Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  He arose slowly, fighting through the soreness to unfold his body and stand upright. He didn’t need his walking stick to get around anymore, but at times such as these he longed for its brace.

  He stepped up to the altar, a simple yet elegant structure of wood and fieldstone. A large wooden cross standing on a stone base rested on the flat oak surface. Next to it a silver pitcher sat with a matching bowl.

  To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.

  He took hold of the pitcher and poured water from it into the bowl. He made the sign of the Cross over the bowl – the water drawn from a local well – then picked it up with both hands and drank deeply.

  The Bishops of the Unified Church told him Communion before the Reset had included wine and bread. He vaguely remembered that from his youth, though the memories were more stories than facts in his mind. The spiritual leaders had supposed, in private of course, that they would have been accused of heresy to change such a vital sacrament. But the world had changed with the Reset, religion had been thin on the ground even before, and there hadn’t been wine to be had in any great supply until years after. They’d done the best they could with the spiritual tools they had.

  Because thy loving kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee.

  Alex didn’t see how God would mind. The Unified Faith was one for the common man, the folk who tilled the land or mined its resources. Wood, stone and water were proof of the Creator’s love for his people – useful tools of Creation.

  Thus will I bless thee while I live: I will lift up my hands in thy name.

  He raised his good eye, then his arms, bowl still secured in his hands. The old injuries spoke up again, sharp needles of pain radiating in his shoulder. He held on for a moment, then brought the bowl back down on the altar. He crossed himself and bowed his head again.

  The prayers were working. The Father’s stone was breaking his shell, the wood of his Son the Carpenter would rebuild him, the water of the Spirit refreshing his soul even now.

  My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips: When I remember thee upon my bed, and meditate on thee in the night watches. Because thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.

  Leaders of men made difficult decisions in difficult times and lived with the consequences. Only their contemporaries, and hopefully the Creator, could understand. So he worshiped alone on nights like this, because he needed to just be Alex, not the Founder of the Republic. To worship a higher power. To do the one thing never possible outside of the presence of God – to gladly kneel.

  My soul followeth hard after thee; thy right hand upholdeth me.

  He turned from the altar, feeling reinvigorated. He walked down the step to where he had knelt before. Once more he went to his knees. On the floor a heavy black cloth lay torn, like the Temple Veil at the time of the Carpenter’s crucifixion, giving even the lowest permission to enter the presence of the Creator. He reached down and grabbed a sheathed sword lying on the cloth. The blade, hilt, and scabbard were identical to the one possessed by every member of his elite Shield of the Okaw, his beloved Silver Shields. A deadly weapon when pressed to service, but more importantly a reminder of the tradition they shared with previous generations. A kindred spirit with elite fighters who stood for those who couldn’t defend themselves.

  Faces swirled in his mind. Innocent men, women and children trying to simply live their lives. Folk longing to simply worship their God and love their families, to grow and build something out of this world driven insane by the black banner with the white circle…

  But those that seek my soul to destroy it shall go into the lower parts of the earth.

  Shadows chased his loved ones, he saw it in his mind. Something lurked to destroy those he considered his. Something in this world, yet not of this world – an evil concerned only with subjugation and death. Soulless demons who stole the world and perverted those they captured. Who created offspring trained to blindly accept destruction. Alex had witnessed their work. There would be only one way to stop their madness.

  They shall fall by the sword; they shall be a portion for foxes.

  He turned the sword hilt up, grasping it a few inches down from the guard to turn the weapon into a cross. He lowered his head and squeezed his eye shut. He could truly feel the power and the presence of the Almighty now.

  But the king shall rejoice in God; every one that sweareth by him shall glory. But the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.

  He arose refreshed and emboldened. He replaced the sword on his belt. It was impractical to wear while in an armored command vehicle, but a welcome companion tonight. He stared longingly at the altar, crossed himself one final time, and spun on a heel. He began the long walk down the aisle towards the main entrance, gaining speed and stride as he went. Republic troopers knew of his wounds, yet it was important to Alex, and he believed it was important to his men, to keep the illusion he was still the fearsome warrior the stories described.

  Two Silver Shields emerged from the shadows blanketing the space beneath the choir loft. He was never truly alone. Alex remained even now uncomfortable how they looked at him. Years of hero worship sat like a burden on his shoulders. Republic elders saw him as the fulfillment of his hero father’s efforts to lead them through the madness of the Reset. The children of those survivors, ones who couldn’t remember a world of fast food and TV, looked at the entire Hamilton family. Like the kings of history, they were a combination of deity and royalty.

  His Silver Shields moved to open the Domicile’s big wooden doors. They were athletic young men of unusual size and strength. Good nutrition, a working farm lifestyle, and near constant physical training gave them a strength and confidence few in the modern world possessed. Each nodded to their leader and grabbed a handle as Alex approached.

  The doorway opened, allowing sounds and light from outside to spill in. Faint murmurs became rumbles. The sound of diesel engines resounded like his own heartbeat. He paused on the landing elevated above street level, hands clasped behind his back. Part of his pause was to review the Shield; part of it was show for the men and women who filled its ranks. Bek told him the effect he had visually in his dress uniform, different from the simple cornfield camouflage dusters most wore – this was gunmetal gray with green-and-silver trim. Over his heart and on his right arm the coat bore a green-and-silver shield with the Red Hawk emblem perched above in strike position with outstretched wings and talons. The rigid brim of his commander’s hat was pulled low over his sapphire eye, covering close-cropped gray-streaked hair.

  His brother’s wife had made less flattering comments about his appearance in this uniform, invoking strongman specters of the previous century. An absurd notion, comparing a nation of liberators to those who conquered and oppressed. He had reminded her, to no avail, that optics could be used for good as well as evil.

  He shook off the notion. Tyranny was not what the Republic stood for, certainly not what he stood for. Maybe his measures were a little harsh for those sensitive to mistakes of the past. The Republic was involved in total war. The Caliphate had declared jihad, not him. If there was an alternative plan to prevent his people’s destruction by an enemy surrounding them, he was open to it.

  It only took a moment for those on street level to notice their Founder watching them. Smiles and salutes shot up from many, cheers from a few others. Alex didn’t have to convince this group they were on the side of right. “Against the Storm!” came shouts rising from the street below.

  The sight from his vantage stirred him inside. Republic fighting vehicles filled Main Street to the left and right. Valkyries sat in two columns as the crews made final checks. These were his lead echelon. They’d clear a path, secure the westbound roadways for trucks carrying the much heavier and slower armored fist of the Republic, the Razorbacks. This was truly the pride of the Republic: the best and brightest yo
ung people from the most productive families. A large majority were raised from within thirty miles of this very spot, though recently he’d opened membership to all the provinces if they met the absurdly strict criteria.

  These warriors were eager for their time to strike. Alex had told them all he didn’t intend for the Shield to return home until the Caliphate was obliterated. He’d push them all to the point of breaking if need be. Right was on his side. He’d let God Himself decide who was truly justified.

  Since the Caliphate wouldn’t show their hand, Alex would force their hand. He’d strike right for their most prized conquest. The Shield would move to capture the White City. Jihadists laying siege to Lori’s forces in Beardstown would come running to defeat Alexander the Terrible. Once the Caliphate was gathered there, bunched in one place to fight the final battle, Lancer would annihilate them as a cohesive force. Without a place to resupply, surviving jijis would starve in the harsh winter. With the jijis removed, he’d hand off the White City to the remaining ARK forces in Independence and the Republic would have another loyal province.

  Once that was complete, they’d join forces with Olsen’s men and begin the push to clear Caliphate forces to the east and south. He was under no illusions how long it would take or how costly it would be. But he was sure this would be the final war the Republic would have to fight. He would take the burden on himself so that his children might rule in peace and prosperity. One final war, one last butcher’s bill to be paid.

  He closed his eye to see the ghosts, breathing in the fuel-soaked air. No reason to wish for the quiet of his farm anymore. That would never be his destiny. He’d already said his goodbyes to that life.

  He would live the rest of his life on campaign. His armored Valkyrie would be home. Amongst his troopers. Fighting the good fight…finishing the last crusade.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Downtown Beardstown

  Western Frontier of the Red Hawk Republic

  Little Stevie Simmons was running through the streets of Toronto, being chased by a group of bigger boys. He knew what was coming to him if they caught up. No one tolerated thieves in this neighborhood; especially those who stole from other thieves.

  His belly grumbled even as he huffed and puffed. For a brief moment, he reached for the apple in his pocket. At least if he got caught he’d have something in his stomach. A little strength to fight back. But he thought better of it; he couldn’t bear to drop what he’d worked so hard to steal.

  “Father Steve!” a young man’s voice shouted. “Father Steve, we need your help!”

  Confusion filtered through a fog in his mind. He’d been down this alley a hundred times…but he’d never heard that voice. This run always ended at the feet of Monseigneur Enrique Fernandez, body and soul both saved at the last moment by a huge bearded man in a black shirt and pants.

  “Father Steve, please! Come quick!”

  Stevie Simmons woke up from his sleep, shaking off the dream. He quickly regained his adult identity and sat up in his spare little tent, positioned in the middle of the refugee tent city that occupied every open area of Beardstown, giving him the chance to keep in touch with his new flock. Having their new spiritual leader close at hand gave them strength to resist those who aimed to pull them back to their previous ways. It also came at a price; he was on duty 24 hours a day.

  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and pulled back the flap of his sleeping bag. In a long-practiced motion, he rolled up to his knees, unzipped the tent’s opening and stuck his head out to see what the crisis of the night was.

  He had only a split second to see a spider-webbed face, then a club raised up above his head. Then darkness.

  *****

  Swirls of color danced in Steve’s blurry vision as he came around to consciousness. The headache causing the illusion made him nauseous. Muffled noises around him and rough canvas on his face told him what was happening; he’d been hooded before.

  “You was following us, priest.” A voice hissed with the word. “You stole a special man. Want you to give him back.”

  Father Steve recognized the voice. “I know who you are, Kal. Why don’t you just pull this stupid hood off and we can talk?”

  “I not fall for you magic this time, priest,” the voice hissed again.

  “I don’t have magic, Kal. I told you that before. Remember back to when you were still a normal guy, before you cooked your brain smoking Syn. You had a life, a family, a job. You were a prison guard. Remember that, Kal? There’s no magic, no talking spiders. Just life.”

  Kal’s brain didn’t register the argument, it was too far gone. “Our magic find you out. Spirits give me good night when I find you.” He laughed in self-satisfaction. “I take you no problem.”

  Father Steve’s pounding head left him in no mood to banter. Being disoriented by the bag over his head angered him even more. “Idiot, if your magic was so strong you wouldn’t be worrying about capturing me and tying up my hands.”

  He waited for one of two things: a knife in the gut or the hood to be pulled off. As the seconds ticked past, he worried he’d overplayed his hand. Such were tricky matters with ditchers. Too little strength and they might eat you alive…literally. Too much and they thought you were challenging their power. Same ending either way.

  The hood finally came off and revealed his tormentors. Kal was standing with two of his own tribe. Then Father Steve’s heart sank. Standing next to them was one of Darwin King’s sons. The one who’d been most anxious to learn about the Faith, whom he had thought had taken his faith to heart.

  “Don’t be so sad, priest,” Trey King said. “You Red Hawks taught us plenty. Like how to trick people and then kill ’em. Just don’t go thinking you got me to believe in your god. I’m not so gullible as my dad and brother.”

  A quick burst of confusion and hope swirled in Father Steve’s heart.

  “Nah, priest. What you’re thinking ain’t going to happen.” The young man had a hint of his father’s native accent, mixed with the halted English of the bush. “The ‘King’ and his prince won’t be joining us tonight. See, once Kal and I figured you were on to us, the tribes had to have a change in leadership.”

  Father Steve felt a shiver in his spine at the look on Kal’s face. The grin of a lion with a fresh kill at his feet.

  “Okay, Einstein, I’ll play along,” Father Steve said, ignoring their confused look at the reference. “Since you’ve decided to waste my night by monologuing instead of just getting on with this, why am I here?”

  “You steal one of my men,” Kal cut in. He raised his chin with a prideful stance. “Give him back, I spare you life.”

  Father Steve laughed out loud. “Did you check my pockets? Maybe that’s where I stashed him.”

  “What Kal is asking is where are your friends?” Trey said. “They haven’t been seen recently. You always told me not to believe in coincidences.”

  “I kill the big one myself if you don’t tell me where. The one with the red top,” Kal said with a wave over his head.

  “You mean Levi? There’s no chance of that, Kal. He’d kill you before you had a chance to get from behind your mama’s skirt,” Father Steve challenged. “Or was that your daddy’s skirt?”

  The effect was the desired one. Kal’s lip turned into a snarl and he took a step forward, hatchet in hand.

  Trey grabbed the larger man’s tattooed arm. “Kal, no. We need him alive. He’s all we’ve got to trade for Demetrius.”

  The furious Kal pulled his arm away. “You no tell me what to do, little one. I know what best for the tribes. I’s in charge now.”

  Trey threw his arms up and bowed his head. “I know, I know. I was afraid the priest was trying to use magic on you, that’s all.”

  The conciliatory tone seemed to calm Kal’s anger for a moment.

  Trey continued. “Now, with your permission, Kal, I think we should gag the priest. We don’t want him to cast any more spells on us, right?”

  *****


  Wasson sensed the evil in the man in front of him. He’d seen soldiers of the Enemy before, felt their darkness. Yet this man seemed different, more sinister. In a way he was sorry for capturing this one. His small wooden cross was clutched in his hand. The corners pushed through the callouses. The sharp pain let him know it was there.

  “You’re not like them,” the sinister man said to Wasson. “You are a good soul, ready to do God’s work.”

  “Quiet, demon,” Wasson said. “Do you not think I know your tricks? I am not influenced by your forked tongue. You’re the one spreading false beliefs all up and down the river. The one they call Demetrius.”

  “Come now, friend. You think too much of me. I’m just a man of God, traveling to bring a message of good news to the people.” The bearded face looked calm and pleasant. The words were right, but the voice…

  Wasson took a deep breath. Kill him now, his mind demanded. But he could not. He knew in his heart of hearts that this man had information the Founder needed. Wasson was convinced he’d captured someone – something – very important. Now if he could just figure out how to keep it.

  He glanced over at the door, willing it to open with Father Steve. But there was no sign of him yet. Wasson didn’t want to tackle this adversary alone. His own faith was unshakeable, but as a man who believed demons walked the earth, he feared a misstep.

  “He’s not coming,” Demetrius said. “Your priest. That’s who you’re looking for, right?” he said with a seductive smile. “It’s just you and me now. Let’s talk a little.”

  Without another word, Wasson reached over and punched Demetrius in his nose. Not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to cause a trickle of blood.