[indent][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/16dO9Jx.png[/img][/center][COLOR=yellow][INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]N E W  A P O S T L E S  C H U R C H  [/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][/COLOR][sup][color=darkgray]Nighttime  |  Bayville, New York City[/color][/sup]
Hundreds of people gathered for the wake celebrating the lives of Officers Dean King and Joseph Martin, the NYPD officers that lost their lives saving the students of Bayville High School from their deranged peer that had terrorized the community just two nights before. They'd packed the church full of people to the point where there was barely any standing room left. Many of the front few rows were filled with men and women in NYPD uniforms sitting beside their families. Even with all those people packed in there it was nearly silent. One could've heard a pen hit the floor.

Griff didn't want to be there. His tie was too tight, he had sweat running down his forehead, and the sound of Mrs. Martin's sobs was echoing painfully throughout the entire church. And of course they had to sit him and his classmates in the front row with the families of the deceased. He knew he shouldn't be annoyed by that sound. He knew it made him a piece of shit. But he just-

He needed her to stop.

Rem and Duncan sat on either side of Griff. Duncan's fat face was contorted in anger while Rem's hung in sober stoicism. None of them had been the same since the attack, but they hadn't bothered to talk about it yet. Nobody was sure what there [i]was[/i] to talk about. [i]'Hey, remember when we all nearly got killed 'cause we messed with the school's freak? Wild time, right boys?'[/i]

Griff felt lost. Lost in his own thoughts. Lost about what to do next- how to move on. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Lance standing there, that rage on his face burned into Griff's retinas. He'd been a second away from death more than once that day. Tortured, too. How was he supposed to move on from that? How in the hell could he forget how...how powerless Lance had made him feel?

Someone coughed into the microphone, drawing Griff's eyes up to the front of the church. An aging man was leaning on the side of the podium, his grey hair disheveled and dark bags hanging underneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept since the incident. Whoever he was, he'd abandoned his suit jacket because of the heat, and he'd rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt to his elbows. His arms were surprisingly thick for a guy his age. Griff...wasn't sure why he noticed that. He wasn't sure why he did a lot of things anymore.

"There's a lot of new faces in the crowd tonight." The speaker started off. His voice felt small in a sanctuary that large, even with the mic beside him. "I...wish it were a happier occasion, but I welcome all of you to New Apostles Church. For those of you who don't know me I'm Reverend Stryker, but you can call me William. I've been the pastor here at New Apostles for goin' on twenty five years now. And If you'd come by last Sunday you would've been greeted at the door by Dean. Officer King was a busy, busy man- every officer in this city is- but he still made time on Sundays to serve his congregation. He was one of the best, most devout men I ever had the pleasure of knowing.

"Dean was a man of strong conviction. He believed in justice, righteousness and loyalty above all else. We're here to mourn him and his partner, Joseph, yes- but I think it's important we remember them, and all the good they did for this community..."

Stryker went on for awhile about Officers King and Martin, and about their lives, service, and families. Griff had zoned out for most of it. It all felt so far away from him. He didn't know either of them. He hadn't even seen them in the school when the incident happened. The only reason he came was because he and the other students had been invited, and because he mom was close to finishing Lance's job and killing Griff if he didn't finally get out of the house. 

He was just about ready to 'go to the bathroom' and skip out on this whole, depressing shebang when Stryker said something that dragged him back into the real world kicking and screaming.

"...Their deaths were a tragedy, yes. But not an isolated one. It tears at my very soul to even think about it, but I cannot ignore my conscience and continue to be silent about this. King and Martin lost their lives to a sickness. A sickness that has taken root not just in our neighborhood, not even just in this city, but in our whole nation. This disease takes more and more people from us to meet the Lord every day. Just an hour ago, in fact, a...friend of mine...and his wife were found slaughtered and mutilated on a back road in Connecticut."

Stryker paused. If it was for effect or because he was starting to choke up on his own words, Griff couldn't be sure. But he managed to continue after a few moments of composing himself.

"I must stress this: I am not a bigot. I do not hate anyone for being born a certain way, nor do I hold an ounce of hate in my heart for the...[i]people[/i]...that did these things- Christ did not make us to hate. But while I am a Christian, I am also a pragmatist. And anyone with workin' eyes can see that there is a group of people in this nation who hold far, FAR too much power over the rest of us- they make us feel so weak. So...small. They have no accountability to anyone because the government turns a blind eye on their atrocities, and that makes them very, very dangerous. America is sick, folks. And it is in desperate need of a cure."

Griff didn't know he'd been holding his breath until it started to hurt. It felt like he'd been holding it in for the past two days and nights, and there was a great sense of relief that washed over him as he let it spill out from between his teeth. He didn't notice, either, that he'd begun to sit up.

"Our politicians refuse to be a part of that cure, only a desperate few of them even willing to acknowledge the disease that's lopping our arm off as we speak. Their sin- their greed, their vanity, their lust for power- keeps them from saying what needs to be said and doin' what needs to be done." Stryker wasn't as quiet anymore. The weakness in his voice when he was speaking about the fallen officers had vanished- replaced by a powerful conviction that was sweeping across the crowd. The spirit was working within them; William could tell as much.

"It is we the people who must take matters into our own hands. We must protect our friends, families, churches and communities from the plague growing within our midst. It is we the people who have the power, the [i]real[/i] power, of Christ, and we must use that to our advantage!" William pounded his fist against the podium suddenly, and it sounded like thunder through church's expensive sound system. "Do you hear me men and women of God? We can do something about this! We can make sure that more civil servants like Joseph and Dean don't have to go to an early grave- that no more of our brothers and sisters have to leave behind wives, husbands, and children. We can prevent further tragedy. You and I have that power."

There was a mumbling among the crowd. Some of it was from unconvinced or uncomfortable strangers that hadn't heard such speech before. People who felt it inappropriate talk to be had at an event like this. But they were in the minority. Most of the gathered people were bobbing their heads in agreement. A few, empowered souls let out whooping cheers at Stryker's rallying cry. 

Griff was as silent as the grave, enraptured by William's words.

"If you want to talk further about how we can be that cure, and I'd humbly ask that you stick around after the service is finished. We'll be having refreshments downstairs in the basement- Dinah made her signature chocolate muffins and I'd urge you all that try them before you go." Stryker quieted down again, retreating back behind the podium to wrap things up. But there was still an urging in his voice. A powerful, deep eagerness to convince people to stay behind and [i]talk[/i] to him about the cure.

Any desire Griff had to leave was gone.

[hr]

Several hours had passed and the sun was creeping closer and closer to waking, but Griff had never had this much energy before. He could feel it pulsating through his entire body, running through his veins like electricity. The sparks of it kept his fingers from sitting still for more than a second. It was like he'd downed eight Redbulls in a row.

Duncan and Rem were equally pumped about this. They'd sat around a table in the church's basement for what felt like an eternity, just pouring their feelings out to one another over a couple of mugs of coffee. Both of them felt almost exactly as Griff had, and Stryker's speech had hit them just as hard, too. This was their chance to stop feeling so powerless. To be able to take back control over their lives and stop feeling like victims of some unstoppable force of nature. William had came by and explained it to them- these things they were dealing with [i]weren't[/i] unstoppable.

In fact, Stryker and his people had been [i]stopping[/i] the disease for longer than Griff had been alive. And he was giving the three of them- and a whole lot of other people who felt the same way they did- a chance to join in.

The three of them stood together in a half circle in some warehouse a friend of the church owned. It was huge. There were crates everywhere, and shelves covered in crates, and crates stacked on top of other crates. A whole lot of boxes, too. Most of them were marked by what was inside them, or what company they came from, but the few they'd been brought to were all barren. Stryker took a crowbar from one of the workmen beside him and jammed it underneath the crate's lid, prying it open with strength someone his age should never have had.

Anxiety and excitement in equal distribution built up in Griff's chest at the sight of its contents.

"You boys ever shot before?" William asked, hoisting up an assault rifle between his hands. It's black, nearly polished sheen made it out to look brand new.

Rem and Duncan both shook their heads, but Griff gave a short nod. "My dad used to take me to the range on weekends. It's, uh, been awhile, but I remember most of what ya gotta do."

"Been awhile?" Stryker raised a brow.

Griff shifted uncomfortable. "He passed awhile back."

A look of realization dawned on William. He stepped forward, letting one hand fall away from the gun so he could grab Griff's shoulder. "You have my condolences, son." Griff was struck by just how sincere he sounded. Most people got real uncomfortable when Griff mentioned it, but...Stryker...

"Thanks." He nodded, quickly trying to change the subject. "So, uh, what's this? An AR?"

"This would be a select-fire M4 Carbine fitted for 30 round box magazines." Stryker corrected, passing it to Griff. "It's not loaded. Ammunition is stored over there." He said, motioning with his head toward a line of olive-green boxes stacked on some nearby shelves.

"Ain't these illegal?" Rem spoke up, his voice shaking with uncertainty.

William gave Rem a long, serious look, like he was staring right into the boy's soul. "Sometimes the law of man and the will of God don't line up. And God's will always supersedes whatever whims made men criminalize these tools. That's what these are, boys- they're just tools. Isn't a single about them that's immoral. It's how you use them that matters. And what we do today is going to save many, many lives in the future."

Griff furrowed his brow, looking up from the carbine and back to the pastor. "And what [i]are[/i] we doing today?"

Stryker grinned, and led the group over toward another series of crates. These ones, unlike the others, were marked with a name in big, bold letters.

Stagg.
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