Apocalypso

CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MOSH PIT

Todd and Ray were sworn in as disciples of the Prophet Jim.

It was a strange process, requiring them first to stuff themselves with rich foods like cheese, cured meats, and canned fruitcake, then to become violently ill for three days. Purged to the point of dehydration and delirium, they were forced to confess their sins and desires at the end of a red-hot poker. After declaring their total fealty to the approved pantheon of gods and prophets, they were stripped to the waist-their revealed torsos covered with cross-shaped welts-and doused in freezing water almost to the point of drowning. Finally, they were allowed to sleep. For years, it seemed.

When they awoke, it was to gentle voices, soft robes, and delicious bread and soup.

Then the praying began. Prayers before meals, after meals, before bed, upon waking, and randomly throughout the day, religious obeisance required before and after engaging in any activity, however trivial, a constant, compulsive drone of gratitude and contrition.

Time blurred. Reality warped.

“Yoo-hoo. Wake up, sleepyhead. I’d like to show you something.”

Ray awoke to find a man’s face staring at him, inches away. It was a bulbous, boyish face, the face of a middle-aged schoolboy with hair sleeked back like a sumo. It took Ray a second to remember where he was: in his new quarters on the fourth floor of the Westin Hotel. Todd’s room was down the hall. The hotel was less luxurious than it had been formerly, having no heat, running water, electricity, working elevators, or room service, but it still looked pretty snazzy. Most of the disciples were bivouacked next door in the Providence Place Mall, camped out on the floor of Macy’s or Old Navy, and taking their meals in the Food Court.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ray asked in alarm.

“Whoa. Hey. Easy there, big fella. It’s only little ol’ me, Chace Dixon.”

The name didn’t immediately register. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Ray, I know it’s been a while, but come on. Don’t you recognize me?”

Oh shit. Ray hurriedly braided the frayed ends of his wits. Chace Dixon. Media Mogul and associate of Jim Sandoval. He owned an apartment in Jim’s building, and Ray had met him a few times in passing. What the hell was he doing here?

Then it hit him. Ray said, “Are you the Apostle Chace?”

“Did you just realize that? I love it! I was just thinking about you, and thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

“Hello… and good-bye.” Ray rolled over to face the wall.

Dixon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ray, do you believe in miracles?”

“Not really.”

“I love that! Thank you. If only more people around here were so honest! Yet you must admit it’s a strange coincidence that you and I should meet each other again, here on the far side of the Apocalypse. One might even call it fate.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Of course it is! It’s totally nuts. But then that’s pretty much the definition of a miracle.”

“Or mental illness.”

“This from someone who claims to have seen Elvis.”

“Yeah, but I know it wasn’t really Elvis-it was Uri Miska.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loud-some people around here wouldn’t take kindly to it.”

“Why not?”

“I mean these Elvis visitations have inspired a bit of a cult. It’s a time of miracles and wonders; people are primed to believe in anything, including Elvis. They don’t want to think he’s an imposter.”

“But you know he is.”

“Let’s just say it’s part of my job description to promote miracles and wonders.”

“Have you even seen him?”

“Seen him?” Dixon said. “We shot him.”

“You what? Shot him?”

“Yes indeedy. After what happened to us last time we were in this town, my sentries are on a hair trigger; they shoot anything that moves. One of them put a twelve-gauge shotgun load in Elvis’s chest. Blew a hole you could have stuck your fist through, but it had no effect on him. He just kind of shook it off, and said, ‘Don’t do that, man.’ Then he was gone. I ordered the men not to report anything until I could get to the bottom of it. Thanks to you and your friend, I think we have.”

“Miska thinks you’re threatening the survival of the human race by spreading immunity to the Xombies. He says some kind of Armageddon is coming that only Xombies can survive.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think Miska’s probably crazy.”

“Put your shoes on,” Dixon said, getting up off the bed. “I’d like to show you something.”

He led Ray through a dark parking garage that connected the hotel to the Convention Center. The latter was a large, glass-faced building resembling an airport terminal. Unlike the mall or the hotel, there were very few people around.

As they walked, Dixon said, “It’s not as if I was ever that pious before Agent X. I believed in God, but organized religion was a tool of manipulation, a way to control the masses. I thought it was purely psychological, but then I had never had any real evidence to the contrary.”

Leading at a brisk pace, Dixon took Ray down a utility corridor to a heavy double door marked EMERGENCY EXIT-ALARM WILL SOUND.

In a hushed voice, he said, “We call this the Mosh Pit.”

He unbolted the door and pulled it open. On the other side was a dim balcony overlooking a huge convention hall full of people. Not people-Xombies. Thousands of eerily quiet Exes, all staring up at them. Even fifty feet above that sea of blue faces, Ray felt panic squeeze his guts like a big cold hand.

“What are they all doing here?” he asked.

“They’re locked in.”

“Why?”

“Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Originally, we intended to burn the whole thing down, but then we realized it wasn’t necessary. They can’t get out. It’s like storing nuclear waste. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“How’d they all get here in the first place?”

“Some are Red Cross workers and National Guard who tried to set up a safe zone during the outbreak. The rest are poor suckers who made the mistake of taking shelter here. I figure there are around twenty or thirty thousand of them altogether. Once the disease got loose among them, it was all over-we locked the doors and barricaded them shut. It’s terrible, I know, but at least they’re not suffering.”

“Not suffering? It looks like Auschwitz down there.”

“If these things suffered, they’d be dead by now. They’ve been in here almost four months without food or water. Do you smell any rot or decay? No. They don’t die; they don’t feel pain. In the early days, we wasted a lot of ammo on them before we realized they don’t stay dead, either whole or in pieces. Good thing, too, because now we have a big supply of Hellions for the Prophet to convert. He does a few every Sunday.”

“Convert how?”

“They are Sealed with the Sacrament, just as you were.”

“If you say so. Listen, this is freaking me out-can we go?”

“In a minute. I want you to see something first.”

“What?”

“Here, put this on.” He handed Ray a safety harness and donned one himself.

To the right of the balcony was a metal ladder up to the roof beams. Dixon checked Ray’s harness, and together they climbed up there, clipping onto a safety line as they followed the steel beams to an electric winch in the middle of the ceiling. Attached to the winch was a large hook intended to hoist heavy stage lights or other equipment. With a thumbs-up, Dixon affixed the hook to Ray’s harness and pushed the boy off the edge.

“Whoa, hey, shit!” Flailing wildly, Ray swung out into space. Then Dixon pressed the DOWN button.

“Stop!” Ray shrieked. “What are you doing?” The Xombies rustled at the sound of his voice, swaying like a field of reeds in the wind.

Dixon ignored his cries. As Ray slowly descended, the blue masses cleared an opening for him, a bare atoll in that sea of yearning faces. Ray screamed for help, sobbing, begging, trying to climb the wire, anything, but there was no escape.

The Xombies stared upward, intent on his progress… though not nearly as frenzied as he would have expected. In fact, they looked a little bored, as though they had been through this routine many times and didn’t have the energy. Perhaps it was too easy for them, no challenge-why should they have to work for it? Scrunching his body into a fetus-shaped kernel of anticipation, Ray dropped right into their midst.

They made no move to touch him. In fact, they dismissed him entirely, turning all their attention back on Chace Dixon.

Oh my God.

Dixon called down, “Pretty neat, huh?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Hold that thought.” He hit a wall switch, and the winch raised Ray to the catwalk. In a moment, both men were out of their harnesses and back on the balcony. “Not bad, huh?”

“What does this mean? How did you do that?”

“Not so crazy now, am I?”

“How are you controlling them?”

“I’m not controlling them-God is.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean this is all real, Ray. Blind faith no longer required. I wanted to demonstrate to you that the Lord really is on our side if we choose to serve Him. There really are angels and demons waging a war between Heaven and Hell, and it’s up to us to choose sides. You’re not dealing with deluded religious nuts. This is not like the Grammy Awards or the Super Bowl, where the winner thanks God and everybody rolls his eyes because it’s such bull. This is for real, an actual miracle. As long as you’re with us, you are Hellion-proof.”

Ray was still in shock; he could barely stand. Voice quaking, he asked, “H-how?”

“The Prophet has interceded on your behalf. You’ve been through the purification ceremony, been anointed with the blood of the lamb; now your sins are forgiven.”

“But that’s all just symbolism. How can that make a difference?”

“There are no symbols anymore, no empty ceremonies. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Ray! Everything is exactly what it seems.”

He took Ray back outside and chained the doors.