XII. The Long Walk to Jail

Kacinski ran through the station's main hall. The quickest way to the radio room was through the jail cells. He pulled his keys and opened the door to the cells.

Kacinski swiped at the light switch on the wall and missed. He decided to just keep moving--there was still some dim illumination coming in through the ceiling windows from the setting sun. As he passed the third cell, a pair of arms reached for him.

"Gah!" yelled Kacinski, avoiding the reach of the former Officer O'Malley. His friend's face leered at him from the darkened cell, barely visible in the faint light. Kacinski could see the black ichor smeared all over.

Don't worry none, Officer. said the same smoke-damaged tenor he'd earlier. It don't hurt nearly so much as it looks. Least, not if you don't resist.

Kacinski stopped moving.

"Shut your damn mouth!" he yelled at the darkness.

I ain't using my mouth, Tommy boy. I'm talking right into your soul. And you know what? I ain't nothing special. You might as well just give it up, son. You can't hold against the likes of me.

A cold sweat was rolling over Kacinski. He cleared his throat. "Our Father, who are in Heaven--"

There's no need for that, boy! the voice sounded suddenly angry with Kacinski.

"Hallowed be Thy name." Kacinski felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He let the prayer trail off. O'Malley was still reaching through the bars at him. Kacinski went over to the door and flipped the light on. "This ain't right."

He opened the door to the radio room. A pair of gray, black-smeared hands clamped down on his shoulders.

Kacinski screamed as the thrall--he recognized the face of Dan Barret, a young fellow who's been on the squad for less than a year--opened it's mouth and prepared to bite him. He swung the shotgun up, clamped his mouth and eyes shut, and fired. He felt the hands go limp and heard the body hit the ground. His skin burned where the ichor had touched it--he wiped the foul stuff away with his sleeve, and sat down at the radio console.

"Wichita, this is Points Corners, come in."

A second later a voice came back over the line. "Points Corners, this is Wichita. State your business."

"Thank God." breathed Kacinski.

XI. The Crowd Goes Wild

Hathorne and Kacinski hustled up the stairs and back into the station's ground floor. Each had a shotgun in hand and pockets full of shells. At Hathorne's insistence, each of them carried a second gun on his back in a leather holster.

"Now, we need to find those other two, and whatever infected them." said Hathorne. "Any idea where they might have gone?"

"I'd say that way." said Kacinski, pointing to the front door. It was smeared with black ichor.

"Damnation." muttered Hathorne. "This just got more complicated. Come on!"

The pair pushed the door open and ran into Points Corners. A mob of gray-skinned people crowded the street, every one of them dripping with ichor. Hathorne could see that they wore tattered flannel and ripped trousers, caked with road dust--the unofficial uniform of the migrant workers found in Hoovervilles across the country.

"Clever bastard. 'Doctor,' my ass." said Hathorne. Kacinski looked at him. "Beg pardon. Now then, I think we'd better stem this tide, Officer. I'd say these folks are guilty of at least Disorderly Conduct."

A pair of Okies shambled up the steps towards Hathorne and Kacinski, arms outstretched. Two shotgun blasts ripped through the air, and the pair went down. Hathorne and Kacinski reloaded and fired again.

The gray crowd turned towards the men and surged towards them. Hathorne pumped his shotgun and took down the one in the lead. Kacinski followed suit. Hathorne pulled the second gun from his back and took out the next in line.

"Officer!" yelled Hathorne, returning the second gun to its holster and feeding shells into the first. "I think we'd better fall back, take them some place where their numbers won't count for as much!"

"Agreed!" Kacinski pushed the doors open behind them while Hathorne took one more shot at the thrall in the lead and retreated through. The two men retreated backwards in the police station's main lobby. Another Officer ran up.

"Tom, what's going on? And who is that?"

Hathorne reloaded the gun in his hand and tossed it to the officer. "Just a man of God, Officer, lending a helping hand in a time of crisis."

The officer caught the gun and Kacinski spoke up. "Randall Hicks, meet Reverend John Hathorne. We've got a situation, Randy. I'll let the Reverend here fill you in, I'm going to go radio Wichita for reinforcements."

"Watch your back, Kacinski!" yelled Hathorne. "We never found the last two!"

"Gotcha, Rev!" called Kacinski running out of the room.

"What the hell is going on?" demanded Hicks.

"The short version, is that most of the Hooverville west of town has taken on an infernal taint. If you see anyone with a black substance oozing out of their eyes, nose, mouth, fingernails, etcetera, destroy their eyes. Prayer will protect you."

"What?"

The door swung open and the thralls outside began to push their way in.

"Those, Officer!" yelled Hathorne, squeezing the trigger. "Take on as many of them as you can!"

Hicks hesitated a moment longer, then fired into the crowd.

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."

VI. The Road to Hooverville

Fallon and Murray had a 1932 Ford Model B that had, like just about everything on the road, seen better days. Hathorne rode in the back, next to a pair of guitar cases and about twenty pounds of crumpled paperwork. Fallon drove and Murray folded himself into the passenger seat; Hathorne guessed the man was about six foot three, but he couldn't be more than a hundred and forty pounds. He had a coat like Hathorne's, but made of dark brown leather and decidedly civilian in origin.

It was twenty minutes' ride to Hooverville, giving Hathorne time to better examine his new companions. Fallon was animated and talkative, talking and gesturing with his free hand most of the time he was driving. In the diner Hathorne would have put Fallon at about thirty-seven years old, but that didn't sit quite right in the light of day--Fallon certainly didn't look over forty, but something about him felt older to Hathorne.

Jim Murray was a strange creature, no doubt about that. Besides being generally shaped like a flagpole, he had a full beard clipped short and long hair, all of it silver, spilling out from under a brown hat that was too droopy to be a cowboy hat. He had nodded a greeting to Hathorne when they'd met up, but had otherwise stayed silent. Murray could have been a bad forty or a good sixty; Hathorne suspected he was closer to the latter.

"So, Rev, you served in the War, eh?" asked Fallon.

"Yep. Army medical corps."

"Hm. Figured you'd be a chaplain or something."

"No, though I did try to steer those under my care toward Christ whenever I could. I've got a degree in surgery, so when I asked to be in the medical corps. they didn't turn me down, even though I was little older than what they're used to."

"You're a doctor too, eh?"

"Mm-hm. Ordained in 1898, licensed in 1902."

"Pretty impressive, sir. You know, you never did tell me what exactly you're a minister of."

"Presbyterian." Hathorne chuckled briefly. "My story's not all that different from yours. I started out all the way in Baltimore, but I've been heading west ever since. Trying to get a good look at the country I've nearly died for a dozen times."

"Over in Europe, eh?" said Fallon. Hathorne nodded. "Yeah, I went over there, too. Nearly got my head shot off by the damn Krauts too many times to remember. This bastard--" Fallon pointed at Murray. "He was too old to fight in the Great War, and flat-footed besides!"

Murray nodded solemnly.

"How old are you boys?" asked Hathorne.

"Us? Older'n we look. Myself, I'm forty-one. Old Jim here, well--"

"Old." said Murray.

"How old?" said Hathorne. "When you give me an answer like that, it just makes me more curious, you know."

"Jim's a little self conscious about his age. You gotta understand, times like these, people see their babies starvin', they don't look so kindly on folks that make it too long. Just let it rest that Jim here's older'n either of us."

I doubt that very much. thought Hathorne.

V. Musicians

Not too many places are open in a small town after midnight, but Points Corners lived and died by the business off Route 66; as long as cars kept stopping, Points Corners had a place for them to go. Hathorne stepped into the diner around one in the morning, squinting in the harsh florescent light. A string of bells on the door rang as he entered and trudged over to the bar.

Lisa was working that night, chewing gum behind her fat cheeks.

"Evenin', Father." she said. "What'll you be having?"

"Reverend, ma'am. And just a cup of coffee for now."

"Yes, sir."

Hathorne took out a cigarette and lit up.

"Evenin', preacher." said the man to Hathorne's left. He looked to be in his late thirties with a short goatee. A skinny scarecrow of a man set next to him, full gray beard parked behind a smoldering cigarette.

"Evening, friend." said Hathorne.

"What brings a man of the cloth to a place like this so late at night?"

"Just doing God's work. I might ask the same of you."

The man turned in his seat. "I'm afraid I'm setting the wrong tone. The name's Fallon, Ben Fallon." He extended a hand and Hathorne shook it. "My buddy Jim Murray and I were playing a show in town and this was the only place to get a bite to eat at this hour." The scarecrow nodded; Hathorne assumed him to be Jim Murray.

"Reverend John Hathorne, nice to meet you. You're musicians?"

"That we are." said Fallon. "We've been following 66 from Chicago on westward, playing gigs whenever we can."

"What sort of music?"

"The blues." said Murray. He had a voice like a rusty hinge. "Greatest music ever made."

Hathorne shrugged. "I can't imagine too many people want to hear about your woes in times like these."

"Nah, that's not how we do it, anyhow." said Fallon. "Jim plays his guitar blues style, but that's not what I sing about."

"So what do you sing about?"

"Women, mostly." said Fallon, smiling. "One thing that's always put a smile on my face."

Hathorne nodded. "I had myself quite a wife, back in the day."

"Aye, me too." said Fallon, hanging his head. "She's gone now, though. Bless her."

Hathorne nodded again. "I feel your pain, brother."

Lisa put Hathorne's coffee down in front of him. "Anything else, Reverend?"

"The apple pie ain't bad." croaked Jim.

"Sure, ma'am. I'll have a slice of apple pie." said Hathorne.

"Hey, preacher, I got me an idea." said Fallon. "Jim and I, we were planning on heading out to the Hooverville west of town after lunch tomorrow, see if we can raise some spirits and maybe a dollar or two. I'll bet you those'll be the sort of folks who need to hear about the word o' God, am I right?"

Hathorne sipped his coffee. He'd had better. "Likely so." He shook his head. "People with nothing left but faith in God tend to lose even that before long. Sure, I'll come along with you boys."

"Sounds good, preacher. We've got ourselves a car for touring. We'll meet you right out front around one, how's that sound?"

"Sounds good." said Hathorne.

IV. Beneath a Darkened Sky

Four miles to the East of Points Corners, Kansas, Reverend Hathorne sat on a folding chair by the light of a small campfire, his eyes on the overturned truck. He took a drag from his cigarette.

The rig was scheduled to be torched in the morning. In the meantime, a NO TRESPASSING sign and about a mile of yellow police tape had been set up around the wreck. The man from the Associated Press had told the police about previous cases like this--victims of the so-called Traveling Plague--and they had decided to follow the lead of the cops in Tulsa and burn the wreck to keep the stuff in the truck from spreading. Hathorne had seen this personally, and knew that something else would happen before then.

"Any time now." he muttered, tossing his cigarette butt into the fire. He put a fresh cigarette to his lips and opened his Zippo to light it. Just then, he heard the sound of glass breaking. Hathorne put the cigarette away and pulled a pocket watch out of his coat. "Right on time."

Hathorne started towards the truck. He took his cross off from around his neck and wrapped the chain around his left wrist. He pulled the Colt .45 with his right and cleared his throat.

"Come forth, fallen creature, in the name of God!" Hathorne yelled. "I adjure you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!"

The cross hanging inches below Hathorne's hand began to glow, casting silvery light through the overcast night. He could see a figure crawling through the broken windshield of the direlect truck. It stood up and faced him.

"On your knees, foul creature! I speak with the authority of the one called I Am!" Hathorne yelled.

The figure growled, but knelt in the mud. Hathorne closed the distance and gazed upon the earthly remains of Michael "Jonesy" Jones. The skin was yellowed and wrinkled, with black ichor dripped from every orifice. The eyes were sunken and yellow.

Hathorne stood before the creature. "Fear not, friend. I will find the creature that has done this to you, and he will face judgment." he said in a conversational tone. He resumed his chanting tone a moment later. "The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face shine upon you--"

The glow from the cross became stronger and the creature began to grunt as if in pain.

"And be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you--"

The light from the cross became blinding and the creature cried out in pain.

"And give you always His peace."

Hathorne touched the glowing cross to the creature's forehead. It issued a sudden flare of light and the creature collapsed, lifeless once more.

Hathorne stepped back and holstered his gun.

"Amen."

III. Associated Press Report

Associated Press Report
9/29/37

TRAVELING PLAGUE STRIKES AGAIN

Points Corners, KA
In this small truck stop town roughly 30 miles West of Wichita, police discovered an unusual wreck from Route 66 late Wednesday afternoon. A trailer truck carrying medical supplies from Chicago, Illinois to Spearfish, Arizona was discovered wrecked thirty feet from the road and turned on its side.

The only passenger of the truck was its driver, identified as Michael Jones, was dead when police arrived on the scene.

Officers surveying the scene said that Jones' body was in an advanced state of decay. Officer Michael O'Malley, one of the first officers on the scene, was quoted as saying Mr. Jones' body "Was covered in black liquid...coming from his mouth, eyes, and nose." The medicine the truck had been carrying seemed to have all turned to the same thick, black liquid, baffling local investigators.

The wreck was discovered by Reverend Captain (US Army Medical Corps., retired) John Hathorne, who claimed to have seen similar cases further east. Associated Press archives have turned up four previous cases of the appearance of the strange black fluid, dubbed "The Traveling Plague" by reporter Damien Wallace. The black substance the Traveling Plague is associated with was first reported in March of 1936 when a barge carrying loads of grain found more than half its load had been tainted by the fluid. It appeared in December of that year when a truckload of Californian wine was found in which the contents of every bottle had been replaced by the black fluid when it was stopped for inspection in Cleveland. The third appearance of the fluid was in a shipment of Coca-Cola discovered outside of New Orleans, Lousiana in April. It is worth noting that in this case the driver of the truck was found in a similar state to that of Mr. Jones. The most recent case of the Traveling Plague being reported was in a homeless shelter in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where several can of soup were discovered to contain significant amounts of the black fluid. In this unfortunate case, several occupants and workers at the shelter were found dead within days of the discovery.

The Points Corners Police Department has announced they plan to burn the wreck in light of the New Orleans and Tulsa cases.

Reverend Hathorne has stated he believes each of the Traveling Plague incidents are connected, citing that they move in a steady Westward pattern and are always found in human food sources. Whether there is any connection in these cases remains to be seen.

-Christopher Fisher
Associated Press

II. The Devil's Work

Officers Mike O'Malley and Tom Kacinzki arrived on the scene with a man who identified himself as Reverend John Hathorne around five thirty. The parked the squad car by the side of Route 66 and went down through the gap in the foliage made by the careening big rig. The truck itself lay on its side at the end of the trail.

"Well, we'd best see if there's any survivors." said Kacinzki, switching on his flashlight. "Looks like we'll have to climb up on top of the cab to be sure."

"Hang on a second, Tom." said O'Malley. "Look at this."

The driver's side door of the rig's trailer lay flat to the ground. Inside was a pile of glass, paper, and needles.

"Shine your light in there." said O'Malley.

The flashlight's beam revealed piles of medicine stacked on top of each other, many of them shattered when the trailer tipped over. Or at least, it was in medicinal containers. All of the visible liquid was thick and black, more like motor oil than any sort of tonic or injection.

"What the hell is that? Uh, pardon my language, Reverend."

"You are forgiven, Officer." said Hathorne. "It looks like medicine, but not like any I've ever seen. Let me get a little closer."

Hathorne poked his head inside the trailer and immediately pulled it back out again. He coughed three, four times. "There is no way on God's green earth that whatever's in there will cure anything. Stinks like...well, like motor oil and manure mixed together. Just like I thought."

"What?" asked O'Malley.

"I've seen this before. Not exactly the same, but close enough. You're gonna want to burn all this. It'll kill just about anything it comes in contact with. And I don't think we're gonna find any survivors, I'll tell you that right now."

"You say you've seen this before? Medicine turning into--whatever this sh--garbage is?"

"I haven't seen medicine before; so far it's been food, wine, even a bargeload of Coca-Cola. Medicine's new."

"Wait, you're saying this stuff used to be medicine? How could it--?"

"I think it's the Devil's work, but that's just me."

There was silence for several seconds before Kacinski spoked up. "We'd better check the cab. It's gonna be dark soon."

"Right." said O'Malley.

Kacinski gave O'Malley and then Hathorne a boost up onto the cab. Hathorne pulled the door open and O'Malley shone the flashlight inside.

"Dear God..." said O'Malley.

Hathorne scowled. "Just as I suspected."

"Shit, how long has he been here?"

"Probably not as long as it looks." said Hathorne.

"What's up there? Is he all right?" yelled Kacinski.

Hathorne knelt above the open door and began saying a prayer.

"Hell no!" yelled O'Malley. "Hell no!"

I. The Man With Two Crosses

At around five in the evening a night later, a man walked into the town of Points Corners, Kansas. He wore a faded green trench coat with a captain's insignia beneath beneath a dull red cross. Another cross, this one made of silver, hung around his neck. He wore a preacher's collar at his neck and a Colt 1911 .45 caliber at his belt. He had a pale, broad brimmed cap on his head with long, light brown hair coming out from beneath, streaked with gray. He looked to be about forty-five, fifty on the outside. He carried a big corduroy bag around his neck by one strap--the same color as his coat--but didn't seem to mind.

A light drizzle was falling as he walked down Main Street (actually still Route 66, but the locals called it Main Street). He looked up and down the road, and walked up the steps to the police station and up to the front desk.

"Evening, officer." he said. His voice was deep and throaty, cured to perfection by years of smoking.

"Good evening, Father." said the officer on duty, noticing the cross and the collar.

"Reverend, Officer." said the stranger. The officer noticed the name "Hathorne" stitched into the man's coat on the left breast.

"Apologies, Reverend. What can I do for you?"

"I just got into town off 66, coming out of the east. There's a nasty wreck back there, three, maybe four miles out of town. Somebody's rig went clean off the road, through maybe thirty feet of brush before it tipped over. It's a downhill skid with lots of overgrowth, so I don't think it'd be noticeable for anybody who's not on foot. Just figured I'd check if you folks had a report of it yet."

The officer's eyebrow rose. "No, actually. We ain't heard about that. Anybody injured?"
"I don't know. The thing tipped at some point, driver's side down, so the Lord only knows if anyone's inside. If you got a car to spare, I can go show you the spot before it gets dark."

"I think that'd be a good idea, Reverend. Come with me. By the way, the name's O'Malley."

Prologue: The Hitchhiker

The year of Our Lord, One Thousand, Nine Hundred and Thirty-Seven.

It was a dreary day in late September, about twenty miles outside of Wichita, Kansas. It wasn't raining, but the sky suggested that was up for review. Jonesy's truck was hauling a trailer full of medicine to a town in Arizona called Spearfish. He brought the rig to a slow stop beside a man at the side of the rode with his finger out. Jonesy opened the passenger's door.

"Evening, stranger." he said. "Where you heading?"

"West." said the hitchhiker. He was a strange looking fellow--real tall, skinny as a rail. He was wearing a brown trench coat and had a scarf of the same color around his neck, beneath a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses. The scarf and coat made sense--it was chilly out there, especially for Kansas. The sunglasses were a mystery, though--it had been overcast all day.

"Any place in particular?"

"I reckon I'll figure that out when I get there." said the hitchhiker. He looked to be smiling beneath his scarf. Jonesy had never heard a voice quite like this before--it was scratchy and oily at the same time, a busted up tenor. There was something about that voice...he shouldn't have liked the sound of it, but he did anyway.

"Well, I'm heading out to Spearfish, Arizona. You can come with me some of the way, stranger."

"I thank you kindly, sir." said the hitchhiker, climbing into the truck.

Jonesy put the rig in gear. "Aw, call my Jonesy, don't nobody call me sir."

"Well, thanks for the ride, Jonesy. I appreciate it something fierce."

"So, what do they call you?"

The hitchhiker coughed. "Bill." It came out with a hint of twang, sounding like "Bee Al."

"Nice to meet you Bill. You lookin' for a job out west?"

"Yeah, sounds like there's still work out there for someone of my skills." said Bill.

"Well, don't be holdin' your breath on that one, Bill. From what I hear most of the work out there's been dried up since Hoover--may he burn in hell--was in Washington. You got some professional trainin' or something?"

"Yep. I'm a doctor."

"Well, Dr. Bill! Yeah, you'll find work out there. 'Sanother matter if you'll find people can pay you for work, but you'll find it."

"Eh, I plan on doing some charity work out there, anyhow. Doing some stuff for free."

"Well, that's awful nice of you. I tell you what, Bill, I'm haulin' me a load of meds right now. You want that some of them should fall offa this here truck and into your little black bag?"

"Why, I'd like that very much Jonesy." said Bill. "What a courteous gesture."

"Aw, 'tweren't nothing."

The rig kept moving down Route 66, toward the setting sun.