Pandemic Page 116

He pulled Sofia tighter. “Come on, we have to move.”

She seemed to gather the last of her strength. She gently pushed away, stood on her own two feet. “Move where?”

Where? Good question. Whatever was coming would check this room, check the nearby rooms as well. If he and Sofia were going to survive, they had to find something better … maybe find a car and get the hell out of Chicago, maybe reach the Mary Ellen.

“Hold on a second,” he said, then ran back into the conference room and grabbed the two coats. He shrugged his on, offered Jeff’s to Sofia.

“Outside,” he said. “We have to go outside.”

Sofia rubbed her face. She nodded. “Well … shit. Had to happen sooner or later, I guess.”

She put on Jeff’s coat. Cooper slid under her shoulder and helped her forward. He held the gun tight as the roars grew louder.

SERMON ON THE MOUNT

Steve Stanton stood tall, his hands resting lightly on the balcony’s marble railing. Wide stairwells descended on the left and the right, but his followers were packed in so tight Steve couldn’t see a single step. Below, a sea of reverent faces gazed up at him. Skylights above shone a pale yellow, letting in the scant late-morning sunlight that managed to penetrate the winter storm blowing outside.

He was in the Art Institute of Chicago, a place dedicated to the beauty of the human race. With the help of the people packed in to hear him, to follow him, he would destroy that beauty, and that race as well. This place was a fitting cathedral for the newly born flock to hear his message.

The Converted murmured in anticipation, in excitement. They waited for him to speak.

Until just a few days ago, Steve hadn’t believed in a higher power. Now he knew one existed, and knew that this divine being had chosen him to lead — when God stands with you, no man can stand against you.

The people on the stairs, the faces down below, they were all God’s children, but they were not all the same. Some had the mark of the triangle on foreheads or cheeks. Others of that type had no visible marks, because clothes hid their blessings.

Even if the signs were hidden, Steve could just look at a person and know their caste.

Those marked with the triangles were hatchling hosts, walking incubators who were soon to give up their lives for the glory of God’s very first creation.

Then there were the mothers- and fathers-to-be, people already swelling with God’s love. Soon they would be moved away from the city center to areas where humans huddled in offices and stores and apartment buildings. When these parents blossomed, the winter wind would carry spores to places that the Chosen could not reach.

The triangle-tongues made up the main body of Steve’s growing army. Stable and reliable, but also vicious, hungry and smart. Not as intelligent as he was, of course, but capable of thinking for themselves, able to follow orders to the letter or problem-solve when those orders no longer made any sense.

A scant few of the faces below belonged to leaders, people closer to Steve’s own intelligence. Like him, these individuals showed no outward sign of any kind. Yet, they had something inside of them, something that called to the other castes, made the hatchling hosts and triangle-tongues and parents-to-be want to follow, made them need to please and obey.

And God’s final creation: the bulls. Steve didn’t know who had first used that nickname, but it fit perfectly. Something to do with local sports teams, apparently. There were very few bulls so far; many had perished during the conversion process, either in their cocoons or shortly after hatching. Whole-scale restructuring of the human body carried a high risk of failure.

Steve had ordered his few “finished” bulls to stay out of sight for now. Bulls were harder to control. They were more violent than even the triangle-tongues. The last thing Steve needed was fighting among the people.

Soon, however, he’d let his bulls run.

All of these castes would do anything he said. They would obey. They would kill. If he asked them to, they would die.

He raised his hands; they fell silent.

“My friends,” he said. “This is the start of something wonderful.”

His words echoed slightly off the stone walls, making him feel far more grand, far more powerful. His speech carried the will of God.

“You have been chosen,” he said. “Every one of you feels this in your heart, just as I do. You used to be workers and bosses, teachers or policemen. You used to be shopkeepers and soldiers. You served in a hundred other roles. What you were before no longer matters, because now we are one.”

The smiles, the nods, the wide-eyed stares of bliss. They knew. They believed.

“Everyone here understands that humans are the enemy, that they must be destroyed,” Steve said. “We will accomplish that, but we can’t act like animals. The American military will strike back, and soon. They will start with the cities where the violence is out of control, where it is clear our people have taken over. We can’t help those other cities. We can only help ourselves. Therefore, as we accomplish our goals, we have to draw as little attention as possible.”

Heads nodded. Some put hands over hearts. Some even cried. The power of God flowed through Steve Stanton.

He had seen the news coverage of Paris. He had to make sure his followers didn’t do anything stupid like that. Cities mattered.

“Spread the word — do not destroy power facilities. Leave all power lines and transformers alone. Do not destroy any communication. Telephone lines, utility poles, cell-phone towers, leave them all be. And no more fires. If any of you see a Chosen One setting a fire, kill that person and make an example of them. Am I understood?”

Chapter end