mean that?" Eduardo asked in a quiet voice with a hint of a whine in it.

Pudge squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry."

He didn't open his eyes, but he felt Eduardo standing up, then heard him getting dressed and collecting his things. When the door slammed, Pudge finally dared to open his eyes. It was dark, and he was alone.

At the next day's brunch--during which he was relieved to find that he was one of the attendees to show the least discomfort after the night before--he saw, through the glass dining room doors, Eduardo and a young man in a bellboy's uniform talking quietly and laughing. Eduardo stroked the other man's neck, then turned deliberately and smiled at Pudge. Pudge looked away. He wasn't jealous; to his surprise, when he told himself that, it sounded like the truth. He could deal with this. It was for his career.

The next day, back at the office, Eduardo kept walking past Pudge's door. He was a secretary on the same floor, but he had no real reason to be walking back and forth like that. Pudge knew the real reason. He ignored it steadfastly.

He kept thinking he heard someone calling "Rob," but when he looked around, no one was there.

A week later, it stopped. He didn't see Eduardo again. He breathed a sigh of relief and got on with his job.

A week after that, he was called into his supervisor's office. He thought it was for the promotion. It wasn't. He never got the promotion, and had to settle for being grateful that he wasn't fired. When they stepped out of the office, Eduardo turned back to Pudge with a hopeful expression on his face. Pudge realized in that moment that his ex-lover had hoped that by sabotaging Pudge's career, he would get him back.

It backfired. Pudge turned his back and walked away, harboring no regrets. Well, almost none. But now he would never stopping looking for ways to get his career back on track.

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 25 - Ben Essex: Winner

2009-01-11T03:57:14Z

Chapter Twenty-five: "Snow" by Ben Essex, Winning Entry

Snow is falling.

It smothers the soil, consuming the headstones. Line after line of white cross, each one marking a body. Each one a declaration to a dead soul: You shall be remembered. Promises buried beneath the ice. The air strikes my lungs, attacking via the throat. It hurts.

I’m knelt behind bushes, folded over and uncomfortable. Cramps all over my body. Muscles on fire. Been here for too long; lost track of time.

Staring through my rifle sight.
Considering.

The cemetery is a good place- a good place to finish things. As good a place as any. There are enough of the damned here to put us all in fine company.

There holes in the sky.
Look at him.
He’s right in my eye. Smaller than I expected. Looks more impressive on TV. Dark hair trying to turn pale. Eyes recently wet, now drying. Tears will freeze.

He’s digging a hole.
Digging with his nails. With his bare hands. Making a grave for the body by his side. Digging for his life. Digging for her death. A little girl, I think it is. A dead girl, I’m sure. There’s a gap in her chest coloured crimson, and he keeps looking at her all droopy.

Mr. President. You’re just like me now.

The cemetery is a good place.

My finger presses down on the trigger.

The End Is Nigh.
That’s what my sign used to say. No one took it seriously. I’d stand every day on the street corner, and try to tell the little people. Try to warn them. Old men and boys and women painted pretty, stumbling and fumbling past me. All so busy with their lives. Never taking a moment to peek outside, look beyond themselves, past their own concerns. Open your eyes! I’d scream. See the pattern! The connections. They’re hiding in plain sight, and you refuse to look.

(Thirty percent of “blind” people are secretly faking).

The crowds pointed and laughed. Or backed quietly away, calling me crazy. That’s not true. I’m only one quarter insane.
One quarter. Twenty-five percent.
I measured. I measured every morning, from little blue bottles on the kitchen counter. Two pills ground up. Powder spread equally over four spoons. Three spoons thrown away. Finding that balance took months. No pills at all meant my mind would run rampant- inconsistent, incoherent. Stripped order from my thoughts. Just one hallucination after another, driving me to distraction. Not good enough. On the other hand, taking a whole dose for a whole day... just as bad.
Made me dull. Made me stupid.

I found somewhere acceptable to stand. Somewhere in between extremes. Somewhere to hold the sign.
My sign.
Made it myself. Carved a square of proper wood and wrote the words in red paint. It wasn’t merely cardboard, it wasn’t cheap. Took a big chunk out of my weekly food budget. Didn’t care, it was worth it. Hammer and nail, saw and sand- stayed awake all night crafting the handle. Leaving indents for my fingers. I knew I’d spend a long time out in the rain with my banner. It had to be comfortable.

One Saturday it rained, and a kid with a Mohawk tried to talk to me. He was covered in slogans. I attempted to dispense advice; warned him about the corporate conspiracies. He should pick one brand-name only- choose a side. Otherwise there’d be trouble for him when the Price War turned nuclear. He tried to laugh, tried to walk away. Tried to act like he hadn’t heard me, but there was fear in his throat. I started with fear. Fear of myself. Fear of other people. Fear of everything.

Childhood unremarkable.
Spent in an orphanage of moderate repute. Didn’t talk much to the other children. Didn’t see the need.
“Quiet Frank,” said teachers.
Spent a lot of time playing with numbers. Numbers could be tamed. Stepped out into the real world. Couldn’t take it. Found a place to hide and stayed there.

Innumerable months sat hunched in the four by four box I called a home, sleeping on a bed of nails. Too scared to go outside; barely plucking up the courage to order food. My terror stood vigilant and blocked the door. It made me cry. I kept the curtains closed. Television was my only window.

Left computers alone when I found parts of them could talk back. I drew comfort from the moving pictures. Colours and lights and sounds to cuddle. Dramas didn’t interest me much- people too pretty, tans too fake. The news I found entrancing. So many stories of the world, so many disparate threads- reporters jumping from one country to the next, trying to make events fit a narrative. Often being successful.

There was a palpable direction, a definite trend to causality- waves and flows, graphs and bars. In England the market crashed, in Africa another military coup, in Egypt a bombing and in America a protest on civil rights. I caught the first scent of the pattern, the innate connection between every happenstance. I knew I could work out the details if I just concentrated- solve the puzzle. Make it fit.

I could lift away my ignorance, and see the way the world truly worked. The news was limited. It soon became painfully obvious that each channel was biased. I had to go outside.

The government threw me scraps- they called it “welfare.” Drips and drabs of money, dropped from the tables of richer men. Good enough for me to live on. Little did they know, they were feeding the dogs of their own demise.

I made the sign.
I started venturing out. Gathering intelligence. Warning the masses- I had that much charity. The End Is Nigh. Of course it was. With so many black hands over every head, the world had to be doomed. I was small-minded, though. I thought it would be war or plague or perhaps the imploding economy. That’s what the pattern seemed to indicate.

Clearly I had not studied thoroughly enough.
I didn’t anticipate things dropping from the sky. Impacting without reason, rhyme or explanation. Asteroids? Meteors? Men from Mars? Nobody said. The news gave only scattered hints. Authorities didn’t have much warning, I think. Satellites saw the sky falling at the last minute, far too late to do anything but scream. The world ended in succinct repose.

I was lucky for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because that box of mine was a basement- a squat quite far underground. When the roof fell in and the floor cracked open, I remembered the old duck-and-cover drills. Lacking anything as solid as a desk, I settled for an open doorway. I survived with torn clothes and bloody hair. I survived. The other reason I was lucky; I’d studied enough.

I had someone to blame.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Thomas Hayward. President Thomas Hayward. Forty-fifth to hold the title. Thirteenth since the office was occupied by anyone worthy. (Thirteen. Number of major astrological events falsified by the media).

Hayward. Tall in body, soft in mind. Thinks he’s tough just because he’s a Republican. No imagination, no perspective. Confronts unexpected situations by shouting at them. Dullard with delusions of intellect. The best this country has to offer? Pah. He watches Fox

I’ve heard every one of his speeches. I could tell you where his wife went to school, each daughter’s favourite colour. I can detail each of his mistakes in alphabetical order. “Honesty.” That was the code-word of his campaign. Only a moron would run for high-office and hope to keep clean. Only a liar would win and claim to have succeeded.

I remember his victory speech. He wore a smile, but his eyes were tired. Young man, unprepared for the responsibility.

He’s not even good enough to be indoctrinated into the Big Conspiracies. The Illuminati and the Masons and the Lizard Men- they all left him alone.
Because he’d be a liability.

The kind of person who’d retreat to that bunker under the East Wing, snivelling beneath the White House rather than accepting fate with his kin. That deplorable bunker- just one more layer of yellow for the bureaucracy. I thought about killing him. Every day I walked by the White House gates, spying for a way in. If only the Military hadn’t deemed jet-packs unsuitable for civilian distribution. No matter. I would find another way.

Bought a hunting rifle.
Saving up for it cost me two months without luxuries like deodorant and soft toilet-paper. The five-day wait was agonising. The rifle is the only thing I carry with me, now. The only thing I took after my basement collapsed. Weapons will be necessary. In the face of disaster, people become animals. I may have to kill.

Killing.
Takes courage.
I had to work up to murdering Hayward. He couldn’t be my first. Too much risk of weakness- I might imagine the blood and chicken out. Had to start smaller. Saw the kid covered in slogans again. He walked past me often. I took to keeping an eye on him. Took to carrying a knife. I could feel the sweat on my brow and my hand on the hilt; the thickness of it, the war-drums in my heart.

Tomorrow, I’d say, every day. Tomorrow, when he ducks down that alley. I’ll be waiting. Practice for me. Mercy for him. He had the hair of a junkie, and those labels would get him into trouble.

Tomorrow.
Tomorrow the world ended, and now I’ll never get my chance to practice. I’ve spent a long time walking; appreciating the ruined city. Flattened trees and rubble everywhere. Survivors in street-gangs; I’ve heard gunshots in the distance. No sirens anymore. The horizon is gorgeous dark, but the cold air burns. Wish I owned a jacket. Suppose I could take one. Stealing... feels like it would be crossing a line.

I’m still civilized.
Civilized enough to be hiding in the bushes, with my gun pointed at the President. I knew he’d survive. I knew it. Shying in his bunker, pretending to be strong.

I’m surprised he hasn’t kept his entourage.

While surveying the streets of this newly made purgatory, I saw something from the corner of my eye.
Something strange, something alien.
(Looked like a giant amoeba, sort of. Moving weird... floating.) A hallucination. They’re happening sooner than I expected. Without my medication, it won’t be long until I lose my balance altogether.

And fate, as if in compensation, has given me this moment.

I may never have done it before. I may never have had the courage, or the opportunity… But now... I came to this cemetery by coincidence.

Always thought the crosses looked pretty. Wanted to see them in the snow. And now I do see; it’s beautiful.

There he is. Burying a girl. I recognise his child.

President Hayward, what drove you to my maw?

Click-

Burying his daughter. Because he’s lost everything now, I think. His family, his country, his office. He’ll be all alone in the New World. Oh my God. If this is Global... does that mean the Illuminati are gone?

(Hallucinations. If they’ve started already, could this be one? Am I staring at nothing? Or could that man be an innocent stranger? The President... here... alone... improbable. Doesn’t fit the pattern).

Focus.

His matchstick reign has been toppled. How does it feel, Mr. Hayward? You’ve got nothing left. Dead daughter in the dirt. Dead country all around. The world will be new, and you’ll be frightened of it.

(Could be a stranger).

You’ll be frightened of everything.

Will it make you angry? Will it eat you?

Just like me.

I put the rifle down.

Though you’ll never know...

I walk into the snow, unseen.

...We’re kindred spirits now, Hayward.

Can feel the medication wearing off. Won’t have to wait too long. I’ll be blinded again.

The end is nigh.

The cemetery is a good place- a good place to start fresh. As good a place as any.

Snow is falling.

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 24+ by Cory Cramer

2009-01-11T03:56:49Z

Chapter Twenty-four+ by Cory Cramer

Washington D.C.

"We need to find the President," Director Clarkson said.

Amy glanced at the wounded. "I know," she said, aware of the fact that she would probably have to stay and attend to them.

"He went that direction carrying his girl," Clarkson said. "He couldn't have gone too far. I'll go find him and let him know where we're camped."

Amy took note of the fact that Clarkson didn't say he'd bring the President back, simply that he'd let him know where they were. It’s funny how even when civilization is in ruin some people never forget protocol. "Okay, I'll stay here and look after these guys."

"No," Alan interrupted firmly.

Amy and Clarkson, taken off guard by his assertiveness, turned their attention toward him.

"What did you say?" Clarkson asked, seemingly surprised at the interference from someone with no official power.

"I said, no." Alan began to painstakingly push himself up from the stretcher. "I need to talk to him first, before anyone else. And Frank here needs to tell him his message in person. Tom…er…I mean, The President will want details and he'll need to speak with Frank firsthand to get them." Alan pulled himself up with his unscathed arm and wobbled on his good leg, steadying himself by grasping the branch of a downed tree. "Whadaya say Frank? Up for a walk?"

"Yeah." Frank nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"How about you, Lieutenant Hunt?"

Amy looked into Alan's eyes and saw a fire; a scorching blue flame that she hadn't seen Alan Kelly cast since she was a young girl. It hadn't been there at the press conference following his DUI arrest. It hadn't been there when he'd gone on 20/20 and denied accusations of cheating on his ex-wife. She hadn't seen it when he answered questions in front of Congress after his nomination for Attorney General, and she damn sure hadn't seen it earlier today.

Yet there it was.

The old Alan Kelly she knew from two decades ago seemed to have returned, just like that. She took note of how he first startled Director Clarkson into silence, then quickly recruited Frank, someone who had already announced his desire for finding The President, and now to her, someone who--whether he knew it or not—would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he asked.

"Well?" He took her hand in his, gazed only at her, and lowered his voice. "You okay with that Lieutenant?"

Amy nodded before she spoke, forcing her diaphragm into action. "Yeah," she said a bit louder and more assertive than was necessary.

Alan turned to Director Clarkson. "You mind giving me a hand?"

Before Director Clarkson could process the fact that he'd just handed over command of their group to Alan he found himself flinging Alan's arm over his shoulders and helping him walk in the direction The President had gone. When no one was looking Amy grinned while walking alongside Frank, watching him for any signs of weakness that might lead him to faint, and scanning the street for any signs of another ambush.

***

Adrenaline comes in bursts; first a peak, and then a valley. Amy felt like she had descended into a deep glacial crevasse. A freezing north wind, which had gone virtually unnoticed until ten minutes into their search for The President, cut through her thin jacket and chilled the sweat covered blouse beneath it.

A deceiving clear blue sky hung above Washington. If a person were sitting inside and looking out a window they might think it was a pleasant day, but clear skies in the winter meant no clouds to trap heat near the surface. Amy wished she hadn't worked up such a sweat earlier while taking out the snipers. It would only mean more heat loss now that they'd slowed their pace. She considered walking behind Frank so she could use his large frame to block the frigid wind, but she refused to show that kind of weakness. She was a strong one. Everyone had always told her so.

They approached Arlington Cemetery and caught sight of The President, down on his knees, scooping semi-frozen clumps of dirt with his bare hands onto the remains of his daughter.

"Mr. President!" Director Clarkson shouted. "Mr. President!"

The President either didn't hear or refused to acknowledge the call.

Clarkson limped a few steps closer, hauling Alan along with him. "Mr. Pres—"

"That's enough," Alan said calmly. "Let him do what he needs to do."

Clarkson obeyed.

Amy, Frank, Alan, and Clarkson all watched as The President lifted one handful of dirt to his mouth after another, kissing it before tossing it into the shallow grave.

Amy didn't know how long it took The President to bury his daughter. It seemed like a very long time. When The President finished he climbed to his feet, turned, and caught sight of his onlookers for the first time. He marched toward them with purpose, tears absent from his eyes.

"Let me talk to him first," Alan said quietly.

No one else moved or spoke. Amy figured none of them knew the appropriate words.

Alan removed his arm from around Director Clarkson's shoulders and limped toward The President, putting weight on his injured leg just long enough to shuffle his good leg forward. The President took three strides for every lame step taken by Alan. This meant rather than meeting equidistant from where the group stood and the cemetery, Alan and The President met much closer to Amy, Frank, and Director Clarkson.

Tears fell from Alan's eyes as he hobbled toward The President. "I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm so sorry." Alan fell to his knees, reopening his wound and spilling fresh blood onto the frozen ground. He hugged The President around both his legs, sobbing.

The President stared ahead for a moment while his friend cried at his feet. He glanced at the rest of the group, who had been stunned into silence. Then he knelt down and wrapped Alan's arm over his shoulders and lifted him up off the ground.

Emotionless, he spoke, "Apology accepted."

Tears welled in Amy's eyes. Not because of the incredible bond of friendship she'd just seen tested and survive, but because she knew that Alan's feelings of guilt and indebtedness would never go away. Just as her feelings of guilt for not being able to save her family from the clutches of Lewis Mares would never go away. Fault didn't matter. Alan hadn't caused the alien invasion. Alan hadn’t pulled the trigger on the gun that shot The President's little girl. He couldn't be blamed for her death any more than Amy could be blamed for being too scared to walk into her parent's bedroom so she could shoot Mares before he killed them. Alan owed The President, just like Amy owed Alan. And even though Amy had saved Alan's life less than an hour ago, she felt no less indebted to him. Good people carry their debts and guilt forever, and Alan Kelly was a good man, with a burden he would carry for a long time.

The Lifting of the Veil - Chapter 19+ Cory Cramer

2009-01-11T03:56:23Z

Chapter 19 supplement by Cory Cramer

Washington D.C.

Lieutenant Amy Hunt stopped the zigzag pattern she'd been tracing and sprinted after Alan, who appeared to be on a suicide mission. Hunt moved as quickly as she could without lowering her weapon. She held the stock firmly against her shoulder, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard.

Alan remained in view, but was slowly pulling away from her despite her increased speed. Another few seconds and he would be too far away for her to lay cover fire without risking hitting him with an errant shot.

Alan twisted and fired his handgun. Lieutenant Hunt saw someone wearing a red baseball cap drop to the ground. Then she saw a second shooter approach Alan from behind. The shooter raised a shotgun to Alan's head. Lieutenant Hunt stopped and took aim.

It had been over 20 years since Amy Hunt had shot someone. Many of the same emotions flooded her senses now as she prepared to kill the man with the shotgun.

She had been eight years old the last time she aimed a loaded weapon at a living person. Back then, she had been speechless, terrified, and unsure if she should pull the trigger or run for her life. The sweat-and-blood covered man who had just stepped out of her parent's bedroom had paused when he saw her, seemingly unsure if he should flee or attempt to snatch the .38 caliber pistol from her as she stood there in her nightgown, crying, shaking, and squeezing the pistol with both hands.

Today, near the Washington Monument, Amy's hands didn't shake, she wasn't crying, and even though she was just as terrified, she was a much better shot than she'd been 20 years earlier. She gingerly tapped the trigger of her automatic weapon and fired a three shot burst at the dirt bag with the shotgun, dropping him instantly, sparing Alan's life. The action was quick, concise, and definitive. To anyone watching, Hunt appeared to have all the calm and professionalism of a seasoned SWAT team member.

But back when Amy was eight, things hadn't gone so smoothly. She'd closed her eyes and emptied an entire clip at short range, only hitting her family's murderer three times, none vital. The action had given her enough time to run to the neighbor's and call the police, but the bad guy didn't die like the dirt bag with the shotgun just had. He had survived the encounter - And so had Amy. Her mother, father, and twin younger brothers—every living relative she had—weren't as fortunate. They'd all fallen victim to now infamous Lewis Mares.

Mares managed to flee the scene despite his wounds and wasn't apprehended until three days later when the FBI located him at a hospital three states away. It was then that an aspiring prosecutor saved Amy's life.

The young attorney fought hard to shield Amy from a frenzied press desperate for information and ratings, and even though he had acquired enough evidence to send Mares to the electric chair, the prosecutor proposed a plea bargain instead, offering Mares 25 to life if he pled guilty and came clean on any other killings.

Mares accepted the offer. As part of his plea he admitted to 14 murders and 32 rapes, most of them girls under the age of twelve.

The press went wild. The story ran in nearly every major publication. Talk show hosts questioned the plea bargaining system all together. Rage boiled among the other victims' families. They all wanted Mares's head on a stake, and the fact that he would be eligible for parole when he was 55 years old instead of facing execution sickened them.

The prosecutor, however--despite all his ambition and his desire to make a name for himself on the national political scene--had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Amy never had to take the stand; she never had to look into the sick eyes of the man who murdered her family; she never had to be escorted through a crowd of ravenous reporters perched on the courthouse steps; and she never had to be interrogated by Mares's sleazebag defense attorney. In exchange for lessening Mares's sentence the prosecutor had kept Amy almost completely out of the press, and he'd given her a shot at a fresh start. A new life. He also used contacts at the witness protection program and arranged to have Amy adopted anonymously, at which time her name was changed from Kate Henderson to Amy Hunt.

Amy never saw the prosecutor in person again until earlier that day in the White House just before the alien attack. And although after twenty years the prosecutor didn't recognize her, she knew his face in an instant, former U.S. Attorney Alan Kelly, her hero, and the man who put his career on the line to give a little girl a second chance at a normal life.