Paimon descended the spiral staircase into the bowels of Buckingham Palace, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows. The Bloodies trailed behind, stirring up centuries-old dust from shallow grooves in the worn stone steps. Skeletons dangled from rusty shackles, impaled on serrated torture devices—gruesome souvenirs of the royal bloodline. They filed into the wooden pews to the mournful peals of a tolling bell, shedding their cloaks and exposing skull masks.
Then, an aged oak door creaked open, and Magister Gulag ascended the stone steps, announcing his entrance with the sharp clicks of his cane. Its handle was a carved skull of a reptilian creature with empty eye sockets; an underground emblem of the Illuminati. Dark metal bands spiraled down its length, jutting out like the barbs of a stinging insect. His darkened blue eyes pierced the flickering candlelight from beneath his cowled cloak.
“Welcome to the annual meeting of the Bloodies—”
“What are you doing here, Gulag?” Paimon shot back.
“Robinson usually runs these meetings. What’s with all the theatrics?”
“Glad you asked. Things have changed.”
“A change to what, exactly?”
“A reorder of the order. Out with the old, in with the new. I’m running the Bloodies now, by order of His Highness.”
“How can you be in charge? Robinson didn’t say anything about a promotion!”
“The King wants fresh, intelligent blood. That’s where I come in, Paimon. Your methods are draconian at best.”
“Draconian? The order has served its purpose for centuries before you popped up!”
“Get with the times, Paimon. It will be easier for you from now on!”
“Go on then, Gulag. Dull us with your version of the modern way.”
“Without further interruptions—I hope. I want you, Asp. Tell me about Cape Town. The king has been snapping at my heels recently.”
“Operations are proceeding according to plan.”
“I want details. Spare me no gruesome details,” Gulag demanded.
“The mines have produced a substantial yield for our benefactors. Given the excellent quality and quantity of the stones harvested from those fertile mines.”
Asp spoke in a monotone voice, recounting the events like a ledger clerk tallying numbers. He described bullet-riddled bodies sprawled in red dirt, victims strung up by their wrists—skin flayed in bloody strips that hung limp. Limbs, hacked from torsos, lay scattered among the slaughter like discarded parts. His recount flashed images through his mind unfiltered, pulling him back to those horrific moments in Cape Town.
“We left no witnesses, Gulag.”
“Good. Any updates on the Southern regions?”
“Hard times create strong men, Gulag. The rebel forces have been a tough nut to crack. However, some inroads through bribery have been made. Establishing wide-scale operations has proven difficult. Efforts have moved painfully slow.”
“I see. The savages will not yield easily. I will request reinforcements. Collectively, we will squash this rebellion!”
When Asp took a pew, his thoughts turned to the cries of agony as they burned in the tunnels.
It served as sweet music accompanying his work. Gulag addressed the other members, minus Paimon. They reported on their contracts. Gulag drummed his fingers impatiently on the top of his cane, disinterested in the mundane details. Growing more bored with the Bloodies predictable operations.
“Enough. I grow tired of these reports. Our benefactors have identified a target. A ripe fruit for the taking. One that will reward us enormously if successful!”
“What is it?” Asp asked.
Gulag paused for effect. “Patience, my friend.”
Asp fell silent, but Gulag could sense the impatience shared by the others. Their curiosity was exceeded only by their greed, a hunger to know what he had in store for them.
“Boys, are you ready?” Gulag boomed.
“Behold—Project Ferox 13. My magnum opus of biochemical warfare.”
Gulag brandished his cane, activating the technology with a wave. The stone walls dissolved as an enormous hologram sprang to life, bathing the chamber in an eerie blue glow. The hologram exhibited a 3D model of a virus, rotating, and coming into focus. Spiky, spherical shapes with thorny protrusions spiraled outward, like those of some deep-sea parasite. Then the hologram clarified to a spike radiating, revealing strands of molecules twisting together. Gulag spoke of the virus’s sinister properties.
“Once inside the body, the virus attacks the brain regions responsible for reasoning and impulse control.”
Mutters arose from those gathered at Gulag’s conjuring act. Paimon spoke up, unable to contain his opinion any longer.
“I saw what the virus did at the Grand National—what’s the point?”
“My virus turns even the meekest man into a rabid beast. Infected victims become fierce, irrational, even subhuman.”
Paimon laughed bitterly. “Have you lost your mind? How is that going to benefit us?”
“Simple. We control the antivirus. Think of the power and profit we would conglomerate.”
“I’m dubious about this harebrained scheme of yours—it’s pure madness!”
“This virus isn’t just a weapon. It’s a legacy—my legacy. History will remember the name Gulag, long after the old systems have crumbled. And yours too, if you use it against the house right? We will sweep up the winnings.”
“Okay, Gulag, I’ll indulge you. How do we use this virus? Our skills are in the field, not the lab.”
The others murmured in agreement, eyeing Gulag with suspicion.
“Your trifling concerns mean nothing,” Gulag snarled.
“While you remain beholden to your comforts, I see the bigger picture.”
Gulag manipulated the hologram, bringing up an intricate 3D rendering of the globe. Water systems glowed in striking detail. Their wonder quickly turned to horror as Gulag began to speak.
“It’s a complex virus designed to stay dormant until it comes into contact with water. Ferox 13 will affect millions. If not billions globally within months.”
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They listened in silence, digesting, not sure what to make of this twisted presentation.
“With a coordinated effort, we can contaminate all the major water systems across the globe, leaving no one untouched.”
Paimon pushed further. “While we follow orders when the contract is right, infiltrating water treatment plants and pipelines requires specialized knowledge.”
“All you need to do is perform the tasks I assign to you. I will manage the details. The infrastructure is in place through our sponsors.”
“But what if we’re captured? The punishment will fall on us, not you. I have a hit on a Japanese diplomat on my waiting list already—it’s too risky?”
“I have no patience for doubts, Paimon. Your choices are simple: obey without hesitation, or defy me and face the consequences.”
Gulag’s voice softened. “Look, you joined up for the wealth, connections, and influence provided by the royal family. My plans will leave vast fortunes on the table. But only for those who help spread Ferox 13.”
Gulag lifted his cane magnanimously. “I am forging a new dynasty, gentleman. Claim what’s yours right at my side. You won’t regret it.”
The group nodded in unison. Wealth had brought them here, and Gulag promised it in spades. He smiled; they were exactly where he wanted them. As he spoke, the holographic world spun on its axis. Gulag then framed upon individual cities. Every detail of the 3D model fed his depraved fantasies. Portions of the hologram glowed brighter, illuminating water treatment plants across every major continent. Filter beds, mixing tanks, and chemical injectors crystallized. Pipes snaked beneath cities, pulsing with an eerie glow, pumping water to thirsty millions. Reservoirs and groundwater floated suspended in the air. The projection transposed to a treatment plant in Chicago, where pipes twisted through the facility. The computational model revealed how Ferox 13 would circulate. Filtration membranes failed to discover vicious microbes. Pumps spread infected water through backwash and overflow.
From reservoirs, feeding into rivers, contaminating waters downstream. The hologram shifted again, illustrating the residents of Chicago waking up infected, taking on a horrific role-play of its own. They flooded the streets, without rhyme or reason in feral desperation. Victims of humanity’s darkest impulses unleashed. In a bustling city square, families strolled, vendors hawked their wares, and children laughed as they splashed and drank in a public fountain. Then the virus piped up; slow at first; children started howling and snarling, tearing at one another like bloodied untamed animals. When dusk broke, the streets were littered with corpses. The remaining infected continued their crazed rampage through blood-soaked streets.
“Every city will look like this.”
Gulag paced the stage, gesticulating wildly. “I alone can end this plague with the anti-virus. In conjunction, we will restore civilization.”
Paimon stood up confrontationally. “Releasing this virus would be reckless—it threatens you, us, and everything we built.”
“I see angles you cannot understand!”
“Of course, you see further than we mere mortals. How could we question your grand designs?”
“Watch your tongue, Paimon.”
“I speak for the Bloodies when I say this is all going to fall on its arse! The Royal family will see it too when the wheels fall off.”
Displeasure rippled across their faces like a stone dropped in a pond, rising in volume.
“This is madness,” one shouted.
One surged up from his pew, hurling his mask to the floor with a clatter. Another crossed his arms. “He’ll get us all killed,” he shouted enough for Gulag to hear.
Dante grasped the arms of his pew. The words ‘subhuman’ and ‘rabid beast’ reverberated in his mind, stirring up visions of the horrors Gulag could potentially unleash. Asp saw the profitable side hustle. Singular contracts versus world population for larger bounties would erase his debts, funding his most decadent desires—backed by the royal family. Asp argued with Paimon.
“The rewards would be astronomical if we played our cards right. Though I admit the risks are high.”
“So be it. I’m not touching it with a barge pole!”
“You’re just a lowly killer, Paimon, not fit to question me,” snapped Gulag.
Paimon opened his mouth to object further, but Gulag cut him off. “Recognize your place. I will reward loyalty, but I do not tolerate disobedience. The disobedient ones will be made examples of!”
Gulag stroked the carved reptilian atop his cane and pressed a button. The empty eye sockets flared with green slime light, locking onto Paimon like an alert beacon.
“You insolent little worm!”
Within seconds, the heavy oak door opened, followed by a mini-battalion of royal guards bursting in. They moved, immediately locating the target of Gulag’s rage. Paimon ejected from his pew, lunging for a nearby candelabra, ripping it from its perch as the first attackers filled his vision. Its spiked base dripped with melted wax from thickened red candles. He slammed it against the man’s head with a loud crack. Candles dropped to the stone floor in a blaze. The enforcer staggered back. Another lunged at him. Paimon swung the candelabra again, the impact jarring through bones like hitting solid concrete. He jammed the spiked base into an exposed arm, eliciting a howl of pain from his foe. Though Paimon landed several hard blows, the guards surged forward, relentlessly beating him down, causing Paimon to drop his weapon.
They pinned his body to the floor, wrenching his arms behind his back, covering his mouth with gaffer tape, ultimately silencing his shouts of protest. Paimon lay helpless, witnessing the enforcers binding his wrists and ankles with coarse rope. They carried him to the stage, dropping him in an unceremonious heap, trussed up like a pig destined for slaughter before Gulag’s wrath. The demonstration compelled obedience as Gulag loomed over Paimon, his cane raised high. The hologram’s light shadowed Gulag’s face, exaggerating his hooked nose and dark blue eyes into a monstrous visage.
“This is what defiance earns you!”
The cane came down hard and fast, damaging Paimon’s back. Bones fractured. Blood spattered the stone floor. Paimon’s cries morphed into screams of agony. Gulag’s fury rained down blow after blow upon his broken, writhing form. Bloodied, his face twisted in satisfaction, Gulag surveyed the congregation. Their eyes darted between his cane and Paimon’s broken body. The enforcers dragged Paimon’s lifeless body out like garbage. Beneath the masks, none spoke. It was the assassins’ code that if a man went down, he lost his way in the field, but the weight of their suppressed rage thickened the air. Gulag dissolved the hologram, plunging the chamber into candle-lit darkness once more. His words picked up where he had left off in a tone of indifference.
“I will repeat it once again. The rewards will be mammoth. All this I offer in exchange for one thing. Your unflinching loyalty. All you have to do is carry out my instructions, no matter how horrific! Face it. It’s happening anyway!”
Gulag pointed at Dante sitting in the front row. “Dante! Come forward.”
Dante mounted the stone steps, drawn by the promises of wealth and position. Gulag extended his hand. A gold ring with an imperial royal insignia was dripping in claret from its intricate design, dulling its splendor.
“Kneel before me. Kiss the ring that shows your loyalty to our cause.”
Satisfied with Dante’s level of devotion, Gulag handed over a wax-sealed envelope; dismissing him from the stage. The ritual continued until he distributed all but one of the contracts. Finally, Gulag came to Asp, his now most trusted.
“Examine it well. And then destroy it. We cannot afford any loose ends.”
Asp accepted the document from Gulag’s outstretched hand. He kneeled to kiss the ring. A knowing glance passed between them.
“This is of the utmost importance,” Gulag said.
“I realize what’s at stake,” Asp replied. “You can count on me.”
“You must serve as my proxy. Any failures will reflect directly upon me.”
“I will do everything possible to succeed, Majister.”
“Everything?” Gulag asked pointedly.
“I live solely to serve the will of our benefactors.”
“You’re going to be a very rich, powerful man, Asp.”
With the dark promise lingering between them, Asp left the chamber, leading the Bloodies up the spiral staircase. Gulag reactivated the hologram of the spinning globe. He manipulated the simulation like a twisted computer game, spreading the virus across major cities like: Paris, Beijing, and Jakarta. Entire nations, brought to their knees, begging for his mercy—mercy which he would never grant them. Gulag spoke into a concealed earpiece.
“Shut it down!”
The 3D effects artist in the next room asked. “What did you think? Pretty cool show, right?”
“It will suffice,” said Gulag.
“When do I get paid? Can I knock off work now?”
“Robinson is in charge of the wages. I’m done with you now.”
“Cool!”
A shimmer of fading blue light washed over Gulag as he stepped down from the stage. The special effects dude switched off the sound effects of the final bell toll.
