X. The Hunt

"Officer, do you have any weapons here more potent than your sidearm?" asked Hathorne.

"There's some shotguns in basement." replied Kacinski.

"Right. We'll need at least one; it makes destruction of the eyes a much simpler task. Lead me there, and keep your eyes pealed, there's no telling where the former officers have wound up."

Hathorne slid a fresh clip into his .45.

Kacinski nodded. "As you like, Rev. Follow me."

They hustled down the corridor and into the stairwell. "Rev., that was some incredible shooting out front. Where'd you learn to sharpshoot like that?"

"All over. Experience is the best teacher."

"Well, damn. I've seen trick shooters like you, but those fellows have thirty, forty years under their belts."

"I'd like to remind you it's been twenty years since the War, and I certainly did some shooting then."

"Fair enough. Armory's just down this hall." said Kacinski, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

Kacinski hit the light switch and the florescent tubes flickered on. Two men in officer's uniforms turned to face them. Black ichor poured from their faces and hands.

"That's Tom Macaby and Shamus O'Connor!" said Kacinski.

"Not anymore." said Hathorne. He raised the cross and it began to glow. "I've got the one on the right.
"Unholy beast! Stay where you are in the name of the Lord!"

The officer on the pair's right tensed up, outlined in glowing white energy. It snarled in a languageless expression of disapproval. Kacinski opened fire on the other, striking it in the face. Kacinski emptied his cylinder to the sound of Hathorne's zealous benediction. He went for more ammunition, but something overtook him.

What are you doing, Thomas? said a voice in his head. It was a smoked over tenor. What did poor old Shamus ever do to you? This is the man you used to go drinking with after work. Your son has a crush on his daughter. Did you forget all that?

"It's not Shamus!" yelled Kacinski. The first bullet went into the chamber.

Of course it is. said the voice. Look, he's wearing that locket that Mina gave him on their honeymoon. Old Shamus, she always did have him wrapped around her finger.

"I'm not listening to you!" said Kacinski. The second and third bullets slid into their chambers. "You're lying to me!"

Hathorne saw what was going on, but had to finish the prayer and release Officer Macaby.

Why would I lie to you? I'm just looking out for you, Thomas. I wouldn't want you to do something you'd regret.

The fourth bullet slipped and fell to the floor. The earthly remains of Officer Shamus O'Connor was drawing close.

"No, I--" Kacinski's hand, loading the fourth chamber, stopped.

"Stay back, fowl creature!" boomed Hathorne's voice, loud as any preacher's. "You will not take this man from the Lord's sight!"

The white light from the cross washed over Kacinski and the hesitation faded. He slid the last three bullets into the cylinder, slammed it back into the .38 and pulled back the hammer. The first volley had taken out O'Connor's left eye. Kacinski aimed for the right and opened up. A second later, the lifeless body of Shamus O'Connor, age 34, slumped to the floor.

"That's two." said Hathorne. "How many more does that leave?"

"Um." said Kacinski, grappling with the situation. "Um. Two more. Briggs and Evans."

"We'll have to find them, and soon. In the meantime, let's get those shotguns."

IX. The Laws of Man

Kacinski lead Hathorne through the police department building.

"It's Mike O'Malley. Came into the station earlier tonight, had that black shit--er, stuff all over him. Was biting and scratching like a madman. Sergeant Macaby and I threw him into one of the cells until we could get a doctor in here. About an hour ago, Macaby and a few of the others he attacked passed out. I've got 'em laying out in the break room right now."

"How long has it been? This is very important, Officer."

"Let's see." Kacinski glanced at his watch. "About four hours I'd say."

"Damnation." muttered Hathorne. "If you can seal your break room from the outside, do it, and right away. How many officers do you have left, not counting the ones in the break room?"

"Well, there's me, Chief Ballard, and Randall Hicks. Then there's Howie Jordan and Rob Cohen, but they're not on duty 'til nine. But why do you want to seal up the break room?"

Hathorne stopped. "Do you believe in God, officer?"

"Well, sure. I've been going to church since I was a boy--"

"Good. I want to be completely clear. The substance on Officer O'Malley and the ones I just struck down outside is toxic to the human body. It doesn't matter how it gets in--eaten, drank, or put directly into the bloodstream. It kills within hours, converting the body into a factory for more of the disgusting stuff. When this happens, the body is invaded by agents of the devil. I've been chasing the source of this affliction--the Associated Press has taken to calling it the Traveling Plague, rather accurately--across most of the country, and it's left these creatures behind it at every step, slowing me down just long enough to escape each time. It looks as though this time it's gotten enough of a lead on me to start creating these thralls in numbers. The men in your break room and the one in your cell are dead, enslaved by this plague. We can still save their souls, but their lives are over. We need to contain this threat and eliminate any of the creatures that have been loosed on the countryside so far. This is nothing less than an emergency."

Kacinski looked incredulous. "Preacher, that can't--"

"It is true. You'll see proof of it in time, but we don't time to banish your disbelief now. Take me to the break room and I'll see if I can stop them before they're turned."

Kacinski started up again.

"Officer," said Hathorne. "the important things to remember is that the infernal components of the plague can only function in beings that possess a soul to exploit--that is, only men and women. They are demonic in nature and thus fear prayer; anything that is a demonstration of faith--prayer, hymns, even repeating a statement of faith, will slow them. The words you use are less important than the faith behind them. Crosses and holy water are anathema to them; either can be used to render a single one of their number a simple corpse. If you don't have access to either, destroy their eyes. The demonic agents rest there, and destroying the eyes will leave the subject free to die. Their demonic patron is supporting them directly, so trying to use prayer against more than one at a time isn't likely to work."

Kacinski nodded. "This is a bit much, Reverend."

"Unfortunately. Is this the place?"

"Dammit, yes." said Kacinski.

The break room door stood before the two men, ripped from its hinges.

"Let's get moving." said Hathorne. "We have to catch them before this plague spreads."

VIII. Dusk

The Model B rolled back into town as the sun hung on the horizon, painting the Kansas fields gold.

"Summer's gone." said Fallon. "Pretty soon, everything you see around here will be dead."

"So it goes." said Hathorne. Murray nodded.

The Model B pulled to a stop in front of the police station. Hathorne climbed out and tipped his hat to the musicians. "Thanks, boys. I think we did some good work today."

"Don't mention it, Rev. We pulled a few coins and a lot of smiles. In times like these, you take what you can get and give back the rest. Good luck on your travels, preacher."

"And to you." said Hathorne.

Fallon hesitated a moment. "Preacher, they say you healed a boy in that place, one that was as good as dead. Is that true?"

"I said a prayer and laid my hands on him. God did everything else."

Fallon left eyebrow rose.

"We'll be seein' you." he said, and drove off.

Hathorne paused a moment to look at the sunset. The traffic from Route 66 was dying down for the night, and Hathorne noticed a lone squad car coming towards town at surprising speed. He wondered at it for a moment, then jumped in surprise when it crashed full into a lamppost across the street. Hathorne's left hand went instinctually to his cross--his right went to his holster.

The cars on the road pulled away from the cop car, giving Hathorne a clear view when the car's occupant kicked the door off and into the street. The creature that came out was wearing the uniform of an officer of the law, but with black ichor oozing from his eyes, nose, and mouth. The same substance was all over his hands--Hathorne presumed it came from under the fingernails. A second ichor-smeared policeman crawled out of the car behind it.

The cross came off over Hathorne's head and the gun came free of the holster.

"Unholy creatures!" Hathorne called out. "I adjure you in the name of Christ! You shall go no further!"

The white glow radiating from the cross dimmed and became tinged with red.

I think not. The words came from the air around Hathorne's head; they had a slight echo as if from far away. The voice itself was scratchy and high pitched; a tenor ruined by too many years and too many cigarettes.

The two policemen charged across the street at Hathorne, each with a billy club raised.

"Fine, we'll do this the hard way." said Hathorne, cocking his gun.

Hathorne fired once into the head of the nearest officer, striking him in the eye. It lurched backward and nearly fell over. The creature moaned in what Hathorne assumed to be a sensation akin to pain. The second shot hit the other eye, and the creature dropped. Hathorne raised his cross again.

"I serve the most high, and no fell power can withstand my faith!" Hathorne cried. The red corona around the cross faded and the remaining officer froze. The Reverend strode into the street and up to the paralyzed creature. "The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face shine upon you. And be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you. And give you always his peace."

The creature dropped to the street, as dead as it had every right to be.

The doors to the police station flew open. Officer Kacinski came out from behind them.

"Reverend!" he called. Hathorne turned to face him. "We got need of some of that in here!"

VII. Those Left Behind

Reverend Hathorne hadn't always been a wandering preacher. Before the War he'd put away a substantial sum from his time as a surgeon. After the War he'd lingered in Europe, collecting and selling antiques; it was a business that had carried him back across the sea in 1927. When the stock market crashed in '29 and the banks followed, most of Hathorne's hard-earned money had been frozen.

The Reverend had taken it as a sign from God that we was needed out of the auction house and back on the streets of America. In the years since, he'd seen horrible things too numerous to count; Hoovervilles tended to be the worst. Every last one of the vagrant communities were a display of those who had less than Hathorne to start with but had lost even more. He did what he could in his travels to mend their wounds and sustain their faith.

This cluster of shacks, tents, and automobiles was no different.

Hathorne preached a sermon from atop a soapbox. Part way through, he was interrupted by a derisive shout from the back of the gathered crowd.

"Preacher, I don't think God gives a damn no more."

Hathorned stopped. "The Lord's love knows no bounds, sir. If you have a grievance with the Lord, speak it and I will fix it."

The man pushed through the crowd. "We been out here for weeks, some o' us for months. We's all been prayin' to God for help and he ain't given us a damn thing. Our babbies are starvin' and our wives are cryin', and still we keep prayin' and prayin' and gettin' nothin'. Then a couple o' days ago, the Doctor comes in through here and he starts tellin' us about how God's given up on us. Then he pulls out his black back and starts dishin' out the healin' we been prayin' for all this time. Doesn't ask nothin', just starts doin' good works. Then you come in here blowin' smoke."

Hathorne's eyebrow rose. "A Doctor, eh? Well, sir, I say, bring me your sick and your wounded. We'll see if it's just smoke that I blow, shall we?"

"Hell, preacher, what you gonna do, bless the nu-monia out of 'em? Even the Doc says he can't help my boy. I don't think no kind words is gonna fix him."

"Bring me this boy." said Hathorne. "And I'll show you how God feels about His children."

"Can't move 'im none." said the man, crossing his arms. "Too sick."

"Then I will go to him. Excuse me, folks. Wait here, I'll need my space."

The man led Hathorne into a shack made from old crates. On the dirt floor, a boy of perhaps thirteen lay shivering in a knot of blankets, his skin glossy with sweat. Hathorne squatted in the dirt beside him.

"Can you hear me, son?" Hathorne asked.

The boy turned his fevered head and nodded slowly.

"Then you're going to fine, son."

The Reverend took the cross off from around his neck and wrapped it around his left palm.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven
Hallowed be thy name--"

The boy's father, standing in the doorway, leaned over in surprise when the cross began to glow.

"Thy Kingdom come
Thy Will be done
On Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread--"

Hathorne touched the cross to the boy's forehead and the youth's limbs when rigid. The glow from the cross increased.

"And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil--"

The boy's eyes flew open and white light emanated from them, pillars of white in the gloom of the shack's interior.

"For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory
Forever and ever
Amen."

The prayer finished and glowing stopped. The boy went limp and his eyes fluttered open.

"I imagine you're a bit hungry, hm?" said Hathorne, reaching into his coat.

The boy coughed. It was the cough of one clearing his throat. "Yes, sir."

"He wasn't eatin' fer days--" said the father.

Hathorne turned his head to face the father. "That was the sickness. It's passed now, and so his appetite has returned. If you have food, you'd best get him some. I've driven the disease from his body, but simple malnutrition will still be fatal."

Hathorne stood and lowered a hand to the boy. He took it and Hathorne hoisted him to his feet.

"Come along, son." said the Reverend, putting the cross back around his neck. "I think the folks outside would like to get a look at you."