Ascension: Invocation (27 page)

"Do you know that I've worn this uniform for 33 years? In that time, I've been all over South America, Africa and the Middle East, mostly fighting other people's wars. Wars and conflicts that didn't matter shit to anyone back home. My first deployment was to Chad. You ever hear of that conflict, Mr. Barry?" Graham shook his head 'no'. "That's all right. Nobody did. But my point is this: I've seen warriors all over this planet. I've had the pleasure of working alongside some of the most elite military forces known to modern man. I've also been fortunate to do battle alongside common street thugs, guerrilla soldiers and children, literally kids, fighting to protect their cities and towns, their crops, their brothers and sisters. Over time, I noticed that they all had one thing in common. Do you know what that was, Mr. Barry?"

"No, I don't."

"It takes a while but eventually you learn to spot it. It's something in the pupil. It's hard to explain but it's there. It's an unrelenting rage. Fury, really. It's the look of a man that doesn't recognize consequences. It's pure id. Do you know what that is?"

"I think so..."

"I didn't either but I studied on it. The ‘id’ is just a concept. It’s not an actual ‘thing’. It’s nothing tangible you can put your hands on. Turns out, though, there's a part of your brain called the amygdala. I've got one, you've got one. It's just a section of grey matter. That's where the rage part of your 'id' lives. You also have another piece of brain called the orbital cortex. That piece is supposed to put the brakes on the amygdala when that rage hits critical mass. Sometimes, it doesn't, though. For some folks, the orbital cortex just withers away over time. Others, it seems, are just born without it working at all. This is where you get your serial killers, real loony types."

"Okay."

"Not that it matters now, but science, from what I understand, was real close to figuring out how to scan brains and look for these warning signs in kids and such. They want to find a reason that the orbital cortex just starts to fall apart in some people. That's right, isn't it doctor?"

"Yes. I mean, I believe so. I'm not a neuro-"

"After a while, though, Graham, when you’re fighting with and against these types; the kind doing 110 without brakes. You can just see it. You don't need a brain scan to tell you. It's written deep in their eyes. It's a cold, dead look. No. That's wrong. That implies there's no emotion. There's emotion all right. But it's just one emotion: Hate. No empathy, no love, no second guessing. It's just a brain wired for hate. You sure as fuck don't want to try and reason with it."

“Sounds frightening.”

“It is, Graham. Personally, I think the orbital cortex is a safety. It’s part of a complex, primal wiring system in our brains. When that orbital cortex shuts down, we’re walking around just waiting for any provocation to set us off. And we’re wired poorly, you see. Just the slightest jarring motion can kick that amygdala into gear. When it clicks... I think that’s who we really are. In fact, I think that orbital cortex only exists to ensure that we didn’t kill each other straight into extinction long ago. If it wasn’t there, I believe we’d crawl out of our mother and, first thing, rip her throat out.”

"I guess I just don't appreciate what you're trying to say, General."

"You don't have that look."

"I don't, huh? I'm not wired for hate?"

"Don't take that the wrong way. I can see that you're capable of hate."

"Oh... good?"

"But guess who in this room is wired that way, Mr. Barry?"

Graham was now worried that the General was going to punch him or something. He answered on guard. "I... don't... know."

"It's all right. You can say it. I've got it, Graham. So does the doctor over here. So does everyone I've encountered lately; everyone since the cloud was released. I think whatever is in that gas in the sky is eating away at that safety in our brains. It’s preparing everyone on this planet for a hard reset. It’s slowly returning us to our core. When all is said and done, the ones that stand in the rain will ascend full of vitriol... and that hate. Those left behind will wander the Earth in the same state but without purpose. You’re different, though. I can see it. I think your brain is wired the same but there’s something inside you that prevents you from losing it until you’re ready."

"So... what does that make me?"

"It makes you special, Graham. It means you're not like us. It means what that little girl said was true. You're different. That's why the voice chose you."

"All right. Then... what? What exactly are you asking me to do?"

"When the time comes you can't ascend."

“So, you want me to stay behind and be the only sane person in a world full of homicidal zombies? Explain to me why the hell I would want to do that.”

“It’s what you’re supposed to do. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what your calling is but Sariana was very clear.”

“My family has plans to ascend, General. I’m going with them.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t allow that.”

"General Ramsey," Milan tried to interrupt. "With all due respect, why don’t we just allow him to think..."

"That's ridiculous," Graham said. "You can't do that. This is a personal decision. It has nothing to do with you or the government..."

"I'll grant you one of the two. It has nothing to do with the government. But it has everything to do with me... and everyone else who won't stand in the rain. I won’t allow you to leave us stranded here."

“I can assure you, General, I have no special knowledge to bring to the table.”

“I think you do.” With that, Ramsey stood up. “You’re not to leave these premises.”

Being sequestered at the station was nothing new for Graham but, for the first time, he now felt like a prisoner. He was angry but thought better of an outburst. Graham needed time to sort everything out. He left the office with his dignity in tact and returned to the studio.

“Do you think we might be able to prove your theory of changing brain chemistry?” Milan asked.

“I don’t know anything about proving theories, doctor.”

“But with my help, perhaps we can show the populace...”

“We’re out of time. We’re taking over the broadcast and then I’m giving orders to release the Queen.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Later that evening
, as had been previously indicated, the entire Earth was engulfed by the thick, yellow cloud. Yet, it continued to permeate from the great tear. As the media announced the seeming completion of the process, the world waited for the downpour. The streets of every city were crowded with citizens, some huddling their families inside tents, catching sleep when they could. No one wanted to miss the first few drops.

There were hold-outs, of course. It was estimated that, at least, fifteen percent of the population of every major U.S. city would remain indoors during the event. Each had their reasons for staying in. Some cited religious scripture, others a government conspiracy, some even admitted that Sariana’s brief appearance had swayed them but most simply feared execution. The infirm were another issue entirely. Medical personnel everywhere struggled with the morality of whether or not to place comatose or otherwise incapacitated patients in the rain. Those without next of kin additionally had specified nothing regarding other-worldly life-forms in their living wills. And what of the orphans and animals? Who would decide their fate?

News of Sariana's death by gunman had been little more than a brief story on the national news. As quickly as she had rocketed to fame and notoriety, so quickly did she also become little more than an afterthought. Alicia was jailed, awaiting trial, for the murder of Sariana's shooter and, of course, was promptly fired from her job at the network. Triton immediately tried to sweep the entire mess under the rug. Alicia’s interview with Sariana never aired. Alex succeeded in convincing the network that the tape contained nothing more than the rantings of a Satanist and a biased, obviously deranged correspondent. Alicia, after all, had simply snapped under the pressure of her job and the chaos surrounding the tear. For the moment, Sariana left this dimension with very little fanfare.

In Alabama, as the moon hazily shown through the fog on an especially dark night, Graham sat in the studio waiting for word from the voice. He imagined an elaborate countdown not unlike New Year's Eve to usher in the rain. Throughout the rest of the building, the scientists, mathematicians, government and military officials made themselves busy analyzing data and debating the outcome. Some, however, just did their best to occupy their minds as they waited. A few read books, others surfed the net and more than a few iPods were shuffling through personal, apocalyptic soundtracks.

Many of the intellectuals had their families flown in and children could be seen watching movies on laptops, eating their snacks, seemingly oblivious to the chaos surrounding them. The yellow, Victorian house was growing ever more crowded but as the evening stretched into night, many of the families were being escorted by the military to nearby hotels. Others, bundled in sleeping bags, leaned on each other and dozed in the hallways. Graham felt bad for the military personnel. While he hadn't heard any official word, it appeared that they weren't extended the courtesy of having their families near.

The little radio station in Tuscumbia remained patched in and beamed worldwide via satellite. It occupied 88.7 FM, a non-com frequency, available to anyone with a radio. Most, however, were listening online courtesy of a special dot-gov website the military had set up. Graham occupied his time monitoring the stream, playing music and giving periodic updates regarding the cloud. The military had instructed him not to take calls from listeners. The broadcast was to be solely for informational purposes. No conjecture allowed. It was probably for the best. Graham didn't feel much like playing talk show host. The General did, however. Graham had barely had time to consider the overtures he’d made less than an hour before when Ramsey arrived in his studio with Milan in tow.

“Show me how to work this,” the General said to Graham. “Put me on the air.”

Graham did as he was told as Ramsey and Milan gathered around the microphones. He potted the song down and radio silence hung on the frequency. “When you’re ready, just press the red button and you’re on the air.”

“Are you good?” the General asked Milan. Milan nodded and Ramsey popped the mic. He took a breath and a Beatles song began to play.

“If the rain comes they run and hide their heads.

They might as well be dead.

If the rain comes, if the rain comes...”

“What’s going on? How do I stop this?” Ramsey asked Graham.

Before he could answer, a commotion began outside the studio door. An authoritative yet clearly excited voice rang out in the hall. "All right, people. Here we go. I want an orderly line outside. We don't know how long this is going to last." The three men immediately looked toward the window and strained to see through the darkness. In the moonlight they could see a brown pollen-like substance landing on the glass. Graham thought it looked like chocolate milk falling from the sky. For the moment, it was a light mist. Suddenly, a woman opened the door to the studio.

"Mr. Barry, please alert your listeners that the elemental rain has begun in North and South America. Nothing in Europe, Africa, Asia or the Middle East so far." She only now noticed the General. “Sir,” she said and snapped to attention.

“As you were. You’re dismissed, Corporal.”

Graham looked to the General and Milan. They had a defeated look about them. Outside the moderately soundproofed room, they could hear laughter. Down the road, car horns sounded and firecrackers popped. A celebration was beginning. The General slowly stepped aside.

Graham stepped to the mic and let the song continue to play under his voice. "Well, good news and bad news," he said to the world. "The good news is that the rain is here. We no longer have to wait. The bad news?” Graham thought for a moment. He did briefly consider using the opportunity to convey what he understood to be Sariana’s message. Ultimately, he said, “Well, I guess I'll let you know. I’m going to leave you for a short time while I take in the rain myself. When I return... if I return, I guess... I’ll give you an indication of how it felt and what to expect as the rain makes its way to your part of the world. I do feel the need to say this, however. We each have a choice to make today. Please remember to respect those individual choices. Everyone today should be allowed to do as their soul dictates. You have free-will. This is likely to be the most important decision you have ever made. I, for one, feel as if I am being called home today. Everything inside me indicates that I’m ready to progress forward, as the voice we have come to know has indicated. You might not feel that way. It may not be your time. Perhaps you’re meant for another destiny. I appreciate that. I believe that’s okay. Just look inside and do what your spirit compels you to do. You’ll make the right decision. Please allow others the courtesy of doing the same. Should this be the last time we speak, I wish you godspeed and safety in your journey... to wherever that may be.”

His message would now be translated into 6,800 languages via the web and various apps. With that, Graham clicked off the mic, switched the automation on and turned to face Ramsey and Milan. The General already had his sidearm aimed at Graham’s head. No one in the room was entirely surprised. Graham slowly raised his hands because that's what people do in the movies under these circumstances.

“I’m sorry, Graham. I told you. I can’t let you stand in the rain.”

“General...”

The studio doors burst open and two soldiers entered with their guns fixed on Ramsey.

“Drop the weapon, sir!!” one of them demanded. “Now!” Ramsey did not immediately comply. Two red dots danced on his right temple and forehead. “If you do not drop the weapon, we will be forced to fire, sir.”

“Just let me go,” Graham urged. “No one else has to die today, General. You can't possibly believe that I am supposed to make such a difference.”

Graham heard a strange noise. It sounded to Milan like the air cracked for a second. A rush of blood then poured from the General's arm as he dropped the pistol.

"Both of you! Out now!" one of the soldiers' ordered to Graham and Milan. They quickly moved to the hallway. If anyone heard the ruckus inside the studio, they didn't appear to be bothered. A few stragglers passed the two men as they stood awkwardly against the wall, half awaiting further instructions. Graham was the first to break from the stun of the shooting.

"Doctor... I have to go," he said with a shrug.

Milan didn't know what he should do. "Graham, I respect your... I don't feel you completely understand..."

Graham began backing away down the hallway as politely as he could. "I'm sorry, doctor. This is what I need to do." He disappeared into the small crowd of families and military personnel. Milan wondered what would be the right thing to do. Should he chase after him? Tackle him in the crowd and attempt to restrain Graham until the rain stopped? Could he? Should he shout to anyone that might listen and warn them of the collective, impending doom awaiting them all just outside those doors? In the end, Milan over-thought the moment. He didn't try to stop him and soon Graham was long out of view.

As his mind raced, Milan saw a familiar face emerging just ahead. "Charles!" Dr. Trumboldt heard him, smiled and inched his way. "Did you... have you come from the rain?"

"Indeed."

"Your whole family? They arrived safe I presume?"

"Absolutely. My entire family is here."

"Good, good. Charles, you know... the girl. She was killed..."

"Yes," Charles frowned. "I just felt terrible when I heard."

"The reporter, Alicia, she murdered the man who..."

"I know. I... heard all about it. It's awful."

"The General was just shot."

"Oh, my!"

"He was trying to keep Mr. Barry out of the rain..."

"Milan," Charles placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's not much time. You should take in the rain."

"Oh. No. I don't think I will."

"It's perfectly safe. After all, look at me. I'm still here."

"Yes. Yes, of course," Milan shook his head in agreement. "You seem... a little different."

Charles smiled kindly and whispered, "I feel fantastic! Milan, I've never felt so alive. So... perfect." He nodded to the front porch. "Go see for yourself. Surely, you're at least curious."

It was in this instant that Milan realized that he was Sariana's sole remaining witness. He was the final champion of a lost cause. What could one man do but watch the atrocity unfold from a safe distance. It was too late. It was over. Milan looked into Charles' now kind and gentle eyes. "Yeah, sure. Why not?" He gave a sigh and made his way to the front of the building.

With Milan out of view, Charles entered the studio and secured the door behind him. General Ramsey's hulking body was propped up against the wall. A makeshift bandage fashioned from a radio station t-shirt ceased the flow of blood from his arm. Charles sat across from the General in the announcer's chair.

"I don't suppose you're an M.D. too?" the General asked.

"That is incorrect."

That wasn't Dr. Trumboldt's voice. It was a familiar one, however. The General now noticed a small puncture wound on Charles' neck. He closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah! I see. So, we meet in the flesh."

"Indeed. It is a pleasure to see you again, God Vili."

"Again? And what?"

"Our paths have crossed before this day."

"I definitely don't recall that."

"No. You wouldn't. We made that a certainty long ago."

"All right. Are we just going to talk in circles or..."

"No."

There was a long silence as Dr. Trumboldt's eyes took in the injured man.

"So, what then?" the General asked. "What do you want? Why are you here... with me? Shouldn't you up there in space celebrating your victory? Preparing tractor beams or something?"

"I am sorry. You are correct. We should proceed." The voice stood and thought for a moment. "I wonder, do you know me at all? Is anything about me familiar?"

"What are you talking about? You're the voice from the radio."

The man bent down to Ramsey's level. "If you would... look at me. What do you see?"

"I see Dr. Charles Trumboldt but I know you're not him. You murdered him."

"Interesting. It still fascinates me."

"What? What does?"

"Your dementia."

"I'm of perfectly sound mind. You can count on that."

The voice smiled and slowly returned to the center of the room.

"God Vili, for crimes against the Original Consciousness, for disrupting the evolution of your soul group and for leading the Circle of Nine-"
"I don't know what any of that means."

"- in an attempt to forsake the true fate of Lucifer in the Omniverse for only the betterment of your own self interests-"

"What?"

"- for the systematic, attempted genocide of your own kind, for misleading the Masters Of Wisdom and for the unjust, forced exile of those who opposed the Circle-"

"Are you serious?"

"You are hereby sentenced to Death. Your soul shall be extinguished for eternity and you will henceforth be forever without reprisal. Do you understand?"

The General was now visibly shaken. "No. No, I don't understand any of that."