Walter Greatshell - Apocalypso

“What is this, the inauguration of Grover Cleveland?”

Sandoval stepped from the chopper as if testing a hot bath, and was immediately swarmed with greeters. One of them was a man he had been told to expect: Kasim Bendis, the mercenary soldier known as Uncle Spam, who had advised the Reapers and was blown to smithereens while hunting Uri Miska. Sandoval had heard that Bendis arrived in Washington a shambling Xombie, little more than a blasted carcass, but clearly that report was old news. The man was completely intact again, a gentleman warrior in full command of his faculties as well as his brigade. He had also jumped several ranks, from major to major general.

“Welcome to Xanadu, Mr. Sandoval,” Bendis said.

“Thank you, Kasim. Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Yes, sir. Same to you.”

Sandoval and Bendis went way back. Long before Agent X, they and Chace Dixon had founded a private security firm that in the heat of 9/11 netted a billion-dollar contract to provide force protection for the U.S. military… among other things. Sandoval was the silent partner, supplying capital and global connections, Bendis brought the military expertise, and Chace Dixon handled PR. They called it the Charm School, and it included a Christian men’s retreat, a church, a survival-training camp, an airfield, and a weapons range frequented by individuals who did not like to be photographed. The Charm School worked closely with various intelligence agencies as an unofficial recruiting center, just as the seminary recruited from the ranks of ex-servicemen. It was a useful symbiosis, because the seminary was a place in which men were trained to submit their will to God, but it was hardly a place of passive worship. In Chace Dixon’s opinion, the assault on traditional values had begun long before Agent X, and men like these had been preparing all their lives to fight it. The Apocalypse came as no surprise to them. Accustomed to railing against government-funded birth control, legal abortion, illegal immigrants, and the election of a socialist, foreign-born Muslim for president, they were amazed it took so long. Yet even as Dixon’s wildest convictions were borne out, most of his men hadn’t known how to deal with it. With Xombies swarming the country, the Charm School fell into serious disarray, two thousand hard-ass holy warriors holed up like scared rabbits at their training camp. Believing the Second Coming was really upon them, they went to pieces, some disappearing into the chaos, others throwing their weapons down and devoting their final hours to prayer. They would have died that way, on their knees, if not for Kasim Bendis rallying them to action. It was Bendis who founded the Holy Avengers of Adam-the Adamites. He even came up with their slogan: “Give Me Back My Rib.” Then he was immediately dispatched south to mobilize an army of prison convicts-the Reapers.

Bendis presented Sandoval with the key to the city, a marching band struck up “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” and together they ventured outside to a tremendous ovation.

Emerging on the green of the Ellipse, near the Zero Milestone, Sandoval was spellbound. The city of Washington was apparently intact, and then some; in fact, it seemed to have reverted to an earlier, more genteel time. There was no automobile traffic, only the quaint sight of electric trolleys, horse-drawn carriages, and bicycle rickshaws ferrying loads of well-dressed burghers about the National Mall.

Strolling onto the grass with Bendis and an entourage of city officials, Sandoval was led to the base of the Washington Monument, which had been turned into an immense hood ornament, a winged colossus representing the First Man. The statue was a framework of iron bars with gas flames burning in its eyes. In its shadow was a tent big enough for a three-ring circus, full of lights, chairs, and buffet-laden tables, where Sandoval was subjected to dozens of toasts and many pious expressions of grace. He joined the toasts but didn’t touch the food or drink, blaming a bout of stomach flu. Afterward, he was taken on an all-day tour of the city, culminating in a parade in his honor.

The parade floats were unusual, with sponsors like EX-IT and RED-IT, both appearing to be aerosol deodorants, and there were dancers, jugglers, acrobats, soldiers, and more marching bands, each group flying the flag of Xanadu: a big blue X on a red background with white stars in the blue.

Sandoval asked, “What’s Red-It? Looks like some kind of energy drink.”

“You might say that. It’s what makes all this possible. It’s what our whole economy is based on. I believe you in Providence call it the Sacrament. It’s simply immune serum in a convenient aerosol form. We have commercialized it a bit more, but it’s still the same basic thing. Soon we will begin large-scale exports, and the Xombie problem will be eliminated worldwide.”

“Do you plan to give it away free?”

This caused a great eruption of hilarity from all in earshot. People crying with laughter.

Annoyed, Sandoval asked, “Then what’s Ex-It?”

“Ah. Now, Ex-It is something we’re all very excited about, a time-release cocktail combining the immune factor with an oxygen inhibitor and a specialized strain of the Maenad agent. With that one treatment, we can essentially reboot your body’s entire DNA structure in minutes, wiping out a lifetime of accreted cell damage, as well as any disease or injury. Everything is restored to mint condition, meaning that whatever age you are, you are now functionally back to zero, so you get a whole new lifetime. And you can use it again and again! But you already know all this, don’t you, Jim? I happen to know you’re a major investor in our wonderful products, as well as a customer.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Just making sure you all love the product as much as I do.”

“Oh, we do, believe me! Disease and death are things of the past in Xanadu, as are the personality clashes that have led to strife in all other human societies. Ex-It screens out more than ninety percent of subconscious stress factors, all that personal baggage we carry around from childhood, leading to a more homogeneous, receptive personality type. Man will finally be able to rise to his full potential.”

“And woman,” said Sandoval.

“And woman, of course.”

Last stop was the White House.

The White House glowed like a lamp in the settling dark, a civilized beacon of chilled air and electric light. Sandoval’s party was led inside and down a carpeted hallway, past elegant sitting rooms full of busts and portraits of former presidents, then through suites of offices. At last they were shown into a room filled with TV cameras and lights, where a man in a suit and tie sat at a table signing papers. No one failed to recognized both the man and the room in which he sat. It was the Oval Office.

“Oh my God,” Sandoval muttered.

Alarmed, Bendis said, “What?”

“It’s the president!”

“Oh, yes. Quite dignified, isn’t he?”

“I saw him shoot himself in the head. During an emergency bulletin.”

“Now, Mr. Sandoval. None of the best presidents ever needed a brain, just a signing pen.”

Jim Sandoval approached the president’s desk. There were several imposing-looking Secret Service agents standing by, but none attempted to stop him or indeed took any notice at all. A bucket brigade of elderly men was busily grabbing papers from an enormous stack, stamping them with the date, passing them to the president to sign, then crimping them with an official seal before piling them onto an even more enormous stack. Carts full of such documents rolled in and out. TV cameras monitored the proceedings.

Sandoval walked behind the president’s desk and peered over the man’s shoulder as he was handed a document. It was titled, Amendment to Federal Antitrust Act-Mogul Clause 3381C. Without reading it, the president automatically scrawled a large X and handed it off. Immediately, another document hit the desk, something about a Mogul bill to reinstate the Articles of Confederation, essentially abolishing all taxes. The president mimed signing those, too, then the next and the next and the next, just like an assembly line.