Mother Night smiled at her. A big, wide, wonderful smile. She hooked a finger under the girl’s chin, lifted her face, and kissed her on the tip of the nose. “You win.”
Then she handed the scissors to the girl.
The crowd thundered its appreciation, though there were cries of disappointment threaded through the noise.
Mother Night made a twirling gesture to the boys in hoodies and they spun the slaves around in a full circle. Once, twice, again.
“Snip, snip!” yelled Mother Night, and she stepped aside to give the girl in the fantasy costume access to the slaves. Their hands were tied with strips of red cloth.
As she approached, the girl pretended to be grossed out by the wounds all over the slaves, but it was all comedy and every time she made a face the audience laughed harder.
“Snip, snip, snip,” said Mother Night.
The girl flourished the scissors—and received cheers—then she turned and gently inserted the blades between the bound hands of one of the slaves. The cloth was wet, the slave was struggling, and it took a bit of doing to cut through the material. But suddenly the bonds fell away and the man’s hands were free. He swayed as if very drunk.
“Now take off his hood and give Prince Charming a big kiss!”
Lots of hoots and rude comments followed that.
The girl with the fuzzy cat ears blushed, a hand to her mouth, as she tentatively reached up, took hold of the pillowcase that had been used as a hood, and with a great dramatic flourish whipped it off.
And screamed.
The face below was slashed and hacked and covered with blood. His skin was pale, his eyes dull and empty.
The crowd gasped and stepped back.
Then they cheered even louder, shouting their praise of the great, lifelike, professionally accomplished zombie makeup.
There were shouts of “
The Walking Dead
!” and “George Romero is God!”
The applause was massive, it shook the walls and rose high into the atrium. People on balconies threw confetti and colored scarves and anything else they had. Mother Night moved out into the center of the floor, waving at them, encouraging them, ignoring the guards who told her to dial it down. There was no dialing this down. It was like Mardi Gras times ten, and the whole place shook with laughter, yells, and applause.
The girl with the fuzzy cat ears grinned and blushed, and it was all so wonderful, so much fun.
Until the man she had just freed grabbed her by the shoulders, yanked her forward, and tore out her throat with his teeth.
Most of the crowd did not see it, could not hear it, did not know it for almost five full seconds. Then, like ripples from a stone dropped into water, the yells of the crowd turned to screams. Mother Night flicked out a switchblade and slashed the bonds of the second slave, whipped off his hood, and shoved him toward the boys in the hoodies. The dead thing, which had once been one of Bill Collins’s assassins, snarled and flung itself at the boys. Biting. Tearing.
The girl with the fuzzy cat ears sank to her knees, blood pouring from her throat. In her veins, in her flesh, the infection was already taking hold. The
seif-al-din
had been engineered to work at blinding speed. Nature could never have created it, only science twisted to awful purpose could have done this.
Before her mind and body were truly dead, the infected girl with the fuzzy cat ears snaked her hands out, grabbed the arm of a woman who was trying to help her, and sank her teeth into the soft flesh of her inner arm.
Mother Night cried out in nearly orgasmic joy.
This was power.
This was her victory.
The end of everything started right here, with her as the zero point, the center of the new big bang, the author of this red madness.
Inside her head the old, unevolved voice cried out, but that voice went unheard and unheeded.
Around Mother Night the slaughter began.
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
White House Press Room
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, September 1, 3:57 p.m.
Vice President William Collins stood a few feet behind the president and to his right. The posture he affected was intended to convey a separation between the commander in chief and himself—head bowed, hands clasped in front of his body, positioned to the extreme edge of what would be the televised image. The attorney general, Mark Eppenfeld, stood next to him. On the other side of the podium were the director of Homeland Security, the secretary of state, and the surgeon general.
The press was relentless. Asking the hard questions, tearing apart everything the president said, chewing at the edges of his credibility. Collins tried not to fidget, aware that the press—and the American people—would be scrutinizing him for complicity, for guilt, or for distance. He wanted to convey distance while at the same time looking like he wasn’t a rat deserting a sinking ship. It was delicate, and he gave every movement, even subtle changes of facial expression, serious thought.
At that moment, the NBC correspondent was asking which provisions of law allowed the president to order troops to open fire on the “sick and wounded” in the Brooklyn subway.
Ouch,
thought Collins,
that one’s going to leave a mark.
The president paused before answering, letting his famous penetrating stare do some of his work while he organized his answer. He had scripted answers for a lot of questions, but so far the man had gone off-script a dozen times. Trying for the personal touch, relying on genuineness and spontaneity to reconnect with a truly hostile audience. Every reporter in the place, even those who were friends of the administration, smelled blood in the water and they wanted to tear him apart. Careers were being made today, or would be if their program of attack journalism played out in their favor. This question was a killer and it was the fulcrum on which everything turned. Collins didn’t know how the president would handle it.
“I would like to be able to tell you that the video which was broadcast today was a total fabrication, that no such tragedy occurred and that I played no part in the decision to use lethal force. However, I promised the American people that I would tell them the truth, and that I will do. That I am prepared to do.”
He paused and his dark eyes moved slowly across the sea of faces.
Good luck selling it, asshole,
thought Collins.
The president stood very straight, his head high, eyes clear. “Since the tragedy of 9/11 our nation has been engaged in a so-called War on Terror. That war is ongoing. It has never gone away. It makes the headlines less often even when bombs explode in our cities. We, as a society, have lived with terrorism for nearly a generation. It has become a regular part of our lives, and even though it is a part of our shared American lexicon, too often we forget to consider its nature or its scope.”
The press grew very quiet, and Collins could see some doubt on their faces. This wasn’t going the way they expected and they, like he, didn’t know where the president was going with this.
“Many people seem to believe that we have won the war on terror, that groups like the Taliban and al-Qaeda are on the run. They continue to be threats,” said the president, “but there are greater threats out there, dangerous enemies whose identities are not household names. These enemies wage a constant war against the American people and our ideal of freedom and democracy. The weapons they bring to bear are often far more sophisticated than are commonly associated with terrorist groups or cells. Exotic bioweapons, genetic weapons, designer pathogens, weaponized diseases designed for the purposes of ethnic genocide, and other threats of equal complexity. To some, these weapons may appear to be the stuff of science fiction, but I can assure you they are not.
“The only way to oppose such weapons and to insure the safety of the American people, our country and our allies, was to form a group under special charter. That group is composed of some of the most brilliant scientific minds of our time and the most elite and courageous special operations forces gathered from the SEALs, Marine Force Recon, Army Special Forces, FBI Hostage Rescue, the ATF, SWAT, and other groups. These men and women are the best of the best and it is their job to fight this war on terror with every weapon we can put into their hands.”
Holy shit,
thought Collins,
he’s outing the damn DMS. He’s actually going to use the DMS to save his own ass.
The president spoke for several minutes to a stunned audience. He did not name names, but he gave a general description of the Department of Military Sciences. And he described some of the bioweapons the DMS had tackled.
“Mr. President,” said a reporter, “don’t you think the American people have a right to know more about this organization?”
The president fixed him with a considering stare. “In a perfect world there would be no secrets and no need for secrets. In that perfect world our enemies could not use knowledge about the inner workings of our covert special forces against us. In a perfect world all battles would be fought on a level playing field and according to a set of rules. This is the twenty-first century and there are no rules of fair play and good sportsmanship. Precious documents like the Geneva Convention and the Bill of Human Rights mean less than nothing to our enemies. The tragedy that occurred yesterday was not the result of a military coup, it was not an example of excessive force by a corrupt administration, nor was it military or police brutality. What happened yesterday was a tragedy. The terrorist who calls herself Mother Night released one of the world’s deadliest pathogens into that subway car. That pathogen infected and killed every single person. All of those deaths, every one of them, can be laid at the feet of this enemy of our country. What was shown on the video was a distorted version of a terrible, painful, but necessary response.”
He called the surgeon general up to describe the function of the
seif-al-din
pathogen. He was frank, calm, precise, and terrifying.
Then the president returned to the podium. “It’s sometimes difficult for us to grasp the realities of this disease because its very nature is one of deception. The parasites that drive the pathogen manipulate the central nervous system of the victims, making their bodies move and act in an aggressive manner. But in that state, at that stage of the disease, the person who once inhabited that body is dead. That person has been murdered by the cowards who released this disease. Because this disease is one hundred percent communicable and the mortality rate is also one hundred percent, the only possible response—the only safe, sane, and moral response—is to destroy the central nervous system. That is what the people of our joint specials forces team did. It was a tragedy for everyone involved. For the victims of the disease, our innocent brothers and sisters murdered by these terrorists; and for the brave members of our Special Forces.”
He paused.
“Now, imagine for a moment what they felt. Imagine how they felt. Having to open fire on what
appeared
to be their fellow citizens. Imagine the pain and the horror they felt.” He shook his head. “Those soldiers are victims, too. They have had injuries inflicted on them in this war. Emotional hurt that they will have to carry with them for the rest of their lives.”
Another pause. Even Collins held his breath.
“I am going to play a five-second clip from that incident. As you will see and, more important, what you will
hear
is a false audio track overlaid onto the actual audio. You will see that Mother Night intended to use this video to make everyone who watched it complicit in her attempt to drive us apart. We were able to separate that false soundtrack, and you’ll hear it and then the original.”
He nodded to a technician and a movie screen slid noiselessly down from the ceiling. The lights dimmed and the video began.
However, it was not the video from the subway.
It was something radically different, and only later would the White House cybercrimes team be able to determine that it was planted in the system using a type of computer intrusion alarmingly similar to MindReader.
The video was clearly taken from a camera mounted on a bedpost, and it was equally clear that one of the two people in the video was unaware that a camera was rolling. That was evident because no sane person would say the things he said.
“… and you’re sure you can get that video out to everyone?” asked the man.
“Of course,” said the woman.
“It’s got to go every-fucking-where. I mean it. I want the American people storming the White House with pitchforks and torches. I want them to hang that sanctimonious motherfucker by his balls. And then, by God, I am going to take this country back to its roots. Even if I have to roll tanks down Broadway, I’ll do whatever I have to do to bring America back on track. Born in fire, reborn in fire.”
“Oh,” said the woman, “you know what I think. Sometimes you have to burn to shine.”
There was more, but by then the video had done all the damage it could do.
The man in the video was William Collins.
The woman was Mother Night.
They were naked, in each other’s arms.
When the lights came on, everyone looked to where Collins had been standing, but he was gone.
The Secret Service eventually found him. It was the sound of the single gunshot that drew them to the spot where Collins lay, the barrel of a pistol in his mouth. His suit was blue, his shirt was white, and his blood was bright red.
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
Marriott Marquis Hotel
265 Peachtree Center Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia
Sunday, September 1, 4:00 p.m.
When I heard the screams I knew we were too late.
I was already running toward the Marriott, pistol in my hand, a swarm of shooters behind me. People came running out of the hotel. Some of them were in costume, some weren’t. No one looked hurt but that didn’t mean anything. Not really. Even a small bite would do it. Or blood in their eyes or mouth. We’d have to trust to the techs at the barricades to make judgment calls. God help anyone who had so much as a cold sore, because no one was getting a break today. We were in hell, and nothing good happens in hell.