CHAPTER I
North Mainstreet, Herkimer,
Upstate New York September 14th, Sunday, 9:45 pm
Strange things were happening this night, that was for sure. Rob Pembirth threw back his third shot of Jack and leaned forward over the bar. Knocking his calloused knuckle against the worn wooden counter, and nodding to the 16 inch tv suspended in the corner. The Barkeep, who also happened to be the owner of Diane’s Tavern, named after herself, glanced up at the screen and after several clicks through the menu, turned captions on. Rob thanked her with a tip of his stained, rumpled John Deere hat and squinted at the screen.

Diane’s Tavern was one of the several small, dingy bars and or shops that lined North Main Street, the prestigious, center of happenings in the Town of Herkimer. A village whom the entire rural county of Upstate New York was named after, and yet who’s greatest attraction was either the Walmart Supercenter, or HCCC, the Community College that crowned the hill overlooking the village. Infact, the village was located not at the base of a hill, but in the depths of the great Mohawk Valley, carven by the Mohawk river that flowed so lazily across the state and into the Hudson. The hills that surrounded the triage of towns that clung to the river were tall and rugged and essentially lead into complete rural landscapes for several hours drive in either direction. By Triage, one would be referring to either the village of Mohawk, ilion, or Herkimer. Three separate towns but essentially bleeding into one another, establishing a fairly civilized pocket out of the farmlands surrounding. And as anyone knew, to get anywhere was to go East or West, on Interstate 90, or rout 5S..towards Syracuse and Buffalo to the west, or Albany and Boston or even NYC to the East.

And in this pocket of humanity along the River Mohawk, the only thing to do was sit in one of the few taverns on North Mainstreet and Drink. That is, if you were the Drinking sort, which most people around here were, in good times and bad. So that’s exactly what Rob, and everyone else in this crammed, dingy place were going to do, even with the strange news reports and rumors that had suddenly swept over the town like a foul smelling wind.

The loud laughter of half inebriated college students warranted a glance over his shoulder and a shaking of his head. Course, it was September. School was back. No longer would any tavern or bar or apartment building for that matter be safe from the swarms of obnoxious idiocy they brought. Funny how colleges were supposedly for the smart. Rob let his eyes slide over the exposed thighs of a girl, looked no older then 17, sitting on the lap of some prep boy or other. Least the girls got finer every year.

And suddenly a different voice caught his attention. Two people down. Ol’ Frank Maine was off on another tirade. Or so it sounded at first. Generally Politics….But not tonight. Rob couldn’t help but listen.

“I’m telling you It wasn’t no deer. An even if it was, why the hell is a dead deer walking? Yesterday we laugh at Jonah for his tale. You didn’t here? He says it was bout 9 o clock and he hears his dog going crazy. Prolly a raccoon, or a deer. Don’t matter either way. He don’t think anything of it, till he hears the dog snarling and yelping. Says he turns the porch light on and his friggen husky is pinned to his dog-house, white fur red with blood, gored by a deer that Jonah says was dead. Dead, I ask? Says the thing smelled like it was 3 weeks dead, and looked it. What in the hell does that mean? And what to make of it? Then we have these, these NEWS reports.”

Frank gestured angrily at the TV. He had the attention of several folk now.

“And I’m telling you I saw a dead man walking down the road. Towards town. Right past the old Lutherin Church on route Five. And if that aint the truth, what we got so many cops out for?”

Rob ordered another shot, scratched his head and looked back at the tv…

“- Since yesterday morning, reports of animal attacks have spread throughout the Mohawk Valley, totaling 56 just an hour ago. The attacks have ranged from violence against pets to people, and have come from Deer, Dogs, raccoons, even rats. Rumors that the attacks have come from dead animals have been objected by local authorities. More likely a local viral or bacterial outbreak unlike any seen before is the cause of the attacks, and the appearance of the animals. Authorities from Albany, including teams of doctors and scientists have arrived in the valley to begin testing the local water, and hopefully, live, animal specimen. Not enough information has been gathered to warrant a name for whatever disease or illness the valley is facing, and it is not yet known if it can be spread to humans. The following symptoms have been noted in observed, infected animals. Stiffness and an awkward gate. Hair loss and missing patches of fur. Weight loss and bloating. The most noticeable symptom is the smell, described simply as the smell of something rotting. A sign of incredible infection, or infact, gangrene. It has been issued that all contact must be avoided with any wildlife or animals that are not your own pets. Keep dogs and cats in doors, and it is advised that folk living in the country, particularly on Vickerman Hill and the area outside Mohawk, and east of Herkimer, should stay indoors after dark. We will of course, continue to bring you the news as we receive it. We’ll be back after this break.”….”Does indigestion prevent you from getting a good nights rest? Do you wake up throughout the night?…………..“


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“And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened and also another book was opened, which was the book of life. And the dead were judged by what was written in the books, by what they had done. And the sea gave up the dead in it, Death and Hell gave up the dead in them, and all were judged by what they had done. Then Death and Hell were thrown into the Lake of Fire. This is the second death, the lake of fire; and if anyone’s name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.”

The guest minister glanced quickly from the pulpit at Father John Bryson, who sat patiently to one side, listening to his guest conclude the lesson for the night.

“It isn’t every day that we look at these, the ugly parts of the bible. But they are written for a reason, and there are times when we need to simply remember that they are there, and that God has given us this book, including these words, for a reason.”

A silence hung heavy over the congregation. The faint sound of sirens could be heard through the thick, stone walls of the Christ Episcopal Church.

“Don’t be someone who picks and chooses what they believe. And don’t be just a Christian on Sundays. We must remember that God is with us always.”

The man let the message sink in for a moment before smiling and stepping to the side of the podium.

“I would like to thank you all for having me tonight, and I thank you, Father Bryson, for sharing the podium with me. Do you have anything you would like to conclude with?”


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The place was trashed, getting worse by the moment, and with the host, Kacee Reese laying in a pool of his own vomit, halfway between the toilet and the shower, it didn’t look like things would slow down. The air was thick with marijuana and cigarette smoke. Beer cans and bottles littered the hallways. This weeks Beer Pong Tournament was nearing it’s final rounds and the competition was becoming fierce. So fierce infact, that judges had been implemented, and sat, gazing bleary eyed at the table like blinding old men.

Off in the living room an argument was taking place over what kind of music to put into the stereo, and the floor rumbled with the ferocious assault of what could only be Death Metal, blasted by a…rightfully angry neighbor.

To the students of HCCC, This was a typical Sunday…

Waiting patiently in the wings while his guest speaker, Alan Moore, concluded the evening’s sermon Father John Bryson permitted himself a small frown. Times were bad enough already- between the recession and recent epidemic of violent attacks- and the people needed to be comforted, reminded of a loving and forgiving God. He had no particular issue with ‘hellfire and damnation’ as such, but felt that this was neither the time nor place and that it was not what his parishioners needed to hear at present. He’d expected Alan to recognise as much.

Striding amiably enough up to the pulpit, Bryson took a moment to readjust the microphone. He was a tall man, standing a good two inches over six feet in height, and heavily built: bull-necked and broad shouldered beneath a tight-fitting grey blazer. Close-cropped sandy hair, no more than finger-length, and a strong jaw line coupled to lend him a somewhat harsh, almost severe, look but the minister had an easy, amicable charm which tended to put those that knew him at ease. A half-ring of blue-grey bruising under each of Bryson’s eyes bespoke a history of bad dreams and restless, uneasy sleep but the clergyman had long since learnt to adjust: it had been some years since he’d last managed a full night’s uninterrupted rest without resort to sedatives or other medication.

Glancing back from the microphone to address his congregation, Father Bryson finished the recitation from where Alan had left off. Rehearsing from memory, John looked upward to scan his parishioners while he spoke, forming each word succinctly in turn. Although he’d been resident in New York for almost three years now, the trace of a broad, Southern drawl still clung to the minister’s words, bespeaking his native rural Tennessee origins.

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
“I’d like to thank Father Moore for that wonderful sermon,” Bryson continued smoothly, “and to remind you all that tea and coffee will be served in the rectory following this evening’s service. If you haven’t already picked one up, you’ll find notice sheets on the pews to your right, with details of our events over the coming week and times for next Sunday’s services.”

“Now go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

Turning back to gather his papers Bryson was struck by a note of immediate curiosity: from the incessant buzzing of police sirens there was quite obviously something going on outside. Not overly concerned- there was after all little enough serious crime in Herkimer County- the Episcopalian minister filed back through the church’s central aisle to get a look at the situation outside. He’d stay to greet his parishioners on their way out as usual just as soon as he got some idea of what was going on out there.

Jetta Black sighed, arching her back, and swayed to the sounds of music only she could hear. As she rolled her hips, she moved in circles, gliding on black wheels. The bodies, the anonymous hands that grazed her flesh, the nameless mouths that cried out in excitement at the Beer Pong tournament, were a blur to her through half closed eyes.

The air in this place was stifling and heavy, crushing, and she sailed to the left, to the door. This wasn't the party crowd she had hoped when the bus broke down outside of town.

They'd been coming back from an out-of-league invitational, and during the impromtu layover she had decided to explore the local flavor. but while she was gone, the driver managed to correct the issue and rolled off before the coaches could do a final head count. Debbie Dane, whom all the players knew as Bitchlips, had called and asked her how Jetta was getting home.

After a few calls, Jetta was able to convince an old flame to come get her, chancing a six hour drive just for the promise of the satisfying bump and grind. Unfortunately, he wouldn't arrive for a week. since she had no games upcoming, jetta agreed to wait here.

She was regretting every minute.

She pushed back her glossy black long shag hair with a hand that was pale and warm and trembled. Pale green eyes. lined with thick black nearly gothic eyeliner, sparkled. Watching the crowd, searching yet again for a good time. Known in the roller Derby league as Toxic Roxie, Jetta Stone was something of a wonder. As unpredictable as nature itself, she could be sweet and downright charming, sharply and sadistically sexy, or painfully antagonistic. Tonight, she was just plain bored.

Gripping the rail, she hopped up the stairs and skated outside, the breeze billowing her pink and black plaid miniskirt. Her backpack brushed against her torn black fishnet tights. The fresh air was heavenly, and the stars above glittered against a brisk ebon backdrop. Sighing, she slung her pack around and dug in, avoiding the points of her nail studded bat and retrieving a beat up lighter and pack of Marlboro Reds. Lighting one, she took deep drags and leaned against a tree. She blew smoke rings for her own amusement.

It had been two days now, with nothing but pot parties and beer baths, and nobody worth sleeping with.

She hoped like hell something would change.

It had been a quiet night… the usual, really. Melina had gotten home early from a house showing and, seeing as supper was already cooking in the crock pot, showered herself up and had even gotten a little dressed up for when Rob came home.

Kind of a waste of time, she thought to herself as she surfed the net. Rob had come home, talked mostly about the regular office politics at the Research and Development firm he worked for, and then settled on the couch to watch the night’s game.

Melina let out another sigh as she waited for friends to show up on MSN and checked her facebook account. She was tempted to update her Facebook status to “a bored, lonely housewife… anyone want some action?” just to see what Rob would do when looked at his account tomorrow.

Kat DeLuna voice suddenly came up from Melina’s hip, singing “Run the Show”. Pulling her cell phone from its holster, she checked the number. Angie.
It was little sister. She let the cell ring one more time before flipping it open and placing it to her ear. “Hey Angie.”

“M-el-in-aaa.,” came the voice of her sister, slow and slurred. The music in the background was loud and full of bass. Melina frowned. It wasn’t the first time Angie had called drunk and in trouble. ‘Neeeed some help, sisss. Think you cann pick mee up?”

Melina looked over at Rob on the couch, lost in the game. “Sure. Where you at?”

“Great!” came Angie’s reply. “Mel’s coming guys!” Melina could hear a loud “Woowoo!” in the background.

Nice… thought Melina. She repeated her question. “Angie… Angie! Where you at?”

Angie turned her attention back to her sister. “Oh… um… you know Kacee’s place? Up on Main St?”

Melina knew the place. “Yep. ‘K. Give me ten.” Another “woowoo” sounded out in the background as Melina hung up the phone.

Grabbing her purse and jacket, Melina made her way through the livingroom. She bent over to give Rob a kiss on the cheek, giving him the opportunity for an ample showing of her cleavage. But there was no response.

Whatever… she thought. “Hey honey, I’m going out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Angie called. She needs a lift.”

“Okay.”

“I think I’ll take her out for coffee too… so I might be late.”

“Sure thing.”

Melina sighed once more and headed out the door. Sliding into her Jeep Wrangler, she turned over the engine and shifted into gear. The cool wind felt nice against her skin, and she turned up the radio, which just happened to be playing “SOS.”

Convenient she thought to herself.

She made her way over to Kacee’s home and found some parking on the street. Jumping out of the jeep, Melina haeded into the backyard, eager to find her little sister.

Forest off Route 5S, Herkimer
Upstate New York September 14th, Sunday, 9:45 pm
Even the brilliant, white light cast by the headlights and spotlights of the Team’s vehicles did little to penetrate the darkness of the forest. If anything, the claw-like shadows and silhouettes of the trees autumn branches that swept slowly and loosely with the breeze only added to the unease that was clearly hanging over the troupe.

The wind carried sounds, or at least Dr Vandervoort thought it carried sounds he had never heard, nor could he identify. Moans? Cries?

“Anyone else think we should wait till morning?”

The voice belonged to a young doctor of science whom Vandervoort had met during their briefing. Professor Mosher worked as the director of the science wing at the New York University of Albany, and though he was young, as far as doctors go, he was a brilliant 29 year old and a true man of science. He was not however, one of the men fortunate enough to be carrying a gun.

“It doesn’t matter what we should do.”

Muttered sergeant William Johnson as he tossed a wrapped, cylindrical bundle from the back of his units camouflage military hummer to one of his 9 men. Hopping down onto the graveled road side and unslinging his 176B Tranquilizer Rifle from his shoulder he glanced at Mosher.

“You heard the briefing. At the rate this sickness is spreading the whole of upstate New York could be seeing it within the month. And we’ve been ordered to start tonight.”

Glancing over his own nine soldiers. Members of the three sixty first of the US Army, then straying his gaze over the remaining 4 assorted doctors and scientists as if they were also under his charge, he adds.

“So what you think doctor? Think people can catch it?”

Dr Mosher shrugged, running a hand through his wavy brown hair, and glanced at Dr Vandervoort.

“I can’t say anything for certain, but descriptions of infected animals are most perplexing. I’m uncertain as to whether half the descriptions are fantasized.”

“I agree with Doctor Mosher.”

Chimed in another of the teams scientists. Dr Carrell A short, man with curly, carrot orange hair and thick glasses. As he spoke he pushed them up on his nose and blinked into the vehicles headlights.

“This all sounds to me a form of Hydrophobia.”

He peered at the soldiers.

“Rabies. Upstate New York has one of the highest rates of Hydrophobia outbreaks in the United States. This year, we saw a near record number. The highest rate of Rabies cases in over 35 years.”

The little man flipped open a small, blue pocket notebook that he carried in his windbreaker, and glanced over it.

“And the symptoms coincide. Or seem to. An Awkward gate and slow clumsy movement. Senseless hostility. Appearing to be bloated or starved. Signs of the neurological deterioration and the inability to eat or drink!”

“What ‘bout the dude on TV that said his cow got attacked by a dog that looked like it had been dead for 3 weeks. Said damn skin was peeled back and it’s ribs were showing. Didn’t even try to scare it off cuz he said it was so damn horrifying. He just left. Left his damn cow.”

Dr Carrell stared at the man as if he was a child speaking out of turn.

“And you believe him?”

The Doctor laughed and turned back to the forest.

“Science. Gentlemen. This is not the eleventh century. Now lets get down to business. Clarke and Schafer. You two will man the Van. Keep your radio on. Channel 2; and be sure the Radio-Magnetic Partical Detector remains synced. We will need to know if we are passing into highly contaminated areas.”

With that, Doctor Carrell handed Doctor Vandervoot an instrument that looked similar to a curling iron without the cord. Vandervoot needed no explanation as to what this was of course. It was the Sensor for the RMPD. As they walked the cylindrical end would sample the air and relay to Clarke and Schafer, the amount of radioactivity in the air. Should they reach water, he could test it by dipping it, and he could open the cylander and place small samples of soil, or organic material within to test them for radioactivity. Carrell handed him and Mosher both hand radios as well.

“Keep us informed about potential hot spots. The sooner we get our samples, the sooner we can get back to the lab.”


Why the fire haired puke had been put in charge was anyone’s guess, but he was clearly reveling this. The scientists grabbed their plastic, cases that contained the vials for water and soil samples, along with the hypodermic syringes to be used on whatever living samples they might find; and the soldiers shouldered their weapons. The group was ready. Clarke and Shafer hopped into the back of the Field Van, which was essentially a mobile laboratory of it’s own, and the rest secured powerful flash lights to their heads, and the sides of their rifle, before heading towards the trees…

They were a group of 13 within the forest, but Vandervoot couldn’t help but realize they must sound like an entire army crunching through the autumn underbrush. How they would find any sort of live specimen tonight seemed anyone’s guess. Most likely this would be a two or three day operation. Get the soil and water samples tonight, study them in the lab (or the van), and spend the next day or so hunting.

They couldn’t hear a damn thing over there own footsteps, and soon enough, the headlights from the road disappeared. In the white beams of their own lights, the forest was a thick, confusing tangle. The trees were tall and twisted and the land was uneven. Vandervoot could tell they were walking into the mouth of a steep valley.

“We should come a stream that runs between two cliffs.”

Private Clayton. A young man with wild, blue eyes and close shaven, blonde hair said peering down at the map he carried.

“Guess it leads to a small waterfall called Fox Falls. Beyond it are the caves, but the whole area is pretty rugged.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

Muttered Mosher, trudging beside Vandervoot. They were now trying to keep their balance as they made their way down a steep hill. Using trees to brace themselves, and simply hoping that noone would trip or get stabbed in the eye with a stray branch. When they hit the bottom the party was surprised to discover they stood on stone. Lighting the area as best they could, it was discovered that this was natural slate. Flat and smooth and once the bed of a stream. Infact the hill they had made their way down now formed a three sided bowl around them. To their right a cement wall had been built into it, and out of a steel pipe flowed a wash of water, which streamed past them and beyond, following the path that was the slate floor of the valley.

Well at least they could hear themselves think now…and what was that sound? Vandervoot looked up, and Sergeant Johnson narrowed his eyes, listening. A howl. Or a bark. Something in between. Frantic. A dog? Coyote? The sound was on the wind, coming from there right. and it was difficult to tell how far away it was. Certainly not immediate facinity.

“Sounds like a dog..”

Private Clayton, still clutching his map, glanced at the compass on his watch.

“Theres a Lutheran Church that way. Less than a mile from here. One of those big stone ones. It’s got a cemetery and an elaborate Revolutionary War Memorial. Prolly the groundskeepers dog.”

The barking or howling, or whatever it was remained. Frantic, wild. The group listened for a moment. Then, one of the other soldiers. A man whos name Vandervoot had never caught, and who’s badge couldn’t be read at this angle hissed.

“What was that? Could have swore I heard a scream..”

The group tried to continue to listen, but the flood of water made it difficult to hear anything but the dog….

The absolute humiliation of having to go through these unworthy chores was edged on Lucas Vandervoort’s face as the hummer brought them deep into the forest. It was dark, and most likely cold and damp in the forest. Who in his right mind would order a sampling at such an hour. If it were nocturnal creatures they were gathering it would be a different story.

Think of the money, he reminded himself, you really need it.
Already had he plundered the minibar, loading the bottles into his backpack to save for later. He had ordered two extra large pizza’s and half a dozen subs earlier in the day, knowing that the organization would pay for everything ‘as long as they kept low budget’. Well, for these kind of circumstances the budget would just have to expand a little bit. He had been hungry, and anticipated the days after this research assignment was finished. He would not spend a dime of the money he earned tonight on food. An important specimen was about to ship in, and he would have to pay the delivery guy on reception. This could mean his break through.

So, he sat there in the tight hummer, besides the other doctors and their military escorts, while the radio played:

Tell it to me slow-ly
Tell you what?
I really want to knoh-ow
It's the time of the seeeeeason for looo..viiing
Wow, he really hated that song. Who sang it again? Did he even care to know?
The hummer stopped and he was glad to get out of the vehicle. But the sight of the nighttime forest was terribly discouraging. The other doctors didn’t seem to mind as much. They were too caught up with gossiping over their latest theories over the news reports. These men were severe idiots. Lucas knew why they were on this assignment. Because they were not bright enough to work in a proper laboritory. If they were not qualified to work in a proper lab, they should not be allowed to work in his shadow. He was already convinced that they were going to mess up the samples he would find, mixing them up with the wrong chemicals to conclude the wrong diagnose. Again, did he even care? It wasn’t his problem. As long as he got his money.

The trip into the forest was even a greater test to Lucas’ patience. Although they were only a handful, they stomped the forest ground like dancers in one of those retarted teen movies. He finally couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Can we try to keep quiet? We’re aiming to catch some specimen, not scare them away.”

Soon they stumbled on a paved area, and he sighed in the welcome quelling nature of the stone. Glancing around they discovered that in fact it was no artificial pavement, but a natural smooth stone formed by a decayed stream. Only a small force of water still flowed here, and it was obviously by human permission, since it originated from a metal pipe. A metal pipe that found its origins somewhere. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take a sample of the water here.

Lucas pulled a vial from the plastic containers, and unscrewed the lid, when they suddenly heard the disfigured noise of a howling or barking dog. Lucas looked up, and noticed the other doctors and soldiers listening intently.

“Sounds like a dog…” somebody whispered. Wow, great perception.
“Very nice, guys. It’s a dog. Can somebody help me get some samples here?” Lucas held the vial under the stream, but the others were not so easily distracted from the sound.

“Theres a Lutheran Church that way. Less than a mile from here. One of those big stone ones. It’s got a cemetery and an elaborate Revolutionary War Memorial. Prolly the groundskeepers dog.”

Vandervoort tightened the vial and put it back. He had to admit that the sound was a bit strange. Perhaps the claims of rabies weren’t as ludicrous as he had thought.
He took a hold of the RMPD sensor and held it close to the water, his eyes narrowed to see in the dim illumination of the flashlight.

“Alright, it’s a dog with rabies then. If we see him later on we’ll take him in and use him for our samples.” He wasn’t joking. He never joked.

“What was that? Could have swore I heard a scream..”

Seriously, who was this asswhipe. Probably got a kick out of pushing his startled companions.
“Guys? Samples?” he was done here. He moved over to Sergeant Johnson and indicated with his head that it was time to go.

“Are we moving?” And keep your men under control, will you? he added mentally. But he didn’t say anything… yet.

(OOC: Lucas continues to look for samples and indications of radiation/ biological anomality. He will keep a look out for the dog and other movement. Samples are useful.)

Christ Episcopal Church,
North Mainstreet, Herkimer,
Upstate New York September 14th, Sunday, 9:50 pm

With their Priests blessings, the congregation stood to leave with the usual soft jumble of conversation. People shook hands and greeted one another as they made their way between the pews and into the center isle. Father Bryson had strolled by already and had opened the heavy wooden double doors, letting the cool night air wisp within the sanctuary.

The Christ Episcopal Church was situated on the north end of North Mainstreet, on the corner of a one way street. Situated across from a large, MnT Bank, and with an old, brick apartment complex (Known as Van Kirk) to the left and a big county office building to it’s left and behind it, the old, cathedral styled church was like a little peaceful sanctuary. Big Cherry and Oak trees grew alongside it’s painted windows and rough hewn, stone walls, and in the soft breeze they were swaying stiffly. Autumn was quickly approaching. The sound of sirens could still be heard, and infact peering over the bank across the street, he could see the faint flashes of lights. He could make out the sound of both Police and Ambulance Sirens. Perhaps a block down. Those streets where entirely residential, with some lawyer offices.

The first one out the door was Old Mrs. Randerville. Somehow she was always the first, despite her bent form and shuffling gate. She peered up at the priest and smiled.

“A good sermon sir. And that guest speaker is such a nice young man…True what he says I think too.”

Moving aside, she let the stream of people pass and continued speaking between farewells and handshakes between Father Bryson and his Congregation.

“Boy I hope everything’s ok.”

She was staring at the dim of lights.

“Might be Mrs. Johanson. Might’a fell again. I tell you once your hip starts to go, that’s that. It’s terribly sad. And there’s something funny in the air tonight. My old bones can feel it.”

She was half talking to him and half talking to herself. Father Bryson was accustomed to this. The poor old woman had lost her husband nearly twenty years ago, and she had never recovered. She lived now right across the one way street, on the first floor of the big Van Kirk Apartment building. The Land Owner. A pudgy Turk who’s name started with an L and was far too long for Bryson to remember was kind enough to never charge her rent. At this point she didn’t have long to go herself.

Following the congregation was the guest speaker. Alan Moore, a young Pastor from Maine who was traveling down along the Northeast Coast, to “Get a feel for the different preaching styles”. He was a good man, it seemed. A bit too into the doom and gloom thing, but it was a common fact that Fire and Brimstone was a style that worked in these parts. Even if you didn’t agree with them.

“Father Bryson.”

The young man held his hand out to be shook.

“I want to thank you for having me. Many people have taken up your offer of donuts and coffee and remain inside. Do you do this every Sunday Evening? The refreshments that is.”

The young man noticed the sirens then and peered over the Priest.

“Wonder what’s going on there..”

Van Kirk Apartments,
240 North Mainstreet, Herkimer,
Upstate New York September 14th, Sunday, 9:50 pm


It was dark when Melina started up the family Jeep Wrangler and pulled onto the empty streets of Mohawk, New York. Of course it was almost ten O’clock on a Sunday night. One couldn’t expect there to be much going on tonight. Except of course, for college parties. They were always going on. In fact the college campus that the village of Mohawk’s neighbor boasted went by the nickname of “Harvard On The Hill.”, because for one, it was located atop a massive hill that overlooked the entire Mohawk Valley, and secondly, it was a community college with high amounts of financial aid, and very low expectations. The makings of a massive party school.

Thankfully for her, Melina and Rob lived in the more peaceful, cleaner, and just plain prettier town of Mohawk, on Firman Street. Right behind Jarvis Highschool. It’s funny really, how the two towns are separated. The only noticeable barrier between the two was the bridge that spanned the Mohawk river that she turned onto. Beyond that she was in Herkimer, and passing a Dennys on her right and Skinner Auto Sales on her left.

Sitting at a red light, just two blocks from the Van Kirk Apartment building where her sister was currently getting into trouble at, she spotted a surprising, (and unmissable) scene. To her right was the exit to the Throughway, Interstate 90. Her eyes widened at the site of the 18 wheeler laying on it’s side, baring the highway. The flashing lights of police and ambulance lit the area, and a train of vehicles sat behind the vehicle, unable to get off the highway. In the glare of the headlights she couldn’t make out what had happened. (NO! This is NOT the same scene as what Father Bryson sees. What he sees is in North Herkimer, and this is South West Herkimer.)

The light turned green and she was on her way.

++++++ ++++++ ++++++

This town was going to drive her crazy before her week was up. She could be sure of that. There was simply nothing to do. If she had a vehicle she could head up to the City of Utica, not 20 minutes away. But even then, what was there to do there? Leaning against the building (the only trees are on the church yard to your right and people are currently standing outside of it…) and blowing smoke rings, Jetta let her eyes glance over her surroundings. Directly across the street from her, she was surprised to see a Tattoo Shop! A big red, neon sign proclaimed that the Sacred Eagle was still open, and beside it, a smaller, blue one let her know that tarot cards could also be read inside. Down the street to her left were a series of bars, and on the right of the tattoo shop sat an MnT bank. Across from that, and to her right was a church! Not the usual collection of buildings found in one place!

She noticed then that a pair of police cars were slowly making their way up mainstreet towards her. Narrowing her eyes, she watched as the two vehicles stopped and a pair of officers got out of each car, and subsequently wen’t to different sides of the street, and disappeared within. What was going on? Already she could see the lights of ambulance and police only a couple blocks behind the bank. She had heard of some disease outbreak in the animals around here. Rabies or something. Could it have to do with that? Or was this little town just that out of control? As if to answer her question, an explosion of glass suddenly erupted from the apartment buildings first floor. The corner of a table was jutting through the broken window, pulling half a cream colored Victorian curtain with it.

With the glass barrier gone, the screams from within flowed into the street.

“-ay back! Get the gun! Woah, Woah!.”

A strange, gurgling snarl she could not identify rose and fell between the yelling voice. That of a mans. A heavy, dull thud sounded once. Twice. Then a scream tore through the air. Pain was etched on the mans voice and he basically yodeled.

“Shadow! What is your problem!?”

That horrible snarl responded, and it sounded as if it was between clenched teeth. The man screamed again in a quavering voice.

“You bitch where are you? God! Shadow! Why?”

Glancing down the street, Jetta could see that none of the police had returned from the two buildings they had entered. However, a forest green, Jeep Wrangler rolled past them and slowed to a halt before her. Only a moment later, a young woman, perhaps in her thirties, got out. She was pretty, with the olive skin and dark hair of either a Latino or Mediterranean, and her dark eyes peering up towards a window on the third floor. Or at least they were before she heard the screams through the broken window….

“Are we moving?”

Vandervoort stared at Sergeant Johnson, who glanced back and forth between the little fire haired scientist who had been given orders like he ran the place only moments ago, and this tall, balding man with the cold, blue eyes.

Suddenly all three of the scientists hand radios crackled to life, and spoke like the Fates.

“Vandervoort.”

The voice was Schafer’s back at the van.

“The H2O you just sampled read off the charts on the RMPD. Get some samples of plantlife from within the water. Reeds or something.”

Scientists and soldiers alike turned to scan the stream like it was a lava flow. Private Clayton even hopped back. There were no reeds or grasses growing near the stream. The river bed was one solid stone platform.

“Perhaps we should follow the river.”

Dr Carrell pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“I don’t understand how this water can be contaminated, when Ground Zero is down stream, beyond Fox Falls. It may be best if-”

The scream that tore through the air was unmistakably human, and entirely terrified. A jumble of incoherent words which melted together into a haunting wail of anguish. Vandervoort’s skin crawled. What the hell? Echoing his thoughts, Johnson choked.

“What the hell?”

A splash sounded downstream. The opposite direction as the scream had come from, but startling enough to snap the 13 beams of light towards it. The two green orbs that reflected in the flashlights caused more then one man to nearly jump out of his skin. It was a deer…Vandervoort thought. And yet never had he thought that the sight of a deer would become so horribly engraved in his nightmares.

The beast was a stag. 13 points, if one bothered to count. The creatures body was sunken in, and the ridges of ribs and spin and hip stood out on nearly furless, black grey skin. It’s stomach, however, was grotesquely bloated. In the unsteady light, something hung from it’s stomach, swaying with it’s stiff, staggering gate. Yes, it was moving. It had never been still infact. From the moment their lights focused on it, the creature was stumbling towards them. Head lowered and mouth gaping open. A swollen tongue the color of regurgitated vegetation hung from it’s mouth, and a gurgling, sound similar to what would happen if you tried to blow a trumpet filled with syrup, crept from deep within it’s throat. It was now maybe 60 feet away. Johnson was screaming for his men to shoot it. They did, in unison. 8 of 9 darts sunk into the creatures neck and shoulders. Idiots….even if they wanted to take it alive, that dose would kill a bull.

The men were backing up, but of course the stone wall lay only 10 feet behind them. Dr Mosher had even scampered 5 feet up the hill. The beast wasn’t slowing down. Not that it was moving fast of course, but it wasn’t very far away either. Suddenly a wave of decay washed over their nostrils. The stench of rotting flesh and worse, something like a cross between a ruptured stomach and diarrhea. Vandervoort very nearly emptied his own stomach.

“Oh my-”

Carrell’s exclaimed surprise was washed away with a flood of vomit that sprayed through his fingertips as if he was trying to force his stomachs contents back in.

“The smell!”

Yeah. Now the smell of human vomit was thrown into the mix. However, Vandervoort’s blood had suddenly run very, very cold. He realized that the deer was downwind….

“What do we do?”

Johnson answered by lifting his pistol and firing three rounds at the stag. An antler shattered and two holes appeared in it’s shoulder and where it’s neck met it’s collar bone. The gurgling sound became a wet whistle, but the beast didn’t’ flinch or slow down…

Johnson raised his gun to fire again.

Stiff, cold fingers gripped Vandervoort’s sleeve suddenly. It was Mosher. Wild eyed and frantic.

“What the Hell is happening, Luke?”

After the first birst of shock adrenaline had made him jump back, Lucas eyed the beast before them with mixed interest. The stag was horrificly revolting, but he had seen his share of mange, infections and other decaying processes in life tissue before. He was just really taken aback by the fact that the animal was still alive!

But the scientist inside him took over again, like it did in these cases. He suppressed the urge to vomit from the stench and cursed dr Carrell for not doing the same.

Red haired sun of a … What the…
The smell of Carrell’s vomit washed by his nose, and again he had to tighten the muscles of his stomach to keep it from pushing its contents to the surface. But he realized that the smell was being taken by a breeze. He kept his eyes on the deer, then took a quick glance towards the leaves hanging over the edge of the cement wall. They were fluttering towards them, which meant the wind was going into the direction of where the dear was standing. The horrid smell did not from this one. Could it be that there were more?

In that case, this specimen did not have to be captured alive. They would get another sample somewhere else.

He opened his mouth to share his believes, but sergeant Johnson had already come to the same conclusion, or more likely had he handled on instinct and fear. His bullets didn’t do much to stop the animal, but Vandervoort reasoned the creature had overcome the limits of pain a long time ago. But it was still an animal, and Lucas had studied biology like no other in the country. He had studied too much to get infected by this excuse of an animal today. His brilliance would save him now, would save them all, and they would recognize him for it!

There came a tug on his sleeve. Mosher was gripping it frantically. The younger doctor was already losing his mind. pathetic
“What the Hell is happening, Luke?”

“Well, it’s clearly not rabies.” Vandervoort answered dryly. “Now get a grip and help me get these soldiers on the move.”

With a agrivated snap he pulled his sleeve from Mosher’s grasp. Lucas knew they had to get out of this tight spot. If there were more deer in this condition ready to drop on their heads, they better leave the scene. And if they didn’t, then he would get out of there himself at least!

“SHOOT THE HEAD AND THE LEGS!” he shouted at the soldiers. “JOHNSON!”

Though the creature seemed unreacting to pain, it would still need legs to support itself. If they could wound them enough, they couldn’t support the animal’s weight anymore, it would collaps on itself and they could get out. That was if the soldiers were able to keep their cool and good aim.

(OOC: Lucas will direct the soldiers as best he can, trying to take control over the situation if the sergeant won’t. Should the creature fall, he’ll do his best to get some kind of sample from it, or if that is too dangerous, he’ll try to get some more samples from the surroundings of the stream before running with the rest (assuming they will run). In no case will he get wreckless and get an infection from this creature. He’ll handle everything with his hands bound in a cloth. Or maybe this is all way to much info for now, so I’ll await your update )

Ten to ten… where are you, Angie? Melina wondered silently as she pulled up across the street from Van Kirk Apartments. She noted the two cop cars and hoped against hope that they weren’t here busting up Kacee’s party. That’s just going to drag this out more.
Check her blind spot for traffic, Melina turned off the ignition and exited the jeep. She looked up and down the street, furrowing her brow at bit at the sight of the ambulance and cop cars up near the bank. She saw the goth-stoner chick hanging out by the apartments.Nothing like Party Sundays at Herkimer, she thought sarcastically. She saw the goth-stoner chick hanging out by the apartments.

She gazed up at the third floor windows, at Kacee’s apartment, and was about to ask the stoner chick (whom she figured was probably one of Angie’s party girl friends) whether the cops had headed up to Kacee’s place when the shattering of glass from the first floor grabbed her attention.

The man yelling and screaming, and the horrible snarling, caused her to take a step back towards the jeep. Sounds like someone’s had one too many drops tonight. Taking a cleansing breath, Melina tightened her grip around her mini-mag, gave her hands a shake, and stepped once again towards the apartments. Looking over to the party girl (OOC: Jetta), she asked, “Hey! You know Angie? She still up at Kacee’s?”

OOC: Tag Jetta

Boredom threatened to kill her slowly, molecule by molecule, cell by cell. The sudden shattering of the window changed her mind, and the screaming...she shuddered, feeling something unnatural lay in that sound, and had instinctively gripped the handle of the studded bat in her bag when the woman stopped the minivan.

Jetta turned her attention from the action reluctantly. Angie? Kaycee? Jetta smiled, feeling touristy. "Lady," she laughed, "I don't know a soul here. But there's a party back there, so maybe she's still playing beer pong or whatever?"

The woman looked too cleancut, too whitebread susburban housewife to be dealing with this crowd, now that windws were spontaneously breaking.

"Wherever she is," Jetta advised, "maybe she has a cellphone? Cause this place seems a little to cinamon schanpps for a Wisteria Lane chick. No offense."

It came out badly, she knew that, but she hoped the underlying tone of kindnes would soften the judgement. Having travelled on the rollerderby circuit for the past few years, she'd seen drugs do some crazy things, and that sound that came though the broken window? That could easily be some cracked out smacked out junkie done some bad bad thing. She also knew that some junkies didn't just stay in one place, they roamed, and went after anything or anyone in their way.

Forest off Route 5S, Herkimer
Upstate New York September 14th, Sunday, 9:55 pm

Two rounds had already punched into the beasts decrepit flesh; one apparently puncturing it’s windpipe. Yet still it stumbled towards them. The deer didn’t even flinch! His soldiers having spent their tranquilizers, and having nothing left to do, started to back up behind their squad leader.

Vandervoort, who was already safely behind Johnson, standing beside a frantic doctor Mosher, was shouting over the gunshots.

“SHOOT THE HEAD AND THE LEGS! JOHNSON!”

Instinctively the sergeant adjusted his aim, and with two hands gripping the pistol, let three rounds off at it’s legs. The whole world seemed to have slowed to a crawl as the deer stumbled towards them. Slowly, so slowly! Vandervoort noted the stiffness with which the creature moved. It’s gate was so unnatural that he shivered.

The creature was only twenty or thirty feet away at this point, and even as Johnson was taking his shots at the deer’s forlegs, their flashlights gleamed on something wet hanging beneath the deer. Vandervoorts eyes widened and Mosher grasp at his arm again frantically.

“It’s stomach is split open!”

It was true. Whatever had caused the deer’s torso to bloat up, had been so successful that, like an overripe peach, the rounded belly of the beast had ripped open around where Vandervoort would have guessed it’s belly button was. A chord of entrails dangled wetly between it’s legs, and as one of Johnson’s three shots grazed the creatures leg, it tore through the intestine, which seemed to writhe now like a living worm, bleeding half formed feces. Another shot struck the deer’s leg. Vandervoort knew this because of the puff of fur that escaped from the approaching deer’s leg. Aside from that though, it didn’t react.

The third shot must have missed, and Johnson must have known his clip was nearing the E mark. The deer was only about 15 feet away, stumbling forward with it’s tongue hanging out and that horrible, wet, whistling sound tearing from the hole in it’s throat. Adjusting his aim once more and giving a battle cry that would have caused Vandervoort to smirk any other time, Johnson let loose a volley into the deer’s face and skull. Antlers shattered and one eye exploded like a grape. Skull crumbled and the deer at last staggered and fell, just 10 feet from Johnson, who still held the gun out as if there was an army of deer following the first.

The smell that rolled off the deer was so fetid. So horribly rotten, that everyone pulled their shirts over their noses. This just wasn’t tolerable. The reek was so thick, it was as if you could taste the musty sweet, decay. Quickly dropping to his knees and popping open the plastic case that contained his tools, Vandervoort doned the rubber gloves first and foremost, before grabbing a syringe for samples.

The others stared at him like he was insane as he approached the deer and knelt beside it. The fur was much thinner then it first appeared. Vandervoort realized he could see the skin on every inch of the deer. It was discolored. A strange, brown purple color, and pocked with what looked very much like white, fuzzy mold.

“This….is totally frigged up! It’s not right man!”

Who knew who was talking…one of the soldiers.

“Yeah man, deer don’t act like that. Don’t look like that!”

“Composure soldiers! Vandervoort I think we should turn back after that sample.”

The needle slid into the flesh, but Vandervoort was repulsed by how…well it was like putting a needle into a rotten orange. And the fluid that came through the needle, as difficult as sucking an extra thick shake through a straw, was not living blood. It was a dark, brown, and thick as syrup. This deer. According to everything Vandervoort knew about life, and the natural world, through both his extensive studies, and common sense, was about 1 week dead….Every single symptom told him that. The advanced signs of decay. The dried, milky eyes. The hair loss, due to decay of the follicles that the hair would anchor into. The bloating. A sign of the gasses formed by bacterial activity among putrefied tissues…

“What the hell? What were the gunshots for? What’s happening!”

It was the hand radio.

Vandervoort stood up and looked at the men taking this mission with him. They were staring at the deer in horror. Perhaps fifteen seconds later, everyone jumped. With the breeze came the distinct sound of a very human sounding moan. Low and monotonous.

The distant screams and barks had gone silent.

Positioning himself neatly by the church’s main exit, at the end of a corridor between the spare pew bibles and the church notice board, Father Bryson settled in to wait. A cool breeze was stirring through the open doorway behind him, rustling the leaflets on the bulletin board at his side and chasing a few stray leaves across the courtyard outside. In the distance the angry screeching of police and ambulance sirens cut shrilly through the night air and the minister, almost subconsciously, reached up to adjust the hearing aid coiled in his left ear, his interest piqued slightly at this latter disturbance.

This had become something of a familiar ritual for Bryson, no less so than the church service itself, and he was content to shake hands and make small talk with each departing parishioner in turn. He smiled slightly at the familiar sight of Mrs. Randerville, leading the procession out of the main church hall as usual, giving the old woman as much attention as he was able between each family as they made their exit. It wasn’t really the time to hold a conversation, but Bryson did the best he could without ignoring the rest of his churchgoers. He made a mental note to call by and visit Mrs. Johanson at some point over the next couple of days, he suspected that she could use the company, and if she really had been involved in the accident outside then he’d want to include her in next Sunday’s prayers. Perhaps it might be best to phone her tomorrow lunchtime…before the Bible study group started.

“Father Bryson.”

John glanced up, disturbed from his mental book-keeping. “Alan,” he replied, warmly enough, returning the guest speaker’s handshake with a firm grip of his own. “It was a real pleasure to have you along tonight.”

In all honesty his reaction to the guest minister had been rather more mixed. The sermon had grated with him slightly, perhaps more than he was willing to admit, but it was apparent that the other church-goers shared few of his misgivings. In any event, Father Moore seemed sincere enough and Bryson was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I want to thank you for having me,” Alan went on. “Many people have taken up your offer of donuts and coffee and remain inside. Do you do this every Sunday Evening? The refreshments that is.”

“On the first Sunday of each month,” Bryson replied, “It used to be more of a morning thing when I first moved up here, but I’ve found it helpful getting to know some of the evening crowd a bit better.”

“Wonder what’s going on there...”

“I was just wondering the same thing,” the minister paused, finally reaching a decision. “Tell you what, I’ll just head out and check. If the road’s closed then I’d imagine that a few people might want to make alternate travel arrangements home this evening.”

The conversation was already straining slightly at Bryson’s nerves. Perhaps he could chalk it down to a few too many nights’ missed sleep over the last week, perhaps it was just nerves. Either way, he needed space and this seemed as good an opportunity as any other. In a couple of minutes he step back inside, pour himself a cup of coffee and sit down to chat with some of his churchgoers about how their kids were doing at college, about their respective vacation plans for the coming year. In the meantime, he needed a breath of fresh air. Fighting back the urge to light up a cigarette, the minister set off down Mainstreet at a brisk pace towards the scene of the disturbance. A few months back he used to jog past here each morning and Bryson reminded himself to get back in the habit soon, it would be a good way to burn off the tension if nothing else.

It definitely took quite a bit of effort; stepping towards the fallen deer. Lucas tried to breath as shallow as possible, limiting the amount of air, and thus smell, that entered his nose. It was a futile attempt. What had compelled this animal to keep on walking under so much obvious pain?

Vandervoort knew what kept him walking. Experience and the promise of cash and possible fame dragged him on. But he knew deer had no such desires, and the creature’s persistance was very startling. Had it come for their help then? Had it wanted them to kill it?

He kneeled down carefully, after making sure his gloves were on, the rubber tight around his skin. For a second he thought about ripping a piece of cloth from his shirt to cover his mouth, but didn’t see the point in ruining his cloths. They were pretty much the last clean pair he had with him. He remembered packing for this trip, stuffing his suitcase full of dirty laundry that he knew he didn’t need. But with the thought of free of charge dry-cleaning at the hotel he had jammed two extra pair of jeans in there. They would be ready for him when he returned.

No, he wasn’t cheap. He just spent his money on more important matters.

While he took out the proper tools, he looked around at the others. They were still standing where they had been. Vandervoort smirked.

Don’t they teach them anything anymore at the academy’s? Spoiled brats don’t deserve the respect that comes with their job.
To make things worse, the soldiers fear subsided a little, and made room for open horror.

Keep your man quiet, Johnson. I can’t concentrate like this! Vandervoort was on the edge of making a strong statement, when the sergeant took control.

“Composure soldiers! Vandervoort I think we should turn back after that sample.”

No kidding…
He bent forward to find a good spot to place his needle.

It’s the time, of the seeeeason for lo-ving… he caught himself before humming that stupid song out loud. It was stuck in his head now, and he cursed under his breath. He cursed also at the up close sight of the animal. He had had no idea that it had been in such a bad state. It was skinnier than a starving dog, and mold was already eating away part of the tissue. He was horrified. Horrified, and intrigued at the same time. He stuck the needle in what should be a spot with good muscle and blood. It took some determination to continue his handling, for the animal’s skin gave hardly any resistance when the needle slid in. But withdrawing the vaccuum stopper… he had to pull hard. When he saw the liquid goo in the artificial lighting he knew what he had already feared. This animal had died long before it stopped moving. Was there some kind of disease he knew about that lengthened the brain’s activity when the body had already died? Was there something that caused an inversed comatose state? A virus? A prion? A fungus? Was it contageous?

He suddenly jerked away, grabbing the needle with him. He knew one thing: he was not taking his rubber gloves off any time soon. Who knew what they would encounter on their way back to the hummers.
He put the needle in a safe container and stared at the rest. They were still eyeballing the collapsed deer, while the handradio called for clarification. The voice on the other side sounded tense.

Before anybody could report, a low moan was carried by the winds and scattered in their midst.

“I think there is somebody in trouble. Johnson, we go to the hummers right now to get this sample looked after. You can send two of your men to check out what that noise was, maybe? If there are any people out there, maybe also attacked, I would like them to be brought along with us, so we can examine them too.”

He wanted to get out of there, away from this horrible experience to cash his check and go back to studying more important issues. But he also felt himself getting curious. This could prove to be a nice step towards recognition of his brilliance.

He realized that something about the symptoms the deer showed was different from what he had read about and seen in books and during practice. He had to know what had happened to the creature. Something had broken from its belly. It could be some form of parasytic bug, a swelling of puss.

Alright, get a grip on yourself now. Don’t be like Mosher.
Lucas kneeled near the animal once more, and took a stick to open the animal’s ruptured belly.

(OOC: He’s ready to leave, but until the soldiers get a move on he will take every second to find clues about what happened to the animal.)