Colony- Olympian

by Gene Stiles

  “Then I will get one, my love,” Ophillia replied glowingly, patting his burly forearm. She enjoyed the feel of the curly black fur that covered his skin and stroked it as she would a soft blanket. “I hear we are about to be grandparents again. Debea is with child.”

  “If this keeps up, we will have to add another addition to the house,” he laughed warmly.

  Ophillia was about to respond when she noticed a sudden, eerie silence descend upon the idyllic scene. Even the children had gone quiet as they stared to the east. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her hazel eyes squinted against an incredible burst of light that blazed atop the brooding fortress half a mile away. She barely had time to register the mushroom-shaped pillar of purple flame that reached into the blood-red sky before her retinas were seared into blindness. She gratefully never saw the firestorm that swept over her family like a demonic tide leaving nothing but ashen corpses in its wake. Ophillia did not even feel any pain. All that was left of her was gray puffs of soot blown away by a hot hurricane wind.

  The Atlantean bombers were not fast enough to escape the hellish fury they unleashed upon Novalosha. The nuclear weapons they contained were the largest so far developed and were never tested before they were used. The pilots had no idea of the range of their horrific cargo. The warbirds had broken away to engage the air defenses of the surrounding fortresses and most were far enough away and quick enough to survive the nightmarish onslaught. Those too close to the magnetic pulse created by the explosions fell like stones from the burning skies. The slower bombers were incinerated by their own blasts.

  Those within a mile of the hellish epicenter were the lucky ones. One second they were happily going about their daily tasks and the next they were simply gone leaving behind black, ghostly shadows upon limestone walls. Beyond that, a concussive wave pulverized the soft rock and blasted anything made of wood into sharp, burning slivers. Steel melted like butter over a campfire and rained molten lava down upon huddled masses. Within two miles of the center, stone buildings collapsed into piles of rubble, crushing hundreds and trapping more. Windows of crystal and glass shattered into splinters that ripped into skin and bone like a swarm of angry hornets.

  Leroyilis was grateful when he found the woman crouched in a niche between two fallen walls of rock. The huge slabs of tilted limestone created a little chapel in the middle of the soot-covered destruction and hot, stinky air away from the horrific creatures stumbling through the dust-filled dimness. He could not tell how long he had been walking, but the weariness that sucked the life from his bones made it seem like days. The worst part was how desperately alone he felt even among the throngs of shuffling corpses. This woman mumbled what he thought was a welcome as he passed by so he was happy to share her tiny shelter for a short while.

  “Thank you,” Leroyilis said through split and bleeding lips, keeping his words to a whisper so as not to disturb the sanctity of this place. The blackened skin on his legs ripped as he squatted down, but any sensation of pain had long passed into the deep abyss of mind-numbing shock. Leroyilis still remembered the agony though and the mere memory tortured his mind. He ran a blistered hand through the patches of once-luxurious hair still left on his rounded skull and leaned back against the semi-cool stone, not surprised when clumps of it stuck to his fingers.

  “Yes,” he answered the woman, nodding his head. He closed the one good eye he had left, the other dripping down the side of his bruised cheek. “It is bad out there. I have seen blackened, steaming skeletons sticking out of piles of burnt wood and crumbled buildings. Sometimes, it was only an arm or a leg. I grabbed a man’s arm to help him out of the rubble and it came off in my hand. That is all that was left of him. Children are sobbing and wailing and it sears my heart. Their clothing is melted against their skin. When they try to pull it off, their flesh comes with the material. It is horrible. I try to help, but they just run away. I must look like a monster.”

  “It is the screaming that is the worse though,” he said, cupping what was left of his hands over his charred ears. “From high-pitched keening and pitiful wails to muted weeping, it is all I hear anymore. I do not want to, but there are no other sounds.”

  Leroyilis opened his eye and watched two creatures careen past his little hidey-hole carrying the sagging, tattered remnants of a person between them. Through the smoke-filled twilight, he could not tell if they were male or female. “No,” he replied softly, “I do not think anyone is coming to help us. There are bodies everywhere and those left able to walk shamble like the living dead toward the outskirts of the city. Several people came up to me asking for water. They had blood seeping from their eyes, noses and ears. They were covered with blistered pustules that oozed and stank. Glass and crystal splinters stuck out all over their skin, but they did not seem to notice.”

  A gray mist swirled outside their little archway. The dusty blanket of ash seemed to twinkle in the dim, flickering light. Leroyilis could see hungry red and black, demonic flames eating their way across the ruins of the city. He knew he should get up and help the lady flee the area, but he needed just a moment or two more of rest first.

  His stomach gurgled and lurched as a shift in the breeze filled his nostrils with the sickly sweet stench of charred and burning flesh. Leroyilis turned his head and vomited between himself and the lady, splattering the tattered and singed remnants of their clothing.

  “I am so sorry,” he wept, trying to wipe the vile smelling, chunky, bloody liquid from her leg. “Please forgive me.”

  He leaned his head back against the stone when he was done and sagged in on himself. “Yes, I shall take you with me. Just let me give me one more minute then we will be on our way. I am so weary,” he sighed.

  Leroyilis never awoke, but the lady did not mind. She had been dead long before he settled down beside her.

  High in orbit above the atmosphere, the Sentinel satellite stared down with mechanical coldness, its cameras dispassionately recording the depraved devastation below. The polished crystal lenses watched uncaringly as the once beautiful landscape erupted in unchecked infernos that roared across the fields, homes and people leaving barren, scorched deserts behind them.

  The gruesomely detailed holographic images showed massive herds of animals racing before the fiery maelstrom, predators running next to prey. Near the back of the pack, unheard howling screams rent the air as fleeing fireballs stumbled and fell, their fur ignited by the incredible incandescence. A typhoon of superheated smoke, sand and ash half a mile high chased them across the tortured landscape, engulfing the weak, young and old in an ember-filled storm of death. They floundered in the darkness, sagging to the parched ground, wailing piteously as they slowly turned into twisted, bubbling skeletons.

  Sork stood before the council of elders in the Nor-Izon settlement deep in the dense jungles to the south of Novalosha. His dark brown skin glistened in the campfire, covered with sweat from his run through the trees. Beneath his protruding and thick brow ridge, his cinnamon eyes were wide with wonder and fear, the whites standing out like full moons. Every man, woman and child in the village gathered around him in hushed silence listening to his amazing, nearly unbelievable report.

  “The gods battle this day and their wrath is beyond imagining,” the burly man said, his voice quaking as he spoke. “Scouts from the Cull-Izon, Du-Izon and five other clans were meeting for our yearly exchange when it happened. We climbed to the highest branches to hide and watch.” He shook his round, boulder-like head, his full, near-black lips trembling. Sork’s tough, warrior's face was blanched as he ran his fingers through his wavy, unkempt mahogany hair. “I wish we had simply run away.”

  Sork was well-known as a factual man who spoke only the truth which is why he was chief scout and emissary for the Nor-Izon to the other jungle clans. His words were never colored by flights of fancy nor soaked with emotion. To see him shiver as he stood before them on shaky legs gave even greater credence to his ominous story.

  “The
god Nova who has watched over us for generations was set upon by sky beasts that flew over his home like gigantic black swarms of killer wasps,” he said solemnly. Spears of flame roared down upon him and his people from all directions like a great shower that encompassed the earth. He sent his birds to fight them and there was a great battle in the sky. Nova sent blue and white lightning upward and killed many of His enemies, but they kept coming.”

  Sork took a moment to collect his wits and find the right words to describe something never before witnessed. His throat was parched and scratchy and he yearned for a cool drink to quench the flames in his heart.

  “Then a monstrous flying serpent appeared in the heavens. Upon it rode a beast that roared like a hundred lions,” he said, his tone low and terrified. “A huge egg dropped from its belly and landed upon the Loshans – the children of Nova. A sickly column of purple, red, yellow and black rose into the sky as bright as a thousand suns. A fierce wind blew upward sucking up dust, dirt and stone as it went. When it fell, a thick, flaming gloom settled across the horizon.”

  Seeing his distress, the elders bade him sit before his legs buckled. A maiden brought Sork a pouch of cold water which felt like nectar to the shivering man. He sipped greedily and thanked her before continuing.

  “Even from our perch so far away from the battle, the earth quaked beneath us and leaves fell from the branches like rain. We watched in awe as flocks of birds croaked madly and dropped from the air dead. The fields beyond the jungles burst into scorching wildfires and animals crumpled to the ground and died.” He put his hands on his ruddy cheeks and hung his head. “The hellish thunder still fills my ears,” he said harshly. “All of the Loshans are gone, nothing left of them but ash blowing in the winds.”

  Sork looked up at the elders, his eyes haunted by the nightmare he had witnessed. More than that, they saw frightened apprehension. His next words stunned and stupefied them, leaving them as terrified as he was.

  “And the black ash carrying the souls of the dead is heading toward our village like a seething, rumbling storm,” he breathed heavily. “The gods who have always protected the Izon clans are gone. Evil will soon descend upon us and on all of the world. We are doomed.”

  Set slumped back in his granite throne, his darkly handsome face gaunt and grim from the day’s battles. His raven-black hair was bound behind his neck and fell like a tail over his massively muscled chest. The ebony orbs under his furrowed brow were as black as bottomless pits, sparks of red dancing deep within like motes of fire. The cuts and bruises on his deeply bronzed skin were fading into distant memory, only off-white scars left of them. Those, too, would soon be invisible, but the reasons for them would stay in his seething mind.

  The Atlantean fleet attacked the port city under the cover of a cloudy, moonless night while most of Setropolis slept. Warbirds swooped down from the lightless sky screaming like hungry raptors as they unleashed their fury upon his warships. Flames raced across the wooden docks and berthed vessels like packs of starving wolves ripping into the sleeping crews. The battlements were not slow to respond to the onslaught, but still, he lost five ships, two wharves and six warehouses before the squadron of aircraft were blown from the skies.

  Set’s capital erupted in a blaze of fire and controlled chaos, his forces reacting with swift, well-trained precision. The Atlantean transports dropped two thousand soldiers on the wide, sandy beaches fronting the city while the ship's guns pounded the granite-walled fortifications from the ocean waters. They were met by his vicious, battle-hardened warriors before they could breach the city gates. The fighting was furious and bloody, lit by the hellfire of the burning harbor.

  By late afternoon, his army drove the invaders back into the churning sea. The white, crystalline shoreline was stained crimson and littered with the corpses of his enemies. Set took no prisoners. Any Atlantean found wounded but alive was executed on the spot, some very slowly as his men took out their rage on the wailing, squirming bodies. Their cries for mercy went coldly unheeded. He should have been happy at how quickly the battle was won, but something was very wrong here and it gnawed at the back of his mind.

  “The fires are under control,” Commander Herolis said, standing stiffly before him. “Most of the damage was restricted to the port and harbor facilities. We lost three hundred and sixty troops with another hundred and forty wounded. The Atlanteans lost easily twice that. The rest fled back to their ships and escaped into the sea.”

  “But why?” Set asked harshly. He leaned to one side of his padded throne resting his tightened jaw on his white-knuckled fist. His words were like chipped stone as he spoke. “They could have hammered us for days, but they did not. Cronus sent only one squadron of warbirds against us where he has ten times that many at his command. His warriors blasted open three city gates but did not attempt to enter our streets. Even the fleet was small compared to the strength of his armada. Why give up so quickly?”

  “I do not know, Sir,” Herolis replied glumly, the pride he felt at their swift victory knocked from his puffed chest like a punch to the lungs. The truth of Lord Set’s assessment hit him like a bath of icy water. “Now that I look at it through your eyes, it does seem far too easy. It is almost like the attack was a diversion to keep us occupied while they struck elsewhere.”

  Set slammed his fist on the hard, granite armrest, his onyx eyes widening. “Check every other port and major city! Get me reports from all of our commanders everywhere on Irindia. Send out every surveillance Raven we have! I want to know if we are under attack or about to be. Do it! Do it now!”

  Before the angry red sun dropped below the smoky horizon, Set learned of the utter destruction and horrors of Novalosha, the seat of his wealth, and its sister city, Gormorian. The images sent back by the Ravens left him both stunned and rabid with rage. As savage as he could be, as black was his heart, Set had never even thought of committing such atrocious barbarity. His wrath far outweighed the fear that curled in the pit of his soul.

  “Ready my airship,” Set bellowed, sending his people scrambling. “The Trinity will hear of this! No more will they stand against me. They will armor me. They will avenge us or I will take their power and do it myself! Put our armies on high alert! We will either burn Atlantis to the ground or we will take Nil. This is Ra’s fault for not acting sooner and for restraining himself against Cronus and I swear by the Creator, both men will pay for this with their lives!”

  Cronus sat alone in his darkened chambers, his throbbing head held between his thick-fingered hands. The huge crystal windows were dimmed enough to keep the city lights from intruding on his despair. While the beauty of the gold and silver spires and glistening glow of Atlantis usually brightened his blackest moods, today they caused a different, more malignant reaction.

  A brilliant yellow sun was shining out there in a cloudless azure sky. The smoothed stone streets and boulevards were bustling with colorfully dressed people laughing and loving as they went upon their daily tasks. Mothers struggled to keep their rambunctious children on the sidewalks and away from the sleds and wheeled vehicles that cruised the roadways. Tables full of friends and companions chatted merrily in front of the various eateries. The warm breeze carried the sounds of songbirds and sweet music that filtered through open doorways. Even the parks around the One Tree were brimming with picnickers enjoying the early summer warmth. For the moment, Atlantis was immune to the turmoil of the southwestern coastal cities. All was peaceful and serene as it should always be.

  But this is not what Cronus saw when he dared look down upon Atlantis today. In his tormented mind, the magical, sparkling city nestled beneath snow-capped mountains was now overlaid with the nightmarish images of what he thought was Olympus. His misted jade eyes saw a monstrous red-black mushroom cloud rising above the crumbling Central Pyramid. He could hear the sounds of exploding stone and shattering windows mixing with screams of agony and fear. Visions of firestorms and scorching hurricane winds sucked the breath from his lungs and Cro
nus could almost taste the ash upon his tongue. He saw the powdered buildings and piles of rubble, blackened skeletons reaching up in twisted horror from the ruins. Where happy people sat enjoying a noontime meal moments before, he now saw blistered and burned walking corpses, boiling pustules covering their smoking flesh.

  “What have I done?” Cronus whispered to the empty room. A torrent of tears cut deep lines down his ruddy cheeks, his eyes swollen and sore from weeping. “Oh, Creator, what have I done?”

  Cronus was in his war room when the Sentinel sent the first holos back from the attack. The images floating above the massive table in the center of the chamber were so horrendous the two dozen men and women at their stations froze as if suddenly encased in ice. The holograms swept over the room in such vivid detail the people could almost feel the heat upon their flesh. Many ducked instinctively as the hellish flames reflected off the polished granite walls, their arms protectively covering their heads.

  When the images of staggering, ghastly victims emerged from the rolling clouds of dust and smoke, the stunned silence in the war room broke into screams, wailing and weeping. Even the stoic, emotionless Iapetus paled and hung his head, closing his ebony eyes against the ghastly onslaught upon his senses. The most battle-hardened warriors among them vomited in the corners, filling the room with a putrid stench.

  Cronus felt his mind go blank, his chiseled face grim and cold. He kept the soul-wrenching repugnance from showing on his face as best he could. A twist of the data crystal changed the images from holographic to flat, two-dimensional pictures to limit the impact, but, still, they were sickening and vile. He quickly turned them off entirely to keep himself from retching as well.

  “None will speak of this under penalty of prison,” he ordered harshly, the acidic bile in his throat making his voice sound scratchy and rough. Cronus made no comments nor commands regarding the sobbing and stink. He knew it was best to let the anguish run its course here in private. “All images of people or animals will be removed from these records immediately. Keep only those that relate to the city’s destruction and not the surrounding areas. Do it now.”