Apocalypse's Prelude

by Carl Damen

  Her elbow flexed, the 'L' moved, warm, thick liquid rained down over his burns.

  And all Ken could do was scream.

  4

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 27

  Naomi stood next to the bed, her hands folded in front of her, staring down at Jack. He felt himself being lifted, forces pulling him upright. His feet touched tile, the cold feeling good against his raw skin. The blanket fell away from his body, leaving him standing pink and naked before his fellow Defender.

  He was quietly amazed that he was able to walk, given what he remembered of his battle with Ken.

  We were here to patch you up... You were completely covered in burns... If we hadn't caught you, you would have died...

  Jack nodded. How is Ken? As he waited for an answer he took a look around his room: a small utility closet, sink in one corner, small plastic-lined window high up on one wall, bed.

  The armor protected him... He will still die, however...

  It was a little disappointing to learn that Ken would die without Jack's direct intervention; at the same time, it was a relief to know that his tormentor would not be a threat for much longer. How's Lauren?

  Naomi blinked and looked away. Our spy can't tell us everything...

  He suspected there was more, but didn't press. What have I missed?

  Let's walk...

  He followed her into a narrow hallway, beige and brown; it looked like a hotel. As he walked he looked inside her mind, saw what had happened over the past week. News footage of airliners being shot down over the California desert, commando groups infiltrating LAX, firefights filling the night sky. More National Guard arriving in Philadelphia, Sky Crest being cordoned off, news crews being trapped inside the refugee camps. Footage shot from the roof of the mall, looking over the barricades, taking in the thousands of slush-covered rebels trying to force their way in. No shots fired from the tower...

  Then there was New York City. Soldiers in sky-blue body armor protecting the United Nations, hundreds of thousands of protesters before the building—occupying, demonstrating, fighting, dying. Inside, the Security Council was feverishly debating what to do about the United States. The one-time superpower was now a nuclear state with no executive leader, no internal travel, and no control over the rioting cities.

  One face began to appear with increasing regularity throughout the footage: Mitchell Terstein. First he was holding up Jack as a martyr of the great Defender cause. Then he was calling for the United Nations to seize control of America, to divide its states among UN member nations, end the threat, once and for all. Finally, he was being dragged from the Senate floor by Secret Service agents, crying out, "This isn't over! The people have spoken against those who govern them! The people have repudiated them! You can silence my voice, but you cannot silence the voice of America. Our voice will be heard, be it by the Defenders, by the world at large, or by historians in the years to come! We do not condone the actions of those who rule us; we are their hostages! Free us!"

  Through everything that Jack saw, there was one man made conspicuous by his absence. He sent a questioning thought Naomi's way.

  The president hasn't been heard from since his press secretary announced that you were being invited on as a consultant... Ambassador Mokri seems to think he's dead; he wants to use that as a pretext to confiscate our arsenal...

  Jack smirked. If only the ambassador knew where his arsenal was...

  They continued to walk, the hall dropping in temperature, Jack's skin beginning to burn as the extreme temperature touched it.

  This is why we had you in that closet...

  The hall opened up on one side and dropped away into a skeletal stairway that wound down to a sea of black stone marbled with drifts of white snow. Great rib-like girders rose beyond, stretching up to connect with the roof that continued on overhead.

  This is where Melana died... We were able to track some guards out here...

  Jack nodded. I've seen files on this before... "Camp Eglon"...

  Cohen really needs to fix his security...

  Take that up with Alice...

  Down the stairs, out over the black sea... At the far edge, just before the girders, was a semi-circle of liquid stone, stretching up to form spindly columns that held aloft the forms of twelve Defenders. Between them, dug into the stone and rising from it, was Jack's tower, finished as he had imagined it, built to his every last detail. He stretched his mind, found a room tucked away under the stairs where the computer he had rescued was crudely wired into a tablet, the plans for his tower up and running through a simulation program.

  One of the wire-thin stone pedestals rotated, and the nude form of Cyd, her hair laying smooth and freshly washed, stared at him. I knew you would finally remember... And with your return to sanity came my own...

  Jack moved to stand in line with the circle described by the other Defenders, leaned back and relaxed as warm stone rose to support his weight.

  Now Vince was turning to look at him, his face weathered by the last few months, sadness evident in his eyes. We tried by ourselves to carry out Allen's plans... So far, we have succeeded in killing Shara, driving Melana to violence, and allowing Merd to reveal our presence in the worst possible manner... All we have tried to do has only led to war... Perhaps you have an alternative?

  Naomi continued the thought, putting into words what they all thought. "You built the tower. Now, if ever Allen was right, it is time for you to lead us."

  Jack looked away from his obsidian tower, out at the pale blue November sky, his mind sifting quickly through the gestalt Defender that surrounded him. In each of the twelve minds there was a single memory missing, a single pivotal event he alone had witnessed, had not had the opportunity to share.

  To share... He thought of Ken then, the little man in the big suit of armor, grasping on for dear life to the melting roof, Jack sharing his mind with him, pushing in, slowly but surely taking over—

  We will accept President Latterndale's offer for formal freedom. We will become an independent power, will separate ourselves from this nation, yet keep it in check more surely than all the others...

  How can we? the Defender asked. We do not know where his is, and all our searching has been in vain...

  I know where he is...

  There was a clamor of disbelief, of excitement.

  Naomi focused on something Jack had said. You spoke of keeping this nation in check...

  Jack continued to stare out through the shattered wall of glass, not noticing as the other Defenders slowly pulled in to surround him. Before we are able to fulfill all Allen asked, there is a final enemy we must overcome...

  The memory of what the General had done, of the door exploding, of the shard sliding from Ken's neck, was passed instantly from mind to mind, the horror at what their enemy had become growing with each mind that experienced it.

  Only Naomi seemed unafraid. Then we kill him... We have done so before... we will do so again...

  No... I am dead... I am a martyr, a sacrifice, showing the purity of our cause... If we kill the general, we show that we are the monsters that Merd and Melana represented... But there is another way... A way that gives us the high ground, that ensures us a place of power when this is all over... With this one act, we will be redeemed in all eyes, will see Latterndale make the changes he has promised, and return the world to order...

  Words faded and images, raw concepts, replaced them, passing instantly from mind to mind. One by one, as the Defenders assented to what Jack intended, they briefly bowed their head to him.

  As the vote was made unanimous, Jack's eyes slipped from the clear sky and to the dark stone that rose between the girders...

  A cheery pop-song blared into existence, undercut by a deep, humming vibration. Amanda jerked upright in bed, looked around wildly, focused on her mobile dancing wildly on the nightstand.

  She sleepily batted in its general direction. The light cutting through the curtains told her it was m
orning, she should be up, but she was too tired...

  "Goddammit, get your phone!" A pillow flew at her from the direction of the cot next to her bed.

  She batted at it again, couldn't find it. Other night stand. She rolled over, arched her body over the still-sleeping form of the woman she was sharing the hotel bed with, finally found the phone, answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Amanda." The voice was soft, raspy, nearly a whisper. Generally creepy.

  "Who is this?"

  "I'm not dead, Amanda."

  A shiver ran up her spine and she gasped.

  Another pillow from another cot flew up at her. "Take it to the hall!"

  The dead voice continued. "Don't say my name. Not on the phone. Now, if I say to you, 'the man with the gun,' do you understand who I mean?"

  An image of Edarus Latterndale, standing on the blood-slicked floor of the White House ballroom flashed through her mind. She nodded, then remembering she was on a phone, said, "Yes."

  "How about, 'the landlord?'"

  There were no immediate thought on this one. It took her a moment before she realized that since these phrases came from Jack, their significance lay with him. Who was his landlord? "Yes."

  "Good. I need you to go to a certain address and give a message to the man with the gun about me, my friends, and what we plan to do with the landlord. You are, of course, free to use any real names appropriate to the situation when you relay the massage."

  She was nodding frantically now, casting around the floor for a pair of pants, trying not to step on any of the four women sleeping on the floor as she made her way to the hall.

  "How, how did you—"

  "I'll tell you when I come to visit."

  It was such an easy answer that it caught her off-guard, the impossibleness of the situation falling victim to the hard facts of normal life. "They're not allowing interstate travel—"

  "They'll make an exception for me."

  Amanda now stood in the hall, mobile cradled between head and shoulder as she struggled into a pair of jeans. "I'm sorry, but... you sound so different." She finished dressing and switched the mobile back to her hand. "And I don't just mean sounding dead. No offense."

  "I've been through a decade of hard life experiences over the past week. I'm no longer your fun, young... relative. I'm the man I grew up to be."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I need you to get transportation. I'll tell you the address when you need it."

  "Okay, hopefully there's still something around the airport." She half ran down the stairs, then stopped as something occurred to her. "Wait. You want me to take a message to the man with the gun. He's here?"

  "Highly likely."

  "But, I can't just... I can't just go up to him and expect him to listen to me."

  There was a moment of labored breathing from the other end of the line. "Remember when I told you to fight for what you believed in, to pick your battles?"

  Amanda swallowed.

  "I need you to believe in this. This is the battle to pick. Can you do this?"

  No. "Yes." She reached down and quickly stroked her belly.

  Then she was off again down the stairs, out into the cold November sun, off to find a taxi or a bus or a driver who would take a bribe. And through it all it never occurred to her question that the man on the other side of the mobile really was Uncle Jack; deep down, she believed it was.

  Amanda stood in a deserted industrial park south-west of the airport. To her right was a colossal tangle of pipes raising into the air; the her left, a series of low sheet-metal buildings. She approached one, labeled as Sloan/Waterson Construction, and stepped into the dark lobby. A single security guard in dark pants and white shirt sat behind a small desk, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

  He nodded to her. "'Morning, ma'am. How can I help you?"

  She smiled, doing her best to look professional in spite of her tight jeans and weathered jacket. "Yes, I'd like to speak to the president please."

  The guard looked momentarily confused, then smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mr. Waterson isn't in today. I can take a message."

  Amanda took a step forward and leaned on the desk. She had to seem like she knew what she was doing, to make sure this lackey took her seriously. "I'd like to see the real president, please."

  The guard frowned. "Well, Mr. Sloan is retired..."

  "Hey!" She slammed her palms down on the desk; the guard lurched back. "Enough of this stupid rent-a-cop shit, alright? We both know what I'm talking about here. Latterndale. Now."

  "Ma'am, I'm going to have to call security if you don't leave right now." His hands moved to the vicinity of his belt—whether reaching for a gun or a radio, Amanda didn't know.

  "How about you do that, yeah? Call security. I'll call my uncle, see what he thinks. He's got an invitation to be here, but couldn't make it; sent me instead. Now, take me down into the bunker to see the president. I'll wait."

  The guard's hands came up—a radio. He clicked it on. "Security."

  Amanda half expected to see a couple more black and white guards to step out from the back, to escort her out, to keep up the charade that she was starting to believe when she heard a heavy clunk and saw metal sheets descending over the front door and window, then heard the tread of heavy boots on tile. Two elephantine forms appeared from the darkness, grabbed her, held her steady as the guard rounded the desk, knelt before her, and began to pat her down.

  He paused when he reached the little folder she kept her ID in. He slid the cards out, rifled through him, his eyes growing wide as he recognized her surname. He looked up at the E.H.U.D. clad soldiers standing just outside of her line of sight. "Check her out—full search. Then get her downstairs. POTUS will definitely want to see her."

  Half an hour later she was downstairs in a dark-green parlor, trying to find a comfortable place to sit on a small sofa. She heard a low mechanical whine, looked up to see a small, hairy figure glide in on a wheelchair, one leg up and wrapped in a cast.

  "They get a little overzealous on the cavity search?"

  Amanda nodded.

  "Don't let 'em bother you; they're just trying to keep me safe."

  She took in the man she had idealized for the past three months: shaggy hair and beard, loose glue golf-shirt, slacks with one leg held shut by safety pins. Across his face and arms were the yellowed remains of bruises. And of course, the thick cast.

  "Doesn't look like they've been doing a very good job."

  Edarus snorted out a quick laugh. "No, I guess they haven't. Seems like no one has been. Fortunately, in the case about your uncle's assassins, if what my security team tells me is true."

  Her hero was talking to her, was taking her seriously. All she had tried to do since the Defenders had made themselves known, all the stupid mistakes and desperate attempts to make a difference had led her to this. "He'd told me he'd like to take you up on your offer."

  Edarus frowned, then shrugged. "Great, we'll get a plane ready—"

  "He doesn't want to make his survival public."

  Edarus blinked, then scratched at his beard. "That isn't exactly taking me up on my offer now, is it? Sounds to me like he has his own plans."

  She nodded. "He's gathered some other Defenders, and they'd like to make a deal with you."

  "Oh?"

  "They back you, back your plan for the UN, and in return, you keep your promises."

  "Deal." Edarus's eyes were wide, hungry. "When do we meet?"

  Amanda swallowed. This was the part Jack felt Edarus might object to. "They won't come out for you until they've killed General Mistaren."

  Edarus blinked, stared at her for several long moments. He nervously flicked at the little joystick at his fingertips, the wheelchair jerking forward and backwards. "Everything is finally settling down since your uncle ostensibly died. Assuming he really is alive, and this isn't some kinds of hoax. For all I know, you're lying."

  Amanda sat silently, waiting for the pre
sident to make up her mind. Even though she believed the dead-sounding voice on the phone, she was beginning to have doubts. She thought of the snowball she had thrown at Tara; it seemed like such a good idea at the time. This too had seemed like a good idea.

  "Why should I let them kill my NSA?"

  It took Amanda a moment to come up with an answer; this was something Jack had been vague about. "He—Jack—said that Mistaren would try to stop them from reaching you, and had the means to stop them."