"Balance broken, my gift I bring;
What is gained this day, more shall tomorrow take."
The Woodcutter, procuring his incendiary tools, didn't rush headlong to his task. Instead, he hummed a low tune against the biting wind, his form dissolving into the swirling snow as if reclaimed by the storm.
High atop the Appalachians, within the stone sanctuary, Edmund Randolph slept deeply under the bizarre tranquility induced by the scent of pine resin and herbs. It was the harsh glare of noon sun piercing the crude window timbers that finally roused him. Never had he known such profound slumber; the desperate battle against the violet-blooded beasts and horned serpents felt like a distant, half-forgotten nightmare. His three surviving attendants, though swathed in bandages, breathed steadily. Their pallor, unlike the deathly grey of yesterday, spoke of the efficacy of Brother John's remedies. An eerie silence filled the chapel, broken only by the occasional crackle of dying embers in the hearth and the mournful sigh of wind through the pines outside. All seemed well: wounds scabbing, the task seemingly complete – the monk was surely on his way. Yet, a profound sadness and gratitude warred within Randolph, beneath which yawned a hollowness, as if he'd forgotten something vital and deeply unsettling. He shook his head sharply, dismissing the vague unease. Regaining his strength for the return to Philadelphia took precedence.
1793 Philadelphia in fall
Rot hung in the air like an invisible hand squeezing the throat – the cloying stench of corpses bloating in the sun, mingled with the acrid reek of vomit and the nauseatingly sweet tang of decaying offal. Brother John moved through the dead streets of Philadelphia. The great axe slung over his shoulder thrummed low against his back; the vellum scriptures wrapped around his chest seemed to vibrate in resonance with the fallen city. The once-thriving harbor lay desolate as a necropolis. Gaunt figures stumbled past, eyes sunken deep within hollow sockets, reflecting only terror. Doors and shutters were barred fast; upon them, like sigils of damnation, crude black crosses had been painted in lime or tar. Death's mark. Scavengers had long abandoned hope; bodies lay heaped in alleys, drawing thick clouds of flies whose incessant drone served as hell's bass note. The wind off the Delaware River carried only despair.
He pulled his roughspun cassock tighter, tracing the path outlined by death. Down at the docks, the quarantine sheds (more historically accurate than 'station') stood useless. A few guards watched with vacant eyes, their long rifles leaning idle beside them. The air still reeked of the panic that had choked this place when refugees landed. Turning into the slums, narrow alleys flowed with sewage; black vomit stained the ground like spilled ink. A small, cloth-shrouded corpse lay curled in a corner. The monk knelt. His fingers brushed the cold forehead, coming away slick with filth. Compassion hardened into cold fury within his clear eyes.
The Mayor's relief station occupied a ramshackle warehouse. Groans and choked sobs wove a grim tapestry. At its heart was a tempest named Doctor Benjamin Rush. He jerked upright from a patient's deathbed, roughly shoving aside an aide offering water. His bloodied lancet gestured wildly at the patient's waxy skin and the foul pool of black vomit at his feet.
"Release the foulness! It must be done!" Rush's roar cut the miasmic air, hoarse and frantic, brooking no argument. "Corrupt humors overflow! This filth proves it! By God's light, release it if they are to live! I have saved many!" Sweat mingling with gore ran down his contorted face; his eyes burned with fervent conviction barely masking profound terror.
John's gaze, sharp as his axe blade, swept the patient's pallid, bloodless face, the grisly effluvium, and finally locked onto a single mosquito perched on the sufferer's exposed forearm. The insect seemed unnaturally present, its abdomen swollen like a dark red pearl, engorged. More unnervingly, it hadn't flown away. Instead, it hung suspended in the air beside the patient's face, no more than inches away, utterly still despite the thrumming blur of its wings – a keening, defiant static hover in the gloom.
Observing Rush's frantic ministrations, John moved closer without direct challenge. His accented English cut calm and low: "Doctor, have you noted... these insects... their choice of prey... does it follow any discernible pattern?"
Rush spun around, furious at the interruption. "Insects? Damnable vermin! They spread the scourge, yes! But against the putrefaction killing us..." He brandished the lancet, nearly spitting the words. "Pattern? Why should we heed such trifles?!"
The monk remained unruffled. His finger stabbed down with unnerving precision at the fresh, inflamed bite mark on the patient's arm, the skin around it an ominous slate grey. "Then... the first afflicted. Did they cluster? Perhaps... near the docks? Or... crossed paths with... those who were... touched differently?" His piercing gaze snapped towards the waterfront.
A powerfully-built volunteer of African descent standing near Rush spoke up, his deep voice etched with exhaustion: "Father, I cannot say for certain. But the longshoremen hauling the refugees' goods—they fell first, near their shacks." He cast a wary glance around, lowering his voice. "And some among the refugees... weren't right. There was a cook, silent as a stone. His ship... dead piled high as timber. Yet he... never faltered. And then... he vanished." He rubbed his face with calloused hands.
"Superstitious nonsense!" Rush barked, spittle flying.
Perhaps not nonsense.
Doctor William Currie, observing silently nearby, stepped forward, his brow furrowed with a mix of caution and urgent insight. "The clustering is undeniable, however. Father, your observation of the insects... it is novel." His own eyes locked onto the unnervingly static mosquito. "We've blamed contagion and miasma. But this... targeted biting... demands recording. And study."
John offered a grave nod. The dock workers falling ill. The unnatural cook vanishing. The insects' lethal precision. The protection granted by his holy relics. And now, this mocking, static insect—a challenge hung in the corrupted air. The grim shards fell together with an icy click. The picture forming was monstrous. But confirmation awaits discovery.
John the Black Friar strode into the makeshift Presidential office, the fire of revelation burning in his chest. The air hung thick with tension and pipe smoke.
Inside, the argument raged on.
"Let me get this straight, Friar John," Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson drawled, fingers drumming a Virginia aristocrat's rhythm on the oak desk. "You crossed the Appalachians bearing 'divine tidings' just to tell us this plague—which has turned Philadelphia into a charnel house—is caused by some... demon cook who commands mosquitoes? And your solution is to burn half the city down while folks sing hymns?" His lips curled with genteel scorn. "With all respect, this sounds like backwoods campfire tales, not science. We have doctors. We know of miasmas. We have quarantine sheds—"
Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton cut in with clipped New York precision: "The skepticism is noted, Jefferson. But the Friar was summoned by the President himself. As for the solution..." His falcon's gaze locked on the friar. "Coating rooftops with sulfur, pine resin, and flour—then igniting it? The property damage alone would cripple the Treasury. How do you contain such a conflagration? And this 'Choir of Light'—" he gestured dismissively at the scribbled notes, "—how do hymns force plague-mosquitoes to reveal themselves? The cost-benefit analysis is... problematic, sir."
The friar stood unbowed, his weathered face carved from Appalachian granite. When he spoke, his French-accented English held the weight of prophecy:
"Messieurs, I am the proof. These blessed relics," he touched the axe and vellum at his belt, "cry out against the abomination festering in this city! I've seen its handmaidens—those blood-drinking insects dancing to a hellish tune!" His finger stabbed toward the death-stilled streets beyond the window. "Your 'science'?" He glared at Rush. "'Foul humors'? A smokescreen! Your quarantines?" He turned to Currie. "Too late—the taint walked ashore with the refugees!"
He took a step toward the silent Washington, his voice dropping to a raw whisper:
"Monsieur le Président. You heard the Voice on the Delaware. So have I. The choice is stark: a city scorched by holy fire... or one swallowed whole by the grave. Flames may devour shingles and rafters—but stone endures! Death devours everything—hope, this Republic's beating heart, all of it!" His hand clenched. "Sulfur and pine smoke? Ancient purifiers! They'll sear the demon's grip from those insects! As for cost—" His voice cracked like a whip. "Look outside! The lifeblood of this nation hemorrhages by the hour! Is that not cost enough?!"
Washington rose. His presence filled the room like a mountain of resolve. His eyes swept over Jefferson's skepticism, Hamilton's ledger-book pragmatism, and the friar's zealous certainty. He inhaled—the stench of decay seeped even here.
"Enough." The word fell like a gavel. "Jefferson. Hamilton. Stand down. If we dither further, even this government will flee its own capital. This is Philadelphia—the cradle of our Republic!"
He turned to Mayor Clarkson, his tone brooking no dissent:
"Rally every able body—the African Free Society, the Guardians of the Poor, every volunteer still breathing. Form the 'Choir of Light'—arm them with those... holy vellum scriptures Friar John described. Tell them it is God's will—and this city's last hope!"
"Command every ward: gather sulfur, pine pitch, flour. Spare no expense. Cover every rooftop you can. Move."
Finally, his steely gaze pinned the friar:
"Find this thing, Friar. With prayers. With that axe. Purge it. May God walk with you—and with this dying city."
For two days and nights, Philadelphia transformed into a titanic workshop racing against the Reaper's hourglass. Under Mayor Clarkson and Richard Allen's command, a biracial Choir of Light materialized with astonishing speed. Volunteers—gentry and freedmen alike—reverently submerged vellum scriptures into bishop-reconsecrated chrism oil, binding the holy texts to their bodies like armor. The air thickened with the reek of pine resin, sulfur, and lamp oil—a viscous, prophetic shroud pressing upon every lung.
Simultaneously, citizens stirred a sickly gray-yellow paste of sulfur, flour, and pine sap—its consistency like congealed pus. With splintered brushes, shovels, and bare hands, they slathered this crude pyre upon rooftops, windowsills, every flat surface. The city now wore a desiccated gunpowder cloak, its terror momentarily buried beneath a deeper resolve: the grim finality of a condemned man's last prayer.
*CLANG—!*
The Liberty Bell's bronze throat roared.
Then a second peal. A third. The carillon became an invisible trumpet blast shattering warehouse shadows. And the Choir answered—a tsunami of sound:
Grit-throated shouts from dockworkers
Trembling sopranos of merchants' wives
African spirituals rumbling like fault lines
Anglican hymns piercing the miasma
All converged into a sacred thunder:
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound..."
The city center answered with a screech—a million rusted needles scraping glass. From sewers, sickrooms, coffin shops, a living storm ascended. Not mere insects, but a chitinous vortex of malice, swirling with the stench of gangrenous wounds and voided bowels. They arrowed toward Brother John, needle-mouths gleaming like poisoned daggers.
"Lord, gird me!" The friar ripped open a vial—Washington's consecrated oil—dousing himself and his axe. Golden light bloomed from his skin, a nimbus of pure defiance in the plague-dark. Where mosquitoes struck the aura—FSSST!—they combusted into foul sparks. His oil-slicked axe carved arcs of purifying fire through the swarm, yet remained a lone candle against a hurricane of night.
The Choir's crescendo became a celestial hammer. Psalms and bell-peals fused into a forcefield, yanking every hidden insect from attic, alley, deathbed. The sky churned with a billion wings—a black sun boiling toward the Liberty Bell.
*NOW.*
Across Philadelphia, torches kissed rooftops.
One spark. Then conflagration.
Golden fire vaulted skyward, veined with sulfur's eerie blue-green flames. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—pine resin detonations like cracking bones. Thick, acrid smoke columns rose as the city became a grid of ritual pyres.
The vortex hovering above Independence Square met the burning geysers.
*SSSSZZZZAAAA—!*
A holocaust of wings. The plague-cloud vaporized into falling cinders—a blizzard of charred husks raining upon streets now carpeted in sacred ash.
Beneath the Liberty Bell, the Choir wept as they sang, voices raw with exultation. Bell, psalm, fire-crackle, and insect-death scream fused into Philadelphia's anthem of defiance—a symphony to scorch hell itself from their city's bones.
The swarm of mosquitoes above Liberty Bell Plaza plummeted as a foul-smelling rain of fire, the charred insect corpses blanketing streets and rooftops like filthy snowflakes. The hymn reached its crescendo amidst the flames, its melody carrying the prayers of the living as it tore through the gloom. Suddenly—
"Crack! Crunch-crunch-crunch!"
The granite paving stones beneath the Liberty Bell shattered without warning! A spiderweb of cracks spread instantly. Amidst the sulfurous smoke and reek of char, a stench a hundred times more potent—a stink like the very gates of rot had swung wide—surged upwards. The "Refugee Cook" had finally revealed itself. Hunched like a beast scalded by a branding iron, it let out a shrill, distorted shriek! That cry wasn't human; it was more like the screech of a million dying mosquitoes twisted into a single, ear-splitting lance.
Its "human skin" began to violently twist, dissolve, and slough off! Beneath the melting, candle-wax-like disguise, putrid, weeping flesh was exposed. Its joints swelled unnaturally like bloated tree knots, and sickly green flames danced wildly in its compound eyes. The overpowering reek of sulfur and decaying blood instantly drowned out the charred insect stench filling the square.
"Fool... ish!" Its voice rasped like rusty hinges, layered with an inhuman buzz, squeezed from a dissolving throat. Those burning compound eyes swept over the flame-engulfed rooftops, over the tear-streaked yet still-singing choir, finally locking onto Brother John standing firm with his axe in the center of the square. "Fire? Faith? Plague is part o' life... Life turns to rot... and you fight it!" It threw wide its arms. Beneath the sloughing flesh, knotted muscles bunched, and a wave of baleful, emerald-green malice exploded outwards!
"God protect dis city!" Brother John growled, his movements fluid and without hesitation. He snatched the silver flask from his breast and dashed the last drops of thick, golden sacred oil onto the axe blade! The oil met the cold steel and instantly bloomed into a thin but resolute golden halo. Digging his heels into the carpet of charred insects, he charged headlong into the oncoming wave of malice!
"Hsss-hsss-hsss—!"
Along the Brother's path, the remnants of the swarm, lashed as if by an invisible whip, coalesced into thick, black whirlwinds, hurling themselves at him! Every proboscis glinted with deadly intent. Where the axe swung, golden fire traced searing arcs through the air. Insects struck the halo—popping, igniting—falling as tiny, spent sparks! The nauseating blend of char and decay filled the air once more. Yet this purifying flame seemed pitifully small against the tide of malice and the sky-darkening swarm, like a lone candle in a gale.
The demon moved. Blindingly fast, a blur of motion, its bloated, rotting limbs unleashing terrifying strength belying their state. With every step, the granite beneath groaned in protest. Ignoring the whistling axe descending towards it, one enormous, mucus-slicked claw crusted with yellow-green scabs shot out with an air-rending shriek, aimed straight for the Brother's heart! The sickly green miasma clinging to its talons radiated an aura that withered life itself.
The Brother's eyes snapped wide! At the last possible instant, he pivoted sharply. The heavy logging axe followed the motion, its stroke shifting from a downward chop to an upward heave. The blade's golden halo slammed fiercely into the massive claw!
"Thwack-Squelch!"
The axe bit deep into the swollen, knotted joint, the resistance feeling like hacking into half-rotted oak. A gout of foul-smelling, yellow-green pus sprayed violently! Spattered across the Brother's face, the droplets instantly seared his skin with a scorching pain. The demon shrieked in agony, jerking its claw back with such force it nearly ripped the axe from the Brother's grasp. Simultaneously, the other colossal claw, trailing a wave of fetid air, swept down towards his head!
*"Whump!"*
The Brother barely got it up in time! A deafening clang of metal on corruption exploded! The force was monstrous, lifting him clear off his feet. He felt like he'd been hit by a battering ram. He flew backwards—slammed hard into the splintering wood of a ramshackle storeroom door at the square's edge! The rotten wood collapsed inward, exploding into a shower of debris.
Inside, the air was thick with dust, the smell of moldy grain, and the sharp bite of sulfur. Dim light spilled through the broken doorway, flickering with the flames from the plaza, and lit every mote of dust dancing in the air. The Brother crashed onto the hard, cold floor. A hot, coppery tang filled his mouth—blood. Gritting his teeth against the pain radiating through his shield arm, he shoved himself up. His grip on the axe tightened, the rough grain of the handle a cold anchor. Towering stacks of burlap sacks and wooden crates filled the rear of the storeroom, throwing long, twisted shadows that writhed like slumbering beasts.
"Hsssssk..." An unnerving scrape, like rusted nails on bone, rasped from the doorway. The immense, pus-dripping form of the demon filled the exit. The light dimmed further, save for the sickly green miasma wreathing its form, outlining a terrifying, knife-edged silhouette in the swirling dust. Its burning compound eyes, like infernal lanterns, cut through the gloom and locked onto the Brother. There was nothing in them now but raw, primal hunger for slaughter.
"Faith..." it hissed, the word a ragged breath laden with malice, "...is nothing... before Pestilence!" It shoved its bulk into the storeroom with an unnatural agility for its size. Rotting roof beams groaned and splintered as it scraped against them, raining dust. Its heavy tread made the floor tremble with each step. The cramped quarters pinned its enormous frame, but they also gave the Brother precious little room to maneuver. A wave of putrid air preceded the creature's lunge—one massive, venom-dripping claw tore through the air towards him! This attack was faster, more vicious, more direct than any before. It threw caution utterly aside, aiming to crush the fragile light before it through sheer, overwhelming force!
The Brother's eyes narrowed like a hawk's. He dropped low—a hair's breadth beneath the whistling claw! It sank deep into a wood crate behind him with a heavy "THUD!", shredding the wood into splinters! In the same heartbeat, the Brother twisted. Putting the spin of his whole body into the motion, the logging axe whistled upwards with deadly speed. He aimed true—not just at a joint, but at the same swollen, knot-like bulge he'd struck before!
*"CRUNCH-Squelch!"* A sickening sound of rending bone and gristle! Pus and thick, stinking ichor fountained out! An earth-shaking roar of agony ripped from the demon. Blinded by pain, its colossal form lurched violently off-balance. It crashed sideways into a stack of grain sacks, collapsing them in a choking cloud of dust and spilled seed.
The opening! Fighting the fiery nausea churning in his gut and the taste of blood on his tongue, fury blazing in his eyes, the Brother gave the demon no quarter. He pushed off the filthy floor—lunging like a bolt shot from a crossbow straight at the staggering horror! Gripping the axe with both hands high above his head, he poured every ounce of his strength, every flicker of the blessed fire still clinging to the axe head, into the blade. He brought it crashing down towards the thing's pus-slicked neck!
"Begone, tainted spirit!"
The axe cut the air with lethal purity!
"GROAAAAGH!" A guttural bellow of rage mixed with pain erupted. Instead of trying to dodge, the demon jerked its grotesque head upwards, driving the thickly scabbed, bone-spiked mass of its forehead directly against the falling blade! At the same instant, its uninjured rear limb pistoned upwards from the shadows beneath its bulk like a siege engine's ram! It swept towards the Brother's belly with vicious, gut-rending intent!
*"GONG-CLANG!"*
Axe met demon skull with a sound like a mallet striking cathedral bell! A shockwave of pure force jolted back up the axe handle. Bone-deep numbness instantly gave way to sharp agony—the Brother's palms split, skin tearing, blood slicking the familiar wood. The colossal impact shattered his swing completely! Even worse—the raking claw snaked upwards! The Brother's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Instinct, forged on a hundred battlefields, saved his life. He twisted his core muscles violently in mid-air, trying to wrench his body sideways even as he desperately angled the axe's broad head down as a desperate shield!
*"SCREEEEEE-RIP!"*
Claws sheathed in emerald malice scraped along the axe's edge, shredding the sacred symbols still traced on the steel surface! A blinding shower of sparks and a smear of unholy green ichor flew. The sheer force of the impact launched the Brother backwards again! He sailed bodily through the storeroom's rotten side wall like a ragdoll. Planks shattered around him. Tumbling head over heels amidst a storm of wood splinters and swirling filth, he landed with a bone-jarring thud in the narrow, filth-choked alleyway behind the building.
The stinking runoff of the gutter immediately seeped through his coarse robes. He coughed violently, each spasm a fresh stab of fire across his ribs, the taste of blood thick and choking in his throat. He pushed himself up onto an elbow, fighting for air that felt thick and poisoned, and dragged a hand across his bloody lips. Grimly, he looked back towards the shattered wall.
*"KRA-KOOM!"*
The demon's massive bulk smashed through the entire storeroom wall! Bricks and timbers shattered like kindling! It stood atop the rubble, bathed in the hellish glow of Philadelphia burning. A deep, bone-grating wound oozed thick, yellow-green ichor from its forehead, yet the sickly green flames in its compound eyes burned with a fury that felt almost solid. It locked its gaze on the struggling Brother in the alley. Then, with a violent shudder, it snapped open a pair of tattered, slime-coated wings—useless for true flight, but granting a single, devastating burst of leaping power!
Its immense shadow, reeking of death, swallowed the narrow alley instantly! This time, it meant to end this!
A flicker of grim resolve passed through the Brother's eyes. He didn't try to rise. Instead, he threw himself sideways into the filthy, refuse-choked gutter! At the same instant, summoning the very last dregs of his strength, he hurled the blood-slicked logging axe towards the demon—not in a swing, but like a spear! His target, again: the festering neck!
The axe spun through the air, trailing a faint golden halo and carrying the Brother's final hope.
The demon's claw descended! It seemed to disregard the thrown axe entirely, its talons focused solely on crushing the small, sanctified human who reeked of everything it despised!
Just as the claws were about to rend the Brother—
*"WHOOSH!"*
From the roofs of the low buildings flanking the alley, thick, yellowish-grey paste—a mix of sulfur, pine resin, and flour, laid across the city at President Washington's desperate command—ignited! Baked by the raging fires below and stirred by the violent downdraft of the demon's leap, it erupted into a roaring wall of golden-green fire ten feet high! This was the city's final, incendiary gambit: the "Powder Coat"!
A blast of searing heat exploded outward!
*"SKREEEEE-AAAGH!"*
An unearthly shriek of purest agony tore from the demon! Like a colossal moth plunging into flame, it crashed headlong into the purifying inferno of sulfurous fire! The baleful green miasma writhing around it dissolved like snow in a furnace! The pustules and weeping sores covering its body ignited instantly, popping like a thousand tiny firecrackers! A stench a hundred times worse—a choking blend of char, sulfur, and burning corruption—filled the alley!
And the Brother's axe, spinning true, struck home!
*"THUK!"*
The blade buried itself deep in the demon's neck, thrown back in its agonized convulsions! The sacred oil's golden fire met the sulfur blaze—and bloomed. Flames roared, engulfing the demon's head in a blazing pyre!
"Do not rejoice... I am but one facet... of the Master's Thousand Faces..." The demon's final howl twisted within the flames, resolving into a lingering, venomous prophecy: "We will meet again... Republic..."
Its immense, burning form convulsed violently, like a mountain whose bones had turned to ash. It collapsed onto the filthy alleyway with a ground-shaking THUD, splashing fetid water and sparks everywhere. The flames consumed it greedily, the sound a wet, hungry sizzle. The carcass blackened, charred, and began to crumble into ash.
The Brother lay in the cold filth, gasping. Each ragged breath was a knife twisting in his chest, darkness crowding the edges of his vision. He painfully turned his head, looking towards the demon's remains rapidly turning to charcoal within the fire. The lingering echoes of the Liberty Bell, the distant harmony of the choir, the faint shouts of orders from Command Headquarters—all seemed distant, muffled. Only the crackle of the flames, the occasional pop of the demon's burning carcass, and the mournful wail of the wind carrying the city's burning scent pressed in with terrible clarity.
Philadelphia burned. But the despairing miasma of plague that had choked it... was slowly, slowly dissolving beneath the purifying assault of sulfur and sacred fire.
At the window of the temporary Command Headquarters, President Washington slowly unclenched his fists, the knuckles white from the force. The inferno's reflection danced in his deep-set eyes. "God-Emperor preserve us," he breathed, the words barely audible. "The Union stands." Jefferson remained seated at the far end of the long table, his quill poised over a document labeled "Non-Essential Emergency Expenditures," frozen in mid-air, a rigid statue. Before Hamilton, the beads on his abacus shifted. One single bead slid down its rod with a faint, final click—a sound like a mote of dust settling.
No cheers erupted. No declarations rang out. Only the insistent crackle-pop of the consuming fire penetrated the thick glass windows. In the silent aftermath, Philadelphia drew a heavy, shuddering breath... slowly pulling itself free from the sucking mire of plague.