Reed had long since sworn off most forms of broadcast news. He still mourned the radicalization of National Public Radio. Its once quality programming had degenerated to the point that it was just another mouthpiece for the Technocracy, hardly better than CBN. Reed gave up on NPR the day they joined the bandwagon, calling for the de-platforming of anyone who criticized Mu or DAISHU. Couldn’t you criticize cultural imperialism without being accused of being a racist, or a theocrat?

Fortunately, there was John Henrichy, the perfect antidote to Reed’s distaste for the corruption of the establishment and the anti-establishment.

Unfortunately, Henrichy’s words sent Dr. Thone flying into a rage. The public “No place?” he bellowed. “Look who’s talking! You’re a fucking talk-show host! What are you doing here!?”

“Stephen, stop yelling at John,” Gant complained.

“I’m here as a concerned citizen, Dr. Thone,” Henrichy said. “Someone here needs to look out for the people’s interests—and that’s clearly not you. You can’t expect people to stand by while the nation we love gets shredded to pieces.”

“See, Stephen?” Gant said. “He’s here as a concerned citizen.”

The National Director of Public Health sputtered. “Concerned, my ass!” Dr. Thone’s face was flush with awful emotion. “You’re an entitled millionaire man-child who gets off—and gets rich—on spouting vacuous rationales for people’s worst, most prejudicial instincts, and all to brown-nose the billionaires that bankroll you!”

“Holy shit!” one of the speakers said. “Did you hear that?”

“You’re just saying that to cover your sick, murderous agenda!” another said. “There are zombies in the streets. You knew this would happen. You’re pulling straight from the Prelatory’s playbook: you want to purge all the Neangelicals who won’t go to your so-called ‘Re-education camps’! I know the truth, and so do you! So, fuck you, Dr. Thone!”

Brother Reed recognized that speaker as Randolph Hune, Governor of Saltbight Prefecture—his home state.

“Please, gentlemen, I’m begging you: people are dying!” The man—Lambcomb, Mayor of Crownsleep turned Governor of Fricehold Prefecture—coughed and coughed. Dark rivulets wove their webs behind his skin. “I don’t know what to do! I’m turning to you for help, and this is the best the central government can give me?”

Suddenly, a new face appeared in one of the empty squares on the screen. It was a young man with disheveled hair. His eyes were slicked with tears.

“Who—who are you?” one of the generals said, trembling in alarm. “Where’s Admiral Hinkley?”

The young man’s reply was dotted with pained, staccato coughs.

“I’m Hunter Marshall, sir. Lieutenant, First Officer for Hinkley on the Red Hound.”

“Hinkley’s ship?” the General asked. “The Lightsbreath-class?”

“Yes, yes sir,” the Lieutenant replied. “We’re moored here at Fort Suru, in Jiki-O, Mu. Sir… I’m just a soldier. The Admiral… he’s… he’s… g—”, he choked on the word, “…he’s gone. Dead.” Sobs quickly mixed in with the coughs. In a barely a breath, the two could no longer be told apart. “The Norms are fucking everywhere. It’s demons in the air, zombies in the streets. The forests are moving. And the sounds… the sounds!”

His fingertips bubbled up from the lower edge of the console screen. He clasped his hands in prayer. “O Holy Angel. Help us. S-Save us. Guide us through—”

“—This is why we should just bomb the places with the infection,” Gant said, brusquely speaking over the naval officer’s prayer.

“We’ve got the bombs, Ed,” Gant said. “We could use them. We could use them, and it’d be great—”

“—We have to give Vernon time, Sir,” the general replied. “We don’t want to nuke Elpeck if there’s still a chance we can combat this plague on the medical front. You’ve read the memos about what’s happening aroundWest Elpeck Medical, haven’t you? General Marteneiss’ convoy will be setting off for the hospital within the hour.”

“Look, Ed,” Gant said, “I’m the Chief Minister. I’m the one in charge of the nuke codes. Bombs beat zombies, and whatever the snake-things are, and the leftover radiation will kill the fungus anyway. That’ll make people better, right?”

“That’s millions of people, you maniac,” Thone yelled, “including you!”

“I’ll be fine, Stephen,” Gant replied. “I’m in the sky—in the big aerobus—safe and sound.”

Henrichy audibly groaned. “Dammit, Walter,” he said, calling the Chief Minister by name, “you’re acting like a child! Your antics lost us the upper house in the National Diet.”

“That was Senator Tetsu’s fault,” Gant said.

“You have to care about this stuff, Walter,” Henrichy replied, chidingly, only to stop, lean over, and let out a series of nasty coughs. “I still want my country to be around when this is all over.”

Dr. Thone’s eyebrows slunk steep enough to slide off his face. He let loose several pained coughs, but no one seemed to care.

Brother Reed could just barely make out the doctor’s words over the tumult.

“I’m already infected. Everyone here is probably infected—and if they’re not, they’re soon going to be. The spores are caustic, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Glass, plastic… lead… they burn through it all.”

But Reed wasn’t the only one listening.

“What does it mean, Dr. Thone?” Lassedite Bishop asked, finally speaking up.

“I’d like to ask you the same question, Your Holiness,” Henrichy said. “You’ve seen the footage, haven’t you?”

Bishop shook his head. “Who hasn’t?”

Henrichy’s voice broke. “Please, Your Holiness, this can’t be the Last Days. There has to be a rational explanation!”

“You’re smart, John,” Gant said, “you’ll probably figure it out yourself!”

“Shut up!” Henrichy said. He slammed his hands on his desk. “Shut up! Shut up! Angel, you’re a fucking nightmare!” He stiffened. “You know what? I’m done pretending: I voted for Hune in the primary, Walter. I voted for Hune!”

In the midst of this chaos, Halder Reed finally found his voice.

“Your Holiness!” he said, in a voice neither too loud nor too soft.

Lassedite Bishop immediately did a double-take, looking over his shoulder, and then swiveling the seat of his chair around.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Halder?” he asked.

The 278th Lassedite of the Church of the Lass of the Sea was a kindly, clean-shaven man with a doughy bloated body, plump cheeks, and tired, wrinkle-framed eyes. The mounting baldness atop his white-wired head was positively textbook. In the dimness of the room, the piercing light from the wide-screen console behind him seemed to drip over his jowls.

Most of the faces on the console turned toward Brother Reed, whose meager presence was finally getting noticed.

“Who’s that?” Gant asked.

Bishop glanced over his shoulder. “He’s my Secretary.”

“Why is he here?”

Reed looked Bishop in the eyes. “Your Holiness—”

“—Halder, can’t this wait?” the Lassedite asked. “As you can see,” he turned to the screen, “I’m in a—”

“—Your Holiness,” Reed said, “Mordwell Verune has returned. The 250th Lassedite is lost no more.”

Reed’s words rang through the room with the force of an atom bomb.

Lassedite Bishop was the first to break the silence. “…Wh-what?”

“Mordwell Verune?” Governor Hune said. “The Lost Lassedite?”

Reed nodded. “The one and only.”

Shock blossomed on Henrichy’s eyes. His clean-cut appearance barely contained his rising panic. “Verune? Are—” he stammered, “—are you nuts? Is this some kind of joke?” His words sped up. “This isn’t another beasteaten Historical Channel special, Brother Reed. This is real life!”

Reed shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself, Mr. Henrichy, but Rufus contacted me by console to tell me the news.”

The Lassedite scratched his fingernail against the chair’s armrest, at one of the spots where the varnish had worn away.

“Rufus?” Gant asked.

“Archluminer Rufus Umberridge,” Reed said.

“And you believe him?” Henrichy asked.

“On my life,” Reed said. He made the Bond-sign.

“Where is he? Where is Umberridge?” Henrichy demanded.

“When he called, he was at Margaret Revenel’s penthouse apartment suite,” Reed answered.

Turning to Lassedite Bishop, Reed was astonished by the expression he saw on the Lassedite’s face. To Reed, it seemed incomprehensible for such a look to be on the face of the leader of the one true faith. To an ordinary man, Bishop’s expression was one of gaping, slack-jawed terror.

“Your Holiness… think about what this means! This is a miracle. A miracle beyond all other miracles, save Angelfall itself! All the naysayers, the prickled atheists, the politicians caked in betrayal and grift…” Reed’s voice rose with excitement. “The darkness that has descended upon our world… it isn’t punishment. It’s a trial. These are the Last Days. Praise the Angel, the final test is here! The debt of our faith will, at last, be repaid! Imagine all the people. When they see the Lost Lassedite, in the flesh… when they hear him speak? We’re going to save them, Marlon—we’re going to save them all. They’ll see the Light that was always there! Even now, Archluminer Umberridge is literally setting the stage for Verune to speak!”

Hearing a hoarse yell, Reed looked up to the console.

“What was that?” Dr. Thune asked.

Gant looked over his shoulder. “I don’t—”

—Suddenly, an alarm went off. The emergency lights flashed along the walls and floor of the room where Gant was broadcasting.

Whatever it was, it was happening on the Chief Minister’s aerobus.

There was a loud thump. Gant’s corner of the screen jerked violently. A door opened behind him as a well-dressed stewardess burst into the room.

“Sir, the pilot—he’s—!”

—Several gunshots could be heard.

In the seconds it took for the Chief Minister to turn around, Reed caught a glimpse of what was going on through the door behind him. He saw dead bodies on the floor of the luxurious aerobus’ main cabin. Seconds later, there was an inhuman howl. A figure burst through a door at the other end of the main cabin. A snarling, twitching husk of plague-touched humanity staggered out through the open door, wearing a captain’s uniform. Reed could just barely make out blood pooling onto the floor of the cockpit.

The figure charged. The air cracked with indistinct screams.

The next thing Reed knew, a coterie of zombies had burst into Gant’s chambers. The Chief Minister knocked over his console, trying to turn and run, leaving the rest of the teleconference staring at an image of the room’s carpeted floor to the tune of violence and terror. A moment later, there was a horrible noise, and then the feed from the Ministerial aerobus cut out altogether.

The generals left the call faster than Reed could blink.

Several seconds passed in stunned silence, interrupted only by the sounds of prayers softly murmured.

“Well, what do you know?” Dr. Thone said, with a bitter laugh. “I guess he can’t hurt anyone anymore. Never thought I’d live to see the day.” He coughed, and then cleared his throat. “And, John, to answer your question about ‘what this all means’? It means we’re fucked. There’s no way out.” The doctor shook his head in defeat. “No way out. Thanks for nothing, you asshole.”

Dr. Thone bent down, rustling through something. Before Reed could understand what he was doing, he saw the glint of gunmetal, and then the sound of a single bullet being fired echoed through the room, followed by a wet thud as the public health official charged with guiding the Trenton government’s response to the NFP-20 fell out of his chair, having blown his brains out with a point-blank shot, fired right into the soft spot at the base of his jaw. Speckled splatter of bone, brain, and blood seasoned the wall behind him.

At that point, the other Governors left the call, save for Governor Lambcomb, who begged the Lassedite to hear his Divulgence, to which Bishop consented.

Lt. Marshall also stayed, praying quietly, under his breath.

As per canon law, Reed stepped out of the study and walked back into the foyer. He sat down in one of the Lassedite’s lush, red armchairs, waiting for the world to make sense again.

He closed his eyes and prayed.

A while later, Reed heard footsteps, and then felt Lassedite Bishop’s gentle touch on his shoulder.

Opening his eyes, Reed saw the 278th Lassedite sit down in the armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Between them, dead embers moldered in the hearth set back into the wall. The steel lacework that held the fireplace in was spotlessly clean.

Bishop had never been favored to win election to the Lassedite’s seat. In hindsight, though, the decision made perfect sense. For most men, sins of hubris were an inescapable consequence of rank and privilege, particularly when fate had bestowed it to them. Not even a lifetime of catechesis was enough to keep that corruption at bay.

But not Marlon Bishop.

His detractors liked to say he had an eclair for a spine: soft, prone to worry and rumination, reluctant to criticize and condemn, even when he arguably should have.

“Stuffed with custard sweeter than any thought you’d ever know,” as the man himself liked to say.

Bishop took every criticism of his character in stride—and there were many. Yet, despite it all, he hadn’t so much as a single power-hungry bone in his body. You would not know he was Lassedite if he hid himself away in the crowd.

It was the truest, godliest sort of humility Reed had ever known.

Even so, as much as he loved Marlon as a human being—rich with soul, and with a laugh that never failed to fill the room with smiles—Reed couldn’t also shake his wished that the head of the Church would be more willing to stand his ground and defend the faith from its enemies, both within and without. Reed felt guilty for that. It wasn’t his place to seek to change the Angel’s chosen representative on earth.

Yet, he couldn’t help but hope. As Victor Gracelip—89th Lassedite—once wrote: Kindness without providence is no kindness at all.

“What…” Reed asked, glancing down the hall at Bishop’s now dark and empty study. “What was all that?”

Lassedite Bishop clasped his hands and held them in his lap. “The follies of Men and the vagaries of God,” he said. Coughing quietly, he cleared his throat. “I have missed you, Brother Reed,” he said. “To think I spent days without even the slightest taste of your companionship and insight.”

Trembling, he looked Reed in the eyes. “Please, Halder… are you sure? Has Verune truly returned?”

Reed nodded. “I meant what I said, Your Holiness.”

The look that those words broke into the Lassedite’s face was enough to break Reed’s heart. The Lassedite was the tether that tied the world to the Angel’s Covenant and the promise it held. His message was Hope itself. His Truth was the depth of the One True Love.

But the man did not smile. He did not shine. Instead, tears began to stream down his sagging cheeks.

The 278th Lassedite wept.

The aging man gripped the chair’s armrests while his eyes focused on an unseen horizon.

“Of all the signs I begged for,” he said, “and of all the times it could have come…” Lassedite Bishop’s words were breathless; gasped, more than spoken. “I wanted to believe the Norms were just a nightmare, but… the Angel has taken that option from me.”

Brother Reed coughed softly. He covered his mouth as he cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Bishop whispered. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can know…”

“Your Holiness…?”

With a sniffle, Bishop wiped the tears from his face. He turned his gaze to his secretary.

“I’m tired, Halder,” he said. “I’m tired of hoping. Tired of pretending.”

Managing, at last, a single, shaky smile, Lassedite Bishop rose from his seat. Brother Reed got up to help him, as he always did.

Bishop looked him in the eyes. “You were right, Halder,” he said. “When you said I needed to show my faith more strongly, you were right, and I apologize for having intimated otherwise.” Bishop exhaled. A shudder reverberated down the slope of his snowy-robed shoulders. “My faith has been weak.” He nodded. “It is true, what the Voices say. Doubts are like vermin. How quickly one becomes a multitude…” He let out a cough-riddled sigh. “I was not strong enough. I’m tired of lying.”

Before Halder Reed could react, Marlon Bishop, head of the one true Church of the one true faith, leaned in close and kissed him, lips a-trembling.