He opened his eyes. Conner shifted on the pavement, trying to regain his feet. Jarek stalked toward him, searching with a clumsy hand until his fingers found the hilt of the sword at his back. He drew it.
The simple blade slid free smoothly and with a deadly silence. Jarek pulled to a halt, squeezing the hilt in his hand as he looked down at Conner, who’d made it to his knees.
Conner gave a mirthless laugh and spit blood at Jarek’s feet. “You think you have the stones to use that thing, kid?”
Jarek didn’t say anything. He was too busy trying not to pass out. How much blood was even left in his body at this point?
“I don’t,” Conner continued. “You know what I think? I think you should do yourself a favor and just go bleed out in that alley over there. It’ll be easy. No more pain.” He gave a wet-sounding chuckle. “You don’t have what it takes to survive this world.” He thumped at his chest with his good hand. “This is it, kid. This is the new model. The strong survive. You tie yourself down to the weak, you die.”
Darkness tried to close in over Jarek. Al manually corrected Fela’s right leg as it tried to buckle. “Faceplate, Al,” he whispered as the world swept back to him in a lightheaded rush.
Fela’s faceplate slid smoothly open, and Jarek showed Conner a feral grin as he labored to get his words out. “This coming… from the guy who’s about to die.” He squeezed the hilt harder. “I’ll never be like you Conner. Never.”
Conner’s face pulled into a harsh sneer. “Our little soldier of charity. See how far it gets you.”
Jarek didn’t say anything. He bared his teeth in a snarl and stepped forward to swing his sword. With Fela’s strength behind the strike, it was smoother than he’d expected—a clean sweep broken only by a split second of soft, gristly resistance. Conner’s head toppled to the pavement at his feet, right along with Jarek’s stomach. There was blood, though not as much as he would’ve thought, and then he was falling to his knees next to Conner’s motionless, kneeling body.
“Fuck you, Conner,” he whispered down toward the disembodied head as darkness pushed in on him.
A few seconds later, he distantly noticed the young brunette girl crouching down next to him, shaking him by the shoulder and saying something far, far away.
“Al,” Jarek whispered. “Get us outta here.”
After that, he passed out.
14
When Jarek began slowly pulling his way out of the heavy darkness of The Sleep, the thick, sluggish malaise of consciousness creeping through his head soon became aware of The Pain.
The Pain defied any predefined mold in which his mind tried to fit it. It was simply The Pain, and as far as he could tell, it was omnipresent. There might have been a few points that burned slightly hotter—his chest and his leg, to name a couple—but for the most part, it was all just The Pain.
The first time he woke, Jarek swam in it for only a few delirious minutes before he fell back into The Sleep.
The second time he woke, The Pain burned a degree or two less than it had before. He probably had some manner of drugs to thank for that. That made sense. But drugs from whom? For that matter, where was he? Worn, wood-paneled ceiling above. Warm lighting. Was this a couch he was on? Maybe it didn’t matter just now…
He fell back into The Sleep.
The third time he woke, Jarek managed to move his head enough to see that he was on a couch in a cozy little living room. Fela was collapsed down beside another couch opposite Jarek’s. Behind that couch, Pryce moved about a small kitchen space, cooking something that made Jarek’s stomach growl, despite The Pain.
“Sir!” Al said through Fela’s speakers. Pryce turned.
Jarek met the older man’s eyes, grunted, and said, “You look like hell.”
A warm smile spread across Pryce’s face. “Hard to get my beauty sleep when you keep stumbling in here bleeding on all of my things.”
“And yet you brought me here to bloody up your nice furniture…”
Pryce wrinkled his nose. “Please don’t.”
“I’ll do my best.” He looked at Fela, wincing at the small movement. “Did you get those girls to safety, Al?”
“They actually insisted on getting you to safety, sir,” Al said.
Pryce shook his head. “Shot-up SUVs full of battered women dropping off strange robot men on my doorstep in the middle of the night… What will the neighbors think?”
Jarek coughed and nearly cried out at the fresh agony the movement woke in his body. “That you’re one crazy old bastard, would be my guess.”
“Ah, yes,” Pryce said, nodding. “Business as usual then.”
Jarek laughed and immediately regretted it. “Agh! Dammit…”
Pryce finished up in the kitchen and brought over a tray full of crackers and stew for both of them. Jarek insisted that he was capable of at least working a spoon for himself, and once Pryce had managed to get him propped up on the couch through a storm of groans and curses, Jarek proceeded to slurp down tiny sips and bites of a rather delicious stew of potatoes, carrots, some kind of meat (he didn’t necessarily want to know what kind), and a wonderful mixture of spices. He moved delicately, trying in vain to avoid eliciting fresh pain.
“How bad is it?” Jarek asked between spoonfuls. “Not that I’m an expert, but it felt like I lost a lot of blood before I passed out.”
Pryce glanced down at his bowl then back at Jarek. “There’s a reason I broke out the meat for this stew. You have a lot of healing to do, son.” He glanced at Fela. “You might have died if Alfred hadn’t slowed the bleeding. If hospitals were still a thing, you’d be getting a transfusion or two right now for sure.” He fixed Jarek with a serious look. “You’re damn lucky that last shot didn’t hit your heart, son.”
“I’ll be careful,” Jarek said.
“You’ll be dead,” Pryce mumbled.
“Ha!” Jarek said, then, “Agh!” as another wave of fire rolled through his torso. Pryce raised his eyebrows at him.
“What?” Jarek said. “Who doesn’t love the Wars?”
Pryce smiled and tilted his head in concession.
For a while, they sat in silence. Al had already recounted the battle to Pryce while Jarek had slept, and frankly, the fight was the last thing he wanted to think or talk about at the moment. It was hard to believe just how spectacularly the shit had hit the fan in the space of a few hours.
He’d killed some of those men… He hadn’t been close to them, per se—not like he’d been with Mark—but he’d still thought of them as brothers after a fashion.
He’d killed Conner. And not just killed him—he’d chopped the guy’s freaking head off. Had Al told Pryce that part?
As horrific as it should have sounded… it didn’t. And as sickened as he should have been at the memory, he wasn’t.
Not that he felt good about the act.
There’d been a time when he’d thought that Conner was a kind man at heart. Hell, there probably had been some decency left in the man; he’d just strayed too far away from it. He’d hurt people. He’d taken advantage of them, used them… and he never would have stopped.
Conner had needed to die.
A dull ache settled in somewhere between his gut and his heart, pulsing right at his core. It was difficult to distinguish from The Pain at first, but the more he thought about Conner and Mark and the Iron Eagles, the more the ache resolved into its own, separate entity.
He closed his eyes, and there was Conner’s headless form on the pavement. He shuddered, but then there was Mark giving him one last smile before Conner pulled the trigger, and the young brunette girl, wide-eyed and afraid in Conner’s arms.
Yes, Conner had needed to die… hadn’t he?
Jarek opened his eyes and let out a long breath. For a while, he tried to use the company of Al and Pryce as a shield against the morbid thoughts.
They’d been talking for around half an hour when out of the blue, Pryce said, “So what’s next for the Soldier of Cha
rity?”
Jarek’s furrowed his brows at Pryce, his mouth dropping open.
“Sorry. Some of the girls who dropped you off kept saying it.” He shrugged. “Not bad as far as nicknames go. Sounds noble.”
“I killed the last man who called me that,” Jarek said, his tone flat.
There was an audible intake of breath from Pryce. “Shit. I’m sorry, Jarek. I didn’t mean to… You did good last night, son.”
Jarek let out a breath and looked around the room. “Boston,” he said after while.
“You want to go back?”
“I don’t know about that, but there is a disgruntled redhead I’d like to see back there. I need to make sure she’s safe, anyways.”
“I was hoping you’d say that, sir,” Al said.
Pryce smiled. “Well, if that’s not a worthy undertaking…”
Jarek returned his smile, drifting back to his own thoughts for a while.
“Pryce?” he said after some time. “Have you heard the things people are saying about the… things that caused the Catastrophe? I mean, vampires? Seriously?”
“I’ve heard some… troubling stories from reliable people,” Pryce said. “Glowing red eyes and impervious to bullets and everything.” He shrugged. “Who knows if any of it’s true.”
Jarek frowned. “You said they were reliable.”
“Doesn’t mean they were right.”
Jarek pursed his lips. “Well, what do you think then?”
Pryce chuckled. “Hell, son. I have more theories than I could tell you in a night, half of which would put you to sleep and the other half of which would give you nightmares. Suffice to say, I believe the raknoth are real.”
“The raknoth?”
Pryce shrugged. “Name I picked up from one of those ‘reliable’ people. Some of the folks in Newark are organizing, trying to form some kind of militia in case the things decide to try something else.”
A yawn fought its way from Jarek’s mouth as his body’s demand for sleep returned in force. “What else could they do? Look at this planet.”
“It could always be worse,” Pryce said. “But forget about that for now. You need to sleep.”
“Hear, hear,” Al said.
Jarek didn’t argue.
Pryce was removing Jarek’s prop pillows and helping him lay back down on the couch when his foot bumped the sword leaning against the armchair next to Fela—the blade Jarek had used to relieve Conner of his head.
The sheathed sword fell to the thick white rug with a small thump.
“Guess you can have your sword back, old man,” Jarek said softly, sleep already tugging at his eyelids.
“Keep it, son,” Pryce said, his voice sounding muffled and distant as the darkness began to embrace Jarek. “I have a feeling you’re gonna be needing it a lot more than me.”
THE END
About the Author
Luke is a storyteller whose dreams include learning the ways of the Force, becoming a sentient robot, and maybe even one day growing up. Also, lots of zombies… Don't ask.
Oh, and that "growing up" bit? That was a lie.
After studying engineering science at Penn State and neuroengineering at Drexel, Luke finally decided to throw in the towel on building a working Iron Man suit and opted instead to simply make things up and write them down. Boy, is he having more fun now.
When he's not holed up in his cave trying to string words together, he can often be found powerlifting, video-gaming, reading, and/or drinking the darkest, most roasty beers he can get his mitts on. Sometimes all at once.
But you know what? Enough about Luke. He's really not that interesting. Still, if you'd like to say hi to him for whatever reason, he'd probably be glad to hear from you.
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Thank you so much for reading!
Also by Luke R Mitchell
If you loved the Harvesters Series, you’re probably gonna dig The Enochian War, which chronicles Haldin and Elise’s fight against the raknoth invasion on their home planet.
Start with Shadows of Divinity: Book One of The Enochian War whenever you’re ready for a fresh new adventure!
Cheers,
Luke R. Mitchell
Shadows of Divinity
(A look inside Book One of the Enochian War)
1
Apostate’s Folly
For ours is not to ask, but to serve.
That’s what they’d always told us, at least. Which is why I didn’t ask when I once again found myself hunkered down behind a slug-riddled skimmer, gritting my teeth as another barrage of shots smashed into the vehicle’s rigid plating. I just squinted against the sunlight, gauging distances and angles, counting rough numbers in my head.
Then I spun from cover and dropped two of the rebel bastards in the space of one breath.
Crack-crack. Crack-crack.
The rifle kicked in my hands. Two red-garbed forms dropped.
The rest opened fire.
I was already back behind the skimmer, adjusting my grip on the rifle, wondering if I could shift forward and manage a clear shot from the hood. The clang of a slug ricocheting from that direction said no.
For now, they had me pinned. So I dropped back down to sit out another wave of hostile softsteel, studying the patterns of brilliant sunlight pouring through the cracks between the sprawling towers of the city.
Notwithstanding the half-dozen men trying to kill us, it was actually quite the beautiful day. And besides, it wasn’t like these particular apostates were much of a real threat. Still, no excuse to be anything less than perfect. Through discipline, divinity, after all.
No sooner had the mantra run through my head than a throat cleared beside me, and I looked over to find Johnny closing down the mint green message display of his palmlight with a quick curl of his fingers. He sighed and scooped his own rifle up from the ground—the very antithesis of discipline. When he spoke, his tone was nonchalant, as if we weren’t sitting there amidst a hail of apostate gunfire.
“But seriously, man, he’s definitely up to something. And can you blame him? Kublich’s servitor is stupid hot. I mean, have you seen the swells she’s packing underneath—”
“Johnny.”
He paused, mouth still hanging open, side-eyeing the tiny debris explosions kicked up by the slugs pelting into the permacrete wall we sat facing.
“Underneath Kublich’s… files?” Johnny shot a sidelong glance at me and cleared his throat again. “I mean, uh, lovely lady. Great servitor, I’m sure.”
“My father is not—”
Something crashed just over our heads, and what little glass remained of the skimmer’s last window rained down between us. For a second, we both tensed. But the incoming fire was slowing down. Another few shots, and it died completely.
They were waiting.
And so was Johnny, who was watching me expectantly with those blue-green eyes that only made his blatantly red hair stand out that much more, even trimmed to Legion regulations as it was.
“My father is not running around with the High General’s servitor,” I hissed. “He… He wouldn’t do that to my mom.”
The skeptical arch of Johnny’s fiery-red eyebrow let me know just how naive I sounded. But it was true, dammit. It had to be. And besides, we had more pressing issues.
Except now Johnny was laying his rifle in his lap. Holding my gaze all the while, he pointedly raised his hands up in front of his chest and made a series of emphatic squeezing motions, as if
cupping handfuls of imaginary—and bountiful—bosoms. He cocked his head, his expression warring between an apology and a juvenile, Right? Riiiiight?!
“You’re an idiot,” I sighed, shaking my head. “And you’re gonna get us killed.”
Johnny affected his best offended face. “C’mon, broto.”
He turned to peek around the rear of the skimmer. The storm of gunfire renewed almost immediately, and Johnny quickly scooted back into place beside me.
He shrugged it off.
I fixed him with a glare.
“Okay,” he sighed, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you, buddy. Now let’s go bag us some blasphemers!”
“Johnny, wait!” I cried. But he was already in motion.
He bounced to his feet and made for the next skimmer down the walkway with a sloppy diving roll. Rough as the landing looked, though, Johnny was back up in no time, shooting me a grinning thumbs-up from behind his new cover as a fresh blaze of gunfire kicked up dust and debris all around him.
“Such an idiot,” I muttered.
But that idiot was my friend, and my friend needed some cover.
With the apostates focused on Johnny, I was clear to pop over the slug-riddled skimmer hood and drop two more of them. The rest quickly turned their fire back on me, and I ducked for cover. Before I even had time to give him the sign, Johnny capitalized on the opening, leaning out to take down another apostate while they were focused on me.
He could be a lot for some people to handle, but Johnny was damn reliable in his own way. And a crack shot to boot—there was no arguing that.
The Complete Harvesters Series Page 137
