Blood Cult (20 page)

‘And?’ asked
Chrissie.

‘And it looks like it’s straight up through Plattsburgh and on to the
border,’ I replied as I scanned the map laid out over the steering wheel,
wanting to get moving as soon as possible.

We were parked at the side of the interstate after turning onto it half a
mile back. Woodland rested to either side and there were hills shrouded in mist
to the southwest. The highway was eerily silent, not one vehicle in evidence.
It was in stark contrast to the scenes on the eighty-nine in the early hours of
the previous day, and thus added to my discomfort.

Folding up the map, I handed it to Chrissie and started the engine, the
needle in the red and hoping an opportunity would present itself for me to get
some fuel without taking too many risks. Pulling into the outside lane, I
accelerated with measured slowness, not wanting to waste gas by revving the V8.

‘How long do you think it’ll take?’

‘I’m not sure, Honey. Maybe three hours or so, depending on what’s
ahead.’

‘What if Plattsburgh’s been hit by one of those bombs?’

I glanced over at her. ‘I doubt that. It’s not big enough.’

‘Not big enough?’ She looked at me curiously as I looked to her again
briefly.

‘They only aim them at big cities and military bases,’ I explained.

‘Maybe Plattsburgh has a military base,’ she ventured.

‘Not that I know of. Besides, we need to hope that it hasn’t been hit,
not think that it has.’

Chrissie sat in silence for a moment. ‘Can I have another tablet now?’

‘You had one less than thirty minutes ago,’ I replied after looking at
the clock on the dash. ‘You’ll have to wait a little longer.’

‘But my head really hurts, so do my back and legs,’ she moaned.

‘It’s better to have a few aches than to have too much medicine, Honey.’

‘How can you have too much medicine?’

‘Just the right amount can make you feel better, but too much can make
you very ill.’ My gaze settled on a sign indicating there was a gas station
ahead.

‘That’s just silly.’

‘But that’s the way it is,’ I responded as I saw the forecourt come into
view a few hundred yards ahead. There was a red sedan at the far end of the lot
facing the interstate with its hood up. Closed signs rested to either side of
the entryway and a handwritten ‘pumps out of order’ sign lay on the concrete
with tyre marks across it and a few bollards scattered nearby.

‘Maybe a breakdown,’ I mumbled to myself as I looked at the sedan,
thinking that there was a chance of finding gas in the tank.

‘What’s a breakdown?’ asked Chrissie.

‘It doesn’t matter, Honey,’ I replied dismissively as I glanced in the
mirror and saw no sign of any vehicles behind.

I slowed the Falcon, wishing that its engine didn’t growl so loudly as we
approached the entry, two lines of pumps resting before the building. My eyes settled
on the ceiling-to-floor front window. Glass lay all over the concrete, a pickup
having driven straight through one of the large panes. It had come to rest in
the middle of the store beyond, shelves smashed aside and various products
scattered all over the floor in confusion, one end of a light fitting resting
on the vehicle’s roof as it dangled from the ceiling.

Pulling to a stop in the entrance, I stared in and could make out the
shape of someone still seated behind the wheel. Narrowing my eyes as I scanned
the scene, I noted a pair of booted feet sticking out from behind one of the
shelving units to the right of the vehicle.

‘Are you going in?’ whispered Chrissie.

I jumped slightly at the sound of her voice and turned to her. ‘We need
gas,’ I replied with a nod. ‘Lock the door after I get out, okay?’ I
instructed, even though I knew the action would prove useless if push came to
shove thanks to the broken rear window behind her seat.

Chrissie looked at me worriedly, her eyes raw and the veins clear as her
sickness grew greater. ‘Will you take the gun?’

I glanced back at the rifle, my stomach churning. I didn’t even want to
touch it, but knew that to approach the station unarmed would be foolish.

I reached back and took it up, feeling repulsed by the coldness against
my palms. ‘Make sure to lock the door,’ I restated as I grabbed hold of the
handle.

Stepping out, I paused in the doorway for a moment and scanned the
forecourt and building once again. Shutting the door, I watched as Chrissie
sidled over and locked the door, forcing a thin smile as she looked out at me
worriedly.

I looked to the evergreens surrounding the lot, glancing over the car as
the nearest whispered with the passing of the wind. Moving from the relative
protection of the car, the tin ‘pumps out of order’ sign scraped against the
concrete as I passed over it with the rifle at the ready.

I approached the smashed window pane, palms becoming clammy as my grip
tightened. Pausing on the threshold, I then stepped inside.

I glanced around and then crouched to pick up a Hershey bar from the
floor at my feet, tucking it into my sweatshirt pocket with the intention of
giving it to Chrissie when I got back to the car, knowing that she wouldn’t be
able to resist even in her condition. I scanned the other products, seeing that
most of the foodstuff had already been taken as a few magazines on a stand to
the left fluttered gently.

Walking along the passenger side of the pickup, I neared the body that
lay mostly hidden. The shelf behind which it rested slowly fell back from the
sight as I moved forward, revealing a young man in his mid-twenties lying on
his back with most of his face missing. The smell of rotting flesh had already
started to lift and a small cloud of flies were gathered about the gory mess,
my eyes settling on movement and spying pale maggots.

I turned away sharply, my stomach heaving. I quickly moved back to the
broken window, feeling the wind on my cheeks and closing my eyes a moment,
breathing deep and trying to keep the image from my mind.

Regaining a semblance of composure, I looked out at the Falcon, seeing
Chrissie watching from within. Walking around the tailgate and over to the
counter, I glanced back to the driver who was still seated behind the wheel. He
was the same age as his companion and had suffered a shotgun blast to his
shoulder and the nearside of his face, the window shattered beside him.

I stopped before the counter, seeing blood spatter on the pale surface
and noting that someone had emptied the register. Leaning over and standing on
tiptoes, I peered over to see the crumpled body of the clerk, shotgun resting
nearby in a pool of congealed blood and a few more flies evident around the
corpse.

‘The Lord of the Flies,’ I mumbled to myself, thinking that it may be the
end of days for humanity, but it was a time of feasting for creatures that fed
on carrion.

The slam of a car door caused me to spin on my heels.

I stared out over the magazine rack. The roar of the V8 filled the air as
I spied a middle-aged man behind the wheel, seeing a woman seated in the back with
a baby held to her chest and briefly glancing at Bob’s corpse as it lay on the
concrete to the rear of the Falcon.

I made towards the shattered section of the frontage. Slipping on the
items scattered on the floor, I stumbled and barely managed to keep my balance,
hearing the screech of tyres.

The car sped by just as I reached the broken window, Chrissie staring out
at me fearfully from the passenger seat.

‘NO!’ I screamed, giving chase as it exited the gas station and drove
onto the interstate, accelerating away.

I paced
alongside the float. The murmur of the crowd arose from the far side, everyone
gathered and waiting for the show to start. The woods beside the verge rustled
as if with excitement.

I looked to the north, gaze settling on the large pile of corpses beyond
the fire truck which was parked in front of the float. A pair of crows were
already feasting.

‘All set.’

I jumped at the sound of Shane’s voice and turned to him. He’d returned
an hour before with around fifty people from Saratoga Springs. I’d given him my
final instructions and then come backstage to savour the thought of what was to
come, to draw out the occasion with anticipation.

‘David should be all set in the cab by now,’ he added.

I glanced over to the front of the float and saw him peering back through
the rear window, his face visible between the large speakers. ‘Where’s Chief
Brody?’

‘Wade’s finding him.’

I nodded. ‘Once he gets here we’ll get this party started. How do you
feel about doing my introduction?’

‘Yeah, fine by me.’

The Chief appeared from around the tailgate of the fire truck to the
left, still struggling to walk even after the morphine I’d given him earlier.
The strain of each step showed on his face as he shambled over to us, breathing
heavily and clearly fighting nausea as his nostrils flared and perspiration
glistened on his forehead.

‘I’ll help you up there,’ I stated.

Brody thought about protesting, his mouth opening, but decided against it
as he glanced at the makeshift set of steps.

‘If you want to head on up there, Shane.’

He ascended the rickety steps. As he walked out onto the stage the
murmuring of the audience on the far side began to diminish. My heart was
pounding as I watched him move to the microphone stand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, discovering the mic wasn’t on.

‘That’s better,’ he said with a grin after flicking the switch, glancing
back at me over his shoulder. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ he began,
taking a leaf out of Dodge’s book.

‘He’s the man who’s given us the cure, the man who’s leading us to the promised
land,’ he announced, taking the mic from its stand. ‘He’s our caped crusader,
our ayatollah of rock and rollah. He’s the Voice of God. The one and only
Reverend Peterson.’

Me and Brody began up the steps, my arm about his shoulders and his around
my waist. John Farnham’s
You’re the Voice
issued from the speakers as
the disco lights flashed.

We reached the stage and the Chief removed his arm. ‘I can make it from
here,’ he stated gruffly, stepping towards the foldaway chair that had been
placed to the right.

I raised my hands in the air as I walked to the mic. Whooping, cheering
and applause arose from the crowd, a couple of gunshots being let off by those
still armed after dealing with the Pure Bloods who had arrived.

Coming to a stop, I looked out over the sea of people gathered on the
highway before me. Their faces showed signs of strain and sickness, many from
Brody’s convoy with bandages and signs of injury, a small group of them sitting
on the asphalt before the stage due to being unable to stand. It was a
bedraggled and weary mass of humanity.

The fire truck ladders had been extended horizontally across the
interstate to either side of the dishevelled audience. Hung regularly along
their lengths were those still left alive from Saratoga Springs. They were
gagged and blindfolded as they hung from their feet, arms tied to their sides
and a few wriggling like maggots as they vainly attempted to gain freedom.

A selection of pots, pans and buckets rested on the ground along the two
dangling lines of doomed humanity, Cheryl and Mark each standing beside one of
the trucks in readiness to move the containers beneath the sacrificial lambs,
sacks held in their hands. Also standing near the fire trucks were two men
wearing butcher’s aprons and carrying chainsaws, one of them the bald man who
had attempted to voice protest the previous night, now a convert to the cause.

I grinned. Everyone succumbed in the end, their own self-importance and wish
to survive leading them further down the road to their own destruction.

Turning, I nodded to David, who promptly faded out the track.

‘We’re gathered here on this glorious day to welcome those of you who
were part of Chief Brody’s convoy to the flock. We embrace you with open arms.

‘God has shown me the light, guides my every word and action. He has
provided a cure for the ailments that plague you. This plague we can overcome,’
I stated with spirit, raising my fist in the air.

There was cheering and excitement.

‘As Moses took the Israelites out of Egypt, I take you out of harms way.
As they were the chosen, so are you.’ I spread my arms wide. ‘You are the
chosen, my friends, my disciples of the blood.’

There was nodding and more cheers rang out.

‘This afternoon we make for the promised land. It’s a land of plenty for
all, where the tree of life awaits us. There you will be able to drink your
fill and the cure will be lasting. I have seen it. God has shown me. It is His
Will.’

Chief Brody suddenly doubled up and vomited into the stage before him.
The outpouring was reddened by the soup he’d consumed less than half an hour
before, the crowd also having been given servings, Cheryl and Mark with
instructions to make sure that everyone partook of the simple lunch.

‘Looks like it’s time for the cure,’ I stated with a smile, a few
chuckles arising from the audience.

I walked over to the speakers behind the Chief and took up the chalice.
Making my way back to the microphone, I raised it high.

‘The cup of Christ,’ I called.

The audience raised a selection of drinking vessels in response.

‘Give us the cure,’ shouted one of the crowd.

‘Give us the cure,’ echoed more.

‘Give us the cure, give us the cure,’ the chant began.

‘Neil, Morgan, start you’re engines,’ I instructed, glancing down to
either side of the stage.

The men wielding chainsaws started them up with rough tugs on the cords.
Small plumes of smoke arose as they stood ready at the near ends of each line
of sacrificial lambs, awaiting their cue to begin, as instructed.

I turned to David and nodded as he looked out from the float’s cab. He
sounded the horn and a moment later the lights of the fire trucks began to
flash along with the disco lights.

‘
When you were young and your heart was an open book, you used to say
live and let live…
’

‘
You know you did, you know you did, you know you did
.’

‘…
But if this ever-changing world in which we’re living makes you give
in and cry, say live and let die
.’

I strummed my imaginary guitar with snarling vigour as the rock riff kicked
into the Guns and Roses cover. Neil and Morgan stepped to the first victims in
each row, taking the chainsaws to their necks and sawing off their heads, blood
and tissue spraying into the air.

‘
What does it matter to ya? When you’ve got a job to do, you’ve got to
do it well, you’ve got to give the other feller hell.
’

Cheryl and Mark followed along the rows as more heads were severed in the
growl and chew of the chainsaws. They bagged the heads, moving the nearby
containers beneath the twitching bodies to catch the blood pouring from their
necks.

People began to rush forward, catching the spurts and scraping their cups
into the selection of bowls, pots and buckets as they desperately looked to
drink the blood that would make them feel better, take away their pain. Their
was some pushing and shoving in the scramble and I quickly made my way to the
generator hidden behind the speakers by the float’s cab, briefly spying a deep
green SUV speeding away to the north.

Placing the chalice on the floor, I picked up the fire truck hose which
had been hidden by the generator. Moving to centre stage, I gripped the nozzle.

‘There’s plenty for everyone,’ I called, pulling the release.

Blood sprayed from its end as I panned it back and forth across the
crowd, the fire truck’s tank having been filled from the corpses now piled on
the verge. The red downpour fell upon the people in a thick torrent. Many in
the crowd raised their cups, other simply standing with their hands in the air,
mouths open and eyes closed as the hard rock riff of
Live and Let Die
blasted from the speakers.