Anarchus was not one being, but many, blind, unthinking and shapeless. Anarchus was just a collective name for them. Anarchus, however was the future, and the future was Anarchus's. Anarchus didn't know this, but the Brethren did. They built up Anarchus's numbers, increasing each entities individual strength. Many would die, but much life would result. Anarchus was immortal, not as the one, but as the many.
The leader, himself tired from Anarchus's growing hold on him, retired to the control chamber, climbing the bitterly cold stone steps to the dark, lightless, cavern. His followers, now numbering less than a dozen, gave up their broken shells to Anarchus. Smeared with his essence, the last followers stumbled up the twisting flights of steps to the airs above, making the final journey of taking Anarchus outside.
In the control chamber, the leader, his mind weak and drained, whispered the final rites to his followers, his tired and depleted voice echoing around the complex. His words exhulted the virtues of their devotion and damned the evils of the Eurasian people. Society did not expect or fear Anarchus, blind to their shared future. He slumped in his rotten brown leather chair, waiting for the end.
Clasping their vials and dripping with Anarchus, those who had reached the surface staggered out onto Moscow's grey and dusty street. The crowds parted quickly from their ragged, unkempt bodies, but not fast enough, breathing in the viral spores. The followers moved very little, collapsing onto the tarmac roads and flat, granite, pavements, smashing all their treasured bottles and vessels. They gasped their last, face down in the summer sunshine, blood seeping from their skin.
The sun shone bright onto the retreating crowd, who fled like frightened lambs to the deep recesses of the city's steel towers and glass spires, carrying the new life with them, deep in their lungs and bloodstream. The new hosts, a new and future life deep within their shells, boarded shuttles and dissipated across the globe's network of relations and connections. They respired, passing the life from person to person, through air ducts and on summer breezes. When the signs appeared in the first cases, it was already too late, with the life growing in the vast majority of world citizens.
Anarchus was, once again, free. He had returned from the past, locked in the cold earth of hurriedly covered dirt, in the sludge of decay and pestilance, to breed again, to infect a new generation with his word. Anarchus's small bubonic head swelled in the world's people. A sweet and fitting blessing.
