The Infection

God is not very popular these days, Paul realizes. These people here are the hardcore Christians. The true believers. Their faith astonishes him. It makes him feel a bit ashamed. And yet he cannot help but see them as a woman who defends the alcoholic husband who beats her regularly, making excuses for what is essentially psychotic behavior.

“Did you hear?” a man says behind him. “The Marines are in New Jersey.”

“Who needs ’em?” another man snorts.

“I heard the Feds are going to try to take our guns away from us after the Army shows up,” a woman says. “We’ll be defenseless.”

“That’s just a rumor. Just like the Marines landing anywhere is a rumor.”

“I heard it was Philadelphia, not New Jersey,” somebody cuts in.

“But what if it’s true? Don’t they understand the Second Amendment saved this country? If it weren’t for the Second Amendment, we’d all be Infected by now. God bless the NRA.”

Paul hears babies crying, startled at the sound, flashing back to the giant fanged worm slithering out of the gloom, mewing for food. He marvels that even now, children are being born in the camp. No matter what, it seems, life goes on. Perhaps the human race abides, too.

Near the front of the crowd, a man is shouting into a megaphone. The march is slowing, becoming more congested around several figures standing on the roof of a van in front of the old high school, the nominal seat of government in the camp. Paul continues to push forward, recognizing Pastor Strickland and several other clergy standing behind an overweight man wearing a crew cut, white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and massive sweat stains at the armpits, and a bright yellow tie. Paul has never seen him before but recognizes his voice. The man is a popular talk show host on the AM dial in the Pittsburgh area. McLean. Thomas McLean.

“We thought we were invincible,” McLean is saying. “We were consumed by money and pleasure and sex. Infection is happening because God is punishing us.”

The mob roars its approval, drowning him out.

“They want you to believe we can live without God,” Paul hears him say after the crowd settles down. “Without our faith. They want us to ignore God. But God ain’t ignoring us, folks. No, sir. God is talking to us loud and clear. And do you know what he’s saying?”

Paul holds his breath, straining to hear, wondering who “they” are.

“He’s saying we have insulted him, and he’s not going to take it!”

The crowd roars. Pastor Strickland and the other clergymen behind McLean nod and applaud, smiling grimly.

“We have insulted him by celebrating the spirit of the Antichrist and we are reaping the whirlwind. Insulted him by allowing feminism to destroy the American family, murder children and promote lesbianism. By allowing homosexuals to destroy marriage and corrupt our children. By corrupting this great nation with our greed, pop culture, liberal universities, public education, separation of church and state, and persecution of Christians.”

“No,” Paul says. “Not this. Not now.”

The crowd is growing increasingly angry. He can feel the energy surge through them like a wind. They wave their signs, crying out to McLean to tell them what to do.

“We must repent for the end is nigh,” McLean says. “I think we can all agree that it’s pretty nigh. But how does one repent? Do you even know what that word means? It means to make yourself righteous. Pure. We must purify ourselves as a nation and forge a new covenant with God.”

Hundreds of hands are in the air, waving gently like wheat in a breeze.

“To the atheists, I say, banish them from the camp!”

“Cast them out,” the people chant.

“Banish the homosexuals!”

“Cast them out.”

“Banish the elitists who look down at you!”

“This is not right,” Paul says to the faces around him as McLean continues to run down his list. “God does not want this. God does not want us to hate each other.”

“He wants us to hate sin,” a woman snaps at him.

“It ain’t a rally until the devil shows up,” a man observes. “Here he is in the flesh.”

“This is deranged,” Paul pleads. “Infection has deranged us. Can’t you see that?”

“All I see is a nigger with a death wish,” the man says with a grin.

“Keep that racist crap to yourself,” another man warns.

“God is punishing us for our wickedness,” the woman says. “Why is it deranged to think that?”

McLean is pointing at the processing center and shouting.

“Those people in there, they tell us how to live, but nobody voted for them! Now they want to silence me for speaking out! They see me as a threat! They can kill me, but they do not understand that the fire has been lit, that the fire is you, and it is spreading, and we will burn the corruption from the body of this great nation, and an even greater nation, a true Christian nation, will rise from the ashes!”

The crowd surges towards him hungrily. The soldiers guarding the processing center push the people back from the front doors with their rifles, angry and sweating.

“Tell them to pass the Sodomy Law. Tell them loud. Tell them now. Tell them—”