Tenchi Muyo - Negative Genesis Part 1, Chapter 5.

"Momentum of Judgement" October 17th/18th , 1995

By JockoMegane

Send any and all comments to:

Chapter 1, 2, and 3 for all the various disclaimers, acknowledgements, and notes.

For Negative-Z, who always pushes me to do better. Even when I am not sure I can.

Edited by Nugar.

000

"And when you wanted me I came to you

And when you wanted someone else

I withdrew

And when you asked for light I set myself on fire

And if I go far away I know

You'll find another slave"

Audioslave - "What You Are"

000

Somewhere out in space the Jurain third generation tree-ship Kai-Oh intercepted their first unidentified ship attempting to escape from the Galactic Union. A broken down old freighter that had to have been at least three hundred years old. The standing orders from Queen Funaho were simple. If a refugee ship is not armed for insurgency, and free of infection, it may pass with explicit orders to immediately report to the nearest base (Itirea IVB, a rather nice moon) to be properly booked and checked out. As Lady Ramia watched from Kai-Oh's bridge, and her tree angel Shinjiro mentally told her in his capacity as ship's sensors-the ship slowly coming across the border now did not respond to hails, nor did it exhibit any appreciable life signs. Ramia asked what 'appreciable' meant, exactly. Shinjiro showed her and the crew a diagram showing the basic life patterns of even the lowest life forms-the signals he was getting from the freighter seemed low, inverted, and almost perversely out of sync.

One of the younger officers on the bridge with Ramia at the time voiced the thought of a "ghost ship" from out of the mythical Sargasso section of space. Some of the other bridge crew agreed, or seemed to agree. Sensing a slight undercurrent of fear, Ramia elected to order them to put such prattle out of their minds.

Moments later, after Shinjiro easily tapped into the freighter's computer, he succeeded in activating the main viewscreen. The sight that greeted them even caused Ramia to pale visibly.

At first it looked like that the freighter used red emergency klaxons, like about two-thirds of the rest of the galaxy's space-faring peoples. But the lack of flash variance in the light level soon disproved that. The visual sensors on the freighter were covered with congealed blood. The entire bridge seemed to be splattered with blotches and puddles of blood too. Not just the standard humanoid red blood, either. Greens, yellows, and the occasional mottled blue were visible as well.

Ramia decided that she had seen enough. She ordered the transmission cut and the freighter blasted to so many particles.

Shinjiro complied.

000

As the night of October 17 turned into the 18th and the sun rose slowly around the Earth to bake the newly dead and undead alike as the living scurried to and fro, stood and fought, or otherwise cowered in the shadows; waiting for the merciful... or merciless final blow. The movements of those drafted into the Legion of Despair of Lady Tokimi spread faster and faster. As Tenchi Masaki and Ryoko Hakubi talked, a sudden movement of zombies started to run roughshod all throughout Africa. By breakfast all of the more "developed" parts of Africa would be lost. Only the bush would remain contained thanks to the heroic efforts of native tribes that developed something akin to fire-breaks where the zombies could be easily speared.

On the independent planet of Cormallen IV, the people and the government banded together and successfully held off the zombie infestation to only about half of the planet. The Cormallens did this through their perfection of fire-tipped projectile weapons. In a way redefining the old refrain "shoot bullets of fire." The Cormallen's did the best for themselves. For now and a long time to come, half of Cormallen was safe. They were also winning back an average land area of ten square kilometers a day, too.

The situation on Galidorn Prime, the seat of government for all of the Galactic Union was-to put it politely-going nowhere fast. The attempts of the Galaxy Police HQ to keep the reins on its Sector Commanders and planetary garrisons was coming unglued by the wildly divergent responses being implemented to combat the zombie threat from the bottom up. Ordinarily, this would not have been a problem, and there were elements within the central GP HQ power structure and the Galactic Union Congress that were perfectly content to let the local GP subunits to deal with the problem in their own way while they formulated the best response. This was the default policy until some Sector Commanders and planetary captains started to practice "unsound methods" of control... such as Commander Narsay's wholesale repression tactics, and it was now that long simmering nationalistic and philosophical tensions began to bubble to the surface within the Galaxy Police. By mid-morning on Jurai, both GNK and GHK TV were reporting that Captain Itsaku Honataru of the planet Brophy's GP garrison had just-in total consent and collusion with the planetary legislature-seceded from the Galactic Union.

By the afternoon, the factional split within the Galactic Union was plain to be seen as Narsay headed up the Dorschester Convention League; a group of GP officers dedicated to the expansion of Galaxy Police power, influence, and a stronger central government for the Galactic Union. Shikara Rivas, of the Independent Union front, which was formed in direct reaction to the Dorchester group, included anyone advocating strict adherence to the Galactic Union's Articles and the Galaxy Police charter. It is interesting to note that both Detective First Class Kiyone Makibi and Mihoshi Kuramitsu were personally in agreement with the Independent Union. Furthermore, a compromise group of establishment GP figures and administrators sought to bring a quick end to this internal schism as soon as possible so they may all focus on containing the zombie threat. To further confuse matters-though considering the immense size of the Galactic Union-not really, a sizable but fairly weak group of GP Sector Commanders in the region bordering the Jurain Empire felt that annexation by Jurai would be best.

This does not take into account the dozen or so planetary GP units that felt either shortchanged or outright betrayed by their Sector Commands, or those who long harbored nationalist ambitions felt that now was the time to break away while the getting seemed good...

Elsewhere, the Norfrost Confederacy dealt tolerably with the zombie threat through a simple policy some would call "slash and burn" and the Hus Empire simply hunkered down for a long, long assault. Fortunately for the Hus, they were used to that sort of thing on the galactic frontier.

Back on Jurai, efforts continued to successfully keep the zombie infestation under wraps, but King Azusa and Queen Funaho had already begun plans to gently break the news to the Jurain public. The official announcement would be, by Earth reckoning, October 19th at 1315 hours from the well of the Holy Council chambers in Jurai City.

On Earth, the entire island of Madagascar went red with only a handful of survivors. The British Government officially declared a state of extreme emergency throughout the UK and began to mobilize their entire populace against the zombies with very few snags or holdouts. All the Home Office found it had to do was repeal the ban on firearms and allowed distribution to anyone displaying half an idea how to shoot at a zombie. The BBC hastily created a public awareness campaign called "Aim for the Head!"

India soon followed suit, as well as many other governments. The UN Security Council unanimously passed a somewhat vague resolution vowing to fight the "presumably viral or other contagion that is causing outbreaks of mass hysteria and insanity" and promising international cooperation. Still, for the vast majority of people on Earth, the zombie threat was vague or otherwise undefined. Those who did know could not believe it for what their eyes told them it was, or could not get others to believe them... and still others who did believe were now zombies themselves.

000

Misao Amano was worried. It was 8:30 p.m. and her mother had not come home from work yet, or called home. She was never any later than 7:30 p.m. without calling first. The fourth-grade girl sat at the kitchen table, satchel placed carefully on the floor beside her legs, arms folded neatly in front of her.

'Where can she be?' Misao tried to calm her thoughts. Today had been even more unusual than the-granted already-unusual events of the past few days. About half of her teachers were absent, and about two-thirds of the student body was as well. She had overheard some of the teachers talking about how it would have been better to just cancel school altogether. There were those news reports about quarantines and epidemics... so many disappearances too.

"Mother..." she shuddered, the first physical reaction to her mounting worry. The house was silent, almost maddeningly so. She had not dared to even turn on the TV, nor look out the window. What was the point? She could already see the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the Aoyama and Kohei houses through the kitchen window.

Misao sighed, standing up to turn on the light. She began to mentally run through what she could eat without much preparation while for the countless time in the past hour checking the digital clock on the microwave... and looking at the telephone on the wall. With another slight shudder, Misao walked over to the pantry and got a box of snacks out. Upon retrieving a bowl from the cupboard, Misao calmly filled the bowl with the snacks... an American original called Cheeze-Its. The frail girl calmly chewed on a couple of pieces, not feeling very hungry at all. Her eyes briefly flickered up, looking out of the kitchen window just above the sink, and saw a most curious sight.

There were two groups of people. One, a group of people she recognized as being her neighbors, and the other seemed to be police officers of some sort by the looks to them. They did not wear the standard uniform, for one, they wore the type of clothing that looked straight out of one of those secret agent movies. Misao cocked her eye at this; curious as it seemed the two groups of people seemed to be in a heated argument. She leaned in closer to the window, trying to remain out of sight and yet somehow pick up on what was going on.

There definitely was an argument, from the pitch of muffled voices reaching Misao and the grim, determined set of shoulders on the men and women out there. One was violently gesticulating toward the Shimozawa house and the street beyond them. Another vaguely pointed at the sky and towards the Aoyama's. The suited policewoman shook her head, agitated, loudly giving orders to Misao's neighbors (who Misao now recognized as Kauru Noako, the Noako's middle son) as both groups seem to reach some sort of shaky consensus and move on up the alleyway between Misao's house and the Kohei's house.

Misao puzzled at this as the sun's rays slowly faded from the world...she realized her hand was shaking just as the front door was loudly knocked upon. Misao jumped, yelping as she almost dropped her bowl. She stood frozen there for a moment. The knocks (more like heavy beating) thudded down the hall again. For another agonizing moment Misao was utterly at a frenzied loss as to what to do.

She heard people shouting outside her door, speaking amongst themselves. Misao could almost hear them having some conversation about her mother...

"...Wait..." she whispered, finding her voice in a dry throat. The words trembling like useless pebbles on the ground.

The muffled voices started to retreat from the front doorstep. Misao could almost see it in perfect clarity. They were walking down the front steps... looking ahead to the modest brick gate that marked the Amano family's property. They were leaving her. Leaving her alone here. Dizzily Misao's eyes seemed to careen all around the kitchen. At that moment she knew. She knew her mother was never coming back, and that this house was no longer home. If she did not leave now, she never would.

Misao ran to the door, her hands shaking but oddly controlled as she unlocked and unlatched the door, swinging it wide for whatever lay out there and ahead of her. Come what may.

000

When extreme fear and shock-ridden exhaustion ran out, and Billy Parsons had to sleep as most other people do, the slithering and clanking of chains that seemed to seep up from the basement of the Parsons family home became unbearable. Here on Partridge Street on the outskirts of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Billy was probably the only one still in residence who resorted to chaining his entire zombiefied family to the basement floor out of mortal fear that they're only just sick, and would snap out of it soon enough. In Billy's adolescent mind, the whole world had decided to have one of those huge hissy fit times that his father, Morton (who now spent his time chewing and clawing at stainless steal chains bought on sale from Sam's Club) had grumbled about as he had his second beer of the night. When things had gone from shitty to beyond shitty, Billy had assumed things would be all right in a day or so. This was just like a strange version of the flu crossed with a more non-fatal form of rabies, he reasoned. In a day or two the thrashing and clanging would stop and he'd go down into the basement and everything would be just like before.

First the neighborhood watch group begged him, then the police threatened to take him, and then finally George Gustafsen and Timmy Rodgers came over to try and get him to join a hastily arranged "hunting party" that would defend the neighborhood at the hills and pastures just up the road. Billy declined all of them, insisting that things were fine... that his family would be back with supplies "any minute now" and that they would all join them then. Billy had never lied so much since his Kindergarten days--and this time he neither thought much on nor cared that such actions would have warranted a stern grounding and a few nice whacks on his bottom courtesy of his parents. But on this day, October 18th, Billy had not had sleep for so long those low-grade hallucinations and other mental manifestations were starting to become a danger.

It was no use. He had to figure out a way get his beloved family back to normal or else find a way to sleep with all their racket. Either way, he had to do something.

The depths of despair can only be skirted and hung off of for so long, and Billy had now slid down that mental chasm so far that he stood, petrified with fright, for what might as well have been hours on each step of the basement staircase, going down one by one, mentally chanting to God that they be all right. The infernal noises had become almost lost to him, and all he wanted to do was see his family again. Just like when his family used to smile at him when he would get good marks on his report card. As Billy's feet came to rest on the concrete landing, it became all too clear to him that things would never be the same way again.

Two hands reached out for each leg, wrapping a slackened grip around his pants-leg. Billy started, and screamed in defeat and fear as his instincts kicked in after a full second delay, and he jumped backwards back up the step... then another, and another before falling down on the fourth step, and slinking back up the stairs as he watched their formerly manacled hands reach and grapple with the wall of the basement stairwell. Billy sat there for a moment, sweating, hyperventilating and a bit of urine in his underwear.

They had broken their chains... though he had not looked, they had probably all picked the locks... boy, they must be mad at him now... Billy blinked again as their faces peeked around the corners at him and expected to see anything other than those hollow and expressionless faces from before. Anger, anything, but there was no change. Billy's ashen expression, his eyes staring into the eyes of his mother and father, was probably where he would have remained--in shock--until the zombies claimed what was theirs.

His eyes gazed into theirs', and finally found something. Laughing, a man's laughter, and those gaping mouths and mashing teeth were actually beginning to take on more and more dimensions of a grin. A smug grin.

Billy wet his lips, feeling returning to him. Yeah, that's what was there. A man staring back at him from those things his family now were. That man peered back at him from behind their eyes and just above their heads, somehow. If you did not look closely you would miss him, but Billy was looking closely. Even then, Billy had almost overlooked his presence.

Billy gulped, closing his eyes again, but he was still there. The laughter and mocking grins now had words to go with them. They burned on the inside of his eyelids: THEY'LL COME BACK...

'How?' Billy screamed inwardly.

THEY'LL COME BACK...GOOD AS NEW...

'Who are you, asshole!' He shook his head furiously from side to side. The words taking on a sing-song quality in his closed eyes.

THEY'LL COME BACK... GOOD AS NEW... IF YOU BOW DOWN...

'And what!' Billy thrashed his fists out around him, knocking them against the wall hard, scraping his knuckles and drawing a trickle of blood. 'If I suck your cock, you pervert?'

That smug laughter again; firm denial and amusement all in one.

'What do you want...?' Billy's arms hung limply at his sides now, knuckles dragging on the wooden stairs.

WORSHIP US...

Billy's eyes swung open, and the faces gazing back at him now were that of his father and mother, peering around the corner like insects climbing on the walls. Their faces melted... remolding into that of an impossibly beautiful but cold woman's face on his mother, and on his father, a much younger... disturbingly handsome face on him. They beckoned to him... they seemed to either loom larger or closer to him and all Billy knew he had to do was reach out towards them and that would be it. But... then his life would truly be a basement. Underground, shut away from the light, and it would be much darker than even this basement... a basement where a few rays of light were shining down from behind him, even though he had left the door closed behind him.

Billy Parsons turned a hard gaze back at the imposter faces on his mother and father, and bellowed in rage at them. He screamed every obscenity he had ever learned from George and Timmy and probably invented a few more as he seemed to float back to his feet and flee back up the stairs, throwing the door open, and through the living room and out the front door. Billy did not look back nor stop as he crossed the street and over the hill between Partridge and Fremont, he ran until he arrived at Tom and Betty Lorge's, where the last groups of neighbors were gathering.

000

France and Germany were fighting valiant fights; fights that had previously only been hinted at in some great epic or in some hippie's LSD trip. Vast swaths of zombie hordes ambled through the countryside as the inhabitants of the insular villages and communities along the way created a disjointed system of fire-breaks like skirmishing lines. These gave the zombies significant opposition, but as the hours and hours wore on, all the villagers were soon zombies or zombie food.

000

The sovereign asteroid Pentaxia VII--so far out on the outer rim that only the oldest and longest ranged Jurain star charts cared to even list it--was successful in total control and eradication of the zombie threat. This was rather easy to achieve as the accepted custom of almost all the people on the asteroid dictated that when death is known to be near, then ritual suicide by a simple projectile shot to the head is considered to bring good fortune to one's living kin and oneself in the next life. A watchful and alert populace easily handled other deaths. While smaller population centers were at a higher risk, if such an isolated and contained area was able to successfully control the rate of new zombie infections and zombies coming into the area, then things can be like they were before the radiation bombardment started. However, total extinction of said population center could be accomplished by just one or two zombies becoming active in a relatively short period of time. This pattern was repeated all around the universe ad nausea with about a 50/50 rate of "wins" and "losses."

000

The state of Arizona declared itself under general emergency at 2:19 p.m. on October 19th; this was soon followed by Oklahoma, Texas, Florida, New York, California, etc. If the statements by the governor of New Hampshire had been derided by the majority of "legitimate" press sources than it was becoming very difficult for the upper-brass news media to ignore what was happening away from their safe high-rise offices and what the regional bureau chiefs refused to put in their reports for fears of being fired. In New York City and Boston, for instance, bodies that had been killed in gang-related violence and hidden in secluded locations soon found themselves loose out on the streets. Of course, at first it had all been easy enough to dismiss; a few sick loonies here and there, or freaks dressed up like some goofy slasher movie fans. Then there were the employee absences, and missing friends... finally family members. By 6:25 p.m. the President had officially declared the entire country under a state of "siege" and ordered all National Guard and military units to arms. The last holdouts that were not already secretly very scared or at least disturbed were now forced to report on something that just a few days prior had been a bulletin board joke from some Associated Press jerk-offs in West Virginia.

000

The security complex at Detroit Metropolitan Airport was very well designed and staffed for the security concerns of its day. That is, mostly concerned with drug interdiction, basic airplane related security, and helping people find misplaced loved ones, etc. The facility essentially consists of a system of low-ceiling observation access ways and offices that would ring the terminals and other large areas of the airport's indoor areas and provide easy access to the outdoors, concourse, hangers, and other places of interest both mundane and crucial.

The sun had now decided to peek out of the veil of clouds, just as it was setting to the west. The orange disc cast a smooth glow of fading light across the Detroit River and the airport.

Now, in these trouble times, the security complex had just been made the US military's tri-state area command post. All forces (all military branches plus any and all law enforcement) in Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana were all carefully in contact and taking orders from this complex. Colonel Thomas Crane sighed inwardly as he picked out each new unit being put under his command on the large round computer displays set into the floor. Two weeks ago, he was looking at a nice long vacation with his family in Hawaii, but now...

Now...

"The 37th Bloomington Division reports they're engaged in heavy control and moping up operations in the Kalamazoo area," a young enlisted technician reported.

'Now this,' Crane thought as the computer graphic readouts on the screen changed from solid greens to blinking yellow to depict the change in the 37th Bloomington Division's status. 'We're not even calling it an attack.' The thought made him ill.

"Thank you, Mr. Hobbes," Crane acknowledged with a nod, "put the 22nd Dayton and 17th Indiana Air National Guard unit on alert if the 37th needs assistance."

"Aye, Sir" the enlisted man went about his appointed task.

Crane heard Stephens stride over from the elevator. Stephens' gait had an easy-going lilt. Too easy, for Crane's taste.

"Colonel Crane," Stephens saluted. Crane returned the salute and returned his attention to the screens, judging that Stephens wanted something and he would just as soon not make it easy for him.

Silence passed between the commander and his executive officer for a solid two minutes as the enlisted technicians occasionally called out a report, and otherwise controlled the cold-knuckle mundane operations of what was now known as "Operation Comic Book" by the unimaginative people buried deep inside the Pentagon.

'Christ,' Crane's eyes flickered back and forth across the command center, 'how are we going to beat these things if we can't even think up a better name?'

Stephens cleared his throat.

"A cough, Major?" Crane asked, "don't tell me the good Dr. Ralse now suspects it's a viral contagion?"

"No, not at all, Colonel," Stephens swept aside Crane's obvious slight and held his silence.

Crane had no attention of playing Stephens' little game. If it was anything of real importance, Stephens would spit it right out or Thompson or Rodriguez would have already informed him. 'Just keep playing me for the fool, you snide little prick...' Crane watched Stephens every move as he looked over a female technician's shoulder, allowing Stephens to comment aimlessly on the current troop deployments. After several simple acknowledgements and stock comments, Crane could tell that Stephens was growing ever so slightly annoyed.

"Walk with me, Major," Crane stated suddenly, striding back towards the elevator.

Stephens followed.

They took the elevator to a hallway that ran between the terminal's Customs section and the place where malcontents were detained. Once they were alone, Crane folded his arms behind his back and spun to face Stephens.

"I know what is going on here with Ralse, Smith, and that prisoner Hudson," Crane bit out viciously to an extent that successfully unnerved Stephens' normally unflappable composure, "and I assure you when I have the time to chase it up the chain-I will spend a lot of time unscrewing you."

"I see you know now, Colonel," Stephens shifted back on his feet a couple millimeters.

"I am NOT as in the dark as you obviously think I am," Crane carefully in the midst of his obvious anger removed a piece of paper that had been handed to him some twenty-five minutes ago. The yellow piece of military hard copy was official orders from the highest of the high. The blocks of text on the paper took a lot of big words and bullshit to explain one succinct point; the custody of detainee Warren Hudson was to be immediately transferred from this facility's care to that of the CDC and Dr. Ralse in conjunction with certain other sections whose proper identity could only be revealed under a "Need to Know" basis. By Crane's estimation, once he read the copy not more than half an hour ago, he was not in the loop today or under "Need to Know."

Stephens' took the flimsy and perused the document that was practically shoved in his face, confirming it was what he obviously knew it was. "With respect Colonel, orders are orders."

Crane stabbed daggers at Stephens, for a split second he considered striking Stephens, but after a few breaths and the slight balling together of his feet in his boots, Crane stepped back. Stephens carefully folded the paper and put it in his breast pocket.

"You don't know what you are doing, Major," Crane continued, much calmer but even colder.

"Oh I think I do, Colonel."

"You damn fool... you think just because you used to hang out with Ralse and his cloak and dagger pal Smith you know how to handle that prisoner?" Crane sneered and chuckled at Stephens' straight-arrow clean-cut confidence. 'Fucking brat,' he thought, 'spend some time moving up through black ops and they think they know everything.'

Stephens turned towards the opposite end of the hallway. Through a door, another corridor, and down the stairs was where the prisoner in question was being held. "Colonel, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course, you slimy son of a bitch."

Stephens smirked. "How did you find out?"

"While many poo-poo touchy-feely garbage like observation training and other psyche-headshrinker bullshit, I try to have an open mind and maintain a united front against all ways an enemy can get in," Crane stated in even, clipped words.

"So we know our personal staffs now," Stephens nodded thoughtfully.

"Just so we are straight on this, Major. I strongly protest this action by an agency I cannot even name without getting my balls smashed, I protest the way in which it was carried out, and I protest your back-stabbing ways. This will find its way through channels, though I know no one will probably read them," Crane once again took a step towards Stephens.

"Understandable, Colonel."

"I think you, Ralse, and Anderson are making a huge mistake, and possibly jeopardizing national security," Crane continued. "This Hudson prisoner is someone who needs to be under close care, surveillance, and study at the very highest levels... how else will we learn anything about him otherwise?"

"We have ways, Colonel," Stephens' eyes flashed minutely.

Crane let that hang in the air between them for a minute. "Yeah, ways usually concerned with disappearing."

Stephens shrugged. "If I didn't know better, I would say you were concerned about Mr. Hudson's welfare in general."

"You've got that right Stephens, you DON'T know better. And if being a concerned that you people are about to make a possibly fatal mistake, deprive our nation, our world of a potentially great source of knowledge," Crane's voice dropped an icy degree, "and maybe, just maybe, mistreat or otherwise 'lose' a valuable prisoner-then if that makes me a bad officer, then so be it and fuck you too!"

Crane stalked off down the hallway in the opposite direction of the airport's Security holding area.

"Oh, and Major?" Crane spoke with his back to him.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"When your Majestic 12 pals leave with the prisoner, you better make sure you're with them. I don't think Washington will care if this 'transfer' is not by the book, not these days," Crane turned the corner and was gone.

000

Warren's neck lolled on its neck as he squirmed minutely in the heavy chains of the special chair that they had brought into his cell after he took a hearty swing at Smith. The chains secured his arms behind his back while the chair itself was screwed into the ground. To Warren's well-concealed gratification, it looked like Smith would have quite a bruise for a while. The questions so far had been fairly standard, obviously innocuous to lull Warren into a false sense of security. To his surprise--and to the best of his detection--they had decided to lay off the drugs for now. Warren hoped that they were playing it safe... maybe a bit too safe. He hoped he could stall them somehow; he had very little doubt that the doctors weren't already preparing a special cocktail of truth serum just for him.

Smith himself was carefully observing something on a computer monitor set just out of his view. Smith's nose was bandaged, but Warren suspected that the injury was healing itself rather nicely. Quickly too. Smith turned back to Warren; leaned forward with a motion that Warren could swear was swishing--no, sucking air from the room somehow. "Now, Mr. Hudson, please tell me where you were from the dates of March 9th, 1942, to September 14th, 1952."

Warren opened his mouth to say something, and then clamped it shut. A humorless smile broke out on his face. "Agent Smith, you and I both know that I cannot answer that question."

"Yes... and I don't think you know that more than a few people are finding this question a rather fascinating puzzle." Smith's cleanly manicured hands seem to effortlessly indicate Warren's person before returning to the laptop computer keyboard, quickly typing again. 'Almost too fast,' Warren thought.

"In fact, Mr. Hudson," Smith's voice adjusted; different intonations now, "along with your rather unique 'skills' there are cause also now to question your loyalty to your country."

Warren's blood boiled, but he concealed it from outside notice.

"Furthermore, there are a number of files over the years that report of occurrences and occasions--nothing too significant mind you--but there's been enough. In particular a report from a Japanese prison camp located in the rural Okayama Prefecture that lists you amongst those incarcerated... and later presumed dead though no evidence was ever found." Smith swiveled the computer monitor around so Warren could see the next document; a fifty year old US military document on the POW situation in Japan. He always assumed such a document existed.

"And several years later, there are rumors circulating about a Shrine in the rural areas of the same Okayama Prefecture--"

'Oh no oh no oh no,' Warren's mind raced.

"--Of an Anglo-American looking shrine assistant. This until up to 1952, and then nothing after."

Warren locked his gaze on Smith's sunglasses; with just a bit of effort he could see his golden eyes behind that expensive tinted glass.

"But not all at once, Mr. Hudson. You may fool the local, state, and even the FBI with your aliases and other vagabond tricks, but you've still tripped a few wires in your time." Smith tapped a key, and the screen changed. This time it was a document with a signature to buy some ammunition for a firearm, a rifle from the look of it. This surprised Warren, he bought that rifle in 1976 and lost it on a hunting/training expedition in 1982. It was a good rifle, but illegal in the state of New York, which was where he bought it. Of course, he didn't know that at the time.

"Now," the screen went blank as Smith leaned closer, "I want to know everything about your life, Mr. Hudson. In particular, I want to know how you've lived so long, and why you are so god-damned special," an officious little smirk crossed Smith's lips, "because outward appearances definitely imply that you are anything but special."

"It takes one to know one, pal."

Smith actually chuckled, a dry crinkling sound that seemed a mockery of actual good humor. "That's exactly what I am talking about. You know, if you cooperated things could be very easy for you... you may even find out things you never knew about yourself before. Myself, Dr. Ralse, and many others are willing to help, Mr. Hudson."

"No thank you," Warren stated clearly.

"The usual plain, square-jaw refusal to cooperate." Smith shook his head; he leaned ever closer in his chair. To the point that Warren thought that he might stand up, but he only lowered his voice enough so that only he could hear him.

"I would like to... share a revelation I've had lately with you, Mr. Hudson" Smith smiled now, a cold mocking smile. "You know, back... oh, one or two thousand years ago, national borders and territory shifted all the time. Armies, legions, marauders and barbarians came and went, plundered, land changing hands...and the vast majority of the population simply dealt with it the best they could, and pretty accepted things as they were."

"I see you know your history."

Smith nodded. "I also know that there are times when to those of us who fight for a country must admit defeat and try to make the best out of things. Cooperate; ensure a place for us in the new world being created. Just like post-war Japan, Mr. Hudson, which you seem intimately familiar with."

Warren's teeth ground together slightly.

"I don't like to beat around the bush very often, Mr. Hudson, but if you know what is good for you... if you want a life... a life of peace and power in the new world we will find ourselves in very soon you will speak to no one but me, Dr. Ralse, and Major Stephens. Your words had better be truthful too." Smith once again checked the computer monitor, he smiled broader now. "Because you're going on a little trip."

Warren could feel the crease of his palms moisten, he wanted to shake somehow in indignant ferocity but the chains held him just so for now. "Agent Smith, I have no intention of going with you anywhere, even if you're going to show me to the door. I'd sooner crash down the walls and claw myself out than ask you for anything."

Smith breathed a long pained sigh as he stood. "You really are an imbecile, Mr. Hudson. I wonder why Dr. Ralse's superiors value your life so highly, when so much power is already at their disposal."

Warren laughed, nearly hysterically. A deep, throaty laughter dripping with derision. It was the only way he had to contain himself and also mock Smith. His eyes glared daggers up into the polished black of his sunglasses again, his mind speaking every obscenity he could dream of.

Smith didn't show much of a reaction, save a micro-quirk of his lower lip.

The lights went out then. In a split-second, the cell was bathed in weaker lighting as a dull alarm was heard out in the corridor. Soon the sounds of running and shouting could be heard through the thick wall. Smith for the first time seemed honestly surprised, perhaps even a bit scared. He looked from side to side, to the security cameras to the mirror and back to Warren.

Warren only grinned big and wide back up at him. For a moment Warren thought Smith might take a swing at him, but he only spun on his heel, called the outside guard to open the cell door, and was soon gone.

"Sonofabitch could have unlocked the chains," he continued to squirm, trying to focus on the individual microscopic points were the chain's links met each other.

000

Night had fallen.

The Detroit Metro Airport Security Center was awash in red light and shouting. Panicked voices babbled as Crane raced back and forth from station to station. What had been under control not more than fifteen minutes ago was rapidly degenerating into a siege. A great big fucking siege, at that.

The 17th Division out of Lansing was holding Howell. Or rather, camped out in various points where major interstates and roads crossed into Howell. Their mission was pacification, looter control, and evacuation of refugees, and killing as many zombies as possible. Fifteen minutes before, the 17th had failed to make their routine report. The 17th's radio beacon still functioned, and so headquarters (Detroit Metro) had continued to hail them for about five minutes more.

They finally got something. NightBird squadron of the Michigan Air National Guard politely did a close-range fly-by and used their infrared camera to capture images that had Crane break out into a fine cold sweat on the back of his neck.

Empty military jeeps, trucks, and tanks were parked in the roads. No sign of a struggle, everything seemed perfectly fine from the air...just that zombies (including some who looked uniformed) were now ambling aimlessly around the city of Howell and the surrounding area. As Crane watched this, the only meaningful piece of info that crossed his mind was that the temperature readout-47 degrees farhenheit-was colder than tonight's forecast. 'Winter's coming early,' he thought.

It took five minutes to learn that the 17th was lost. Now, five minutes later: Five more Divisions... nearly half of the active forces under Crane's command had gone silent, and Crane suspected from the cold leaden bile in his stomach that the 17th's fate would not be a solitary one.

'Goddamnit.' Crane shook his head. "Hobbes?"

"Colonel?" Lieutenant Hobbes looked up from his console.

"Take us to combat alert, issue a general call to all forces in the region to regroup here," Crane strode about the Security Center, keeping himself in motion helped his nerves and also helped him think. It also allowed him to see as many screens as possible. "All forces in the main terminal should be armed and implement plain C anti-siege mode on the double. All partrols on the tarmac are instructed--if they see someone walking all jerky and they don't immediately identify themselves-to shoot first and ask questions later!"

"Colonel Crane!" a female tech piped up, "the control tower is reporting that Patrol Squad's 4B through 4G are... missing."

Crane stopped in his tracks, for a half-second standing there looking at the tech utterly dumbfounded.

More and more alarms and radio chatter sounded throughout the background. Technicians and other members of his operations staff flittered about or pounded consoles while shouting back orders to soldiers in the field. All his boys, all fifty-thousand of them. How many of them were those things stumbling out there in the dark now? Across the overgrown fields, deserted back roads, and through the new ghost towns of the Midwest? Crane exhaled a shattering breath, "...we've gotta get out of here."

"Sir?" Hobbes, who was once again the closest officer to him, looked up from his console.

"Cancel all of my previous orders," Crane fought to keep a tremor out of his voice, "implement evacuation plan immediately."

Once again, night had fallen.

000

The chain links were solidly made, perfect in every detail and element save for the one fissure that he could sense. Ah yes, there it was. Almost small enough that not even a speck of dust could find its way in there. There were even more tiny imperfections from there in the construction, and he started to let go of all his other concerns, focusing on that tiny fissure. He gathered himself together, almost feeling that he himself was in the crack, sounding it out, and finding just the right spot to snap the whole thing wide open-

Warren's cell door burst open along with his eyes. His cell still cloaked in red gloom.

Four soldiers moved in. One pushing along what looked like a type of motorized hand-truck/fork-lift device. He could sense three other figures at the door even though the emergency lighting did not quite allow his eyes to see.

Warren peered right out at those other three. "Hello again, Agent Smith."

No reply as three soldiers took up positions behind him and to the side. Two began to unbolt the chair from the floor while the other wheeled the hand-truck around to the rear. The last one, armed with a mean looking pistol, loudly undid the safety and pointed the barrel square at Warren's temple as the others worked.

Warren was perfectly willing not to say another word. He sat still, watched, listened, and waited.

000

He was being wheeled behind the two soldiers who had unlocked the chair from the floor. Another wheeled him down the narrow hallway. Warren's ears detected the other soldier directly behind the one doing the steering as well as pushing and the two other men with Agent Smith. Warren had gotten a good look at the soldiers. They were older, some even older than Smith. They had twenty and thirty-year service bars on their uniforms. No jewelry, wedding bands, or religious symbols too.

They rode the elevator down at least six levels. Warren counted two or three sub-basement levels, too. The elevator door opened on a vast concrete pipe system that Warren judged to be the Airport's plumbing facility. The air was a bit stale, but beyond the evenly spaced overhead lamps, there was scarcely anything of note about this basement. Not even sound, really.

Warren held his sullen silence as he was wheeled for quite a distance. Warren counted about eight minutes of travel time, he suspected if he were able to look behind him he would be able to see the elevator they had exited from. At any rate, he noted, they didn't seem too concerned about him seeing where they were taking him.

That was, until, the soldier to his rear secured a black sack over his head. Then the twists and turns began. To Warren, they were mostly quick circles and trips up short steps-but there were a significant number of sub-basement levels gone up...and down...up and down again. He tried to keep track of them all.

Finally, he felt the air stagnate significantly more around him, and he felt his motion stop. The sliver of chains and the securing of heavy bolts and the chair was now a feature on another floor; the previous bare and anti-septic... this one of stone and dust. The soldiers and others around him filed away. A cold smile touched his face. He half-expected this from them.

"Agent Smith, you won't be getting rid of me so easily," he remarked matter-of-factly.

One of them, a big fat one, shifted uncomfortably. Warren judged him to be Smith's superior of some sort. 'Good,' he thought.

"Just following orders?" he sneered. "Sure, I know the drill, boys."

He heard the quick thumping of boots and an activity of great haste being undertaken around him.

Warren laughed coldly. "Fucking assholes," he evenly remarked. He settled into his chair for a long wait, letting his eyes close behind the darkness of the sack. Once again, his attention returned to the chains that bound him to the chair. That particular groove in that link held promise, he thought.

A few minutes passed.

Stephens and Ralse watched uneasily as the soldiers worked flawlessly on the task at hand. But it was still not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough, as Ralse flicked his gaze at his watch for the fourth time.

"Mr. Hudson," Smith intoned, "is there nothing that will change your mind?"

"No," Warren replied.

"Even if we are prepared to leave you here for what you fear the most?" Smith seemed bored.

Warren yawned loudly.

"I take that... as a no, Mr. Hudson?" Smith ventured.

"How about this, you let me out here-right now-give me back my car, renounce your evil ways, and let me go on my way?"

"No, Mr. Hudson, I do not think we will be doing that."

Long silence again as the soldiers neared the end of their preparations. Only a few more finishing touches, implementation, and then they could get out of there. Which suited Ralse just fine; there was only a limited time frame to get out of the area before it was overrun. Besides, this musty dungeon gave him (and probably everyone else) the creeps.

"There's nothing that can be done?" Stephens whispered, a bit frantic and surprised at the sudden turn this operation had taken. "I thought we were shipping him out."

"My orders were clear," Ralse said, "he either cooperates... or stays here."

"I'd give y'all the one-digit salute if I could guys, really I would." Warren jeered at them. Ralse glared back at him, looking pretty ridiculous chained to a chair in the middle of a empty concrete alcove just off one of the narrower corridors where the pipes threatened to even choke out the light from the lamps above.

Smith was about to snidely jeer back at Warren when the head soldier nodded to him. Good, they were done. Smith motioned the soldiers, Ralse, and Stephens back.

Without fanfare, and with finality: "Good bye, Mr. Hudson."

The head soldier depressed a switch on the charges, and a loud explosion sounded from the walls and the ceiling. A heavy avalanche of concrete, old-fashioned style blocks, and some pipes filled the chamber and corridor with choking dust. When it finally cleared, Agent Smith and Dr. Ralse's party were standing in front of what had just been an alcove that housed control valves to the airport's irrigation system for Terminal A; runway shoulders and other green spaces. The chipped and crumbled blocks and building materials creaked; some created smaller avalanches, but soon settled into a firmly packed plug. Soon the rustle of chalk and dust left. Now the alcove was a sealed room with one additional occupant to keep the pipes company: the unfortunate Warren Hudson.

Stephens sighed, all this trouble just to leave him there to suffocate.

"All right, let's get moving!" Ralse moved with all the imperious prissy-ness his bulk would allow. "Our helicopter is waiting at-"

"What's that?" Stephens looked back at the wall the explosives had just created.

"What's what?" Ralse asked.

Stephens pointed at the wall. "It's still settling."

"Interesting." Smith motioned the soldiers to turn on their flashlights. They did, and the wall was still settling; small clumps and pieces of debris were slowly cascading and bouncing off of the larger pieces.

Ralse took a step forward on the path back down the corridor. "We don't have time for this, gentlemen!"

"Yeah, you're right." Stephens nodded, turning to follow Ralse.

"It matters not now." Smith shrugged as he and the soldiers under his command moved almost as one back up the corridor.

The newly created wall exploded just then, sending the concrete shards, bricks, pipes, and other debris bursting outward in a circular pattern. The blast knocked Smith and the four soldiers up against the wall and made Stephens and Ralse trip. The stress from the previous use of explosives and this new explosion was too much for the overhead lanterns. Any light not destroyed or burned out along with the electrical wiring was now laying in pieces and spools across the corridor floor. A hail of brilliant sparks and the unmistakable scent and sound of electricity, and the lights in the basement went out plunging the hapless group of conspirators into near total darkness.

"Wha-what the fuck?" Stephens screamed after he got to his feet and heaved Ralse onto his.

"Smith!" Ralse bellowed.

Smith and the other soldiers recovered admirably, they turned towards where the new explosion had issued from, and for the first time in Smith's life, he actually gaped in open, fearful astonishment as brilliant rays of green-blue light illuminated the darkness around them.

Ahead of them... all around them, the tinkling sound of chains chimed.

The dust cleared. Where a wall of debris had been before there was nothing once more. In the center of the alcove, where the chair of chains stood with Warren Hudson bound to it... there were only pieces and melted shards of chain links and the chair itself. Standing over this wreckage was something very similar to what the surveillance records from earlier that day had recorded.

"...Magnificent," Smith breathed almost soundlessly, he turned to his normally square-jawed subordinates. The soldiers were now as slack-jawed as Ralse and Stephens. Smith only nodded to the commander of this small group. A small, thin, regretful smile. Smith held just long enough that the green-blue column of light resolved just enough to see Warren Hudson, eyes closed, now dressed in the elaborate brown-uniform and body ornamentation that he remembered from the surveillance record. The chains that had bound his wrists, however, had not been melted or blasted to pieces... they now hung loosely from his wrists and hands, seeming to float around him like kelp in the sea. Obviously, what he had heard and seen in the recording could not hold a candle to the kind of power Smith could sense emanating from Hudson at this moment.

Warren opened his eyes, locking his gaze with Smith. Warren grinned.

"Kill him!" Smith ordered.

In motions well-practiced and exquisitely honed, the soldiers decided to forgo their pistols; snapped magazines into compact machine gun frames hidden on their belts, took aim, and fired in the space of about three seconds. Smith soon joined in with his own silver pistol.

Ralse covered his ears, and Stephens drew his own pistol, but he couldn't get a good aim at Hudson. Stephens' hand shook as he held the weapon. This whole situation had gone so wrong, so fast! Stephens-for the first time-had wished he had never met Ralse or Smith. Their grand promises had started to die first in sealing Warren away-and now completely by a column of dazzling green and blue light.

The corridor and alcove were once again obscured in smoke, this time from heavy weapon's fire. The rounds blasted into the center of the column of light, aiming for every part of Warren that could be targeted. None of the shots connected. They just seemed to disappear; absorbed into the column of light.

The magazines soon were exhausted. Smith ordered them to reload and continue firing. For the first time, the soldiers under his command showed some hesitation, but they moved to obey-

"I gave you the chance." Warren's voice seemed perfectly normal, even as everyone else was beginning to feel the hairs on the back of their necks' begin to stand up and a strange tingling in the pit of their stomachs. "You have one more. Let me go."

All weapons were reloaded, aimed again, fired.

Chains answered the two soldiers on either side of Smith. Warren in a lightning fast motion manipulated the chains on his wrists and snapped them out of the alcove-striking two soldiers, piercing through their heads. Smith was greeted with a curious hail of warm particles of moist goo flying into his eyes, blinding him.

Warren advanced out of the alcove, he willed the remaining chains to snap off of his wrists, and a proud blue blade burned to life as he observed the two decapitated soldiers crumple to the ground. Smith tore his sunglasses off his head, clearing his eyes and briefly confirming that the stuff that was in his eyes was, yes indeed, the brains of some of his trusted subordinates.
Warren spared a look at his felled adversaries, 'I'm sorry,' he inwardly winced before returning his attention to those who remained.

He had their attention. From the smell of it, someone had lost bladder and bowel control, too.

"I warned you," Warren said coldly, deliberately. "If any of you value your lives, I suggest you leave." He allowed himself a small, bitter smile. "Please, carry a message to your masters... Light will not be extinguished so easily."

Warren could practically see them shaking in their boots. Some were just scared, some utterly amazed still, some wanted to stay even but as soon as Stephens beat a hasty retreat, Ralse and then the other two remaining soldiers did so, and finally Smith who didn't even spare a look or comment back at him.

000

TO BE CONTINUED