Weird Vibrations

The Pennsylvania 14th was twelve hundred members strong, encamped around the huge church from which the town took its name. For the assault on the tri-borough, the militia would need not nearly all of their ranks. In fact, Major Buxton had chosen only two hundred for a two-pronged attack. John had “identified” several pockets of possible resistance on the way to the East Greenville Borough Hall, so his detachment, under the command of First Sergeant Jones, was to thrust into Colonial Village. There was a police kiosk that needed to be either subdued, or verified abandoned, in the small community.

From the tree line east of the police kiosk, John smiled maniacally at the “ththup” of the grenade launcher and the deafening explosion that followed. The detachment had met no resistance to this point, and he was eager for blood. He pulled his rifle off of his shoulder and walked toward the wreckage through the sheets of rain.

“Corporal, keep your cover!”

“C’mon, sarge, there’s nobody here!”

In protest, a gunshot rang out, the bullet plunging into the ground ahead of him in a shower of wet grass and dirt.

“Eleven o’clock!” he heard somebody call out.

Through the rain, John could see a hinged portal in the roof of one of the houses. Harry Dunn was the home’s owner, a military wannabe mixed with a modern day Robin Hood, a Blue through and through. John raised the rifle quickly, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He had never fired a fully automatic rifle, and the power was immediately addicting. The bullets tore through the roof of the home and Harry was unable to fire another shot.

It seemed Harry would be the only resistance to be found. John guessed, rightly, that most of the Village’s residents had either fled or decided to hide. He didn’t really care, except for the disappointment of not having more people to kill. The detachment broke cover and moved forward, the din of the rain and sizzling remains of the police kiosk the only sounds to be heard. John walked as close to the fire as he dared, its warmth relaxing through his drenched clothes.

That’s when he heard the raised voice of a woman. He could tell that she was crying and panicked, and that sneer washed across his face again. The woman was leading four children, and carrying a fifth, to her car parked in the lot in front of the burning kiosk. Julie Asner, twice married, soon-to-be twice divorced, five kids with three fathers, always seems to be with the wrong man at the wrong time. He didn’t know her politics, but it wasn’t really important at the moment. She had torched him publicly more than once, and her first husband had taken a cheap shot him (at least in his recollection) some twenty years ago. With the First Sergeant and the rest of the detachment still catching up to him, John decided to have a little fun.

He stalked up to her vehicle, Julie unable to notice as she strapped her kids into their seats, lifted his rifle and fired indiscriminately. She let out an ear-piercing scream mixed of terror, sadness, and rage, then she went quiet as John emptied the magazine into the car. The power of life and death thrilled him like nothing else in his life ever had. Anonymity was his greatest shield, as he had no idea who these people, kids or not, they were just bodies. Sure, he knew of and had interactions with Julie, but it was all superficial, it held for him no emotional baggage. John was now a cold, calculating killer, and he was using the militia as his mechanism to to do the one thing he’s always wanted… get revenge.

He sauntered towards the old station wagon when Julie popped up into view. Tears mixed with blood poured down her face, her expression reminded him of Sissy Spacek’s ‘Carrie’. But he felt no fear, only a rush of adrenaline for his next kill. Julie made her way to the back of the vehicle to confront John, a Glock raised before her. John never gave her a chance and took out her knee with a bullet. Free of her hand, the pistol crashed to the asphalt in synchronicity with Julie herself.

She looked at him liked a demon-possessed freak, her voice but a growl, “You goddamn son of bi-”

POW!

Julie dropped face first, the bullet from John’s pistol burying itself into her temporal lobe. In the next instant, First Sergeant Jones’ hand grabbed the pistol’s barrel.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, corporal? This is a military operation, not a murder spree! Back to formation! This woman was not a threat!” Though Kevin was an imposing figure, and John would stand very little chance one-on-one, the attempt at disciplining him fell flat.

“I know the people, Sarge, I know who’s a threat and who’s not. Besides, she had a pistol…” and he smiled again as he turned around and went back to formation.

“We got a mission to accomplish! Let’s go!” Kevin yelled over the rain.

As the detachment made its way into the Village proper, John could hear more than one grumble and retch as the men passed the station wagon with one dead woman outside of it, and five dead children inside. The grumbles including words like “monster” and “unnecessary”. It only made John smile more, and he felt something begin to take hold inside of him.

That’s right, boys, I am a monster!

* * *

Darkness came early because of the rain, and the streetlights lit up the darkened apartment with an eerie glow. The constant feeling of vibrating had been getting worse as the day wore on, but, thankfully, Claire was able to distract herself with news of the world via the internet on her phone. Eric said that he wasn’t surprised that the utilities were still running, as militias aren’t professional forces, and so the strategy of utility blackouts was more difficult for them to pull off.

But looking at the news and the social media posts from around the country, and the world, didn’t prove a very effective distraction. The United States had all but collapsed. Animations and graphics sourced by the media outlets showed thousands of militias, comprising millions of men and women, were stretched across the entire continent. Eric said that it appeared that the militias were pushing towards the coasts, herding the Blues towards the metro areas in order to confine them. Reports stated that what was left of the US military were being directed from NORAD by an unknown commander, since Washington DC, and most of its residents, were obliterated. Military units that had defected to rebellion had turned most of the city to rubble, with the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Supreme Court building reduced to craters with heavy bombs. Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, Norfolk, all had been heavily damaged from rebel airstrikes, but remained unoccupied. The major urban centers of the Midwest were under siege, but Midwest itself was rebel-controlled territory. It was obvious, Eric explained, that there was a coherent rebel hierarchy, no doubt some high-ranking government officials who had devised the plan of attack. Surprisingly, deaths were only estimated in the tens of thousands, but it was still only the first day of war.

Social media, or what was left of it by the surviving companies, painted a picture of nationwide terror and panic. Videos of ruthless rebels taking over small towns, photos of executions of Blues, propaganda announcing the downfall of “America Inc”. Eric had told her more than once that the country would be lucky to survive another two generations. She was hoping they would have had more time. They had plans for travelling the states, seeing the wonders of the natural and unnatural world. Listening to him explain this and that, reading the stories that he’d been ambitiously writing for the last few years. Now, she relied on him to get them out of this mess. She loved him for being so intelligent and anticipatory… she hated him for being right.

Tears streaked down her face, and all Eric could do was look on, waiting for the inevitable. The voices she thought she heard not long ago had materialized. Yet another thing she had hoped to be wrong about. Through the tears, she silently slid herself over to the window to take a peek. With the rain still pouring down the glass like a waterfall, discerning much of anything was a difficult task, but she saw black shapes moving up Fourth Street, too many to count. One of the militiamen had his face lit up by the glow of his flamethrower.

They’re not playing around. Jesus!

Then a familiar voice carried over the rain, and she felt like she had been struck by lightning.

“This way! The Blues are over here!” yelled John.

Son of a bitch! Eric and Claire despised John Friedman, his treatment of her when they had a relationship was anything but good. He was a self-obsessed narcissist, and a heavy drinker. Such a dick was he that she and Eric had nicknamed him “Fuckman”. And after what she did to him yesterday, well, she was sure that he was still pissed. What better revenge for him than to kill the both of them in their own apartment.

Claire slithered over to Eric, who was slouched against the wall, head slightly cocked to listen to the events unfolding outside. Claire could see that his left eyebrow was raised, and his jaw was clenched. John Friedman may be pissed, but Eric’s expression told her that John was the one in trouble.

“You obviously know that voice,” she said to him calmly.

The anger in his voice was as straightforward as his reply, “Yup.”

He glanced around the shadows of the apartment, setting his plan. The stairs coming up from the ground floor set up the perfect bottleneck, and he didn’t anticipate more than five or six of the militiamen would be thrown into the raid of their home. He told Claire to go to the office and crack open the window so that she could quickly escape out onto the porch roof and give herself a chance if things went south. Eric would stay in the living room where he had a direct line of fire at the top of the stairs. He would give himself a cushion by seating himself on the step leading into the bathroom. Any enemy avoiding Eric and making it safely to the kitchen would be directly in the line of fire of Claire’s pistol.

Before they parted, Eric brought Claire in close to him and kissed her deeply. She cupped his cheek with her free hand and melted into him for the few moments that they were allowed. As quietly as they could each made their way to their spots, hearts racing with love and fear. Claire was thankful for the fear, for it kept the tears welling up in her eyes from rolling down her face. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this (could one really be ready?), but she was thankful for the numerous trips to the gun club. The Springfield Hellcat felt natural in her hands, and she braced herself against the doorway for stability.

* * *

The fire of rage burned white hot in John’s gut, and there was a new voice in the back of his head that kept repeating one word, revenge. He didn’t even care about his new brothers-in-arms. This was a new feeling for him, and he could only describe it as being without a soul. All he cared about was exacting his revenge for the bitch that crushed his balls, the bitch that stood up to him and knocked him down when they had their “relationship”. How dare she find happiness without me! The rage flared to nearly painful proportions. Beck was only a means to an end. She was not so different from himself, manipulative and self-serving, but she was, to him, nothing but a bore. Somebody to while away the time with, while his dreams of vengeance and domination waited to be fulfilled. This political upheaval was his ticket there, and he wanted neither his wife, nor their children, to stand in the way of his fulfillment.

The shakedown of Colonial Village was over quickly, as little resistance was encountered. First Sergeant Jones had ordered him to the back lines, sensing John’s need for killing. While Kevin didn’t really have any stock in whether the people of this town lived or died, he was also not privy to the grander plans of the rebellion. He was friends with Major Buxton, but the commanding officer kept the intel he received from above on a short leash. The major had mentioned more than once that trusting anybody, even close friends and family, in this environment, was a one-way ticket to death. Any unnecessary deaths could have dire consequences for the rebellion movement as a whole. Just as the Confederates of a century and half ago, validation for toppling the US government was a necessity. International recognition was the endgame for the movement’s top brass.

So, Kevin’s small contribution to that was to keep a bloodthirsty psychopath on a short leash. Unfortunately, he was now no longer sure whether Friedman’s intel about Blues could be trusted. There was no choice in it now, though, as the operation was underway. Kevin was thankful that it was a small town.

The detachment was just crossing over the railroad tracks on Fourth Street when gunfire broke out. Two were immediately gunned down by the ambushing Blues, but John was able to outflank them, having crossed the tracks before the gunfire erupted. He quickly made his way around the old train station to the right, rifle at the ready. He was seeing red as he breached the far inner corner of the station and began firing immediately. In a matter of seconds, the five Blues lay dead.

With an accomplished grin and an unseen wink towards the First Sergeant, John called out, “All clear! Let’s roll!”

The two hundred uphill yards of Fourth Street went by quickly in the deluge, and the rebels took a quick breather in Scooty’s parking lot. Through the rain, John looked over to Kevin and waved him over with one arm while pointing with the other.

“This way! The Blues are over here!”

The First Sergeant sized him up as he approached. “You better not be bullshitting us with this intel, corporal. I don’t want to lose any men because you got a beef with somebody in this town that has no bearing on our objective.”

“Trust me, these people are a threat, it’s not my fault that I’m going to enjoy killing them, too,” and he laughed loud and proud.

“Miller, Ashton, Gustafson! On the double!”

The three men Kevin called bounded over eagerly. Kevin pointed to the residence across main Street that was their objective. “Enemy combatants, second floor. Could be empty, but we need to secure the residence and kill the enemy. Questions?”

Four “no, Sergeant” replies followed quickly. “Corporal Friedman, you have point.”

“Gladly!”

The five men turned on their barrel lights as they crossed the flooded roadway. The house’s porch was old, despite its good condition, and its creaking and whining would’ve announced their arrival even if John’s yelling a few minutes prior hadn’t.

“Miller, Gustafson, make your way around back in case there’s a second exit,” Kevin commanded. “Friedman, it’s your show, let’s go.”

John ensured his rifle was ready, Ashton took his place behind him, and Sergeant Jones knelt off to the side of the door. Widening his stance, John levelled the barrel at the door and fired a long burst, ensuring nobody was there to surprise them. In an instant, he kicked the door open and entered the property. He found himself in a small entryway, two shelves above his shoulder to the right held random items that he didn’t spend time identifying. A shoe rack and a floor shelf completed the homely ensemble, and even John could feel how cheap the laminate wood flooring was beneath his waterlogged boots. Without warning, he fired another long volley to the top of the stairs.

Ashton and Jones had taken a step inside after the volley, and John felt the sergeant tap him on the shoulder. He looked back at Kevin and watched as he pointed to the ceiling and waved his arm in an arc. John acknowledged him with a smile and raised his weapon.

The deafening echo was a shock to the ears as he fired through the ceiling, but he clearly heard a scream…

* * *

The floorboards behind her exploded in a shower of splinters and nails as Claire screamed and jumped for the bedroom doorway. Without thinking, she took a defensive posture as the last of the bullets ripped through the office floor.

Shit, shit, shit! she thought, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer in her ears.

She heard the stairs creaking as the invaders made their way up to them, slow and steady. Claire hoped that Eric was ready, and she cursed herself for not trying to prevent him from separating. Every groan from the wooden stairs seemed to last a lifetime, and it was driving her momentarily insane. She was reminded of a quote from Eric’s favorite movies, The Lord of the Rings; “I don’t want to be in a battle. But waiting on the edge of one I can’t escape is even worse.” The forlorn look on Merry’s face in that scene nearly brought Claire to tears in this moment.

Her reverie was broken by the violent rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat of bullets being fired from the top of the stairs. At the last moment she saw the muzzle flash as the shots were fired into the living room where Eric lay in wait. The figure slowly made its way to the top of the stairs, gun at the ready, when rifle fire erupted from the living room.

Eric!

She watched the black-clothed man dive into the kitchen for safety, knocking the dining room table noisily to the wall. More shots rang out from the top of the stairs and in Eric’s direction. She heard him roll away from where he was hidden to behind the wall, now putting two walls between himself and the one who fired. Instant fear flooded her thoughts as she realized he was now in the line of fire of the man in the kitchen. Claire stood and aimed carefully, waiting for the first sign of movement.

Then the flurry of engagement began. Claire watched as Eric stuck the barrel of his rifle out of the doorway and fired, pieces of lathe and shattered plaster flying everywhere as he aimed through the wall. At the same moment, Claire saw the man in the kitchen appear in the doorway ready to return fire at Eric, and she let loose with the pistol. The dark of the apartment precluded any chance at marksmanship, but she watched as the man recoiled with a loud grunt after taking a round to his shoulder. More bullets pierced the wall between the hallway and the living room, but they were aimed at Eric, the third man still on the stairs using the same tactic. All the while, she could hear the thud, thud, thud of the other man as his body toppled down the staircase.

The man on the stairs quickly found a new tactic, and Claire watched as the barrel of his rifle poked hurriedly through the perforated wall, making the hole larger. She took off at a sprint down the hallway and immediately positioned herself with her back to the stairwell wall and slid the remaining few feet to the hole. Thank God for socks and laminate wood flooring! Her shin pushed the barrel against the edge of the hole, disrupting any accuracy in the attacker’s firing line, and brought her pistol down parallel and nearly touching the other gun. She fired three shots rapidly and the rifle quickly went slack.

Eric had not anticipated her guts, but he stood tall and began to fire at the kitchen doorway to ensure the other attacker couldn’t get a bead on him. When Claire looked up, she saw Eric cock his head to the right, telling her to take cover with him in the living room. They were down to one attacker.

The moments were tense and quiet, the rain outside was still coming down in sheets. John’s guttural voice boomed in the silence.

“I’m gonna kill you both!”

Before they knew it, Claire and Eric watched as John entered the living room parallel to the floor, somehow getting his bulk into the air, and firing his rifle in their approximate direction. Claire and Eric both fired back. Claire was able to get off two shots before she was thrown back into the bathroom doorway. Her head banged off the wall and brought her vision to stars. The sound of laughter jolted her into the waking world and to the horror that awaited there.

Eric lay on his back, unmoving, with a bloom of blood growing quickly on his chest. There was no life in his body, his eyes stared blankly at the cheap ceiling tiles above. The laughter came from John Friedman, who was now standing on the other side of the room. His smile reminded Claire of a demon, and the glare in his eyes reminded her of a psychopath. She was too stunned for grief, but she could feel her insides begin to vibrate. Had she ever been so angry? So desperate?

“I told you I was gonna kill you,” he hissed. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, the footsteps of taunting victory.

Claire stared at him in silence, the vibrations within threatening to render her unconscious as she tried to hold her vision steady. Her pistol had been flung from her hand and lay two feet in front of her, there was no chance of grabbing it and killing this bastard before he could get off a shot, and at close range she’d be hard to miss.

“For so long you made me look like an asshole, and what you did to me yesterday… well, that was the straw that broke my back!” John now stood before her, one foot on the pistol and the other set to brace his body for the kill shot he was about to take. “I treated you the way you deserved, you unforgiving bitch! I was the man in the relationship, you were there to serve me! I gave you every chance to do the right thing… but you chose to think of yourself first! I had to make you see that bad that was for you.”

John’s eyes drifted to Eric’s corpse, his sneer increasing to an all out smile.

“Look at him now! Who’s the better man now, Claire?!” He looked back at her with eyes that could’ve been on fire, his drawn down into an expression of pure evil. “I am… the monster.”

Claire looked into his lunatic eyes as he trained the rifle to her forehead, the vibrations inside her had reached a fever pitch. She felt like might fly apart. And out of nowhere, there was Max. From a corner of the bathroom, the cat had leaped out onto Claire’s lap, his eyes golden-ringed black pools. He arched his back, flared his tail, and let out a cat-scream that seemed to freeze time.

The crack of the bullet being fired was dull in the time-slowed moment, and Claire was able to see all of the details of the room within her view with incredible clarity. It was then that she noticed the bloody hand sticking through John’s chest, his heart in its hand. The hand’s owner was visible over John’s shoulder, a man with a large jaw and prominent cheeks. The man’s eyes were electric blue, but his pupils were red instead of black, and the nails on his fingers were long and pointed. He was looking directly at her, but she felt no fear as the she expected the continuing vibrations to rip her apart.

She saw Max, black and menacing, eyes trained on the man-thing that had punched a hole through John. She saw the bullet moving inch by inch closer to where she sat. And she saw a glow that appeared to be emanating from her. Instinctually, she brought her arms up in front of her, as though she were grabbing an object and picking it up, and shoved.

As her consciousness faded away, she heard herself yell “NO!” But she could also hear another woman yell the same thing at the same time.

* * *

Claire had no idea how much time had passed when she came to, but she was thankful that the vibrations were gone. Her whole body was sore, feeling as though she had just completed a powerlifting workout. She rubbed her eyes and got her bearings.

The apartment was still dark and eerily silent. There was no deluge of rain outside. On her lap lay Max the cat, but he wasn’t moving. She knew immediately that the cat was dead. Then she noticed that she was alone in the room. There was no John with a hole in his chest. There was no man-thing holding his heart. And there was no Eric dead beside her. There were no guns. Just the normal living room furniture that looked more worn than usual.

She looked down at Max again, a pang of sadness running through her, when she saw the blood spatter on her sweater. It wasn’t just a little blood, it was a lot, and there were flecks of flesh and bone. But it wasn’t hers, nor was it Max’s.

What is going on?!

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The Sermon