by G. R. Carter
Get it together, girl, she lectured herself. She took another look around. This must be the way.
Hours of sitting in the cockpit had put her bladder to sleep. Now standing up straight woke it with a vengeance. The thought of being in the most vulnerable of positions in a sea of grass made her skin crawl. Up here on the wing was a much better option. She made sure nothing was ready to pounce, surrendered her modesty, unbuckled her pants and squatted to relieve herself.
Gunshots rang out. Barely finished, Essie grabbed her pants up and tried to buckle them as quickly as possible. Perfect timing, just my luck. She fumbled with her belt, gave up and grabbed her sidearm. Pulling out the pistol with one hand, holding up her pants with the other, she spun side to side. Across the horizon, nothing but waving tall grass moved.
She pressed her back up against the fuselage. Every sense was on high alert waiting for a bullet to come whizzing by. She was suddenly conscious of what was at her feet, running down the wing. I’m never gonna hear the end of this, she thought. If I live to tell about it, of course.
The bright red plane stood like a stage in the middle of the earth-toned landscapes. She was a perfect target for the worst of marksmen. And if someone had managed to stay alive out here, chances were good that they weren’t that bad.
Pulse pounding in her ears, she finally made her decision. She sat down with a thud on the wing and slid toward the ground. She braced for impact, fortunately softened by the heavy vegetation. She rolled under the belly of the plane and scanned left and right. Then she quickly shifted back to the other side.
A voice called out from somewhere in the grass. “Hello!”
Essie shifted back to the side she landed on, trying desperately to pick out any recognizable shape.
“Hello?” the voice questioned.
The voice was accented, similar to the Creeks or those from Grand Shawnee. But the tone was a bit crisper, perhaps even refined.
“Don’t shoot,” the voice asked politely. “Whoever you are, we’re fightin’ the same folks. Guess that makes us friends. Well, allies anyway. Come on, man, I don’t wanna hafta kill ya. Y’all are good on the stick in that plane. We could use someone like you on our side.”
Essie’s experience argued with her confidence. She was clearly at a disadvantage. If she decided to fight, she’d lose. But she’d never be taken alive by the Nuevos; the thought of what happened to anyone captured by that group clouded her mind for a moment. Just because the voice in the grass wasn’t speaking Spanish didn’t mean it wasn’t part of the cartels.
“Come on, friend,” the voice shouted out. “Last chance before we gotta tear ya up. Ain’t got all day out here and we can’t leave ya knowin’ we were here.”
“We,” Essie mumbled quietly. Was that a slip, or did the voice really mean there were more out there? From behind the tail wing she heard a slight rustle. Different from just the wind, certainly something on two or four legs. The voice out in the grass was meant to distract her from the concealed threat. Furious with herself, she realized she’d been tricked.
She slowly turned and glanced out from under the plane. There, just on the edge of the opening caused by landing gear, crouched a man in a tan camouflage uniform topped with a matching floppy hat. His rifle was pointed right at her. Fight flashed through her mind, but something made her hesitate.
The man looked just like one of Martin Frederick’s American soldiers. The uniform, the stance, even the weapon all seemed…familiar.
She scanned the man’s face for any sign of ill intent and found none. He was steady and sure. One thing Essie had never seen was a ditcher, or a Nuevo, with the discipline to move in slowly on a target. Logic told her this man intended to secure her safely…though experience said secured didn’t necessarily equal safe.
He raised up his arm with a clinched fist. Like magic two more identically dressed troopers appeared from cover. No discipline like that outside of the Republic, she told herself. On each of their right shoulders, where Frederick’s American soldiers wore their stars and stripes, was a flag with a lone star against a square blue field next to red and white. She recognized the flag from Professor Steinbrink’s history class, but didn’t place it right away.
The mysterious rifleman saw her indecision. His mouth moved up in a curled smile, revealing absurdly white teeth against tan skin that marked him as a person who spent most of his time under the sun. His hand turned from a fist into a little wave as he said politely, “Howdy, ma’am.”
Chapter Fourteen
The White City
Former Capital of ARK
Rows of black-clad Peacekeepers stood at attention in the City Center, waiting for the main attraction to take the stage. There was no chatter; their discipline was too strict for such foolishness. But you could feel the energy, the anticipation.
Maxwell felt the urgency. The one called Demetrius would be here any moment, to inspect what was happening here. Demetrius had pushed the Caliphate forward, guiding the jihadist horde down the Mississippi River until it had finally landed on top of ARK’s capital city. Maxwell had spent years planting the seeds of destruction here; the Caliphate harvested the rewards in a few days of terror and massacre.
There should have been more, Maxwell thought nervously. Roughly 300 Peacekeepers waited patiently in the cool afternoon gloom. There were tens of thousands of ARK Peacekeepers still unaccounted for even after the butcher of the city’s garrison – those standing here were early adopters to follow the path of Continuity and its Caliphate ally. Maxwell had promised Demetrius he could convince the entire garrison of the White City to convert. Now he had just a fraction of the soldiers he had promised. He was anxious to see how the human representative of Continuity would treat the disappointment.
His thoughts were interrupted by a convoy of six-wheeled trucks entering through the city’s gates. Four of the tan behemoths pulled directly around the fountain circle of the city’s downtown, and a fifth stopped just inside the gate. Men in butterscotch-colored robes tied with a black belt at the waist climbed out of the cargo area in back. They had black head coverings wrapped in a pile that wound down to cover their faces just below the nose. Each held an automatic weapon, not pointed at anyone but closely held in a ready position.
By the time the outlying truck had emptied, the other four came to a stop. More men dressed in the same style climbed out…probably about fifty in all, from what Maxwell could estimate. They all held identical weapons, all with their right hand in perfect trigger discipline along well-cleaned metal chambers. Maxwell nearly panicked, wondering if he was about to be arrested and executed. He glanced quickly at the faces of the assembled Peacekeepers – they were trying not to look as concerned.
As he pondered whether to make a run for it just in case, the passenger-side door of each truck swung open nearly in unison. A figure emerged from each door, clad in black from head to toe. Not a single inch of skin was visible, and the only break from black was where a person’s face should have been. Instead there was as concave silver oval, not quite mirrored yet still reflecting the scant sunlight. There must have been eyes behind the metallic plates because their heads turned to scan the area as they climbed down to the pavement.
The butterscotch men snapped to attention, then the driver’s side doors of the four trucks opened. Figures identical to the four from the passenger side stepped out and stood staring at Maxwell. Fight versus flight warred again – except he wasn’t very good in a fight. Beads of sweat overcame the cool breeze and worked their way down his back to his belt. These unearthly creatures with no face looked terrifying; he could sense real danger in the pose they struck. Before he could bolt a voice from the fifth truck still parked by the gate shouted out.
“Mr. Maxwell! It is good to see you and this fine group of holy warriors assembled to greet us!” the voice echoed against the scorched buildings encircling the assembly area.
Maxwell watched a tall man in flowing white robes approach. His face was d
eeply tanned with eyes like perfectly polished onyx. A red silk ghutra covered his head, held on by a thick black cord around the crown of his head. “Peace be upon you, Brother Maxwell. The One Himself has blessed you and your work.”
Without thought, Maxwell fell to his knees and lowered his head to stare down at the pavement. He moved to prostrate himself when the robed man stopped him. “No, no, brother. Please rise. I am not the One, just his messenger.”
Maxwell felt a swirl of nausea and elation. There was just such a presence about this man. “I, I…” he stammered, trying to find the words. “I was expecting Mr. Demetrius. He didn’t tell me I’d be meeting someone else,” he finally said.
The copper-colored face smiled warmly. “My friend Demetrius merely makes his brothers aware of my approach. He’s transitioned to another task I have for him.”
“Wait,” Maxwell said slowly. “He told me there would be another after him. One who led us to…” He tried to remember what Demetrius had said. Typically, Maxwell tuned out all the religious stuff – everything except the part concerning Continuity. He thought the rest of the Jihad crap was all just magic to tame the mindless savages needed as cannon fodder against ARK and the Republic. He suddenly wished he’d paid more attention.
The smile facing him continued to beam, made more radiant by the headscarf. “I am Isa.”
“Of course,” Maxwell said. He stood and stared, and time and space slipped away. “I’m Timothy Maxwell, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“I know who you are,” the one who called himself Isa chuckled. “I know everything about you. From the moment you were born, and even what you are feeling right this very moment.”
Maxwell could hear the gasps and murmurs from the assembled Peacekeepers. He’d forgotten for a moment they were there, along with the other robed men and the silver disk men. He’d lost track of them all.
Isa continued. “Shall we go inside and chat? We have much to catch up on. My Unseen will work with your men to begin their daily instruction.” He waved a hand to two of the silver-faced figures. They nodded and walked out amongst the Peacekeepers, who split ranks like water from a ship’s bow.
One suddenly stopped and grabbed a Peacekeeper by the shirt. The large man tried to wrest himself loose, but he couldn’t budge from the Unseen’s grasp. “Let me go, freak!” the Peacekeeper yelled.
Instead the Unseen drug him up and threw him at the feet of Isa and Maxwell. The restless sounds from the Peacekeepers swelled. The situation tensed; they didn’t like seeing one of their own treated in this manner.
With one hand raised, Isa quieted the crowd. “This man is an unbeliever. A mumin.” The sound stopped, though the tension remained.
“Shall I prove to you who I am?” he asked the assembly. “Just this one time, brothers, I will show you the power granted me by the One to show the righteous their path to the Promised Land,” Isa said. “Any who do not believe, truly believe, after this day, face their own damnation.”
Isa looked at the Peacekeeper pinned down by the Unseen’s boot. “You are Simon Locke. Born to a preacher of the blasphemers. You were left here by the harlot they call Diamante to help her retake this city. You spit upon the one true Faith. You practice Continuity to deceive your brothers, but you do not believe that it is a gift from the One to help show you the path. Am I wrong?”
Locke looked at Isa with defiance. “Screw you and your magic tricks. We know who you really…”
The Unseen’s boot lifted and struck Locke’s face, breaking his nose and teeth. Murmurs rose again from the assembled Peacekeepers. The robed men began to spread out in a semicircle, like combat veterans giving themselves clear line of fire.
“Rise, Simon Locke,” Isa commanded. His voice had changed from smooth silk to jagged rage. Locke did as he was told.
Isa turned to the Peacekeepers. “Let all who witness this today know that Isa is merciful. But that mercy is not infinite. If you blaspheme against me, you perish. If you walk a false path of Continuity, you perish. And if you betray your own brothers, you perish.”
He turned back to the bloodied Peacekeeper. “I have known you since the day you were born, Simon Locke. I have always known you would be an infidel, even as my Unseen knew who you were today.”
Locke looked less certain in his defiance now. “You’ve never even met me. How could you know I’d be here or what I’d do?”
The broad smile on Isa’s face that looked so welcoming to Maxwell now had the appearance of a snake about to strike. “I told you, I know everything.”
With that he reached up and touched Locke’s face. Terror overcame the Peacekeeper as he tried to breathe. He raised his hands to his throat and gasped. Blood flowed from his ears and eyes. He fell to one knee, then both. Still he fought for any breath. Finally, he was on the pavement, thrashing around, every muscle convulsing. The shaking took a matter of seconds,
Maxwell was fascinated and terrified at the same time. The smell of blood and escaping bowel contents nearly overwhelmed him.
When the body was finally still, Isa raised his hand to the crowd again. “Peace be upon you, my brothers. Let this fate not befall any others. Continuity will show you the true path to the One. My Unseen will help guide you.”
Then, as though none of it had happened, he smiled again at Maxwell. “Now, brother, shall we have that chat?”
*****
Maxwell was still speechless as he and Isa walked into the main lobby of Renaissance Place. They approached Maxwell’s office, which had once been an executive meeting room. He hadn’t used the upstairs offices much since they’d lost their main electrical supply.
Isa seemed to notice immediately. “Where are your lights?”
“We only have backup generators going right now. Just enough power to keep the server room for RenOne online. Well, that and Tony Diamante’s life support.”
Isa frowned. “I’m a little concerned you’ve got your priorities out of line here, my child.”
Maxwell tried to spin the situation. “We’re working to restore power from the river turbines.”
“Someone sabotaged you?”
Maxwell nodded sheepishly. He tried to make up for his failure by saying, “But I executed the city engineers who were supposed to be keeping an eye on the contraptions.”
Isa just shook his head. “And now you don’t have anyone else trained to generate the power you need.”
Maxwell lowered his eyes and nodded again.
Isa sighed audibly. “Close the door, Maxwell.” His voice had dropped the hint of Middle Eastern accent. “Then get me a drink. The good stuff I’m guessing you keep in your top desk drawer.”
Maxwell stood stunned for a moment until Isa frowned at him and commanded, “Now, please, while I’m still young.”
Maxwell did what he was asked, trying to process the holy man’s sudden change in demeanor. “I didn’t think you — I mean, we were supposed to drink alcohol.”
Isa chuckled. “Yeah, we’re not supposed to smoke, either. I don’t suppose you’ve got a pack of Marlboros hidden somewhere, do you?”
Maxwell laughed nervously. He had packs of every flavor stashed, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
Isa read his face. “Come on. You admitted to your doctor you were still smoking. Remember? It was at your last checkup, before the Culling.” Isa took off his head coverings and flung them on the couch where he plopped down.
Maxwell still stared, holding the drink in his hand. He finally broke the trance when Isa waved him over.
Maxwell handed it to him and sat down in an office chair near the couch. “You can join me,” Isa said. “Come on, drink up. I promise not to tell anyone who might tell me you did it.” The tan man laughed at his own joke.
“I just don’t understand,” Maxwell finally said, exasperated.
Isa took a long drink, hissed a little as the amber liquid burned its way down his throat, then let out a long huff. “That is good stuff. Diamante knew what he was doi
ng. Got plenty of this?”
Maxwell nodded. “A whole cellar full.”
“That’ll be worth a fortune when we finally get where we’re heading.”
“Which is?”
Isa looked at Maxwell for a moment, sizing him up to see if he was joking or honestly asking. “South,” he finally said.
“When do we leave?”
“We don’t leave anytime. You’re staying here for now to fix this mess. But I leave in a few weeks. Heading for Memphis, then on to Atlanta.”
Maxwell tried to not look stupid, but he just couldn’t help it. This holy man sounded like a business traveler from the days of old, discussing his itinerary as he jumped from airport to airport.
Isa continued. “I want your Peacekeepers to scout the route ahead. I understand that you’re missing several hundred of their old comrades out there. Maybe they’ll be better at finding potential ambushes.”
Maxwell nodded and Isa went on. “We’ll start the horde heading south in the next few days. They’ve had plenty of time to rest up. We’ll have to use them to hammer through what’s left of the Red Hawks where the rivers meet. I don’t want any trouble when I make the trip myself.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“I told you, I want you to fix this mess. My men will help you. They’ve got the schematics for the city’s utilities. Just try to find a few people around here with some experience and we’ll train them to run the systems.” He sighed louder this time. “I guess I can leave some of my own guards here to help you keep the peace for a while.” He pointed at Maxwell with his drink hand, eyebrow arched. “But I want them back as soon as possible.”
Maxwell’s head was still spinning. This Isa fellow seemed to think Maxwell was clued in to some grand plan. For once, he decided honesty was best.
