Primitive. Part 25

I was beginning to grasp what Wendy was trying to say. "So the stronger somebody believes in something like this, the more likely it's bound to happen?"

"Exactly!"

"Wait a minute." This from one of the other people we were talking to. "So what you're saying is that if people were overly superst.i.tious and sincerely believed if they were cursed, let's say by lycanthropy...they had a greater chance of actually becoming a werewolf?"

"In a sense, yes," Wendy said.

"I think that is such bulls.h.i.+t," Lynn from Ma.s.sachusetts said.

"I think we all feel that way," Wendy continued. "But a fourteenth century-"

"A fourteenth century ignorant, uneducated peasant would believe it," I finished.

"Yes," Wendy said. "And the more concentrated the belief, the stronger the will to believe, by as many people as possible...the more likely the belief itself can manifest."

"You're suggesting mind over matter," Wesley said.

Wendy was silent for a moment. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting. Take telekinesis, for example. Telekinesis is the ability to physically move objects by the simple will of the mind. The focus of the mind on an object, like a pencil on a table, and to summon the power to move it...well, the phenomenon has been studied in controlled environments and proven. There were theories that everybody possesses some degree of telekinesis and are never aware of it, while in others it's much stronger, so much so that it's obvious they have the 'gift' of mind over matter."

"Which means that psychotics who claimed they saw a giant purple bunny chasing them, or a pink elephant dancing down their street were literally speaking the truth?" Sarcastic, yes, but I couldn't help it. What Wendy was suggesting was ludicrous.

"To some degree, yes," Wendy stated. "But the thing to remember is that those around them did not share their belief in the giant purple bunny, much less the pink elephant, therefore they never saw them."

"But if enough people shared the belief, the purple bunny would be real?"

"Not enough people, David. The majority of the human population."

I let that sink in.

"That could explain why certain places in the world that report hauntings, like Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, report higher occurrences in ghosts," Tim suggested. "When you visit Gettysburg you almost expect a ghost to show up."

"True," Wendy said. "And I'm sure the combined will strengthens their manifestation in that area."

"It would also suggest those medieval stories you mentioned," Lynn stated. She sounded like she was a pleasant enough lady. Mid-thirties maybe. "I remember reading stuff about medieval history, how people literally saw the devil."

"Or angels or whatever," somebody else chimed in.

"It would explain the stories of Pan in Greek mythology," Tim said. "The ancient Greeks were concentrated in a particular area, and their mythology was very centralized. Once Pan was described, those who saw him saw a little goat man frolicking with the fauns."

"So in a sense, belief was stronger back then," Wesley said. He was nodding. He almost looked like he was accepting this crazy belief. If Martin could only hear this he'd go apes.h.i.+t.

"Belief was much stronger then," Wendy reiterated. "And belief was taken literally. Today even the most devout Christian can accept the scientific knowledge that the world wasn't created in six days but can see the Genesis story as allegory."

"Try telling that to those crazy f.u.c.kers who started that Creationist Museum in Kentucky," I muttered.

Wendy laughed. It was the first genuine human laugh I'd heard since this whole crazy mess started. "Again, the literal believers had become a minority. A vocal minority, I might add, but a minority nonetheless. But even among them, I'm confident that few of them literally believed Jesus would descend on a fiery throne to whisk His followers to Heaven in advance of the end times. They might have truly believed this, but I think as a species we've evolved so much from that part of our psyche-which many scientists call our belief center of the brain."

"What's that mean?" Tim asked.

"There was a scientific theory that all humans share a common trait," Wendy explained. "It's hardwired into our brains. Quite simply, it is the compulsion to believe in the extra-sensory, the spiritual, in a greater cause. It's an interesting theory, and a recent one, and could provide ample explanation for why entire families adhere to certain strong religious beliefs while others simply don't, even those who live in a community where they're outnumbered by deeply religious people."

"So this compulsion..." I began, thinking out loud. "...in its most primitive form would compel us to not only believe, but to actually manifest that belief into being."

"Precisely."

Once again we were all silent as we digested this bit of information.

"We don't know much about Hanbi," Wendy said, breaking the silence. "That can be attributed to Neanderthals and early h.o.m.o sapiens not leaving much in the archeological record. But judging from what I'm seeing in the past month or so since...since this travesty..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I can see that Hanbi was not only a very real deity to our ancestors due to the primitive nature of that part of our brains...it's very obvious Hanbi was seen as an evil deity. If there was an opposite of Hanbi-a G.o.d representative-I haven't found it in the archeological records. The concept of G.o.d might have developed on a different level. Those who believed in a spiritual good probably wors.h.i.+pped through ways we don't understand yet. But Hanbi...Hanbi wors.h.i.+p was different. I think it's safe to say that certain sects of primitive man wors.h.i.+pped him and believed he would manifest himself on earth."

"Certain sects?" I asked.

Tim cleared his throat. "Have any of you seen Hanbi?"

"No," Wesley said.

"We've heard the stories," I interjected.

"Tell me."

I reminded them of the story Wesley had told them earlier, the one Stuart related to us. When I was finished Tim said, "Stuart saw a very big ma.s.s of primitives running wild through the streets of Philadelphia. Those are what I'm starting to call the normal ones. Then there is that other subset...that second set you mentioned that drew Hanbi's image and performed the ritual."

"Yeah?"

"They were smaller in number, correct?"

"According to Stuart they were."

"He never saw the others?"

"He never mentioned them."

"They were probably hiding," Tim continued. "We're finding that primitives in large metropolitan areas remain there. They don't leave for open areas or rural communities, much less the surrounding countryside. They also tend to steer clear of those primitives who scrawl images of Hanbi on walls...or engage in ritualistic wors.h.i.+p."

I felt a chill run down my spine. "You've seen this?"

Tim's voice was grim. "I see it every other day from this high rise I'm sitting in. The moment a pack of primitives who wors.h.i.+p Hanbi draw near, other primitives scatter. It's like it's hardwired into them that Hanbi's followers are bad news. Are evil."

I let this sink in.

Wendy picked up on Tim's theory. "We think this was where the original theories of the devil came from. Perhaps he was conjured up by some spiritual leader to keep his clan in line and Hanbi's legend grew from there over the years to eventually manifest into what he later became."

I had a thousand questions. The photos of those cave paintings in Spain. Had the spiritual knowledge of Hanbi spread wide in prehistoric times? For some reason, I believed this was the case.

"And now that there are many more primitives," Wendy continued, her voice low. "Much more than ever in the history of mankind, that collective will has literally summoned him into an actual being. That is why he is here."

"So to kill Hanbi, we have to kill as many primitives as possible," Wesley said. He glanced at me. How the h.e.l.l were we going to do that?

"Theoretically, yes," Wendy said. "It would seem to be the only way."

Wesley blinked, sat up in his chair. "Uh...Wendy? You said there were survivors from our government and law enforcement online?"

"Yes. They're monitoring other frequencies. There's a few dozen sequestered in a bunker somewhere in the DC area and they've-"

"I'm a member of the US Army, One Hundred and Twenty-First Division, Fort Bragg, North Carolina," Wesley said. His voice was stronger now, more authoritative. "I need to know what frequency I can reach them at, and who to talk to."

"Twenty meters at 28500," Wendy answered. "Ask for Bob Atkins. He used to be a US Senator."

"Thank you. I'll be back shortly." Wesley quickly disconnected from that frequency, turned off the equipment and turned to me. "We need to get out of here. Gather everybody together and get as many weapons as possible. Pack only a few days worth of food. Tell Martin to remain at his post-you'll have to gather his things, too. Meet me in the garage at 0600 hours. We'll be taking the Hummer that's in the garage."

"The Hummer?" We'd never used the Hummer that the previous owner of this cabin housed in the garage, aside from the one time Wesley managed to get it started. Lori had later found the keys to it and they were now sitting on the kitchen counter. "Why?"

"Last time I checked, that Hummer had a radio in it," Wesley said. I immediately knew what he was getting at; a high-frequency radio to monitor communications and keep in touch with our new surviving comrades.

I glanced at my watch. Miraculously, it wasn't broken. It was a quarter after twelve.

"You don't think we should leave sooner?"

"It's been over two hours since the last attack," Wesley said. "And I think the one thing about us that hasn't changed since we were like them is that they're more active during the daytime."

I nodded. Made sense. That first attack had happened during twilight, when they'd probably spent a good portion of the day on the journey to reach our compound. "Emily felt the next attack could happen soon," I persisted.

"Yeah, and I believe her. That'll probably be early this morning. But you need some rest, and so does Tracy and Emily."

"What about you and Martin?"

"I'll get an hour of sleep in the Hummer. Martin can sleep on the drive over."

"The drive over to where?"

Once again there was that glimmer of hope in Wesley's features. "I don't want to jump the gun on this yet...but I think I have a plan."

Twenty Three I couldn't sleep. Try as I might, I barely got two hours in.

After giving Martin a quick recap and a.s.suring myself that he was okay to stand watch all night, I quickly gathered some provisions and personal belongings. I stowed them in the garage carefully by the Hummer. As I worked I heard Wesley in the radio room talking to somebody. It wasn't Tim, or Wendy, or any of the people from our previous conversation, so he must have been talking to Bob Atkins, ex-US Senator in Was.h.i.+ngton DC. And that got me to thinking.

Years ago, when I was just starting out as a writer, I supported myself by writing a series of men's action-adventure novels under a pseudonym, among other things. Over a period of three or four years I probably wrote ten of the things (along with movie and TV tie-ins and other writer-for-hire books). You may have seen books like that on the racks in department stores like Wal-Mart, or at truck stops. You know the drill: The Specialist. The Executioner. The Destroyer. The Penetrator. MIA. They all had a central character who carried the series, usually a guy in his late twenties or early thirties who was ex-military, maybe CIA or Special Ops, who was a killing machine and skilled at all kinds of weaponry and martial arts, who also possessed other talents like cryptography, or computer intelligence, or whatever. Think James Bond and you'll get the picture. Thanks to Ian Fleming's character, the publis.h.i.+ng industry milked that particular genre by buying and creating numerous imitations, some created by other writers wanting to cash in, others created by the publis.h.i.+ng firms themselves, hiring writers to churn the things out under what is known in the industry as a "house name." I think before the world as we knew it ended there had been something like three hundred or more volumes of The Destroyer series, with one book appearing every month or so for the past thirty years.

Thanks to those brief sojourns into writing quick pulp work for rent and food money, I became familiar with things most people never think about, much less pay attention to about our government.

One of those things was knowing that there were numerous underground bunkers and bomb shelters beneath Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., Virginia, and parts of Maryland.

Of course, I didn't know their exact location. I remember when working on the first few books in the series I was writing, Black Ops, I asked the creator, a grizzled pulp veteran who'd penned the first three books in the series and later went on to become a best-selling author of military suspense fiction, how he'd found out about these secret bunkers. "Careful research and asking the right people," he'd told me over the phone. "I just needed to know enough to make it believable so I can make everything else up!"

So I didn't know their exact location, but I knew they existed. Therefore, it made perfect sense for those in government who were unaffected during those first chaotic forty-eight hours of the change, to high-tail it to those secret bunkers where they'd be safe from nuclear or ground a.s.sault, where they would probably be fortified with high-tech communications equipment as well as food and other supplies.

Which meant there was the possibility that there was some form of government left and they were trying to restore order out of all the chaos that had erupted.

Now that glimmer of hope was growing.

When I was finished I went upstairs and did a quick survey of the grounds. The fires had died down, or were close to it, and I could see Martin outside, rifle ready to shoot at anything that moved as he ensured all the primitives were burnt to a crisp. I headed to Wesley's wing of the house and did a quick survey of our things to make sure I'd packed everything. Then I slid out of my dirty clothes and climbed into bed with Tracy and Emily.

Tracy stirred as I slipped into bed beside her. She came awake with a start. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's okay," I whispered. I kissed her shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes. They're all dead."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We're leaving at the crack of dawn."

"Leaving?" Tracy made to sit up but I gently pushed her back down. Emily stirred slightly beside her and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

"We need some sleep," I said, gently but forcefully. "Martin is standing watch, and Wesley is getting everything ready. We'll get up tomorrow and leave at six. I've already got things packed for us."

"Where are we gonna go?" Tracy obviously understood why we were leaving so quickly.

"I don't know yet." The urge to tell her what I'd learned was strong, but I also knew that if I gave one hint of it she'd demand to hear more and that would keep us up longer. We needed to recharge our batteries and that meant getting to sleep. "We need to get some rest. Come on."

Tracy allowed herself to lie back down. I scooted close to her, swung my injured arm around her waist. It still throbbed despite the aspirin I'd taken.

The throbbing of my injured arm kept me awake for at least another forty minutes. Tracy dropped back off to sleep within a minute.

I listened to her labored breathing, watched mother and daughter snuggled close together in sleep, mother draping a protective arm over her child, hugging her close. I silently settled into position on my right side, my arm around Tracy's waist, a symbolic gesture of my own attempt at protecting my clan, my tribe, my family. Part of me felt helpless, but another part of me was ready to do anything to protect Tracy and Emily. I knew that if it came between the three of us and the rest of our clan, I would fight harder for their lives. That instinct to protect, to keep them from harm's way, was part of my reason for agreeing with Wesley that we should leave this area. I did feel the threat of more primitives heading our way-and not the normal ones, as Tim was calling them.

Yet I also sensed dread.

Fear.

Call it a sense of anxiousness of not knowing what would happen when we left this place, and being uncertain as to where we would go that was the root cause of it. Another was the look in Wesley's eye when he asked for the frequency and call location of Bob Atkins and instructed me to gather our things together in preparation of our departure. For the first time since coming together, Wesley was withholding something from me. He had come up with a plan and he wasn't telling me. For some reason that burned me. While I could understand the nature of our predicament-we surely didn't have the time for him to tell me his plan-I still felt I should be included for my own peace of mind.

Because not knowing made it more difficult for me to decide what to do, what I felt was best for my family and myself.

So I lay awake and worried. My arm throbbed in pain. I worried if it was infected, if it would heal properly. At some point tomorrow Tracy was going to have to st.i.tch the wound up properly; I'd packed the first aid kit and enough medication in one of the canvas bags I'd placed in the garage. For now medical treatment would have to wait.

Eventually sleep overcame me. And with it came the nightmares.

In the first one I was still asleep and was jostled awake by Tracy, who was screaming. "Emily! Oh G.o.d, it's got Emily!"

I sprang awake to the sight of Emily flying over the bed. Her cute four-year old face was transformed into a grinning, demonic visage. Wings sprouted from her shoulder blades. Her skin had turned dark and leathery. Her eyes rolled up to show the whites and she opened her mouth. Hanbi's voice issued from it. "Wors.h.i.+p me, Daddy! Wors.h.i.+p me!"

The second one was even worse. In that one, Heather caught Emily and leaped onto her, tearing her from Tracy's grasp. She grabbed Emily's head and battered it against the wall, all the while screaming, "Take that you half-breed mongoloid brat!" She bashed Emily's head against the wall over and over while Tracy, who was clearly possessed by the demonic Hanbi, sat on the opposite corner of the bed and watched, laughing.

I came awake with a yell from both dreams, flailing my arms around in an attempt to fight the evil Hanbi off me, who I felt was hovering over me, waiting to take control of me.

Both times I came awake, Emily and Tracy slept soundly.