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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Xombies: Apocalypso
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“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.
So this was it, Sandoval realized. All these resurrected Moguls were rewriting bills for the president to sign. The man was a drone—like all the other drones here. They were converted Xombies, brainless ghouls resurrected and trained like monkeys to sign MoCo’s wish list into law. The White House had become a factory for rewriting history, manipulating the future by deleting the past. A giant propaganda organ. The dead president was just a puppet, making America safe for permanent Mogul domination.
As they left, Sandoval asked, “Mr. Bendis, who’s in charge of all this? You?”
Bendis grinned, suddenly resembling the death’s-head he had so recently been. “Oh no, Mr. Chairman.”
“Then who is?”
“No one. That’s the
point
.”
The big ceremony took place that evening, in front of the Lincoln Memorial.
There were tens of thousands of spectators, all of them new converts. The packed field of West Potomac Park was solemn as a cathedral, lit by bonfires that resembled votive candles on a crowded altar. Atop the memorial’s promontory, two flatbed trailers were planked over to make a platform for the prisoner.
As Sandoval and his party watched from their places of honor by the stage, a man was led up there, bound, blindfolded, gagged, and chained at the wrists and ankles. It was Chace Dixon. He was remarkably calm, as if expecting nothing other than what he was getting.
The guard pulling Dixon wore a black hood that made him look like a medieval executioner. Once the prisoner was secured to a steel post, the guard removed his blindfolds and gags so Dixon could see the mob staring back at him.
Kasim Bendis climbed the stage to swelling applause. “Good evening, citizens of Xanadu,” he said. “We are here tonight to honor James Bernard Sandoval, whose warning of the imminent threat posed by agents of intolerance and discord allowed us to prevent what surely would have been a catastrophic attack on our fair city. Let us put our hands together for this hero of our people. Thank you, Jim!”
Bowing to the cheers, Sandoval stood up and went to the podium. “All of you know now of the dangers you face. The immediate threat is gone, but the hidden danger remains, and lurks right here among you. It is up to every one of you to stop the Moguls from enslaving the human race just to gratify their lust for power. They have destroyed human civilization in their quest for ultimate control of life and death, and now they want to replace it with a society of mindless, groveling serfs. I know the Moguls because I was a Mogul, and all they are interested in is total dominion. They don’t want to worship God, they want to be worshipped
as
gods! You must not abet them in this!”
The crowd was silent.
Dixon stood up out of his chains, and asked Kasim Bendis, “May I?”
“Please,” said Bendis.
It was an elaborate trap. Sandoval was suddenly very conscious of gun muzzles pressed into his back. Chace Dixon addressed the assembly:
“Jim Sandoval, everyone,” he quipped, applauding tepidly. “Jim, this little speech has been interesting, but all of us here have worked too hard and sacrificed too much to stop what we’ve begun. Just because it doesn’t meet your high moral standards? This from a man who betrayed his sacred oath and sold out his brethren? I don’t think so. These fine people won’t allow it. God won’t allow it.
I
won’t allow it.
“No, we are going back to the old ways, the good old days, when men were men and women knew their proper place as child-bearers, guardians of home and hearth. Think of Genesis. Was it an accident that Agent X struck women first, and that they spread it to men? Was it an accident that most of the men who survived were in protected hideaways that traditionally shunned women? Official police and military forces were gone; no coed organization on Earth survived Sadie Hawkins Day, a clear signal that God is done with Political Correctness. What you so disparagingly call the Moguls are merely the protectors of ancient tradition, a tradition which is the very foundation of Western Civilization. Xanadu represents a New Genesis. Though we love and honor women, we must never again allow Satan to convince us that the sexes are equal. Equal Rights are off the table; to quote the immortal James Brown, it’s a man’s world.
“Until recently, we had limited success contacting the South, likely due to the warmer weather conditions—the extreme winter of the Northeast was a big help in suppressing Hellion activity. This ‘chill factor’ was yet another sign of God’s favor. Now, of course, I only wish we had known sooner what you folks had going down here.
“It is a historic day. We stand today on green grass, but it has been no picnic. It was war—the bitterest test of our faith. Let history never forget the battles we fought and lost before we achieved Grace. Clearly, normal rules of combat don’t apply to demons, so we tried other means, faith-based means, such as prayer and exorcism … and burning. The scientists, of course, had other ideas. Early in the outbreak, they discovered that pure oxygen had a limited effect on Agent X, so a great deal of time and energy was wasted on that. But without a constant supply it was worse than useless, inspiring nothing but false hope since there wasn’t enough available to treat the billions of Hellions roaming the Earth. So much for science!
“In the end, the answer came from the unlikeliest of places: Women. The root of all evil turned out to be the source of our salvation. Yes, we must never forget that women not only cursed us but also saved us … and in so doing saved themselves. Pious women admitted their guilt, accepted their
responsibility
, and for this act of holy contrition, they earned God’s blessing upon us all. He bestowed upon us the Immunes, and thus we were able to again walk fearlessly upon the land. All is finally going as the good Lord intended.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sandoval said.
“Guilty! Blasphemer, I pronounce you guilty as charged.” Pointing his finger at Sandoval, he bellowed, “Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty!”
“I’ll be the judge of that,”
said a muffled voice.
It was the masked guard who had led Dixon up there. He pulled off his hood, revealing an intense, bearded face … and a crown of thorns. The spectators gasped, then fell absolutely silent. The wind ruffled his hair.
After an initial start, Dixon seethed. “Who are you? Who is this man?”
“Don’t you know me, Chace?” asked the stranger. He was something out of a black velvet painting, with wavy brown curls and gold highlights in his beard. His eyes shone strangely bright, their whites luminous. Droplets of blood were visible on his brow.
“I know who you’re pretending to be, but you’re going to find we don’t appreciate imposters, much less spies and vandals. Arrest this blasphemer!”
As guards warily approached from both sides, the stranger held out his hands in mild supplication, revealing open wounds in both palms. The wounds were deep vertical slits, grisly but totally bloodless. Pinkish light shone through them.
The soldiers stopped as if hitting a wall, some dropping to their knees and others piling up behind in confusion.
“Somebody please just shoot him,” Dixon beseeched, crossing to the opposite side of the stage. Kasim Bendis drew a pistol that had been used by Teddy Roosevelt to deliver the coup de grace to enemy soldiers on San Juan Hill. Bendis was a dead shot, and the bullets traversed the bearded stranger to strike the great statue of Lincoln just beyond. Lincoln didn’t flinch … and neither did the stranger.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” the man said, pulling open his robe to reveal his exposed, beating heart.
“It’s a miracle!” someone cried.
“It’s Him!” yelled someone else.
“Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!” The field echoed with men begging forgiveness, throwing down their weapons and falling on their faces, to weep and drool into the mud.
Impatiently, Dixon stalked across the stage and shoved his forked scepter into the stranger’s side. The rod was adapted from an electric cattle prod. It was an effective crowd-control device, delivering a hundred thousand volts on contact.
There was a bright blue spark, and suddenly the stranger underwent a bizarre transformation. The flesh of his face rippled smooth, wiped of its features like a sandcastle in the surf. Eyes, nose, mouth, beard, thorns—all abruptly fluttered, dissolved, then changed into another face altogether, an old man’s face, clean-shaven and angular, with deep-set eyes and a shock of silver hair. Dixon thought he looked like Jimmy Carter. His pierced hands also aged, their wounds miraculously healing shut.
Uncertain about what it meant, but feeling vindicated by his own evident power, Dixon fired consecutive shocks from his staff, yelling, “Look! Look! He’s a phony! A fake! He’s possessed by demons—a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Stop groveling like dogs and get him!”
With a loud
snap
, the power went out. Someone had pulled the plug. Before anyone could react, an ugly mutt ran out from under the stage and disappeared around the Memorial.
The crowd murmured in confusion. Even with his rod disconnected, Chace kept on jabbing until the stranger seized the weapon, and said, “Quit it.” The holy visage reasserted itself, wounds and all, smiling sadly upon the congregation. “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
“Shut up! I don’t know who you are, but you’re not going to get away with it!”
Dixon charged to tackle the stranger, confident in his immunity. He wanted to humiliate him and prove him false. The thought of kowtowing to this soft-voiced hippie was unbearable; it was impossible, absolutely ridiculous, to think that this queer could be his Lord and Savior. Jesus—if He really existed—was a
man
. A man’s man, who could bench-press three hundred pounds and pin Chace Dixon to the floor with His massively muscled thighs.
That
was a Jesus worth surrendering to.
The stranger did not flinch from the attack but met his attacker head-on, ducking beneath Chace’s outstretched arms and flipping the bigger man over his back. Dixon was shocked—no Xombie should be able to touch him! But after the initial alarm, he realized he was pissed off. Dixon had been a championship wrestler in college and a dabbler in mixed martial arts, so he was not about to let himself go down without a fight. Lunging upward, he managed to lock arms around his prancing opponent’s legs so that both men became halves of a human cartwheel, a rolling yin and yang that tumbled off the platform.
Landing hard, they came up fighting, each one gripping the other’s shirt with one hand and furiously punching with the other. Locked together in a brutal tango, they grappled for advantage as the assembly watched in awe.
Shouts rang out: “Bust his face! Kick him in the balls! Hit him with a left, a left! Whup his ass!”
To break the stalemate, the fighters commenced kicking, trying to trip one another, but in spite of their size difference, they seemed evenly matched. Bendis hesitated to intervene without a direct command.
The stranger grunted, “Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“Who the hell are you?” Chace demanded.
“A man … a plan … a canal—Panama.”
“Phony!” Dixon snarled.
“Hypocrite!”
“You’re not the Savior!”
“Neither are you!”
“But I’ve been anointed by God!”
“Oh really? Then how come I can do
this
?” The stranger kneed Dixon in the groin. “Or
this
?” He head-butted him in the mouth, splitting Dixon’s lower lip. The crowd went wild. “You know what I think?” the bearded stranger said. “I think you got a bad batch. I think you got some blood from a boy—a boy in drag.”
“You shut up, shut up! Shut your filthy mouth!”
Crazed with anger, Dixon delivered a knockout punch, a hard uppercut that coldcocked his opponent. The newcomer went down like a ton of bricks.

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