

Planet of Vampires

By R.D Francis

Based on the screenplays

"Communion" (The New York version)

and

"The Devil's Stardust" (The Detroit version)

By R.D Francis

Cover Design by R.D Francis

"Circle Dragon" image courtesy of XOXOXO via Open Clip Art.org.

Free unlimited commercial use public domain clip art. No attribution required.

Visit openclipart.org.

Cover typeface "Facon" courtesy of PicFont.com.

Free for commercial use. No attribution required.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This free eBook is based on spec scripts composed as a personal, not-for-profit screenwriting exercise in adaptation, in this case, of comic books (while introducing my own unique variations on the source materials, along with my own original ideas independent of said source materials), written by Larry Hama and John Albano and published February – July 1975. The illustrated literary source material's characters and plots of _Planet of Vampires_ that inspired those screenplays—and this novel—remains the property of Larry Hama, John Albano, and Jason Goodman. This screenplay and this novel are not the products of the original creators of said literary source materials, and composed by this author to honor the original creators.

Copyright 2020 R.D Francis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own free copy exclusively from Smashwords. Thank you for supporting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1 - 12: Planet of Vampires

About the Author

Appendix A: The History of the Apocalypse on Film

Appendix B: The Genesis of Planet of Vampires

Appendix C: Screenwriting 101

* * *

On July 24, 1701, French explorer Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac founded Fort de Pontchartrain de Detroit in New France, a geographical area on the former North American continent that bordered what was once Eastern Canada in the north to the former American southern state of Louisiana along the Gulf of Mexico. Between the years of 1710 and 1716 he was the governor of the Louisiana territory and he formerly commanded Fort de Buade, later known as the Michigan city of St. Ignace, in 1694. The city was named after St. Ignatius of Loyola, the patron saint of spiritual retreats and of soldiers who fought as warriors of right.

— From the Osirian Archives

Forgive me for bastardizing the wisdom of Archilochus: The ant-eater knows many things, but the ant knows one big thing "That 'big thing,' the swarm, is a unified 'brain' that constructs entomological monuments without blueprints; the whole colony functions as a single organism. In order for the Earth to survive, man must function as a unified organism, that is to say, 'as one big thing.'

— Dr. Vladmir Coleman, from one of his many lectures stored in the Osirian Archives

1

**FROM** the ashes of dead stars, the planet Earth drifts among the Devil's stardust. . . .

"Throughout history, man has proven itself as a biomechanical engine;" speaks an authoritative voice as an explosive flash of light breaks the Earth's cloud cover, somewhere near the Middle Eastern-Russian boarders, "a bloody bone machine infused with a perpetual desire to gratify its hungers;"

Inside a darkened university lecture hall, a room filled with 20-year-old students, including Brent Coleman and Susan Helms, along with their friends, the African-American David Griggs and Latino Marsha Ivins, listens to the lecture, "a bloodstained narcissism festering a cultural defiance of God's mortality curse."

A robust, 50-something Dr. Vladmir Coleman stands at a lectern. A PowerPoint presentation changes from an image of Leonardo De Vinci's 1490 work _The Last Supper_ , into Peter Paul Ruben's 1636 work _Saturn Devouring His Sons_. "Thus, in our quest for survival, man cultivated his own flesh and organs into life reconstituting and youth-preserving elixirs. In times of famine, man betrayed his own futures to stave off death by trading and cooking his own children." As an image of a Gothic artwork depiction of an army pillaging a village appears, he continues, "As for the unfortunates who expired in the midst of famine, the consumption of those from the same community guided their souls into the still living descendants who consumed the fallen flesh." Then a split-screen image of two Vlad Tepes illustrations: one of an Ambras Castle 1560 oil portrait, the other a 1499 woodcut print as Tepes dines on a grassy hill surrounded by stake-impaled bodies. "In times of war, the victors cannibalized the organs of their human spoils; in the belief the consumption endowed the conqueror with characteristics of the vanquished."

Brent conceals his contempt to the others, but he's visibly uncomfortable regarding the use of the Tepes images displayed behind his father.

"As our society overdevelops," continues Dr. Coleman over a photographic montage of New York City through the ages, "it cannibalizes Gaia, a creature who is more than an earth goddess of ancient Greece from who the gods were said to have descended." A photograph of Earth from space displays behind Dr. Coleman. "Gaia is our Earth, a living host organism suffering from a human infestation; a giant astronomical creature teeming with life agonized under our foolish hands." Then the final title card to the lecture appears:

"Chemical Transfers of Gaian

Memories through Cannibalism"

Suggested Holiday Break Readings:

The collective works

Robert Thompson, James V. McConnell,

and James Lovelock

The auditorium lights illuminate. The students stir, rub their eyes and stretch. As Susan collects her school materials, she catches an uncomfortable, admiring stare from Dr. Coleman at the podium, who half-pays to his attentions of his teaching assistant as she collects materials.

"I feel you, Sue," says Marsha. "Your future father-in-law may be brilliant, but his lectures make me feel like I just attended a funeral."

"Hmm," says David with a taking of Marsha's hand. "Delicious Marsha-morsels."

"Help," cries Marsha to David's neck nibbles. "Save me from Count Blacula."

"I'm starving too," pecks Sue on Brent's cheek."

"Yeah, but first we need to go down and see dad," says Brent to the motion of his father's hand.

As the quartet approaches, Dr. Coleman holds up an envelope.

"You got 'em!" says Brent.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Coleman," handshakes David.

"I can't thank you enough, Dad."

"You've had a spectacular sophomore year, Brent. I can't think of four students more deserving."

As the quartet walks across the campus, other students express the joy of their last class and semester break.

"Be packed and ready to board the crazy train, Dave," says Brent. "I'll swing by Sue's and meet you at Marsha's."

"Liberty Island, here we come," David kisses Marsha's cheek.

2

**A** "4th of July 2060" banner flaps in the breeze on Liberty Island Park in New York City. A glistening Lady Liberty casts a shadow across American and Corporation Flags. Picnickers celebrate. A group of kids tosses a football. Sound technicians ready equipment on an empty stage set in front of a grouping of empty bleachers. News crews set up cameras in front of the stage.

In the head of Lady Liberty, Brent Coleman and Sue Helms, David Griggs and Marsha Ivins, along with six tourists, gaze at the 360 degree panorama of the New York Harbor, Ellis Island, and the shores of New York and New Jersey. . . .

"You gotta be quick, Tiger," Sue playfully dashes with a football across the grasses of Liberty Island Park—with a taunt of Brent in hot pursuit. "Grrr! You gotta catch me, before you can kiss—oh!" stumbles Sue onto the grass.

Coleman straddles her and gazes into her eyes.

"And yet no greater,  
but more eminent,  
Love by the springs is grown,  
As in the firmament  
Stars by the sun are not enlarged,  
but shown.  
Gentle love-deeds,  
as blossoms on a bough  
From love's awakened root  
do bud out now."

"Ugh. Of all the guys in philosophy," reasons Sue. "I get stuck with the weirdo who quotes John Donne poems when he tackles his girlfriend playing touch football. Just kiss me already, your dork."

"Hey, Marsha, check out the love birds," kneels David on a picnic blanket.

"Hey, you two. Think you can pull your lips apart for about five minutes and eat something?" Marsha calls out.

"Umph. O-tay. Umm. Okay, Mar," Sue barely gets out under a wave of kisses from Brent.

"You can't live on kisses, can you Mr. Griggs. Duck lips," puckers Marsha to receive a kiss from David.

"I'm beginning to think Isaac Newton was right about his prediction of 2060," reasons Marsha from her lounging position on David's lap across the picnic blanket. "Corporatocracy didn't stop that bombing in Turkmenistan."

"Marsha, Corporatocracy isn't a sign the world is coming to an end," counters Brent. "And we're not going to wipe out border skirmishes between religious factions overnight."

"Think of it as a rebirth, baby," says David. "Africa's finally a united nation. They said that could never happen."

"David's right," agrees Brent. "And the Pacific Rim countries have nearly eradicated all of their territorial disputes."

"I just fear the few making the decisions for the many—," says Sue.

"But it's for the common good," counters Brent. "We could live in a world free from war, poverty, and sickness."

"So, that's the solution?" says Marsha. "We wipe the slate clean at the risk of relinquishing choice?"

"I'd rather see people struggle, and be free," says Sue.

"Everyone enjoying the same amenities as the bureauticians is freedom," David says to Sue. "Needs and wants. Those are the true shackles."

"You really think a world economic and political system controlled by corporations is a solution?" Sue replies.

"All I know is that Nationalism doesn't work. It's never worked," counters Brent. "It's been a perpetual cycle of governmental animosity, greed and prejudice."

Later that evening, Brent Coleman and Sue Helms, David Griggs and Marsha Ivins gaze upward at Lady Liberty aglow under a fireworks display. Then an explosion blows out the Lady's Chest. They take off running amid the throngs to escape a hail of shrapnel. Lady Liberty's right arm snaps off—and her torch shatters on the ground.

3

**BRENT** Coleman shocks awake inside his module on Mars Liberty Base. He stares at a wall photo opposite the foot of his bed of the Lazarus II crew comprised of himself and a now 36-year-old Sue Helms, along with David Griggs and Marsha Ivins, and the 30-somethings Kimberly Quan and Mary Yergorov. Each is adorned in Ophion Dynamics Military Dress blues. They clutch their hands overhead in victory.

And Brent replays the voice of his father in his head, ". . . as we embark on the second phase of man's greatest technological achievement:"

* * *

Ophion Dynamics executives and military officers sit around twenty circular, eight-seat banquet tables in an ostentatious conference room. Dr. Vladmir Coleman stands behind a podium on stage where a massive screen displays the logos for Ophion Dynamics—the word "Ophion" set inside a circle superimposed over stylized wings—and the Lazarus II mission patch. Six corporate executives sit in a row of eight chairs to the left of the podium, next to a 40-year-old William Bouguereau. The six-man crew of the Lazarus II sits at podium right.

"The colonization of Mars," continues Dr. Coleman. "I am proud to present the brave crew of the Lazarus II and her intrepid captain, my son, Brent Lance Coleman."

The Lazarus II crew rises and they clutch hands overhead in victory (as in the photo). Brent takes to the podium. Dr. Coleman sits next to William Bouguereau and the six corporate executives. The room darkens; the Ophion and Lazarus logos dissolve into a PowerPoint graphic as the Planet Mars appears on screen. The image then morphs and zooms onto the surface of Mars and travels across her red landscape.

"In the early days of the twenty-first century," Brent reads from a Plexiglas teleprompter screen, "man embarked on his first trip to the fourth planet on the Mars 500, a special isolation facility at the Russian Institute for Biomedical Problems in Moscow."

"Now, man has expanded beyond his own world to colonize another," continues Brent. A new graphic appears on screen. "Welcome to Mars Liberty Base."

Brent and Sue, David and Marsha, along with Quan and Yergorov, enjoy food and wine with Dr. Coleman and William Bouguereau at their banquet table.

"For you see, Susan, my dear," speaks Dr. Coleman, "religion is analogous to the infestation of the gypsy moth."

"Dr. Coleman? A religious analogy between faith and insects?" says Sue.

"Forgive me, Dad. I'm not following, either."

"And that's the problem with man, Brent," counters Bouguereau. "We fail to follow that religion has nothing to do with faith."

"I'm sure you're all familiar with the French Astronomer, Ètienne Léopold Trouvelot."

"Of course, Dr. Coleman. He shaped our view of the heavens," says David.

"Moreover, he shaped how we've seen our own planet, Mr. Griggs."

The Lazarus II crew looks on with intrigue.

"In the year 1868, Trouvelot discovered native silk spinning caterpillars were succumbing to disease. So, in his desire to create a hardier hybrid, he imported European Gypsy Moth eggs."

"I'm familiar with the story," says Quan. "But I'm not seeing your point, sir."

"Then you know some of those imported moths escaped, Kimberly."

"And how is that like religion?" asks Yergorov.

"Trouvelot inadvertently created a plague directly resulting from his best of intentions," says Dr. Coleman.

"So you're saying religion is like plague," interjects Marsha.

"Man unleashed religion across the world with the best of intentions," says Bouguereau.

"Exactly," says Dr. Coleman. "Look at the enslavement of the dark-skinned peoples of Africa; the slaughter of the red-skinned peoples of the North Americas. Then there's the plight of the Aborigines of Australia. Each culture decimated because their social order didn't subscribe to the rules of Christianity imported from Europe."

"But even with its flaws," counters Brent, "Christianity's intent was pure."

"Yes, Brent. At first," says Dr. Coleman. It was to spread the word of God, to strengthen man. Then man's vanity escaped and he defoliated millions of people in the name of religion."

* * *

At the nave inside a Catholic Church, a priest at the altar conducts a Holy Communion Service. A well-dressed congregation populates the pews. They watch a six-year old Brent Coleman beam; he grasps an ornate gold chalice and walks towards the altar.

Then he stops in fear.

The Chalice tips and blood pours from a bottomless cup.

Young Brent stares up, into the eyes of his adult self—adorned as Jesus Christ on the Crucifix above the altar.

_Jesus-Brent_ lifts his head, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore."

Young Brent now looks across a tattered and war-torn congregation. He drops to his knees at the altar. He stares at the bronze plaque on the podium that displays the Emma Lazarus sonnet, "The New Colossus."

* * *

Brent Coleman shocks awake inside his module on Mars Liberty Base. He composes himself. He rolls over in his bed to the sedative bottle and carafe on the nightstand. He pops a pill. He sits up and stares through the module's viewport onto the Mars landscape.

Three, five-story prism silos set in a triangular cluster serve as the main core of Mars Liberty Base. Spokes run from the silos and each spoke ends with a rectangular dome. A solar panel farm, communication dishes, and a water tower with a pipeline fades into landscape. Three atmosphere scrubber cones surround the base perimeter.

Off in the distance, a biped robot waddles to a conduit and begins to solder a connection. Brent and Yergorov, adorned in spacesuits and helmets, repair a solar panel on the farm.

"Brent," Quan calls out from her work station inside Mars Liberty Base's Operations Core. "Susan just received a Priority Red from Commander Bouguereau. I need you and Mary to come in."

"David, Marsha," Sue Helms's voice cracks across the Oxygen Garden aboard the Lazarus II. David cultivates vegetable crops while Marsha repairs a fan motor. "I need you both on the flight deck. Priority Red from Ophion Flight Control."

On the flight deck of the command module aboard the Lazarus II, Sue, David, and Marsha gather around the communications station. Bouguereau's images displays on the first monitor. Brent, Mary, and Kimberly's image appears on the second monitor.

"This is Lazarus," Sue announces. "Liberty Base is online, Commander Bouguereau."

Back on Mars Liberty Base, Brent, Mary, and Kimberly cluster around two monitor images of the Lazarus crew and Bouguereau.

"This may be our last communication. There's been a breakdown at the U.C. Conference in Geneva," says Bouguereau.

Back on Earth, Bouguereau sits in his office at the Ophion Dynamics complex; he talks towards two monitor images of the Lazarus and Liberty Base crews. "Ophion has a blockade on all ports along the U.S eastern seaboard. Turner Logix is threatening to cut commun— acc—."

The monitors and com-link aboard the Lazarus crackles and displays white noise.

"Nakataki Logistics just launched a biochemical strike on Stratus Technology territories!" Bouguereau cries out.

The Liberty Base and Lazarus crews stare in shock at the white noise and static on their respective monitors.

4

**A** horizontal Eiffel Tower orbits Mars space. The stern of the Lazarus II's 900-foot needle-like lattice supports a drive section cluster of four cylindrical tanks, two vertical solar panels off her deck and hull, and two horizontal heat radiator panels along her portside and starboard. Capsules, pods, and com arrays protrude off her spine. The fuselage displays logos for Ophion Dynamics. A perpendicular centrifuge rotates at mid-section that supports six anti-gravity crew "spike" modules. The command module on her bow resembles an inverted liberty bell. Between the crew centrifuge and command module are two elongated cylindrical modules on her starboard and portside spine that serve as the ship's oxygen garden. Attached to her underside spine, just behind the command module, are the shuttle crafts the Colossus and the Rhodes.

"I can't help thinking we might be better off not seeing what happened to Earth," says Yergorov on the command module's flight deck.

"Mary's right," agrees Sue. "Our oxygen is self-replenishing, the water recycled, and we have unlimited solar power. I vote for Liberty."

"Whatever has happened, it's still home," reasons Quan.

"We've held our orbit for as long as we could," adds David. "We're out of time, and hope."

"I've ran the numbers three times. If we don't take this launch window within the next two days, we wait—."

"Waiting," Brent cuts off Marsha, "isn't going to make a difference. We have to assume the worst has happened. Plot our launch window."

A dispensed syringe sits on the nightstand next to Brent's bed inside his crew module on the Lazarus II. Next to the syringe stands a framed photograph of Brent and Sue sharing an embrace in front of the Eiffel Tower—along with a bookmarked copy of the hypothetical-alternate history gale _Uchronie_ , an 1876 novel written by French Philosopher Charles Renouvier.

"Brent," Sue's voice cracks over the intercom. "Brent."

His eyes shock open. He exhales a deep breath and rubs his eyes.

"Commander Coleman?"

"Yeah, Sue. I'm here. What time is it?"

"4 A.M. I'm sending you the latest intel."

Brent rises from the bed. He safely cuddles a peacefully limp calico cat, Gustave, against his chest. He stars at a yellowish-green orb with one lone, scarred moon on the monitor of his room's control panel. "Where you able to establish any communications?"

"Negative."

With a second glance at the control panel, Brent gazes at the readout:

**Date: July 3, 2076**  
Earth U.S EST: 4:00 AM  
Sunrise: 5:30 AM  
Sunset: 8:30 PM  
LOD: 15h 00m 43s  
Solar Noon: 1:00 PM  
Solar Altitude: 72.2  
Solar Distance: 94.510

"Godspeed, Commander Gustave," Brent kisses his old friend and gazes into the starfield that scrolls across the viewport of his module. With a click of a button, he accesses the various external angled-images of the Lazarus II's hull as it approaches the sickly, yellowish green orb that was once home.

"Mojave Air," Sue speaks into her headset. "This is Lazarus Two requesting trajectory reentry." On the bridge inside the command module at her Communications Officer's station, she gazes at the monitor's display graphics of the North American continent and the locations of eight commercial spaceports. Marsha, the Lazarus' Navigation Officer, comes up behind and rests her hand on Sue's shoulder. "Oklahoma Spaceport. This is Lazarus Two. Do you read?" Sue changes the frequency. "Kodiak Launch Complex, requesting re-entry. . . ." She rips off her headset and wipes away tears. "This is hopeless. We should have never come back, Marsha. We could have survived on Liberty."

"It was are only choice. We'll find survivors."

An overhead skylight in the hull of the Lazarus II offers an interior view of the lush, green gardens of the Oxygen Garden Module. Water spills over a stainless steel waterfall. A large three-bladed fan circulates the air; tree leaves sway in the mechanical-breeze.

Brent kneels; he scoops the last spade of soil and pats it down tight. Then he thrusts a vinyl cover from a Lazarus II mission binder into the soil—as a crude makeshift grave marker. Written in Sharpie marker under the mission logo is the name: "Commander Gustave." Then he rests a photograph at its base of himself and Sue holding their faithful companion, who was named after the French engineer, Gustave Eiffel, the designer of the Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty.

Attached to the underside of Lazarus II's spine, inside the Shuttle Colossus, Warrant Officer Quan and David, the ship's Executive Officer, sit in their respective co-pilot and pilot seats. They program the flight computers. The yellowish, green orb appears through the flight deck windows.

"That hot mess burnt out two atmospheric probes. Flying blind through that yellow sludge is bad news," reasons Quan.

"There's not a flying brick I can't handle. No worries, Kimmy Q," Dave says with the tap of his headset. "Marsha. We're set to download a copy of Lazarus's memory core, on my mark."

Back on the flight deck of the Lazarus II's command module, Sue and Marsha enter computer codes at their stations. "Roger, David," replies Marsha. "Initiate upload." A progress bar illuminates on screen. "Data transfer in progress."

"Hey, you okay, Mary?" says Quan to Flight Engineer Yergorov who enters the bulkhead of Shuttle Colossus.

"What is there to say at this point, Kim?" shrugs Yergorov.

Quan nods in the affirmative.

"Are we good to go, Mary?" says David from his E.O pilot seat.

"Supplies are stocked to capacity and all pods are set. I'm heading topside." Then the sight of the yellowish orb through the viewport stops Yergorov cold. "300 years."

"300 years, what?" says Quan.

"2076," replies David. "It would have been America's tri-centennial."

"Isaac Newton was off by sixteen years," Yergorov smirks. She exits through the bulkhead.

Back on the flight deck inside the Lazarus II's command module, Sue cries into Marsha's shoulder.

"Sorry, Captain," says Sue upon Brent's entrance.

There's no need to be sorry. You're both doing great. Any—."

"They're gone," cuts off Sue.

"What? The I.S.S and the I.M.B. You mean you can't hail them."

Sue activates two monitors: one displays the images of a scorched moonscape with destroyed structures; the second shows a debris field where a space station should be. "Brent, what are we going to do?"

Yergorov and David enter the module. "Oh, dear god," they say in unison.

Quan enters behind them. "The station and the moon base?"

"And no response from any of the North American spaceports," says Sue.

5

**BRENT** and David sit in their respective co-pilot and pilot seats. Sue, Marsha, Yergorov and Quan sit strapped into their stations; each adorned in pressure suits and helmets. A graphic of the U.S Northeastern seaboard displays on the pilot flight monitors. Marsha's navigation monitor displays a trajectory graphic of the Lazarus, the Earth, and a course plotted to the coast of Canada.

"Green on flight systems," says David.

"Montreal plotted," adds Marsha.

"Drop in fifteen seconds," adjusts Yergorov on her flight engineer's panel.

"Keep trying to hail, Montreal, Sue," commands Brent.

"Montreal, this is Colossus Shuttle Lazarus coming in on manual re-entry. Montreal . . ."

"Docking release in ten," warns Yergorov. She grips the handles on both sides of her flight chair. She pulls up the handles. "Five, four, three, two, one," she turns the handles and thrusts them forward. "Drop."

Explosive bolts silently disengage in the vacuum of space. The Shuttle Colossus disengages from Lazarus' underbelly. The space plane, with her two hybrid-rockets, center tail, and curved airfoils—plummets in silence.

Strapped-in against the effects of zero-gee continuous freefall, the crew groans in nausea. The craft rattles against Earth-gravity pull through the exo & thermospheres. The rockets fire and their bodies jerk back upon the initiation of G-Force acceleration.

"Rough air, coming up," warns David. The Colossus vibrates against the Earth's yellow-greenish turbulence. David grips the joystick on his pilot's console and fights a nose dive. Warning klaxons sound accompanied by red alert lights.

"Kill the lights," Dave," commands Brent.

"We just lost the com," says Sue.

"Heat shields are critical," says Yergorov.

"Flame out, hybrid-one," says Brent.

"I was afraid of this," interjects Quan. "The ionosphere is flaming hot in radioactivity. It's burning through the hull."

"We lost hybrid-two, David. Flatten our landing angle," commands Brent.

"We have hull breech," warns Yergorov.

"Marsha, where in the hell am I? She's dropping like a brick," battles David with the stick.

"We overshot Montreal Spaceport."

"I can't see crap, Marsha. What's my impact point? Give me a flight path."

"At this angle, Detroit."

"Can we make it to Detroit Metro?"

"Negative," gazes Marsha at the monitor's projected flight path. "Not at this angle. We're going to hit the water in Lake St. Clair off Grosse Point Shores."

Suddenly, through the viewports, the yellowish-green skies break to bluish skies—and exposed a dilapidated skyline consumed in overgrowth.

"What the hell? Did we just fly into a storm eye?" wonders Brent. Then the space plane jerks sideways, but David pulls it back to level flight.

"We just blew out our starboard hull. We'll take on water," warns Quan.

"Come on, baby," David talks to the controls. "Angle up, you stinkin' brick. Up, baby, up!"

"Bracing for impact," warns Yergorov. "Five, four, three, two. . . ."

The Colossus smacks stern first, and her nose goes under.

Water envelops the outside cabin windows. On the instrument panel the time reads:

Earth EST: 5:40 AM.

Waters breech the hull and the cabin begins to flood.

"Eject memory cores and pods," commands Brent."

Yergorov clutches the handles of two metal discs on her control panel. She turns the discs 90 degrees.

Two memory core-canisters, six dodecahedron pods eject, and airbags deploy. A homing beacon bobs in the water. A six-man life raft inflates. Explosive bolts hiss and the escape hatch door blows off the Colossus.

"Move it! She's going down!" commands Brent. The crew struggles against the rising waters.

Marsha crawls out of the escape hatch. She presses a button on her flight suit wrist controls and a life vest inflates around the suit. She jumps into the waters of Lake St. Clair. Sue, Yergorov, Quan, David, and then Brent inflate their life vests. They each jump into the waters and climb aboard the life raft. Yergorov starts the outboard motor and pilots the raft to shore. The memory core canisters and dodecahedron pods drag behind on tethers.

And the Colossus sinks.

"We'll never remote the Rhodes through that sky sludge," reasons David.

"Systems show a full atmosphere," reads Quan off a handheld instrument. "It's clean."

"And it's because of that," Yergorov notices as everyone removes their helmets.

Before them, on the distant shoreline, stands a 50-foot tall cone—its base as wide as a football field.

"Is that a supersized version of an Ophion Atmosphere Scrubber, like we used on Mars?" wonders Quan.

"Those weren't there when we left Earth," reasons Marsha. "Maybe that's a good sign."

"I know Detroit was on the brink of bankruptcy, but not this," says Brent.

"Maybe the Chicago warzone spread into Detroit," reasons David.

"It's nothing but white noise and static on the coms," works Sue on her equipment. "It's dead."

As the life raft reaches the shallow waters, Brent and Quan jump out to pull the raft onto the sands of Grosse Pointe Shores. The crew begins to tear away their life vests.

Then the sound of a crossbow's release cuts the air. An arrow explodes out of Quan's chest. She collapses into the shoreline waters. Everyone recoils in shock.

"Nice shot, Riggs," calls out a ragged, Beach Gang Infectoid. "One Bughead down, five to squish."

The crew of the Lazarus find themselves surrounded by a mixed bag of fifty Detroit Street Infectoids who clutch a ramshackle of hand weapons.

"You're not spillin' blood in Grosse Pointe t'day, Bugheads," says Riggs with another arrow on his crossbow ready to fly. "Voivode Tithonus can kiss my ass." He rips the arrow from Quan's back. "Payback for taking Di'Anno."

"'Bugheads'?" says Brent.

"'Tithonus'?" adds David. "We're the crew from the Lazarus—."

The sound of a jet's engine roar cuts off his plea.

"Look!" points Yergorov. "They've locked onto our homing beacon."

"Oh, thank god!" says Marsha.

They stare upward at a Hawkmoth Airfoil with a number "5" emblazoned on its hull.

Pilot-citizens 2112 and 5309 sit in the airfoil's lotus-styled cockpits. Each wears two-toned scarlet-colored helmets fitted with opaque goggles and maxillofacial shields. The color scheme of the helmets matches their uniforms. Through the digital heads-up displays on their goggles, they scan—and zoom-in—on the Lazarus crew.

"Targets acquired," 5309's filtered voice advises 2112. "Arm weapons."

"Damn it. Scatter!" warns Riggs. "It's a Bughead trap. A Hawkmoth is coming for us."

As the Infectoids run, the Lazarus crew uses the confusion to draw their pistols and take defensive positions.

2112 lobs a hand grenade from the cockpit.

The grenade hits it target. The bodies of Infectoids catapult through the air and fall to the ground in pieces.

5309 fires the Hawkmoth's nose cone guns. He lays waste to more of the beach Infectoids.

Once the Lazarus crew comes to realize the crew of the strange aircraft fights in their defense, they turn their guns on the Infectoids and lay four more of them to waste.

Once Hawkmoth Airfoil 5 lands, 2112 jumps out of the cockpit, shoulders a rifle and fires suppressive rounds. 5309's voice echoes over the ship's P.A system. "Get in here, fast. Those swine will sacrifice a hundred of their mudlovers to get one Osirian."

"You heard the man, move it" commands Brent.

"Wait! We can't leave Kim," says Sue.

"Another craft will come for your supplies and her body. Move it!" interjects 5309. On his command, Brent and Sue, David and Marsha, and Yergorov jump into the lotus-style bench seat cockpit behind the two pilot seats. Snake-like seatbelts instinctively slither out of the seats and across their shoulders. "There's wireless com-sets in the compartment in front of you."

2112 jumps into his cockpit and shoots several more rounds. A few more Infectoids collapse on the bloodied beach sands. The Hawkmoth takes off into the Grosse Pointe skies. Then 2112 tosses another grenade over the cockpits rim.

It lands. And more Infectoid bodies sail through the air—and land in bits and pieces.

"Brent," Sue whispers with a hand cup over her com-set. "Look at their arm band insignias. Who in the hell is 'Osiris Corporation'? Did they absorb Ophion Dynamics?"

"You can't kill enough of those damned Infectoids," says 2112 with an unclip of his face shield. "They breed like pigs."

"Those are people, people brutalized by war," says Marsha. "Where's your compassion?"

"Luckily," says 5309, "you were on Mars and didn't live through the war. We're almost home."

"Where is 'home'?" says Sue.

"Sue, look," points Marsha before 5309 can answer.

"Is that what I think it is?" says Yergorov.

"It is. That's the Statue of Liberty," answers Marsha.

The crew gazes portside from the Hawkmoth Airfoil. They look down at Belle Isle Park in the mouth of the Detroit River. The Statue of Liberty stands in place of the James Scott Memorial Fountain on the isle's western tip.

"Voivode Tithonus plans to ship the remnants and rebuilding the Eiffel Tower on the other end of the isle," adds 2112.

"Now it all making sense," says David. "That archived news story, when we came out of stasis over Mars."

"That Ophion purchased New York, Detroit, and the Ontario providence," finishes Brent.

"Will you look at the size of that," observes Sue through her monocular.

The rest of the crew pulls their tool-belted monoculars.

"It's Voivode Tithonus's greatest technical achievement. The city of Denderah serves as the capital of Osiria," 2112 tells the Lazarus crew.

The "technical achievement" that stands in the middle of the burnt out landscape, technically known as a geodesic domical tholos, resembles a large dome-beehive. It stands centered over Campus Martius Park and encompasses the downtown area between the M-10 and I-375 and features views of the Detroit River. A rooftop landing platform encircles a control tower at its apex.

"Why didn't you respond to our com requests for landing instructions?" says Brent.

"The ionosphere's E-Layer acts as a bell jar now. All Earth-Space sky waves bounce back," advises 2112. "All we have is ground wave communications."

As Hawkmoth Airfoil 5 approaches the platform, ten flight deck officers guide the landing and takeoffs of other Hawkmoths. Ten air traffic controllers can be seen through the control tower's viewports.

Once its electromagnetic underbelly engages, Hawkmoth 5 makes a smooth, vertical touchdown. Two flight deck officers approach and attach two power-recharging cables. While 5309 remains in the cockpit and adjusts controls, 2112 exits. "Please, follow me." Brent, Sue, David, Marsha, and Yergorov follow 2112 to the elevator banks set in the control tower.

6

**ONCE** inside the elevator car, the doors seal shut. A hum pulses. The ceiling glows a crimson red. The light slowly lowers and bathes the car's occupants in red.

"It's alright," 2112 assures the Lazarus crew's shock. "The elevator also serves as a bio-scanner to clean the body after outdoor exposure. The sky scrubbers can only disinfect so much."

As the elevator descends from the rooftop to the fourth level, Brent slowly peels back his holster to expose the top of his pistol—and its energy cells reads: empty. He nudges Dave and makes him aware of his pistol. Dave peels back his holster. It seems the "bio-scanner' also acts as weapons neutralizer.

"How did the Osirians survive the war?" says Brent.

"Those questions are best left to Voivode Tithonus," responds 2112.

"Who is this 'Tithonus'?" Brent's question is cut off by the hiss of the elevator doors.

"A modern day city based on Greek architecture," wonders Yergorov. "It's beautiful."

"Please, follow me," instructs 2112. "Tithonus is waiting to receive you. This is the administrative level. The penthouse level above us houses the military quarters. That's where we set up your living space."

Dave nudges Brent's attention.

In a storefront, a dome citizen rests his chin in a Digital Slit Camera as an ophthalmologist views through eye optics. A monitor displays fundus, pupil, and iris images. Another dome citizen sits in an exam chair; a nurse fits colored sclera contacts in his eyes with a set of forceps. "Translucent irises? Are they albinos?" says Dave.

"The chemical fallout must have caused some type of ocular damage," whispers Brent. "If the atmosphere scrubbers clean the environs, why seal yourselves in an enclosure?"

On a computer screen, inside an office, someone observes—and listens—to the images of Brent and Dave, Marsha and Sue, and Yergorov under 2112's escort as they approach a set of large, ornate metal doors. "Denderah is the portal of science and civilization," says 2112 over the office's comlink. "The hive must be protected from the swine." As a robust male hand clutches a ruby-red goblet and places it down on the desk, it nudges a joystick—and the screen's image zooms onto Marsha and Sue. "And this 'Tithonus' is the founder of this new world order?" cracks Brent's voice over the comlink.

Then those ornate metal doors hiss open.

Inside is the cavernous, opulent office of Tithonus. The walls display religious artworks—the originals, not copies—with ancient astronaut inferences: 1710's _The Baptism of Christ_ , _The Madonna with St. Giovannino_ from the 15th Century; 1600's _Disputa of the Eucharist_ , and _Annunciation with St. Emidius_ from 1486.

"No matter how old the child," bellows the voice of Tithonus. "I assure you, suspicions are not necessary among family." On the wall, behind and above his massive desk, hangs an immense, ancient ouroboros stone carving.

"Dad?" says Brent.

"Dr. Coleman?" adds Dave.

"That will be all, Colonist 2112," says Tithonus.

2112 clicks his heels, heil salutes, and exits on command.

The Lazarus crew stares as the imposing, once familiar man, now adorned in an ostentatious military uniform. He comes from behind his desk and embraces Brent. "Brent. My young lion returns," shoulder pats Tithonus. "And my sweet daughter-in-law," he hugs Susan. "Mr. Griggs," he handshakes, "I can always count on you as my 'Daniel' to protect my only child. Thank you. Thank you, all. Please, Ms. Yergorov and Ms. Ivins, please sit. Please, everyone. Help yourselves to refreshments," he motions to service platters of Eucharist-styled wafers and sliced fresh fruits.

As everyone approaches the conference-banquet table, Tithonus proceeds to fill six ruby-red glass flutes from a "Big Heart" wine carafe—that consists of four tubes-chambers-valves that converge into a single spout. "As you can see, not everything beautiful was lost. This glass decanter is by the French designer, Etienne Meneau. He had a fondness for sculpting works based on the human anatomy." He then hands the first flute to Yergorov. "Please accept my condolences on the loss of Lt. Quan, Ms. Yergorov." He raises his own flute. "A toast to our Kimberly, a fine resourceful woman."

"We were forced to leave Kim behind," says Sue.

"Do not fret, my dear," Tithonus says with a rub of her arm. "A team is retrieving Kim's body as we speak and preparing her for a proper burial."

"Dad, how did you . . . what—."

"I know. I know. A thousand questions to ask with answer to seek. But first, son, our cabernet." Tithonus quenches his thirst. "Ahhh, perfect for such occasions." Off of Sue's staring at the stone carving behind his desk, Tithonus adds, "I see another of my artifacts has caught your eye, Susan. A unique office decoration uncovered from the ruins of the Vatican by our archeological teams." He motions to the couches and chairs in the office. "Please, be comfortable and relax. You exhibited great bravery to make the trek back to whatever was left."

"Frankly, we're all a bit baffled by all of this, Dad. How did you—."

"Ah, yes. How thoughtless of me. You must be anxious to hear of what transpired during your absences." Tithonus presses a button his desk. "Those questions are best answered by a perusal of our archives. I'll make sure your quarters have full access."

As if on a rehearsed, scripted cue, the ornate, hydraulic doors open.

"Speaking of quarters, Colonist 2112 will escort you to your Officer's Suite, allowing you a chance to bathe and relax," says Tithonus with handshakes—and a rub of Sue's shoulder. "It is so good to have you all home, after all that's happened." He embraces Brent. "To have my only son back. My lion."

"I agree, Dad. This is the best gift I could have asked for after losing all hope."

"After you freshen up," escorts Tithonus, "we'll convene to continue our getting reacquainted."

"Yes. I'd enjoy that, Dad."

"We all would, Dr. Col—Tithonus," corrects David.

Brent and David, Sue and Marsha, and Yergorov follow the escort of 2112 across the expanse of the fourth level—and the Osirian colonists take notice.

"Please step this way to the elevators," instructs 2112. "We'll get you to your suite on the officer's level."

"Something's wrong here, Brent," whispers Sue.

"Look at how they're eyeballin' me," wonders David. "You'd think they'd never seen a black man."

"That's because you're the only one around," says Yergorov.

"And I seem to be the token Latina," adds Marsha.

"Marsha's right. Everyone is the twisted 'Oz' is white—and I'm probably the token lesbian," adds Yergorov.

The Lazarus crew takes notice of two colonist guards—adorned in headgear with opaque goggles—escort Riggs, the Infectoid from the beach who murdered Kimberly Quan with his crossbow. Handcuffed, Riggs struggles against the colonist guards; he breaks away and charges at the Lazarus crew. "You! You're the bastards that set up my tribe!"

2112 pulls his pistol and takes a defensive stance in front of his charges. The two colonist guards pull their pistols and shoot Riggs in the back. An electrical shock rips through his body and he collapses on the floor, his limbs twitching.

"Pay no mind. It's just an inductee being escorted to our socialization center for disinfestation," advises 2112.

"'Socialization'?" says Yergorov.

"Please understand," replies 2112. "The Infectoids suffer an array of mental illnesses. Re-education for the Osirian order can be a disorienting experience."

"Yes. They have no value of life. They did try to kill us, after all."

"Brent? What the hell," whispers David. "Have you lost your—."

"Just follow the goosesteps, Dave."

"To the dental chairs on your left and the gas chambers to your right," says Yergorov as they enter the elevator car.

As they walk down a hallway on the fifth level and approach the Officer's Suite, the doors split open. "Please, be comfortable," 2112 waves to the opened doorway. Inside is an expansive suite with plush furnishings and a table replete with food and drink. "Voivode Tithonus granted you access to all city levels. Directional kiosks are available for assistance."

"Yes," says Brent. "We'll do that after we've cleaned up. Thank you, Colonist 2112."

2112 snaps his heels, heil salutes and leaves.

"Brent, we need to get the hell out of here," warns Sue.

"I'm getting the creeps, too," adds Marsha.

"Armbands on uniforms," says Yergorov. "Clicking boot heels, and open hand salutes."

"And everyone identified by a Roman Numeral I.D tag on their chest," finishes David.

"And that creepy wall hanging in your father's office," says Sue.

"Yeah, it matches the armband and metal collar insignias on the uniforms," adds Marsha.

"It's . . . it's an ouroboros," Brent tells his crew.

"An 'oro' what?" asks Yergorov.

"The insignia is an ouroboros," says Brent. "A serpent incurved in the form of a circle, its tail winding around its neck. It's the code of arms for the Order of the Dragon."

"I can't believe you still remember all of that religious studies non-sense from your childhood," says Sue.

"It was always a running family joke. It's not possible."

"What's 'not possible'?"

"My family's ancestors, Mary. We descended from Romania. The story goes we were related to Vlad Tepes, a Romanian Prince. The Order was a sect founded in the 1400s that defended the Cross against the enemies of Christianity. One of the leading members of the Order was Prince Vlad the third."

Tithonus observes their conversation on his desk's computer screen. His hand drops a colored sclera contact lens into its case. "Vlad, and the Countess Elizabeth Bathory, by way of the sect," says Brent over the computer's speaker, "claimed to have discovered the secret of immortality in human blood."

"That wine decanter in his office," says Sue.

"And those wafers," wretches Yergorov. "Oh, dear god."

"Look, everyone," David comforts Marsha, "needs to—."

"You son-of-bitch," lunges Yergorov at Brent. Griggs breaks his comfort of Marsha to restrain Yergorov. "You dragged us to Mars, and then brought us back to give them untainted blood. You killed Kim."

"Calm down, Mary. Pull it together," says David.

"Don't you get it, David? Ophion, the Osirians, whoever the hell they are, constructed this enclosure and instigated the war. And you," points Yergorov at Brent. "We come back to find your dad running the show."

"Mary, that's enough. Stand down," commands David.

"I'm as surprised as you are. My father was in the Science Division. He was no executive," says Brent with his guidance of Sue to a chair. He pours her a glass of water.

Yergorov collapses in a chair. David comforts Marsha.

"We all need to take a deep breath," Brent instructs with a back rub on Sue. "We can make it out of here if we all work together. Mary?"

Mary nods.

As Marsha breaks away from David to plop onto the couch, David leans against the suite's window-wall. He gazes out onto the ruins of Detroit.

Brent mindlessly plops into the seat that's in front of the suite's archive terminal. The crew startles as the screen spring to life. "Please use the touchscreen, the keyboard, or speak your request," says its smooth, feminine voice.

Brent ponders for a moment. "Socialization Center."

"The terminology of 'Socialization Center' is not listed in database. Please, make another request."

"Food."

"Nutritional supplements are classified in several categories. Please be more specific with your request, or enter another request."

"Plague."

"Accessing. One moment please." A video of a United Corporates' summit—in disarray—appears on screen. "The Corporate Wars utilized limited nuclear arsenals augmented with chemical, biological and cyber weapons," purrs the terminal's voice as war news footage appears. "The savages in the open environs developed immunities to the diseases born from the fallout." And that statement introduces a video of hospitals overflowing with infected people. "Those chosen for Osirian colonyship developed no immunities and cultivated plague symptoms." Then the terminal continues to an image of Dr. Coleman in a laboratory, "Our greatest scientist, the Voivode Tithonus, discovered a serum extracted from immune blood and assured Osirian survival rights. Osiria is an ethical society. Ours is the Order of the Dragon. Osirians are the guardians of civilization, the providers—."

Brent touches the screen and the terminal's screensaver of the Osirian logo engages.

"They said that about the American Indians and the Blacks," reasons Yergorov. "And the Jews and Japanese during World War Two, the Latinos in the eighties, and the Muslims in the early twenty-first century."

"And Kim, being from Hong Kong," says David, "she'd be deemed impure as well."

"And all the answers can be found in that 'Socialization Center,'" says Marsha.

"And you were a Latino the last time I checked, Marsha. You and I are going to be socialized soon enough. There's no room for a black man in this bizarro, Huxley world."

"No, you are not, David. Not under my command," says Brent.

And where does that leave me, Brent? Dr. Cole . . . your father was leering at me a little too much."

"No. No. I don't give a damn what any of you do," Yergorov pulls her pistol. "I'm making a break for the landing platform."

"You need to get your head on straight, Mary," advises David. "That gun isn't going to work. None of them do."

"Mary, no!" yells Sue.

Yergorov points her gun at Brent. She pulls back the trigger—and the gun clicks non-responsive.

"That red light," says Brent with a yank of Yergorov's pistol, "in the elevator was a lot more than just a bio-scanner."

"Christ, Mary. Did you think they'd let us walk around with live weapons," exclaims David.

"Sharp as a blade, my Brent," Tithonus lowers the volume on his computer terminal. "Your thoughts, Viceroy?" Then he uses the joystick to zoom on Sue.

"Her beauty is exquisite, Voivode Tithonus" says Bouguereau. "And the utilization of the caramel-skinned girl."

"Since her father was Caucasian, and once our colleague, she inherited his intelligence. We can chemically breed-out her mother's genetic impurity."

"And the Dark One for nutritional processing and organ harvest?"

"No. Mr. Griggs is strong. Ship him to the Houston refinery fields."

The Lazarus Crew shocks to the hiss of the front doors of their suite. Two guards adorned in headgear with opaque goggles have their rifles at the ready—and their pistols holstered. "I'm Colonist Guard 2541. This is Colonist Guard 2017. We're to escort you to the medical center on the administrative Fourth Level."

"What for?" says Brent.

"Inoculations and medical clearances," rifle waves 2541.

Brent takes the lead behind the two guards as his crew follows. "Inoculated for what?"

"Your bio-scans detected a minor infection from the atmosphere when you landed."

"Are we going to—," worries Sue.

"Nothing to be alarmed about, Ms. Helms. The infection is a mild respiratory bug, easily cured when caught early. Some bugs are peskier than others and require a second protocol."

"We're off to be 'socialized,' Brent," whispers David.

"Voivode Tithonus apologizes for your rest period interruption," assures 2541.

"Care to explain why you're holding guns over us?" says Brent.

"It's nothing to worry about. It's for your protection. Colonists in the non-military sectors are uneasy about your arrival."

"Stay frosty, Dave," whispers Brent. "When we get inside the elevator, we'll take 'em."

The doors open on the elevator car on the fifth-level hub.

The Lazarus crew steps inside. The Colonist Guards step inside—between the crew and door. 2017 presses the button to the fourth-level—and that's their cue.

Brent and David jump the guards.

Yergorov slams the emergency stop button.

Between their jumping the guards and the elevator car's sudden lunge, one of the guards' rifles discharges. The ceiling blows out. Sue slams into the wall and falls to the floor.

Yergorov and Marsha yank the guards' holstered pistols. Brent and David fist and feet pummel the guards into unconsciousness. They collect the rifles and fire one round into each of them. Yergorov and Marsha help Sue off the floor.

"What happened to their eyes," Sue calls notice to the guards' translucent irises through their broken goggles.

"Punch up the landing platform, Mary," instructs Brent.

Yergorov hits the emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to life as she hits the _LP_ button. "Shit, we're still going down to the forth level."

"The shot through the ceiling damaged the circuitry," reasons David.

"Stay close, Sue. Keep covered until we get you a firearm," says Brent. She falls behind him, as Dave, Yergorov, and Marsha hold a tight formation.

When the elevator bay doors to the fourth-level open, four colonist guards greet them—with rifles drawn.

"Hi, there," says Griggs. He leads the barrage as rounds from their captured pistols and rifles kill the guards. Yergorov, Marsha, and Sue collect three of the rifles and Sue holster a pistol.

Their escape attempt distracts the attentions of two colonist guards at the entrance of the Socialization Center, who stand guard over Di'Anno—and two more, new more Infectoids: Klaus and Poet. Each has their hands cuffed in front. The outer security doors to the Socialization Center open.

"This is it! Infectoids vs. the Bugheads!" says Klaus.

Di'Anno clutches his cuffed fists and slugs a Colonist Guard in the face. The smashed goggles pierce the guard's face. The guard collapses into the doorway and his body jams the doors open. Di' Anno stomps and breaks the guard's neck.

Klaus slams the second colonist guard in the face. As the guard falls to the floor, his rifle hits the floor. It discharges a shot that grazes Di'Anno's shoulder; he falls against the wall and slides down to the floor outside the Security Chamber's entrance.

Poet and Klaus yank the guard's pistols and fire rounds; they step over the guard jammed in the doorway to seek cover inside the security chamber.

"That's our break," shouts Brent. "Strength in numbers. Let's move! Don't kill the civilians."

"Cover our six, Marsha," says Dave.

"I'm on it. Keep it tight, Sue."

On Brent's lead the Lazarus crew fires warning rounds at confused Osirian colonists who scatter for cover. As the crew charges towards the Infectoids' escape route at the chambers, two more colonist guard appear.

And shots blow out both of their chests.

Di'Anno, slumped against the wall, has a rifle butt of a smoking gun against his stomach.

Sue, Marsha, and Yergorov fire suppressive rounds. Brent and David drag Di'Anno over the colonist guard's body jammed in the doorway, and into the security chamber. Sue shoots cover rounds as Marsha and Yergorov pull the dead guard inside the chamber to clear the doorway. As the outer security doors begin to close, the metal doors take several ricochets—and a shot blows out Yergorov's chest. She collapses inside.

"Mary!" screams Marsha and Sue in unison. As the doors seal shut, Sue tends to Mary. Marsha tends to Di'Anno.

Brent rips the cuff key from the belt of the dead colonist guard. He unlocks Poet, Klaus, and Di'Anno. Klaus then removes the utility belt from the guard.

"Heads up," Poet points a pistol at the control panel. He fires. Wires explode and spark out of the panel. "These doors won't hold forever. Anyone have a plan?"

"Great. Now we're trapped inside another elevator," says Marsha.

"This is the security chamber that leads into the socialization labs," says Di'Anno.

"'Socialization labs'?" says Sue.

Inside the Socialization Lab, five scientists monitor the vital signs of forty Infectoids secured in mechanized St. Andrews-restraints. Hoses remove fluids from the bodies.

Over a surgical table, four surgeons harvest organs from Kimberly Quan's body—she has no eyes. Riggs's drained, emaciated body lies on a second table. Two surgeons remove his leg and place it into a processor that dispenses a paste-like substance into a Plexiglas canister.

"The car sustained damage and we can't activate its naturalization system," colonist guard 0099 advises guard 0056. "If that door opens fire at will. No survivors. Tithonus so orders it. Turn them into food paste."

Inside the security chamber, echoes pound off the outer security door. Poet picks up what was once Yergorov's rifle. Klaus checks the shock grenades and drapes the utility belt over his shoulder. Di'Anno pulls the key card off the body of the dead colonist guard.

"Those fright elevators better be behind that wall, Di'Anno," says Klaus.

"I helped design this snake pit, remember? It's there." Di'Anno inserts the key card. "We got you covered. Run like hell and get your team to cover," he advised Brent. "On three, two, one," he hits the panel button.

The doors open.

Poet and Di'Anno get the drop on the guards with two well-placed headshots. Brent and Sue, David and Marsha make a mad dash and fall behind a computer bank. They fire wild warning shots into the lab. Scientists and surgeons run for cover without much success. Poet and Di'Anno pick them off one-by-one—down to the last Osirian.

Once the doors seal shut, Klaus blows out the control panel with a pistol shot.

Di'Anno looks down at Riggs's eyeless, mutilated body.

And the Lazarus crew recoils at the sight of Kim on the table.

"Come on, you guys. This ain't no friggin' funeral procession," Klaus bolts to the back wall with the shock grenade-filled utility belt. "We gotta move."

Di'Anno picks a keycard from a scientist's dead body. He jams it into the control terminal. The metal restraints on the human assembly line disengage. Infectoids drop to the floor, either too weak to fight, or dead.

A muffled explosion echoes beyond the lab's inner door panels.

"Hurry with those charges, Klaus," shouts Di'Anno. "They just blew the outer door—."

And architectural shrapnel and dust fills the lab.

"Klaaass!" says Di'Anno.

The explosion vaporized Klaus.

"Shit! Move 'em, Poet," barks Di'Anno

"You heard the man," says Poet. "Everybody, through the wall."

Just as Di'Anno promised, there's a utility corridor behind the wall. And the bodies of ten uniformed engineers lie scattered in the debris. Di'Anno and Poet take the remaining grenades and toss them back into the lab. The equipment explodes and flames fill the lab.

"The freight elevator and utility corridors aren't patrolled," advised Di'Anno. "But they will be soon enough. Keep it moving."

"You were on the engineering team that designed the dome," says Brent.

"I was, until I was deemed impure and banished." Di'Anno swings his long hair from his neck. "See? No neck branding."

"Yeah, funny thing how when you don't agree with the status quo, you're suddenly 'impure,' and banished," adds Poet.

Up on the landing platform sits a parked Tailgunner Hawkmoth, which features two rear cockpits with 360-degree gun turrets set behind two lotus-styled pilot cockpits. Parked nearby is a Transport Hawkmoth, which features two lotus-styled pilot seats and a shipping flatbed in its rear. Two dockworkers adorned in opaque goggles use electromagnetic-gravity grips to unload crates. A third dockworker reviews a shipping order on an iTablet. Two Platform Guards—with rifles at the ready—patrol the platform.

Inside the freight elevator, Di'Anno and Poet, along with Brent and Sue, David and Marsha, rise from the fourth-level to the landing platform.

"We're on the shipping and receiving side of the platform," says Di'Anno. "There are only unarmed dockworkers with two guards, but not for long. Your team can hold fire, Captain. Poet and I can handle the guards."

Everyone trades stares.

"Round three, Di'Anno," inhales Poet.

The fright elevators doors open. Di'Anno and Poet show no mercy. They waste both guards. The two dockworkers release the gravity grips and the crate crashes to the floor. They run—until Di'Anno and Poet shoot all three workers in the back.

"Screw you, blood suckers," Di'Anno kicks the face of one the dockworkers. The broken goggles expose the dockworker's translucent eyes.

"I call tail gun on that Hawkmoth," claims Poet.

"I need you in the other turret with Poet, Captain," says Di'Anno. "I want to do some damage to the platform. Helms, you're with me, up front. Griggs, you and Ivins jump into that shipping Hawkmoth. Your only defense is your wife's rifle. You good to go?"

"If if files, I own it," says Griggs. The Shipping Hawkmoth rises from the platform.

"We'll keep 'em busy. Just head for Grosse Pointe, we'll catch up."

The Tailgunner Hawkmoth rises and jets off into the skies over Detroit. Di'Anno banks and circles the platform. Brent and Poet fire turret rounds. The shots shred the landing platform. Flight Deck crew members and pilots fall by the wayside. Two Hawkmoths explode.

One Pursuit Hawkmoth manages a lift off with two pilots. Sue fire rifle rounds. The shots hit its underside. It plummets into the landing platform and explodes.

Di'Anno fires the Hawkmoth's nose cone guns. The shots hit the Air Traffic Control Tower. Explosions rip through the Tower and shrapnel showers across the landing platform. Eight Hawkmoth Airfoils lay buried under the debris and explode.

"That's it, Di'Anno," Poet says into his headset. "We gotta go! Incoming bazooka fire."

But Poet's warning comes too late. A Colonist Guard kneels and shoulders a bazooka while a second Colonist Guard drops the charge—and fires.

Di'Anno makes a sharp left turn to avoid the projectile. The mid-air explosion rocks the Hawkmoth. Sue's seatbelt buckle snaps. She spills out of the cockpit.

"Sue!" Brent cries out from his turret.

She dangles from the edge of the Hawkmoth and grips the seatbelt strap.

"Level off this blood bucket, Di'Anno," Brent barks into his headset. He crawls out of the gun turret, crawls across the hull, and jumps into the co-pilot seat. "Hang on, Sue," he says reaching over. The Tailgunner Hawkmoth sputters and dips starboard.

"Brent," Sue screams. She loses her grip.

Brent clutches her wrist. He pulls her into the cockpit and she grips onto its side. Once inside, she throws her arms around Brent.

"We did it, Di'Anno," says Poet. "No bugheads are behind us."

"David, do you read?" says Brent into his suits wrist controls. "Dave, do you read?"

"Where are they, Brent?" says Sue.

"We can't risk ship-to-ship communications. They'll triangulate us," Di'Anno advises. "Don't worry, we'll find them."

"This blood bucket's navigation is fubar'd," says Poet. The Hawkmoth's sputter and wheeze of its turbine engines is a tell-tale sign.

"Right. No way we're making it to Grosse Pointe," fights Di'Anno against the joystick.

"That looks like Warren Woods, below. Take 'er down, D," gazes Poet from the turret's cockpit.

"Is one of your rail cars still at Hayes Road Station on 12 Mile?"

"If anyone was dumb enough to steal her, they're splattered all over the tunnel."

7

**THE** geodesic domical that is the city of Denderah smolders with heavy battle damage. Half of the landing platform is destroyed. Smoke pours and fire billows from the control tower.

Brent, Sue, Di'Anno, and Poet clutch their rifles at the ready. Light trickles through a gaping hole in the street above. They descend a set of stairs into the dank darkness of the dilapidated Hayes Road/12 Mile Road SubRail Station. Skeletal remains of rodents, humans and emaciated corpses pepper the station's floors.

"Yes, we're home free." Di'Anno notices Poet's makeshift hand-powered railcar equipped with a tripod machine gun and a front-mounted wedge. "Hopefully the tracks are clear to the Pointe."

"Won't they follow us?" says Sue.

"The Bugheads avoid the dark. They're blind as bats, even with vision enhancement goggles and visors" says Di'Anno.

"All aboard the shame train to the muddy shores of Lake St. Claire," says Poet with a disconnecting of the car's booby traps. Di'Anno jumps on board and readies the tripod machine gun. Poet grips the hand pump.

"You okay, Sue?" Brent wraps a cargo strap around her waist.

"Yeah, I'm good," she says with cock of the rifle.

"That's my girl," Brent cocks his rifle and readies on the car's rear flank.

"Okay, the rules are simple," advises Di'Anno. "Shoot to kill or don't shoot at all. Let's rock 'n' roll, Poet."

Poet makes the first push-pull on the pump. Down the track they go.

"The Muties must be starving." Poet notices a debris and fire barricade on the tracks illuminated by the railcar's floodlights. "They have a shake n' bake ready."

Brent and Sue trade stares: Muties?

"Brent, help Poet get some speed. Sue, point up and cover the ceiling."

Sure enough, four Muties jump out from the shadowed walls, ready to toss their faux Molotov cocktails filled with whatever flammable concoctions they cooked.

Di'Anno dispatches them with a rat-a-tat-tat of the tripod machine gun—and the subway scroundles burst into flames at the hand of their bottled, chemical stews.

Then a tossed rope-net almost misses the rail car—and tangles on its rear. The two Muties on the other end—hoping to scoop a tasty human or two—bounce along the tracks, tangled in the net. Di'Anno pulls a machete from its sheath on the side of the machine gun turret. He hacks the rope netting. The two Muties roll down the tracks.

Two more Muties drop from the ceiling. Sue shoots one dead, but the other lands on the railcar. Poet pulls a knife from his hip sheath and stabs the Mutie in the throat. He kicks him off the car.

Di'Anno sprays a rain of bullets head-on. The rail car's wedge slices through the barricade.

"We're done. We can't risk these tunnels," Poet screeches the handrail car to a stop at what's left of the Eastland Center/8 Mile Road SubRail Station. "We'll have to chance Harper Woods."

"Come on, Sue. It's just a little bit longer." Brent undoes the cargo strap. "We're almost there."

"What are those Muties?" says Sue.

"They're the poor bastards that got the worst of the sickness. They're useless as a food source to the Buggies," says Di'Anno as they ascend the stairs out of the station.

"And we're the lucky ones, right Di'Anno," shoulders slaps Poet.

"Yep, we're on both of their menus."

"It's nice to be wanted, ain't it," punch lines Poet. "The only thing a poor man still owns in this brave new world _is_ humor," says Poet to the stares of Brent and Sue.

The quartet treks eastbound through the overgrown and dilapidated neighborhoods of Harper Woods and Eastland Center with their rifles at the ready.

"Man, I hate hoofin' it through Harper Headhunters' turf," says Di'Anno.

"'Headhunters'?" says Sue.

"It's just a gang name. Better the Headhunters than the Muties, right Poet?"

"If you say so, D. Hopefully Dobby's over his hard-on for you."

Then a lion roars in the distance.

"What in the hell was that?" shutters Sue.

"Company from the Detroit Zoo. Double-time it, people," trots Poet.

As a second roar echoes, a 400-pound lion leaps from the shadows. Sue shocks back and falls to the ground. A gunshot rings out. A bullet barely misses Poet. He bolts.

Then three out-of-nowhere spears pierce and impale the lion. The beast's body lands next to Sue. Blood splatters across her face. The lion flinches to four bullet rounds.

Then three more spears pierce the ground. The attack inspires Brent's dive into a mixed bag of 300 surrounding Infectoids.

Dak clutches a ratty rifle and motions to Brent. He rises.

Two muscular females, Weaver and Doro, seize Sue. They fuss over her blonde hair and stroke her face.

"Poet's getting away, Dobby," says Dak.

"I ain't got no beef with Poet, Dak. Let 'em go."

"You two are the bargaining chips we need to cut a deal with the Bughead brigade," Dobby advised Brent and Sue. "Weaver. Doro. Tie 'em tight."

Weaver gives an extra tug to Sue's wrists, then strokes and sniffs her hair. Doro binds Brent's hands.

"And as for you," Dobby says to Di'Anno. "I told you and Riggs to keep yer asses on the beach."

"Look, Dobby. You got it—."

"The Headhunters, Riggs's St. Claire Saints, and yer Grosse Pointe Boys are mine. All the way out to Pontiac. I own East Detroit, _Dianne_."

"Not even Armageddon keeps you off the campaign trail, eh, Dobby." Dak jams a rifle butt into Di'Anno's stomach as payment for that smartassery. "Always running for office," chokes Di'Anno.

"Take it easy, Dak. I tell 'ya what, Di'Anno. I'm a gamblin' man, right boys! Whatta say? one for all the votes. We'll debate like the old days."

"Somehow, I don't think you mean with words."

Dak gives Di'Anno another shot of the rifle butt.

"I told ya ta knock it off," Dobby sucker punches Dak to the ground.

"Deal," coughs Di'Anno. "And if I win?"

"You won't. But if ya do, you run the show n' Weaver's yer squeeze."

Weaver hands Dobby and Di'Anno repurposed metal arm shields. A lip-bloodied Dak hands Di'Anno a multi-spiked wooden mace. Dobby gets a holy water sprinkler-styled mace.

Weaver grips a large rock in her hands and holds it overhead. "When this rock drops and hits the ground, start swingin' yer dicks."

"Stand back, baby doll, or you'll be wearin' Dianne's brains."

"More bogus campaign promises, eh, Councilwoman Dawson."

Then the rock drops.

Di'Anno swings. Dobby blocks.

"You don't swing a mace unless you intend to kill a man, Diane."

"Get ready for some sweet love, Weaver," smirks Di'Anno.

Di'Anno gives Dobby's mace swing an arm shield block.

"Once I split yer skull and barter the bugheads, I'll run the largest turf in Detroit."

"Bla, bla, bla," swings Di'Anno."

"Brent, look! Dave and Marsha made it!" head nods Sue.

Three Pursuit Hawkmoths swarm overhead—identical to the one that first picked up the Lazarus crew on the beach, these emblazoned with the numbers 05, 09, and 19—and shoot their nose guns. Their co-pilots fire their rifles at the unarmed Shipping Hawkmoth piloted by Dave and Marsha.

"Finish 'em off, Dobby. We got Buggies in bug buckets," says Dak.

Distracted by Dak's warning, Di'Anno's mace crack knocks Dobby on his ass.

Dobby stares up in silent defiance. He knows he's dead. Di'Anno's mace lands with a thud next to his head.

Di'Anno puts out his hand out to Dobby; baffled, Dobby accepts. Di'Anno throws a stare at Weaver. She unties Sue hands—and blows in her ear. Dak unties Brent.

"Alright, listen up. I run this tribe," Di'Anno exclaims to the Infectoids. "We need to stop killing each other. It's time to squash the Bugheads."

"You're outta your friggin' mind, Di'Anno," says Dobby.

"We escaped from the lab. There is no slave labor camp. The Osirians use us for spare parts and food."

"Di'Anno's telling you the truth," says Brent. "By living outdoors, you developed immunities to the diseases from the fallout."

"And they're using your blood as a serum to prevent diseases," adds Sue.

"Go against the Osirian Wehrmacht?" laughs Dobby. "That's a death sentence."

"No. Di'Anno's right," agrees Dak. "It's better to die on the streets of our home, than in their labs and in their arenas."

"Can't you count, Dobby. Look at us. We outnumber them," says Di'Anno.

"Hell, I'm in," Dak interjects. "Where do we start?"

"First, we need to help Commander Coleman bring down his crew members in that Hawkmoth," points Di'Anno.

Marsha shoulders a rifle and fires from her co-pilot seat.

Her shot hits a Hawkmoth's underbelly and rocks the craft. "This is Unit Zero-Five to One-Nine and Zero-Nine," cracks the faceshield-filtered voice of 5309. "We lost our vertical stabilizers. We're done." Hawkmoth 05 breaks formation and heads for ground cover.

"Nice shot, Mar-Mar!" rejoices Dave in response to the Hawkmoth breaking formation. "One bugger down, two to go."

On the ground, two street Infectoids assemble a bazooka-mount. A third Infectoid opens an ammunitions footlocker. . . .

"Stick a straw in 'ya," scoffs Dobby. "Yer all blood slurpees."

"You know the rules of the street, Dobs," says Dak. "The tribe follows Di'Anno's orders."

"Yeah, more like fast food orders." Dobby waves at Weaver and Doro, but both are lost in their admiration of Sue.

They shrug at him.

"Bitches," walks off Dobby. "Hold onto your pickles, Di'Anno."

"Dobby! Damn it, Dobby. Always the descending vote," Di'Anno shakes his head in disbelief.

"Griggs, brother? Do you read?" Dave speaks into his suit's wrist-com. Static is the response. "Dave. . . ."

Then the Shipping Hawkmoth breaks out of cloud bank. "That cloud cover should keep those buggers occupied."

"Da—ook do-n. Do—see—b—nfire?" cracks Brent's voice over Dave's wrist-com. He makes an adjustment. Brent's voice clears. "Do you see the bonfire?"

Dave looks down at what's left of Beaconfield Street.

Frenzied Infectoids clear the roadway of debris and create landing strip. A bonfire blazes at the end of the makeshift runway.

"Brent! Yeah, brother. Roger that. We see it!" com-cracks Dave's voice. "It looks beautiful."

"You've got incoming bazooka fire for your friends. Aim for the bonfire. That's your runway."

Marsha mounts her rifle. "Are you sure you can land this blood bucket?"

"There's not a flying brick I can't handle, remember."

A laser flash crosses their bow—barely missing.

"So much for the cloud cover, brick jockey. Better work that joystick."

As an Infectoid shoulders the bazooka, the other gazes through the crosshairs and captures a Hawkmoth in the sights. A third readies to drop the mortar. "Let 'er rip, Charlie. Bugger on target." The mortar falls into the shaft.

"Incoming! Portside," points Marsha. Dave pulls back on the joystick. The Hawkmoth banks hard. The mortar whizzes by. It strikes the underside of Pursuit Hawkmoth 19 and turns it into a fireball.

The third and final Hawkmoth from the pursuit formation—09—breaks formation and banks hard. "This is Unit Zero-Niner," panics Pilot 2200. "Request additional units. Infectoids armed with projectiles. Repeat. Infectoids are armed."

"That's the break we needed, Mar-Mar. One flying brick, goin' down."

"More like a rolling cinder block."

Dave jams the joystick. He braces his feet into the pedals. He pulls back the throttle. "Brace for impact, baby."

"'Impact'?"

He winks.

Infectoids dive from the Shipping Hawkmoth's path as it barrels down Beacon Street and blows through the Vernier Road intersection.

Brent, Sue, and Di'Anno—with a stuffed duffle bag slung across his chest—run in pursuit.

"Uh, Dave, sweetie? We're running out of road."

"All those months in flight school, and that's your navigation?"

"We're going to crash into the bonfire!"

"I see it Mar-Mar. Come-on, baby," Dave coaxes the joystick. "Slow down. Slow-down," he digs into the foot pedals.

Marsha cringes.

The Shipping Hawkmoth's motors power down as the Shipping Hawkmoth stops inches from impact with the bonfire.

"Get ready for the lightshow," pants an out-of-breath Di'Anno.

"What's up your slee—?"

Before Dave can finish the question, Di'Anno twists a grenade's timer and tosses it into the duffle bag. Then he tosses the bag into the Hawkmoth.

"Run like hell, that's what," exclaims Brent."

Overhead, the goggles of pilot 2200 in Pursuit Hawkmoth 09 scans and zooms on the skies and ground below. "Where in the hell are the astronauts?" cracks 2200's voice behind his faceshield. "The Voivode will bleed us dry."

"Down there," points co-pilot 4400. "On Beaconfield. We got 'em."

As their Hawkmoth descends . . . the Shipping Hawkmoth detonates. A fireball consumes the Pursuit Hawkmoth.

Dobby shuffles along Huntington Avenue in Harper Woods. He shocks back at the billowing mushroom cloud in the northern distance at Beaconfield and Vernier, near Eastland Center. "The Bugheads nuked 'em. Dumbass liberal dreamer to the end, right, Di'Anno."

However, the real dumbass is Dobby. He doesn't see the damaged Pursuit Hawkmoth 05 wheezing eastbound at a ten-foot altitude toward Eastland Drive. "Unit Zero-Nine. Unit One-Nine. Do you read?" All pilot 5309 hears is static. "Damn it. That explosion _was_ them. This is Unit Zero-Five to base requesting emergency WASP evac."

Dobby stops cold as the Hawkmoth makes a right onto Eastwood.'

"Look!" points 5309. "Infectoid swine."

"A pig-hunt to pass the time," jokes 2112.

"And get in some target practice for the gladiatorial games." 5309 fires the nosecone guns. Dobby bolts for cover from the street ricochets.

Then the screeching tires of Poet's scrappy, makeshift humvee—an open two-seater with a roll cage and a flatbed machine gun turret—appears. Poet steers one-handed and fires rounds from a hood-mounted machine gun via a console joystick.

And Pursuit Hawkmoth 05 explodes.

"Well, if it ain't the crowned prince of Harper Woods."

"Poet! You illiterate bastard."

"Get in here, ya stupid bugshake. You got a district to run."

8

**A** staging area organizes on the intersection of Beaconfield Street and Vernier Road.

Poet and Dobby prepare the Humvee for battle. Di'Anno and Dak direct the Infectoids who scoop up dirt with boards and hunks of metal to put out the street fires. Other Infectoids prepare their ramshackle weapons. And still others cook the lion carcass on a spit and boil a vat of water.

And Weaver and Doro prepare for battle as well—but leer at Sue and Marsha lost in their own preparations.

"How are you two holding up?" approaches Brent.

"Brent, please. This isn't out fight. If we cross the river—."

"Sue," Brent stokes her cheek. "There's no place for us to run. Not even in Windsor."

"He's right, Sue," counters Marsha.

"They're out for our blood, literally," adds Dave. "They won't rest until they find us."

"Dave, hide them somewhere underground," directs Brent. "Barricade them in a basement. Then double-time back."

Rifle drawn, Dave enters a garbage-strewn basement. Sue and Marsha, with water jugs slung over their shoulders, cover Dave with their rifles.

"This room looks pretty solid and it's below street level," inspects Dave. He pushes a tall hunk of sheet metal across the basement window. He slaps a metal armoire near the doorway. "Push this against the door. I'll block it from the other side."

"David. . . ."

He kisses Marsha and pulls the door shut. The girls push the cabinet against the door. They slide back the scrap of metal to gaze out of the narrow basement window. They watch Dave double back. . . .

"Yes, their weapons are advanced," says Brent to the Infectoids feasting on lion meat. "But they're in a weakened state."

"He's right," says Dave with a shoulder slap on Brent. "And look at the size of this fighting force."

"And this is only three gangs," adds Di'Anno. "If we get word to West Detroit, hell, we'll slaughter them."

"Right. We won't make the same mistake as the Incas with Pizzaro," says Poet.

"Detroit used to have a tank command unit and Detroit International has the facilities to construct weapons," says Dave.

"And Selfridge Airbase near Mount Clemens," chimes Poet, "still has a few fighter planes."

"Shit. We're too late," Dak gazes through a set of binoculars. "Bugheads inbound. I got multiple targets."

Brent and Dave pull the monoculars from the suit's pockets.

"You did heavy damage to the Denderah City," Dak gazes at the sky. "I only see eight Hawkmoths, four with tail gunners. And one meat wagon." Then he gazes to the ground. "Two ground assault hover tanks, seventy foot soldiers, and five gunner bikes."

"What do those meat wagons carry?" says Brent.

"A crew of four," says Di'Anno. "Their only defense is two robotic turrets on her bow. The wagons are for personnel and prisoner transport. Not combat."

"The buggies are coming to stock up, boys," shouts Dak. "Time to lock 'n' load and rock 'n' roll."

"Everyone! Battle stations!" urges Brent.

The Street Infectoids, armed with their ramshackle weapons, put on their makeshift ear protectors and scatter for cover.

The loud speakers on the Osirians transport ship—the dreaded "Meat Wagon"—crack open with the piecing blast of ten thousand Revelations trumpets. Then a second blast. "This sector is scheduled for disinfestations. Surrender and board the prison transport. . . ."

As the announcement bellows a second time, four Infectoids set torches to a chemical trail that consumes the Osirian ground soldiers in a firewall.

Three Infectoids positioned in a fifth-floor window fire a bazooka at the Meat Wagon.

The Wagon plunges sideways into a building and bursts into a fireball.

The Street Infectoids swarm in a surprise attack and take on the Osirians in hand-to-hand combat.

Hawkmoths fire rounds into the battlefield—with no care of killing their own.

Poet's Humvee avoids an explosion from one of the Hawkmoth's rounds; Dobby fires its rear machine gun turret at three Gunner Bikes—and sets them ablaze.

Dave fires his rifle at the fourth Gunner Bike. The bike skids across the street. As the driver tries to get up, a Street Infectoid pounces and thrusts a blade into the driver's neck

Three Infectoids on a building roof top lob Molotov cocktails. They land on a Ground Assault Tank—boom.

A second Ground Assault Tank flanks with return fire. The building shatters in a cloud of brick and concrete dust.

Poet and Dobby return counter fire from their Humvee at the tank.

Then an Infectoid aims and fires a grappling gun at a Hawkmoth. The grappling hooks into the pilot's chest, pulls him down and hooks him into the cockpit's rim. With the other end of the grappling secured to the ground, the Hawkmoth dive bombs into the Ground Assault Tank—boom.

Dak, with all his might, tosses a Molotov into the air. He shoots and scores inside a Hawkmoth's cockpit—it erupts into a fireball.

Then a gun blast blows out his chest.

Sue and Marsha huddle in the shadows of the basement and finch at the explosions. They shock back as the door crashes down and the metal armoire tumbles. Weaver and Doro approach with rope and knives in their hands. Before Sue and Marsha can draw their weapons, two shots blow out the chests of their admirers.

Then two electrical bolts blaze through the doorway. The electrical shocks stun Sue and Marsha.

"This is 1975," cracks the com-line. "We got a lock on the female bio-scans. Advise Voivode Tithonus his property is recovered." Two Hawkmoth Pilots, Captain 1975 and Lieutenant 1964, adorned in helmets with full-face opaque carbonite shields, stand before Sue and Marsha's twitching bodies.

What little was left of the Beaconfield neighborhood is awash in a sea of blood and scattered body parts, flames and smoking wreckage. What Infectoid survivors there are, regroup and collect Osirian weapons.

Four Osirian soldiers struggle to rise and stumble about. The Infectoids swarm and beat the soldiers to their deaths. One Infectoid clutches-on-high the hacked-off head of an Osirian to cheers.

And Brent Coleman? First a crash landing, then discovering his father is the leader of the new ruling class, then becoming a defacto commander of a makeshift army . . . he looks like shit. He stumbles in exhaustion to towards Poet.

"Dobby. Dobby," Poet shakes Dobby's body next to the Humvee. "You dumb lump of bug meat. Damn it."

"Brent! They got Sue and Marsha!" calls out an exhausted Dave on his hands and knees. He gazes toward the distance basement sanctuary. Hawkmoth Pilots 1975 and 1964 carry the limp, shackled bodies of Sue and Marsha over their shoulders and dump them into Pursuit Hawkmoth 20.

"Sue! Marsha!" is all Brent and Dave can do. It's too late. The Hawkmoth rises and jets off.

"Get off of him, you bastard!" turns Brent's anger to an Osirian soldier slumped over Di'Anno's dead body. The soldier removes a syringe from his utility belt and plunges the needle into Di'Anno's chest, then places the needle tip to his ouroboros neck branding and injects satisfaction.

Brent drop kicks the soldier, who falls back and splits up blood.

"It's better than the swill passed off as the blood of Christ," blood laugh-spits the soldier. "You should try some, son of Tithonus."

"That monster isn't my father," pulls Brent on the scruff of the soldier's uniform.

"There's nothing immoral about surviving your god's equestrians by consuming your enemies. Besides, you destroyed our labs and gave us no choice. This carnage is on your soul."

Brent grimaces and clenches his fist.

"But it doesn't matter. Mainlining in the field is always tastier than that homogenized lab swill. Strength through cannibalism is the new order, son of Tithonus."

Brent cakes his fist in blood with a flurry of punches into the soldier's translucent eyes. Dave grabs his arm in a final, weakened blow. "He right. This is my fault. Susan didn't want to come back."

"None of this is your fault. Come on, where's the Brent I know?"

Brent rocks Di'Anno's dead body in his arms.

"Don't flake on me now, brother. Get it together. We have to save the girls."

"Son of a bitch. Not Di'Anno, too," approaches Poet. "You bloody bastards!" He gains his composure and starts to tear. "First Riggs, then Dobby. This friggin' world. Everything dies."

Brent lays down Di'Anno's body. He closes Di'Anno's eyes with the wipe of a hand and lays his arms across his chest. "You mentioned fighter planes at Selfridge," he looks up at Poet.

9

**SMOKE** pours and fires billow from the dome of Denderah City. Osirian flight deck crew members scurry and clear wreckage on what's left of the landing platform. A flight deck officer waves a set of marshalling wands towards the overhead approach and landing of Pursuit Hawkmoth 20.

Hawkmoth Pilots 1975 and 1964 carry Sue's and Marsha's limp, unconscious bodies over their shoulders to the elevator bays.

The solar cell engines on Poet's scrappy Humvee drone along the ravaged asphalt of Highway 1-94 along Detroit's east coast. Brent sits in the passenger seat and pulls an aerosol stick from his suit's utility belt and sprays his forehead cut. Dave sits in the rear machine gun turret picking at a K-Ration as he repairs his flight suit's wrist control with a hand tool.

"I'm sorry about Dobby and Di'Anno," Brent says with the squeeze of a liquid band-aid tube to his forehead.

"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven," replies Poet.

Brent looks with puzzlement.

"In this world, you roll with it," Poet shoulder slaps Brent.

"A _Paradise Lost_. I don't think John Milton imagined this mess," says Dave.

"I never expected you to quote Milton. You were a scholar?"

"Never judge books by covers, my friend. I was a lit teacher at Wayne State." Then, off Brent's look, "So, it's true. You're father is Tithonus."

"He was an opinionated hard ass sometimes, but not like this."

"Brent, my friend, and I mean this with all the offense in the world: Your dad is one crazy son-of-a-bitch. He turned hell inside out."

"What in the hell happened? The Corporates eliminated poverty, hunger—."

"And built private police states," Poet cuts off Brent.

* * *

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Bring the room to order!" bellows a Corporate Chairman with repeated gavel slams inside the United Corporate Conference in Lake Geneva. The Chairman stands at an elevated podium emblazoned with the United Corporates logo. The wall behind the podium displays individual corporate insignias.

"Sniping at each other doesn't change the fact that the Wisconsin territories of the North American continent were unable to reach a foreclosure agreement," continues the podium perched Corporate Chairman.

"And what of Windsor-St.Clair Island and the Georgian Bay area?" says a Nakataki Logistics Executive.

"Their relief requests were denied," replies the Corporate Chairman.

The executives grumble in discord in response.

"Rather than govern the defaulted properties, the banks reached agreements to transfer the land rights to Ophion."

"This is preposterous!" A Turner Logix Executive rises in disgust. "How can you reward Ophion with land rights?"

"It was Ophion Dynamics refusing to be part of a global currency for international trade settlements that caused the collapse," counters a Stratus Technologies Executive.

"This room will have order," gavel slams the Corporate Chairman to the sound of the room boiling over, again. "Also, in an agreement with Ophion, Amerimax Amalgamated will assume the evicted residents of Detroit. Ophion Military Police units begin deportation operations in Detroit—."

A Millennium Systems executive turns with grimace and clutches the collar of an Ophion Dynamics executive, yanks him up from his chair, and cold cocks him.

"Do not attempt entry to the Canadian border," bellows an authoritative voice over a P.A system's loud speakers.

Two Valkyrie Vendetta helicopters patrol the nighttime waters along Belle Isle in the middle of the Detroit River. Two pilots gaze at their infrared monitors. Their door gunner scans the waters through the heads-up display on his helmet's visor.

"Do not attempt to cross the Detroit River in Windsor," the pre-recorded announcement bellows from speakers on the helicopter's belly. "All bridges and tunnels are patrolled. No ground or air vacs are available." And the cycle repeats.

The Valkyrie's floodlights reflect off a naval P.T Hoverboat that cuts through the Detroit River waters. Its wake washes up on shorelines wrapped in barbed wire barricades. Along the Detroit River bands, warning signs instruct citizens:

No Trespassing: Ophion Dynamics Property

Property Condemned: Reentry is a Corporate Offense.

Corporate Police Shoot-on-Sight.

Along the darkened shoreline of the Reid Memorial Park Deportation Center, Poet loads an artillery shell into a shouldered bazooka. He places one of the two Valkyrie Vendettas in his crosshairs. The projectile's bright flash cuts through the air and finds its target. The Valkyrie plunges into the Detroit River.

The naval P.T Hoverboat returns machine gun fire to the shoreline. Poet takes cover and bolts to St. Jean Street.

An armored personnel carrier grinds it half-tracks into the asphalt in pursuit. Its turret gunner fires rounds at Poet. The second Valkyrie peels off the river and provides overhead cover to the personnel carrier. A seven soldier phalanx jumps from the carrier.

Before the soldiers can create a formation, Poet lobs a grenade.

Four soldiers die in the explosion.

The three remaining soldiers run after Poet into the park—and he runs into another soldier on patrol. But Poet doesn't stop his stride; he drops kicks the soldier. He grabs the soldier's rifle and delivers two blows into the soldier's face.

Then the overhead floodlight of that second Valkyrie washes Poet in light.

The seated door gunner fires rounds into Reid Park.

Poet flips around the rifle and fires multiple rounds at the Valkyrie.

The floodlight shatters and the gunner takes multiple hits. The gunner plunges from his perch and splats on the ground in front of Poet.

The Valkyrie peels off in retreat.

Poet pulls up a sewer cover and jumps in. Bullets ricochet off the cover as he pulls it over.

Inside the sewers, under St. Jean Street, Poet sloshes through knee deep, rat infested waters. A rat falls onto his shoulder. He freaks out and bats the rat off.

Overhead, on St. Jean Street, the three remaining soldiers from the personnel carrier stand over Poet's escape route. One soldier pulls a grenade from his belt and arms it. The second soldier pulls the sewer lid.

"Suppression fire," commands the soldier clutching the grenade. The third soldier fires rounds into the sewer. "Fire in the hole!" He tosses the grenade and they duck for cover from the ensuing heat mushroom.

The explosion echoes through the sewer. Poet runs from the fireball rolling down the pipeline. The percussive force propels Poet underwater. The fireball rolls over him.

On St. Jean Street, the soldiers pull the sewer cover over the manhole and pull mini-blow torches from their belts to seal the cover.

The soldier who tossed the grenade taps his headset, "Target neutralized. And bring a wagon," he turns his attentions to the bodies of the door gunner and the five other soldiers from his unit. "Six men down. Five ground, one air unit."

Down in the sewers, Poet splashes out of the water. As he sits on the ledge and leads against the wall, another rat falls on his shoulder. "Christ," he bats the rat into the water. "What's next, snakes?"

A 20-foot alligator bursts from the waters onto Poet. He fights back, unsheathes his knife—and loses his grip. The knife sinks.

Poet holds back the alligator with one hand. He fumbles on the ledge for his rifle with the other hand. He grabs it. He jams the rifle butt into the alligator's jaws. As the alligator thrashes, Poet dives into the water. He rises from the waters and plunges the knife into the alligator's head. He yanks the rifle from its jaws and shoves gator down the river—and fires two shots into its body for good measure.

Exhausted, Poet collapses on the ledge. He reaches under his shirt and pulls out a small gold locket from his neck. He opens it to expose two round photographic vignettes of his wife.

"What a day, Gina," he kisses the locket. "It's all for you."

"Deportation Carrier arriving . . ." echoes the bullhorn voice of a Battery Squad Leader across the waters around the Belle Isle Deportation Zone. "Follow the soldiers' orders and make your way to the checkpoint for boarding."

And outboard fishing boat manned with armed six protestors speeds toward a submersible aircraft carrier. A Valkyrie Vendetta fires rounds into the water and the fishing boat explodes.

A fleet of parked, empty military buses waits at the gateway to the boarding dock. Soldiers corral the poor, tired and huddled masses through the checkpoint.

"What about the civilian charters?" says Gina.

"The maritime union went on strike," replies the Battery Squad Leader.

"Some corporation," says Poet. "You can't even handle the unions and the boats."

"You had ample opportunity to leave and knew Detroit was decommissioned as a construction zone. Take the carrier or die in the demolitions. Now step forward for retinal identification."

A battery soldier points the scanner at Poet and Gina. Poet's scan gives a green light. Gina's turns red. "She's supposed to have reported to Grosse Pointe for Texas Deportation."

"She's my wife. I have papers."

"You know how the social security lottery works. She drew Texas. Take her," commands the Battery Squad Leader. Two soldiers grasp her arms.

Poet fights back—and received a gun butt to the head for his efforts. Two battery soldiers stand over him and point rifles. Poet watches Gina forcibly board the bus. As the bus drives off, it explodes into a fireball.

Poet uses that moment of confusion. He grabs the barrel of one of the rifles. He swings the headstock and cracks both soldiers in their heads. The deportees take that as a cue to beat and stomp the soldiers.

An overhead floodlight captures Poet. He fires multiple rifle rounds. The floodlight shatters. Poet bolts. The Valkyrie fires several rounds at Poet and kills several deportees.

"I never thought that could happen in America," says Poet to Brent and David.

* * *

Poet drives his Humvee along Highway I-94. "Thousands of people herded like cattle according to a spreadsheet. The boats didn't come. Gina forced onto a bus. A man has his limits. I never intended to be a subversive."

"The corporates lied, fooled us by political illusion. I fell for it," says Brent.

"And instead of creating a perfect society, they destroyed it," says Dave.

"Even though we see the corporates as evil, they had the best of intentions. I know that," says Poet.

"But something got twisted along the way—."

"Alright, I get it!" Brent cuts off Dave. "My father blew the world to hell." He wipes the tears from his eyes. "I just want Susan back. She's probably already—."

"We're going to find the girls, Brent. Sue and Marsha are strong."

"I lost the love of my life," says Poet. "You two will not lose yours."

Clad in skimpy, silk dresses, Susan and Marsha hang on two St. Andrew's Crosses. Their stocks are set before the 1350 Fresco _The Crucifixion_ , one of Tithonus's many historical acquisitions—this one from Visoki Decani Church—that envelops a wall of his living quarters perched on the fifth and final level of the dome: his hive.

Tithonus enters the living room from the master bedroom as he sips from a wine goblet. He picks up one of two prepared syringes from an end table. Pushing back Susan's hair, Tithonus punctures her newly ouroboros-branded neck with the needle. Then he injects Marsha in her neck branding. Satisfied, he stands at the window and gazes out of the ruins of what was once Detroit as he sips from the goblet—and waits for their revival.

Sue and Marsha shock awake, coughing. They come to realize their bondage. Tithonus strokes Susan's cheek.

"Get away from her, you bastard," Marsha shackle rattles.

Tithonus backhands Marsha's face once—then twice. His ouroboros ring cuts her cheek. He licks his ring, dabs the blood from his lips, and licks off his finger.

Marsha coughs and spits up more blood. It stains the silk of her dress.

"Please stop, you're killing her," begs Susan.

"Will she die for your sins?" coos Tithonus.

"I'll do anything you want."

"You will love, worship and breed," Tithonus clutches of Susan's chin, "like a good queen should."

"Anything. Please take her down."

Tithonus raises his brow.

"Please, Lord Tithonus," softens Sue.

"There's even a couple of old Valkyrie Vendetta Helicopters," says Poet as they rumble across Highway I-94 to Selfridge Air Base.

"Pull over your vehicle," echoes a voice from a loud speaker.

"Damn it, Road Rats. We don't need this crap now."

Coming up fast behind them is a ramshackle of six Road Rat Cars and two Rat Cycles, each with two men on board.

"Let me guess," jokes Dave. "They have the same appetite as the Subway Muties."

"Yeah, those human head ornaments do give them away," says Poet. "Mount up. Shoot to kill or don't shoot at all."

The Road Rats fire rounds.

Dave returns fire from the Humvee's machine gun turret. Brent leans out the passenger side and fires his rifle.

"Griggs! Heads up on your twelve. A rat with wings," says Poet.

A solar-powered Heli-Rat—with a pilot and a pontoon gunner—fires rounds.

"Cover me, Dave," shouts Brent. As Dave rips off rounds against the Rat Cars, Brent stands up through roll cage and fires rounds at the Heli-Rat.

The pontoon gunner takes bullets to his body. The gun spins into the Heli-Rat's engine. It explodes.

One of the passengers in the closest Rat Car stands up through the roof hatch and fires a grenade launcher.

Poet swerves the right. The mortar misses. The roadway shatters into pieces.

Poet lobs a grenade that does its own roadway damage.

Dave fires rounds from the rear turret. Brent stands through the roll cage and fires rifle rounds.

Then one of the Rat Cycles pulls up on the side of Poet's Humvee. The rear passenger on the bike overhead swings a grappling hook.

The hook just misses Brent as he ducks back into the Humvee—and latches onto the roof roll cage.

Poet floors the accelerator.

The Rat Cycle—and its driver and passenger—cake the asphalt with blood and metal. Then the bike jams into the undercarriage of one of the other Rat Cars. Metal screeches and sparks shower onto the second Rat Cycle. The Molotov cocktail held by the bike's passenger explodes. Then that Rat Car with its new bike attachment, barrel rolls across the asphalt.

Then a second Rat Car slams into that Rat Car.

"Thank god for them not being as smart as they are menacing," says Brent.

"We still got four of them on our tail. We ain't done yet," says Dave.

A shirtless Tithonus exits the bathroom into the living room with the face wipe of a towel. Marsha hangs bruised and disheveled: Tithonus beat the hell out of her. He strokes Susan's cheek and wipes her tears.

Susan rubs her cheek into his hand.

He unfastens her feet, then the overhead restraints.

"Thank you, Lord Tithonus," collapses Susan into his arms.

"Perhaps you'll be more agreeable in my quarters than your caramel-skinned friend," hair clutches Tithonus. He forces Sue to the floor. "Now kneel before me," he gently strokes her cheek. "My queen."

"Yes, my Lord."

Tithonus yanks Sue by the hair across the living room. Once in the bedroom, he tosses her onto the bed. He runs his hands across the silk of her dress and caresses her legs. "You see," Tithonus caresses her lips with his finger tip, "things can be quite pleasant. Queens must obey the King in his hive."

Susan turns away from his touch.

"Your continued reluctance is illogical," huffs Tithonus. He rises and pours himself a cabernet. "Man has worshipped our Sun, the Moon, the stars, the land, and the sea."

Susan sits up against the headboard and hugs her legs.

"We prayed to the clouds for salvation. We worshiped mountains," he cheek strokes Susan, "and tossed sacrifices into volcanoes."

Susan pushes his hand away.

"We were sad creatures desperately clinging to anything providing the illusion of hope and faith," says Tithonus with the lift of Susan's chin. "So how is bowing to me any different than bowing to a ceramic cat, a church steeple, or a stone phallus?" He undoes his pants.

"No, please my Lord."

"I should check on Ms. Ivins?"

Susan stops his exit with the grasp of his hand. She guides him to her bedside.

Brent leans out of the side of the Humvee and fires rifle rounds. Dave fires the turret gun mount on Poet's Humvee. Artillery shells shower the ground.

And Dave's bullets hit a third Road Rat car. It spins out of control and crashes off the side of the I-94 beltway.

"There's another rat coming up fast," steers Poet.

"Damn it. The guns jammed," fidgets Dave with the gun turret. "Cover me, Brent."

Brent leans out of the side and shoulders his rifle.

And the fourth Road Rat Car rams the rear of the Humvee.

Brent drops the rifle and dangles backwards by his torso. He struggles to get back inside.

The passenger from the Road Rat Car jumps into the rear of the Humvee—with chain swinging. Dave grabs the chain in mid-swing. He punches the Ratie in the face, chokes him with the chain, and then tosses him back onto the hood of the Rat Car. He yanks a grenade out of a duffle bag and pulls the pin. "Hold on tight, Brent. Punch it, Poet. Punch it."

As the Rat Car falls behind, Dave tosses the grenade.

The Rat Car explodes and the fifth and sixth cars crash into it.

Dave climbs out of the turret and across the Humvee. He pulls Brent back into the car.

"Just another day in Denderah City," says Poet.

Tithonus drops Marsha's bruised, limb body onto the couch in the living room. He injects a syringe into her neck branding. She regains consciousness, barely.

Sue sits on the bed in the bedroom, against the headboard, curled into a ball. Tithonus enters and pours two cabernet drinks. He hands a flute to Sue. She quivers and reluctantly sips.

"Your obedience is sweet Marsha's gain. She's resting peacefully." Tithonus walks over to a glass terrarium filled with plants and rocks. He opens a mini-fridge, removes a dead rodent, and tosses it into the terrarium. Ants swarm all over it.

"Are you familiar with the science of entomology, Susan?"

"Y-es. It's a zoological branch that studies the structure, habits and classification of insects."

"I find the Argentinean Ant to be the most fascinating of the insect world."

"Now you'll tell me human beings rate below ants."

"No, but the Argentinean Ant has the ability to organize colonies millions strong, spanning hundreds of miles and multiple continents."

"A one-world hive."

"I, as my little friends, toil not over the vanity of individuality," Tithonus walks away from the tank. "Their capacity for expansion is based in their anonymity. They don't need to recognize each other as individuals to cooperate." Sue works her face into the stroke of his hand. "For man, or even apes and elephants, dolphins for that matter, to succeed, they needed to know everyone and everyone needed to be known." Tithonus licks his rodent fingers. "And that is what limits man's growth. The ant colony has no limitations of such ceiling. They understand the futility of individual effort." He gazes into the tank at the ant-swarmed rodent. "For the ant, as long as the colony succeeds, the ant is successful. As for man: they do not succeed unless they are plied with adulation and awards. Vanity is the root of all evil. My goal is to rid man of that vanity."

"You want to turn us into drones."

"You seem to forget Marsha is in the other room. I suggest curbing your tart tongue." Sue's lips quiver as she accepts Tithonus's rodent-spiked fingers in her mouth. "Be proud that you're the queen of the Earth's new master colony."

"I am. I'm sorry, Lord Tithonus. Forgive me."

"Certainly. Love takes time, my dearest, Susan."

10

**A** set of ground-level silo doors open amid the burnt-out cinder of wrecked planes that surrounds the leveled control towers, terminals, and air train tracks that what was once Selfridge Air Base.

In the underground flight deck, Brent climbs a ladder buttressed against a battle worn Interceptor fighter jet: its fuselage emblazoned with the number "22," along with logos for Millennium Systems and the call sign for the plane's former pilot: Heller.

Poet tosses a duffle bag to Brent, who tosses the bag into the cockpit. Poet passes up a bazooka and then two rifles.

Dave runs a check of the jet's underbelly contingent of bombs and missiles tucked under its wings. He disconnects a power cable.

"I almost regret having to wreck such a beautiful bird," says Brent.

"I loved being a fighter pilot. I never thought I'd have to fly a mission to save our girls."

Once Brent jumps into the rear seat, Dave plops into the front. As they strap on their helmets, the canopies close. Poet puts on a crew helmet and taps the comlink. The engines on Interceptor 22 engage. The turbines roar.

Brent gives Poet a thumbs-up sign. "The troops should be crossing Midtown by now. Are you going to be alright, Poet?"

"Woody Guthrie taught me well. This scholar kills fascists."

The Interceptor makes its vertical rise through the silo doors. The engines flame and the jet roars southwest—crossing Mount Clemens towards downtown Detroit.

In the underground flight deck, Poet tosses a rifle over his shoulder and lifts two ammo-stocked duffels. He gasps—and blood trickles from his mouth. He looks down at a spear head burst through his stomach. He drops the duffel bags at the sight of—

Ten Muties surround him.

Poet pulls slowly pulls a grenade from his weapons belt. "de Medici was right: 'Of tomorrow there's no knowing.'"

The Muties charge at him.

An explosive fireball mushrooms from the silo doors.

Tithonus perches in a plush chair with Sue on his lap. He strokes her legs. ". . . and in my new tomorrow, there will be no more disease."

"I see it now. Your analogy is that man is a disease infecting Gaia, the Mother Earth. It is quite brilliant, your theory that humanity is an 'illness' to be eradicated."

"You do not have to try so hard to gain compassion, my sweet," hair strokes Tithonus. "Your dear Marsha is quite safe." He kisses her neck. "You see, in man's mind, disease is either sent by God to punish man, or it is sent by the Devil to torment man." He pushes Sue hair over her ear. "It is man's ignorance that takes something from science, turning it into something biblical. Then we have the flesh's lust and greed contributing to the problem."

"You were, I mean, are. Are a great scientist. Why did you turn away and become a politician?"

"The medical industry never created cures to eliminate diseases at the root. Science created temporary solutions to perpetuate illness and governments create epidemics and pandemics as tools of oppression. The long term, temporary solution generates revenue, while cures are profit prohibitive. Thus, they plied man with repetitive, chemical treatments."

11

**A** massive Infectoid army treks to Denderah City.

A grounded Pursuit Hawkmoth sits among the ruins of a Detroit street with two sick, coughing pilots. They each pull out syringes and inject satisfaction into their neck brandings.

"Let's get 'em, boys!" a voice shouts from the massive Infectoid army that rounds the street corner. "Tear 'em up!" yells another voice. But before the pilots can draw their rifles the street Infectoids pummel the pilots to pieces. After beheading, they thrust the pilots' heads onto two spears; the fleshy staffs held high above the crowd to cheers.

Two Infectoids jump into the Pursuit Hawkmoth and lift off, with the Infectoid in the co-pilot seat shouldering an Osirian rifle.

Outside the south ground entrance at the dome of Denderah City, a squadron of six Osirian soldiers—capped with opaque polycarbonite face shield-fitted helmets—stands with their weapons at the ready. One of the soldiers collapses. A second soldier flips up his face shield and pukes blood.

"Get up!" kicks Osirian soldier 1975. "That's an order, soldier. Get up!" He turns to soldier 1964. "How does the Voivode expect us to defend Denderah with everyone puking their guts out?"

Then the Pursuit Hawkmoth piloted by the Infectoids begins to fire rounds at the soldiers.

"It's the astronauts!" shouts 1964 to 1975. They, along with the two remaining soldiers, mount their rifles and fire multiple rounds.

The Hawkmoth explodes in the air. . . .

And that fireball reflects through the cockpit windows of the Interceptor fighter jet piloted by Dave. "I think we got ourselves some rough air coming up." He checks his systems. "I'm not seeing any Hawkmoth's launching. Are your skies Waterford?"

"Crystal," Brent checks his defense systems. "Hey, there they are," he looks out the cockpit to the ground. "They made it. Look at the size of that army."

"Then let's light 'em up."

"Greens across the board. Weapons are locked," confirms Brent.

Dave rocks the wings back and forth to the cheers of the Infectoid army. "Go get 'em flyboys!" says a shout from the crowd. "Death to Tithonus! Crush the bugheads!"

The interior face shield on the helmet of 1964 scans and zooms in. "There's a ground army advancing. Wait—listen. What is that?" He looks up and his visor zooms in. "We're under attack! It's a Millennium Systems Interceptor."

"That's impossible," says 1975. "We leveled Selfridge."

"This is 1964. We have a ground army advancing on the south entrance."

Dave banks the Interceptor towards the north ground entrance and fires two missiles.

A phalanx of six Osirian soldiers at the north entrance runs from the explosion that decimates the entrance.

Then Dave banks the Interceptor towards the south ground entrance.

"This is Colonist 1975. We need air support on the south ground entrance! Launch all available Hawkmoths!"

"It's coming straight for us," bellows 1964. "Where in the hell are the ground units?"

The canopies eject from the Interceptor. Dave and Brent deploy their parachutes.

"Take cover!" calls out 1975.

The Interceptor collides into the south ground entrance and sets off a massive explosion.

As their parachutes billow across the ground in the wind, Brent shoulders a duffel bag. Dave shoulders the bazooka. They each mount a rifle.

Dave presses a button on his suit's wrist controls. "I got a lock on suit GPS. The girls are on the fifth level. Probably in your dad's quarters."

"We need key cards for clearance on the elevators and the doors," says Brent with the roll of a dead Osirian soldier. Then he turns his attentions to—"Griggs! Look out!"

Two rifle shots ring out.

At the elevator bays on the fourth level, an Osirian Squad Leader and three soldiers—adorned in helmets with opaque polycarbonite face shields—mount their rifles at the ready. "Even though we have Level Five locked down," cracks the Squad Leader's comlink'd voice, "we can't take any chances." They watch the indicator lights flash. The elevator dings and the doors open. "Hold your fire!" commands the Squad Leader.

Dave stands before them with his hands cuffed behind his back, under a rifle pointed by an Osirian soldier, who shoulders a second rifle and carries a duffel bag.

Back at the sound ground entrance, the Osirian forces that suffer with illness are woefully outmatched. The Infectoids use chains, boards peppered with nails, makeshift clubs, pipes, knives, swords, spears, rifles, pistols, and their bare hands in the slaughter of Osirian soldiers and colonists.

Meanwhile, up in the residence of Tithonus, he lounges beside Sue. He kisses and caresses her body.

"If we use my eggs to repopulate the Earth, will you stop the experiments on the people outside?"

"I don't understand your emotional attachment to the jackals. All of my chosen leopards are dying around me as we speak, and I fret not."

"Please, my Lord," Sue strokes his cheek. "For me."

"Humans have destroyed millions of their fellow creatures, both animal and mammal, in the name of science, repetitive sciences reveling in pointless experiments. How is what I do any different?" Tithonus puts his fingers to Sue lips. "Everything I do is practical and constructive with reason and purpose."

"Yes. Of course, my Lord."

"You, are the queen of queens—I gave instructions not be disturbed when I entertain," Tithonus replies to the bedside phone beep.

"Voivode Tithonus, the Dark One has been captured," cracks the voice of Bouguereau.

"And what of my son, Viceroy?"

"He perished in an aircrash, Voivode."

Sue sobs.

"Escort Mr. Griggs to my offices, Viceroy. I'll be down shortly."

Tithonus cuffs Sue's wrists to the headboard. "I have business to attend to," he kisses her lips and tosses the keys on the nightstand, "downstairs, my sweet."

Sue rattles at the cuffs as Tithonus exits. Then he returns with Marsha's limp body, which he plops on the bed next to Sue. She watches him exit the room, then approach and enter his private elevator.

"Marsha? Marsha, wake up." She kicks off one of her slippers and reaches her toes for the keys on the nightstand. "Oh, god. Please don't take Marsha."

"Su-uu-saan," Marsha's eyes flutter. "My stomach burns so bad. Make it stop."

"Mar, get the keys."

"I'm so tired, Sue." Where are you, I can't see you." Then Marsha's eyes open—her _new translucent eyes_.

"Oh god. What did he do to you?"

Marsha coughs up blood. "Sa-uuuu. Help me."

Back at the fourth level elevators, Dave stands under guard by his Osirian solider-captor.

"The Voivode wants the Dark One," says the Osirian Squad Leader.

On cue, Dave swings the bazooka off his back and up under his arm.

The Squad Leader and his soldiers dive for cover. And Dave's captor fires his rifle and kills his fellow Osirians.

Then, as Bouguereau approaches with his own four-man guard detail, Dave fires the bazooka. An explosion rips through the corridor.

"Get the girls," Brent rips off the Osirian battle helmet. He tosses the second rifle to Dave. "I'll be on silent. Signal me when you find them." He starts to tear off the Osirian uniform.

Armed with their ramshackle of weapons, the Infectoid army swarms and plunders as they leave a wake of dead Osirian colonists and soldiers. Explosions echo throughout the complex. Fires rage.

Back in his flight suit, Brent readies grenades from the duffel bag, ready to blast open the doors that lead into the office of Tithonus. He quickly draws his rifle as the doors hiss open.

"A weapon is not necessary, Brent," says Tithonus. He clutches an ouroboros medallion on a chain in his hand.

Brent stares at him.

"I am not fueled by vanity. And I ask not to be worshiped or feared. Unlike previous gods worshiped by man, gods that failed man, I will abolish war, famine, and pestilence. My cicadas shall reign eternal."

"When did you become so devoid of conscience or pity?"

"When I realized that achievements build power, and that power breeds strength. Anything less than, is inferiority. And inferiority is the enemy of evolution."

"Dad . . . freedom and peace can be—."

"They are the creed of the sheep. And when one lacks courage, they forfeit their right to evolve into lions."

Brent glances at his wrist controls. He receives the silent signal light from Dave.

"It became obvious that, for the leopards to survive, the jackals that impeded our perpetuation had to be suppressed. A dominate race and one governing body had to be established to achieve peace."

"Yes, it's all clear to me now," Brent stands down his rifle and drops it on the floor. "Where the governments failed, the corporations succeeded. But the sickness of patriotism and nationalism festered into megalomania and we returned to our self-destructive past."

"And that very destruction is the end result of an overdeveloped society consuming itself."

"Yes. You brought forth the cleansing," reasons Brent. "The Order of the Dragon purged our blood," he says to the nodding approval of Tithonus. "Yours is an act of faith and love. An act of communion."

"Yes, my son. And a reunion. Join me, Brent. We shall become the salt of our earth and the stardust of our solar system."

Brent collapses to his knees. He hangs his head in acceptance, ready to receive the chained ouroboros medallion over his neck.

"It is time for you to complete the ecclesiastical circle, my son."

Brent springs upward, the medallion swings on his neck. He thrusts a ragged street blade into Tithonus's neck branding. "And it's time to close your circle of hell, you bastard."

Tithonus stares wide eyed. He gurgles blood as more blood pours from his neck branding. Brent rips out the blade. Tithonus collapses on the floor in a pool of blood. Then Brent rips away the ouroboros medallion. He tosses it on his father's quivering mound of flesh. As he turns his stare to the ancient stone ouroboros wall carving, he pulls his pistol and fires. The carving crashes to the floor. "Dave, I'm coming up," he speaks into his wrist com-link. "Dave, are the girls safe?" He mounts his rifle and presses the button to the private elevator doors.

Sue sits on the couch swaddled in a blanket. She shocks back to the hiss of the elevator doors. "Brent? Brent!" She limps a few steps. Brent catches her in his arms.

Dave sits on the floor. He stares off into the distance through a window. He cradles Marsha's body. He turns to Brent, "They killed my Mar-Mar."

"Dave, I'm—."

"Just get off my back. I'm done. You do whatever the hell you want."

Brent hangs his head.

"Brent, I'm sorry. It's just . . . part of my soul, all of my soul died with Marsha. So what happened with your father?"

"He's where he belongs. Come on, buddy," Brent scoops Sue into his arms. We need to go."

12

**UP** on the battle-damaged landing platform, Osirians, the ones still alive, groan in pain and cough blood. Tithonus's chosen lions are now mere kittens.

Brent lowers Sue into the co-pilot lotus cockpit of a battle-worn Pursuit Hawkmoth.

Dave lays Marsha's body into the rear cockpit bench seat and folds her hands across her chest. He kisses her and crawls out of the cockpit. Then he pops the trunk on the Hawkmoth and places two stuffed duffel bags inside. "Give her a nice burial. I have to stay here with my Marsha," he says with a close of the trunk.

"David, please," says Sue.

"Mar-Mar's ghost will be here. I've got to stay so she can find me."

Brent starts the engines. Dave staggers off across the landing platform.

"Why didn't you order him to come?"

"And take him where? I don't even know what's out there." Brent pulls on the joystick. The Hawkmoth lifts off. He looks over the side, down at Dave who looks up and salutes. Brent circles the platform and jets off into the Detroit skyline.

"David. David," echoes Marsha's voice. Dave sees her standing on the edge of the landing platform. "Come fly with me, you sexy brick jockey."

"Marsha? Mar-Mar!" he runs to greet her—and embraces her ghost. They fall over and off the platform's edge. . . .

And he plunges through a large, gaping gash in the domical wall.

He breaks his fall on a hodgepodge pile of Osirian and Infectoid bodies.

Brent struggles with the controls of the engine-sputtering Hawkmoth. He gazes down at Belle Isle at the mouth of the Detroit River. He sees the Statue of Liberty stand glorious in pristine landscaping on the isle's western tip. He lands the Hawkmoth.

He clutches a mag-light from his suit's belt and lifts Sue out of the cockpit. She nuzzles his chest and clutches a second mag-light. As he staggers to the long reflecting pool at the base of Lady Liberty, he rests Sue in the manicured grass at the pool's edge. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore," Brent cradles Sue. They stare at Lady Liberty's shimmer in the waters.

"I don't think Emma Lazarus had any idea this would happen. I don't think man will rise after this, Brent."

Brent coddles Sue and strokes her hair amid a campfire's glow. Her eyes close and her head limps to one side. He gives her one final kiss.

A tall, flaming torch plunged into the ground illuminates a burnt-out metal panel from the Hawkmoth in Brent's hands. He thrusts the panel into the ground at the head of two elongated dirt mounds.

Beneath the scratched names of "Susan Helms" and "Marsha Ivins" reads a passage from the first book of _Ecclesiastes_ , verses 3 through 5.

Generations come, and Generations go,  
but the Earth lasts forever.  
The sun rises, and the sun sets  
and then it rushes back to the place  
where it will rise again.

Then the wrist control display on Brent's suit crackles and fizzles, then flickers—and morphs from— **11:59 PM July 3, 2076 to 12:00 AM July 4, 2076**. Then the display dims, flickers, fizzles, and . . . fades out.

Brent's defeated.

Then he responds to the sounds of a cat's meows. Out of the tree line, a Calico cat purrs. It approaches and rubs across Brent's leg. He starts to laugh and picks up the cat. "Hey, Fella. I think we'll call you . . . Judah, after the _Book of Genesis_ 49:9.

The cat meows with approval.

"Judah, the young lion it is. Who dares to rouse you up, fella?" Brent stands up and cradles the cat in his left arm. Then he yanks the torch from the ground with his right hand. He stares off into Detroit's horizon as smoke and flames rise from the remains of his father's hellish legacy.

END

Thank you for spending your time with me in the pages of my fourth novel. If you enjoyed this book, I would appreciate it if you would take a moment to leave a review at your favorite eRetailer. If you are a literary manager or producer in the film industry and you enjoyed this book, I believe you would enjoy reading one of my screenplays. I hope to hear from you.

If you enjoyed this free eBook, I hope you will be encouraged to download my three previous novels and two non-fiction works.

I do ask that you be kind in your reviews, as this book was a grass-roots effort on the part of this writer: I did not have the luxury of a publisher or editor, proof readers or fact checkers, or a graphics and public relations department. However, do not let that diminish the fact that I put forth my best efforts to provide you, the reader, the highest quality product possible, as your time and money is as valuable to me as it is to you.

About the Author

Planet of Vampires is the fourth novel of R.D Francis

Also by R.D Francis

Luminosity

The Small Hours

The Devil's Anatomy

Tales from a Wizard: The Oral History of Walpurgis

The Ghosts of Jim Morrison,

The Phantom of Detroit,

and the Fates of Rock 'n' Roll

Schooled as an architectural draftsman and radio broadcaster, and after a detour as a sometimes music journalist, roadie, and rock bassist, a move from behind the microphone to the front of the camera led to my current endeavors as a screenwriter.

Connect with Me:

@Facebook

@Smashwords

* * *

Appendix A: The History of the Apocalypse on Film  
Appendix B: The Genesis of Planet of Vampires  
Appendix C: Screenwriting 101

Appendix A: History of the Apocalypse on Film

I write this appendix with a morbid disappointment: the '80s Italian cinema-predicted post-apocalypse never happened.

I should be reminiscing about 2018's Rollerball World Championship Game between Houston and New York—you know, the game where the league suspended the rules to force the world's greatest sports hero, Jonathan E., to retire. I should be running in fear from the marauding motorcycle n' dune buggy hoards on a quest to control the last drops of fuel and water. I should be worried about being eaten by radioactive zombies. I should be swinging makeshift, nail-spiked bats at cannibal warlords.

New York hasn't fallen to the Eurac Nation. Manhattan should have been turned into a walled prison by now. There's no Arthur C. Clark-predicted spinning-wheel space station over the Earth. I still do not have my one-piece jumpsuit and it looks like I'll die before I catch that flight on a Pan-Am space shuttle to the Moon. We're not consuming each other by way of soylent wafers and law enforcement doesn't control starving rioters with human-scooping, dump truck-bulldozer hybrids.

Yes, to the chagrin of the Italian film industry: we are still alive. And to my chagrin: the Italian post-apocalypse—the single greatest sci-fi film sub-genre to dominate the Drive-Ins and home video stores of my youth—is over.

Sure, Hollywood offered us their big-budgeted versions of our decimated future with _Waterworld_ (1995), _Escape from L.A_ (1996), _28 Days Later_ (2002), _The Road_ (2006), _I Am Legend_ (2007), _The Book of Eli_ (2010), _World War Z_ (2013), and _Mad Max: Fury Road_ (2016), but it was the low-budgeted indie knock-offs coming out of Europe in the 1980s—spearheaded by the Italian film industry's insatiable quest to rip-off proven American genre flicks—that revved our post-nuke engines.

While the first wheat grains of the '80s spaghetti apocalypse were planted with 1979's _Mad Max_ out of Australia, those stalks blossomed in 1981 with the cinematic one-two-punch of John Carpenter's _Escape from New York_ and Mad Max's sequel, _The Road Warrior_.

However, the inspiration for several Italian-Euro apocalyptic films began with a film based on a 1924 short-story by Richard Connell: 1932's _The Most Dangerous Game_ —a story that inspired novelist Robert Sheckley to compose his sci-fi variations of "human death sports" that, in turn, begat the American-made films _Rollerball_ (1975), _Death Race 2000_ (1975), and _Deathsport_ (1978), and the later overseas pasta variants of _Endgame_ (1983) and _Rome 2072 A.D._ (1984).

Sheckley's grandfather of sci-fi "death sport" films came courtesy of the Italian-made _The 10th Victim_ (1965), based on his 1953 short story, "The Seventh Victim." Sheckley's literary inspirations about humanity's future psych-condition continued with the 1958 short-story, "The Prize of Peril," first adapted as the German television film, _Das Millionenspeil_ (The Millions Game; 1970), then as the French film, _Le Prix du Danger_ (The Price of Danger; 1983). Both films so influenced Arnold Schwarzenegger's _The Running Man_ (1987), it resulted in a copyright infringement lawsuit.

Another American inspiration for Italy's post-and-gooey zombie apocalypse was 1964's _The Last Man on Earth_ , the first take on Richard Matheson's influential 1954 novel, _I Am Legend_ —along with _Invisible Invaders_ (1959). Both films influenced George Romero's _Night of the Living Dead_ (1968), itself a horror-driven post-apocalypse flick.

No nostalgic waxing of the pasta-apocalypse is complete without honoring the influential "Big Three" starring Moses and Ben-Hur himself: Charlton Heston. His turn in _Planet of the Apes_ (1968) ignited the post-apocalyptic sci-fi craze within the Hollywood mainstream studio system and led to Heston's turns in _The Omega Man_ (1971) and _Soylent Green_ (1973).

Once sour on the low-budget "image" of sci-fi films of the '50s and '60s, major studios and A-List actors quickly committed to the apocalypse genre with Oliver Reed in _Z.P.G_ (1972), Yul Brynner in _The Ultimate Warrior_ and Sean Connery in _Zardoz_ (both 1974), James Caan in _Rollerball_ (1975), Michael York in _Logan's Run_ (1976), George Peppard in _Damnation Alley_ (1977), and Richard Harris and Paul Newman in _Ravagers_ and _Quintet_ (both 1979), respectively.

Then, by 1981, John Carpenter and George Miller sealed the Earth's cinematic fate with their respective films: _Escape from New York_ and _The Road Warrior_. Both films turned (the adult) Kurt Russell and Mel Gibson into worldwide stars.

Courtesy of the Italian film industry's penchant for perpetually replicating successful American films—such as Steve McQueen's, Clint Eastwood's, and Charles Bronson's _Bullitt_ , _Magnum Force_ , and _Deathwish_ (to create the poliziotteschi/action-drama genre), Romero's _Dawn of the Dead_ (to create the zombie genre), and George Lucas's _Star Wars_ (to create the space-opera genre), and endlessly remaking _Jaws_ and _Piranha_ with a variety of aquatic monstrosities—noted Italian directors Ezno Castellari ( _1990: The Bronx Warriors_ ), Ruggero Deodato ( _Raiders of Atlantis_ ), Lucio Fulci ( _Rome 2072 A.D._ ), and Sergio Martino ( _2019: After the Fall of New York_ ) started up their Roger Corman (New World Pictures) and Charles Band (Empire Pictures) inspired, cinematic blenders.

The pasta-apocalypse of VHS 1980s was born.

Appendix B: The Genesis of Planet of Vampires

In 1972 Marvel Comics founder and publisher Martin Goodman left Marvel, selling the company in 1968—a company which he founded in 1939. When Marvel failed to honor Goodman's retirement agreement to allow his son Chip to run the company, Goodman Sr. created Seaboard Periodicals and the Atlas Comics imprint in June of 1974 to go head-to-head with Marvel.

And by April of 1975—it was all over.

During Seaboard's ten short months of existence, they published between two to four issues across 31 titles (comics and magazine-periodicals) for a total of 72 issues. In addition to creating original superhero characters, Seaboard attempted to acquire the rights to Japan's Toho Studios' stable of monsters, such as Godzilla, along with TV's then popular _Kolchak: The Night Stalker_ and a series of pulp-action spy novels.

Another one of Seaboard's choices for adaptation came courtesy of Charlton Heston's back-to-back hits with _Planet of the Apes_ (1968), _The Omega Man_ (1971) and _Soylent Green_ (1973)—so began the legal processes to acquire the rights to and create a comic book version of Richard Matheson's _I Am Legend_. And Matheson refused. So Seaboard's staff of writers and artists came up with their own variant of Matheson's tale, which was a hybrid of Planet of the Apes and The Omega Man—and bared a striking similarity to Yul Brenner's New York-based post-apocalyptic entry: _The Ultimate Warrior_ (1974).

And while surely John Carpenter was influenced by those four films, an apocalypse film critic can't help but wonder if Carpenter read those three mid-1975 comic issues of Seaboard's _Planet of Vampires_ in creating his vision of a dystopian Big Apple for his own game-changing science fiction film: _Escape from New York_ (1981)—all that was missing was The Empire State Building's use as an architectural spine to support a domed city on the isle of Manhattan.

Appendix C: Screenwriting 101

There are two types of screenwriters in Hollywood: the "A" writer and the "B" writer. The first form are usually non-represented and unproven writers who compose "original" spec scripts, aka speculative screenplays; they dream of making a big splash in Hollywood with a record breaking Joe Eszterhas ( _Basic Instinct_ ) or Shane Black ( _Lethal Weapon_ ) inspired spec sale. You've heard the idiom "a dime a dozen" in regards to an overabundance of an item? Well those speculative dreamer-screenwriters come a "nickel a four dozen." And I am one of them.

The second form is the feature assignment writers, aka commissioned writers; the ones with representation that are card-carrying members of the WGA and work under contracts with a studio, production company, or studio. These writers work on assignment adapting existing ideas and owned intellectual properties. And those writers, whose spec works shows promise but lacks mainstream appeal, make respectable livings rewriting scripts. And once those writers establish their careers doing rewrites, they can be hired late in the filmmaking process to work as a "script doctor" to save a troubled production. Industry veterans Carrie Fisher ( _Lethal Weapon 3_ , _The Wedding Singer_ ), William Goldman ( _A Few Good Men_ , _Silence of the Lambs_ ), Robert Towne ( _Armageddon_ , _Heaven Can Wait_ ), and the more-mainstream known Quentin Tarantino ( _Crimson Tide_ ) (and even Shane Black; he doctored _Iron Man_ ) have made respectable livings in the field of "repairing" the work of others.

Sadly, for the new kids on the block: no one wants to be Robert Towne and everyone wants to be Joe Eszterhas. And everyone wants to write and sell their original screenplays and no one—as egos dictate—wants to write adaptations of someone else's work.

It was during the course of my screenwriting studies that I came to realize Hollywood is not interested in the "original" screenplays of unknown writers. The "new" Hollywood is driven by adaptations, remakes, and reboots of previously vetted materials—be it comics or graphic novels, fiction novels, or previously released films. When you're dealing with eight-and-nine digit million dollar films that must play internationally to turn a profit, who are you going to place your bets on: the unknown writer with their lofty "original" spec script or with an already established, proven intellectual property written by an industry-established professional?

When it comes to those adaptations, there are no classes to teach the art of compressing and expanding upon those materials. There are no seminars or "how to" books. You have to sit down at the keyboard and just start writing and teach yourself. So I plucked down my nickel at the dreamer's nickelodeon and started typing.

Back on the title page, you'll recall I mentioned there are two versions of the screenplay that resulted in the adaptation of this book. As part of my training, I decided to take one of my screenplays, which I composed in a nonlinear narrative, and do a page-one rewrite in a linear narrative—and reset the story in different city. And get this: for fun.

I consider my screenwriting endeavors in adaptations the equivalent of "fan fiction," written with the utmost respect and admiration to the original authors. Regardless of the gurus who say you can't and shouldn't embark on such "fruitless" activities, it is my opinion that nothing is a waste of time or efforts—providing you cultivate fruits from the experience and become a more effective writer and storyteller as a result. I believe I have accomplished those goals. As stated in my previous book, _Luminosity_ : The future belongs to those who prepare for it.

It is my sincere hope that you had as much fun reading this book as I had writing it—and that you do not consider that reading a waste of time. All I have to give to the world is my words. And I thank you for accepting those words.

Until the next book, my friends. It's a show that never ends.
