Walter Greatshell - Apocalypso

“What’s with the trailers?” Todd asked. “Aren’t there enough empty buildings to house everybody?”

“Trailers are easier to police and maintain. And transport, of course.”

“Jesus.” Ray erupted. “You’re treating women like animals in a zoo. They’re human beings.”

“Watch your language, punk. I’m letting you off with a warning this time because you’re new, but we don’t blaspheme around here. Next time, the penalty is scourging. And for your information, treating men and women equally is what brought down the whole human race.”

Shaking his head, Ray opened his scroll. It read:

WHO IS THE RISEN PROPHET?

As an acolyte of the RISEN PROPHET JIM SANDOVAL, you may well wonder, “Who is this PROPHET of OUR LORD?” The answer is simple: Born of a virgin, the PROPHET witnessed his mother’s struggles in the face of creeping socialism and the decline of American values. Early on, He developed an interest in politics, believing the System could be changed from within… but He soon learned the System was Rigged. Witnessing the corruption in Washington, the PROPHET realized it was impossible to run for higher office and remain Pure, so He quit the gutter of politics and devoted His attention to the Mogul Foundation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting Real American Values. The PROPHET’s wisdom was revealed in the choice of His first APOSTLE, CHACE DIXON, as the Voice of MoFo. The CHACE formula of high-energy talk and Apocalyptic prediction was a hit with millions of listeners worldwide, and CHACE’s interfaith ministry quickly expanded to include a publishing wing, a high-traffic Web site, and a cable TV show broadcast in over twenty countries, with corresponding outreach programs and affiliated churches, all dedicated to the Bible’s teachings that all ailments can be cured by prayer, and that atheists, witches, socialists, and homosexuals are abominations in the eyes of the LORD. There were many who called CHACE a crackpot, who derided his prophesies as nothing more than the ravings of a “shock jock.” Soon the world would learn that CHASE DIXON was a LIVING SAINT, whose words were all too true… but for most it would be too late. They would join THE ACCURSED, possessed by Miska and damned to roam the land for eternity. As followers of OUR LORD ADAM, we have been spared this fate! ADAM has shown us His favor by bestowing upon us the RISEN PROPHET JIM and the APOSTLE CHACE, hallowed be Their names. Thanks to these LIVING SAINTS, we need not fear either DEATH or UNDEATH, knowing that when that glorious day comes, our bodies will return to the Earth, and our Souls will be released to HEAVEN’S EVERLASTING PEACE. GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH!

“Anything good?” Todd asked.

“Same old, same old,” said Ray.

Suddenly a voice yelled, “The Prophet! Prophet on deck!”

“Holy shit, here we go,” muttered Barnstable.

The disciples jostled each other into loose ranks. From around the hill, a large group of bicycles appeared, their riders humming Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” They all wore gray robes and tall, cylindrical helmets. Gliding in their midst was a dramatic figure on a gold-ornamented chariot. With his boots and riding breeches and trailing white scarf, he looked like an old-time aviator. The flying motif extended to his electric scooter, which sported a figurehead of an angel with spread wings.

He was the Prophet James Sandoval.

Ray remembered his reaction when Sandoval first told him and Todd the news of his holy title:

“You?”

“Absolutely. Don’t act so surprised-it’s not as if I haven’t performed my share of miracles.”

“What miracles?”

“Saving all these people, for one thing. Before I came along they were like you, hiding out in ships and underground bunkers and sewers-you name it. Enter the Prophet James Sandoval, patron saint of radical Fundamentalist militias, and now the world is their oyster. Yours, too, for that matter. You may be aware of my considerable public holdings, including that submarine plant that was so dear to all of us. I actually have much bigger stakes in more obscure commodities, and the connections to move them. It’s an industry that thrives the more society breaks down-my partners and I call it our rainy-day fund. Women have always been a staple of this black market, but their value dropped to nothing after Agent X. Any that didn’t become Xombies were killed by fearful men, and the few that survive are still shunned or shot on sight. But not by us-not anymore. Thanks to me, we have no more Xombie problem, and thus no more need to hate or fear women. In fact, women are now our most precious resource, so we are gathering as many as we can find.”

Ray asked, “How many have you found?”

“Not nearly enough. Maenads are incredibly hard to catch now that we’re immune to them, so the women we have are mostly elderly survivors or very young girls. The girls at least offer some hope for the future, but in the meantime, they’re a logistical nightmare. Part of the problem is I’m dealing with a lot of men who are still reliving the Xombie Apocalypse. A lot of these guys probably never liked women to begin with, and now all they want to do is kill them. I thought with a little forward progress we could start toning down the macho bullshit, but it hasn’t worked out that way. God’s approval has only made them more fanatical.”

Todd asked, “Excuse me, Mr. Sandoval, but I don’t understand how you survived in the first place. I could have sworn I saw you get killed at Thule. Weren’t you run over by a tank?”

Sandoval sighed. “It’s a long story, son. Suffice it to say I had unfinished business, and I never shirk when it comes to business.”

“What kind of business?”

“What kind of business do you think? I’m here to save the world.”

As the Prophet’s entourage approached the clearing, a larger group swept in from the street on the opposite side, chanting and spreading incense. The chant sounded like Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise.” These men were not on bicycles but on in-line skates, identical with their scythe-bladed hockey sticks and black hooded sweatshirts-a mob of street hockey Grim Reapers. Rolling among them was another vehicle liberated from mall security, an electric cart with a small freight bed, on which a huge gold crucifix stood like an uprooted tree. Ray recognized its driver as the Apostle Chace Dixon. The Living Saint.

After his recent encounter with Dixon, Ray had ransacked his memory for what he knew about the man. There wasn’t much. He knew Dixon had been incredibly wealthy-which his followers took as the surest sign of God’s approval. His success had drawn the mighty to him, particularly those who were less interested in the meek inheriting the Earth than in Congress repealing the inheritance tax. Oh, they had tithed richly for that gospel, and Dixon was only too happy to give it to them. His pulpit had aimed squarely at a certain breed of militantly prosperous Christian who was ready to ditch fuddy-duddy traditions of charity for a dose of stronger dope-and Chace was just the doctor to write the prescription.

The two groups met in the middle.

“Welcome, Your Greatness, welcome,” Dixon said grandly, assuming the role of host as he bowed before Sandoval.

Sandoval impatiently gestured for him to rise, saying, “Thanks, Dix.”

Hopping lightly up to the microphone, Dixon said, “Thank you, O Holy One.” Was there perhaps just the slightest tinge of sarcasm in his voice? Gesturing toward the marble dome of the State House, he indicated the gold statue on its summit and addressed the assembly: “Divine Providence! Since the founder of this city was a clergyman, I feel that at long last it is time to raise a cross atop our capitol. The glorious unification of church and state has finally been achieved-hallelujah!”