End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity)

by David S. Wellhauser

  For half an hour they wove up a small path over gentle hills until the trees gave way to grassy high knolls. It was then that the SAS Captain returned. Their name was Robert Warwick. Even under all the gear, Matt could he see was a slight man, but wiry and hard. His eyes were grey and cloudy; skin on the sallow side; hair, which Matt saw when he removed his helmet, was a stubby light brown. What else the young man saw in the Captain’s features was fear. After rubbing his hair a moment longer he put the helmet back on and looked at Salt. “There’s a large group of Metas ahead—they are armed but do not appear to have any command structure.”

  “What does that mean?” Salt asked, sounding as confused as Matt was.

  “They are not looking for us, or anyone, they appear to be retreating and in no good order.”

  “Well, there’s nowhere for us to go but back.” Matt observed and Salt agreed. So they spread out along the knoll and waited—soon enough the first of the Metas crested the knoll and saw them standing there, weapons at rest. There was some hesitation at first; then Feargal stepped forward. “So—anyone here seen Leonor Feargal?” A murmured wash of sound ran along the line of Metas. They were all sorts. Some were obviously new conscripts; others grizzled distortions of veterans; still others seemed to have been successful products of Zakara’s R&D; while others were rather obviously survivors of the Grimm Forest, and whatever lay within the eaves. All seemed to recognise Feargal at once and en masse.

  A Grimm lurched forward on legs which seemed new to them, or were improperly developed, and raised a hand in salutation. Their face had been erased of gender and Matt could see it was imperfectly bound along the seam. At that moment this seam surrendered and a series of tendrils shot out—at the end of two of these were eyes. There would have been other elements but the hilarity of this was as far as Feargal got. Choking down a smile he waited. “You are the Deliverer?”

  “Some are calling me that—I am, however, Leonor’s father. Have you seen her?”

  “She is up there with the Master.” The word was spoken with a bitterness that only those that have fallen from the true faith can share.

  “Will you help me find her?” It was a big chance.

  “Will you stop Shaitan?”

  “Get me close and I’ll kill him.”

  “We will come with you.”

  ***

  The trip up the winding pass was difficult for the narrow vertical reach of the path. Sometimes it was so narrow they’d no choice but to proceed single file and clinging to the face of the mountain and at others they could walk three abreast. Twice they came out into plateaus that were part gardens and part copses—both of these reminded Matt of the mountain and valley back in Lawrence. If there had been nothing else to tell him he was on the right path this would have done it, but there was more. Each of these plateaus were filled with escaping Metas and Grimms; each time they were willingly folded into the group; each time there numbers gave Matt a little more confidence.

  Salt was not quite so optimistic. “What’s left up there?”

  “You mean this could just be the runoff?” Jonah nodded. “More than we had before and they could keep Zakara busy while I pinch Leonor. And remember—don’t kill her unless there is no choice.”

  “Unless you tell me to, or you are dead, I will not harm her—that much I can promise you. Nor will anyone else following me.” Which left all those that mayn’t be.

  Further on they past the second plateau the mountain split away and opened onto broad uplands which rose gently before them. It was summer here and though not hot they were all beginning to sweat. The weather was a welcome change, but the good luck they’d been running with came to an end. From this point onward they were involved in a running battle with the pickets of the Trans force. For the first while they remained successful and pushed the Trans back continuously. Once they met the main force they were engage in a brutal slugging match but Captain Warwick had brought in several airstrikes and the Trans force began to slowly melt away—though it did not disappear. Losses were mostly with their new Meta force—mostly because none had much training or discipline.

  The push took about another half hour—all the while the vegetation and the wild Metas became stranger, more eccentric, and a lot more disturbing. There were cousins of the Lilacs here—but faster, more aggressive, and they spat some kind of acid. Those things that spun out of the Grimm and imploded were here, but seemed to refuse to implode and rolled through the lines tearing down Meta and Archaic alike. There were, of course, the spiders he’d seen back in LBL—though these moved in squadrons and were smart beyond Matt’s memory of them. There were others, more than he could, or wished, to focus on. Luckily the gunships took care of many of these.

  Eventually they came out onto the last plateau which was backed by more shear rock faces with what looked like narrow passages and caves cut into these. On either side of the flat grassland were woods of conifers that appeared hundreds of years old. In the centre of the plateau was another spring, much larger than the Dilmun spring, and roiling ferociously. Suddenly it was as though he’d stepped back six years. But to the side of the spring was a raised stone alter set on a black marble dais with gold inlaid along the sides of the steps which rose to the very old, very crude looking stone alter. Matt was almost certain this belonged to the age of the Hominid-Metas. Much of this suggested a push back not simply into history and the early bipedals, but into the rumours of Gondwana.

  Something beyond ancient was occurring here. Although everyone was aware of their presence many could not take their eyes, or what was passing for these, from the ceremony in front of the spring and to the side of the altar. None of their group could see beyond the chanting masses of Metas, but they could hear Zakara’s voice speaking in a language none recognised. Salt leaned in to Matt. “The Cinn’s language—as close as a human voice box can get.”

  “How much longer do we have?” Matt asked.

  “The ceremony is about half way done.”

  “Then we’d better...” There was a tearing sound of a large energy release and the smell of ozone. “What is it?”

  “There are two Archaics and several others on the other side of the pool.” One of the tall Metas they’d picked up on the last plateau answered. “They must have come from the ravines leading down the other side of the mountains.”

  “No time,” Matt shouted, “now!” Taking an RPG from one of the SAS, which had remained close to him, Matt fired above the heads of the confused crowd and toward the altar. The grenade caught one of the two pillars rising on either side of the altar and the explosion split this in two. With that the rest of their force attacked just as the Archaics were laying into the front of the worshippers—now transformed into a mob. As the Metas, before them, parted, he could see whom was attacking from the other side of the spring—Roberto and Halton. For the moment Zakara didn’t know which way to turn, at his side were both Hanna and Shea. Hannah was cowering at Shea’s feet, with an arm wrapped about one of her legs, his mother was firing into Roberto’s forces—it seemed as if he’d brought all of the Dragoste and Ajutor.

  Zakara still had Leonor clasped tightly in his arms; the girl was screaming and Matt was certain he heard his name. He wanted to kill his father, but that was not possible until Leonor was safe. For the moment he turned back to Shea. He sent another RPG into the ground in front of the pair. The impact and shrapnel tore over the pair and Hannah’s head was rent from her body. Meanwhile, Shea’s right thigh was badly shredded. He could hear the woman’s shriek. She turned and fired blindly in his direction and limped backward. Once his mother saw him there was little he could do. He took an Archaic round to his right shoulder and another in his right thigh.

  As the woman limped, gamely, toward him, spraying the dispersing mod with fire, Zakara called her back. Botrous had to do this several times before she gave up her attempt on her son’s life and rejoined him. At the same time Jonah and Captain Warwick, along with Coral and Portland attempted to
draw Matt back from the fighting. At this moment he and Halton saw each other and in one deft motion his ersatz uncle drew his energy weapon to his shoulder and aim directly at Feargal. Matt drew himself up in preparation for the impact, but it never came. In the same fluid motion, Halton turned and fired to his right.

  With the swing, Matt knew what was happening. Shrieking he pulled his sidearm, shaking loose of Salt and Warwick, and fired. Everything happened at once. The discharge of Edwards’ weapon came a hair’s breadth before Matt could fire. Even as Halton flew back into the roiling pool, lifeless, and Roberto caught the remainder of the spray to crumple in place, Feargal knew he’d lost it all. Turning, Zakara was on the ground, stunned and burned by the weapon, and leaning over the small body laying at an odd angle—not moving. Looking up from Leonor, Zakara and Matt’s eyes met. Feargal saw the frustration in his father’s eyes—and knew the child was dead.

  Shea dragged him to his feet and as Botrous stood uneasily the woman turned back to her son, but the Master stopped her. This didn’t dissuade Matt from firing—he didn’t know what else to do. Even at this moment though the Trans forces were closing about Botrous and they were withdrawing back toward the ravine which the Dragoste and Ajutor had left open. Meanwhile, Warwick and Salt had rallied their forces for a last push forward. Jonah, Matt was certain, was screaming how sorry he was about Leonor. In the voice Matt could hear the first stifled sobs of the Meta. Were they for Leonor—he never knew her. Were they for him—he supposed they were. Jonah was the closest thing Matt had to a father once Halton had turned on him in favour of Melissa. And over the last six years he became more than this—he’d become the father of his mind.

  ***

  There was a buckling and a violent ululation from Zakara’s Metas and the force of Feargal’s push broke against a rock and bent back on itself. Even now the wave was opening before the roar of weapons fire and screams of the injured, dying, and enraged. The small group gathered about Matt were fighting for their lives. But not Feargal, he was fighting for one reason—Zakara. Even as he shook loose of Warwick and Salt he could see the battle was, for the moment, turning against them. This wasn’t going to stop him, though. With the RPG again he was targeting swathes of Metas just beyond their forces. Between the roaring of the rockets, the shrieks of fear, the explosions, and expulsion of limbs and offal from the roiling mass of combatants there was a silence in habited by blind rage.

  Warwick was arguing with someone on a radio in an attempt to bring the Blackhawks closer, but the pilots believed the mix of forces would make it impossible to avoid striking their own people. Finally, these had agreed to strike at the outer edges of Zakara’s people near and round the lip of the spring. However, Matt knew this wouldn’t do anything for them. Even now the wedge of flesh keeping the Trans forces from Matt, and it was Matt the force seemed bent upon, were perilously thin. Salt and Warwick, with the support of Coral, were attempting to draw Feargal back from the fighting, warning it was he they were after—but he wasn’t to be moved.

  Breaking away he dropped the RPG and weighed into the melee with his P90. All he need do was rally the force and push the centre back on itself and they could reach Zakara. Why, however, Botrous still wasn’t withdrawing remained unclear. Even as he was jettisoning his first clip, Salt had him by the shoulder. “Matt, he wants...” Jonah never finished. The abrupt sequestration made Feargal turn to the Meta. He was on the ground, holding his chest.

  “Jonah.” Bending down; joined by Coral.

  “He,” strangled out through the pain, “wants you Matt—that’s why he’s still here.”

  “He’s right,” Coral answered, “with Leonor gone you are his best chance at another child.” She was right, they both were, but that didn’t mean he was going to walk away. If he did nothing more, he was going to kill his father.

  With Leonor dead there was no way he could face China. With the child dead there did not seem much point in anything but revenge, and that was simple metres in front of him. If, by some miracle, Matt managed to survive there would be no way he could confront China without the death of Zakara—and he turned back to Jonah to explain. Coral was weeping. “He’s...”

  “Yes.” One less anchor in the world; one less reason not to take the fight to his father. Feargal didn’t have the strength for what was coming, though he’d the will. The leg wound was only superficial, but the shoulder wound—though a straight through and through—was bleeding badly. Even though there appeared to be no bone or ligature damage he could feel how badly the muscles were torn.

  The line broke and through this seethed a mass of Trans—not as large a mass as had struck down the centre when they’d begun but enough to drive Matt’s force back. The SAS disappeared beneath a wave of distorted, feral Grimm and Warwick, along with Coral, took several rounds to the head and chest. Feargal was sprayed with their blood and matter. Staggering back looking for support there were still members of Portland about—Lincoln, Prester, and Daniel. Though the latter had been injured and was still seeping through a bandaged forehead.

  Even now, though, Feargal could tell the breakthrough was losing momentum and the flanks were collapsing under the greater strength of his ad hoc alliance. But then there was Shea and Zakara surrounded by what Matt took to be his personal guard and the last of the Portland team went down, pierced by his mother’s tentacles. Now Matt was beginning to fade from blood loss, but he was just managing to hold onto consciousness and enough strength to reach for his P90. Several rounds chattered out before Shea knocked the device from his hand and tore it, straps and all, from his vest.

  Raising another above his head, Zakara yelled for the woman to stop and she halted the blow. Pulling her son in close, the Meta hissed. “She was mine. The first thing that was ever mine and you took her from me.” The hatred was without dimension and seemed to crush him under its weight—allowing Matt to droop lower in the embrace, Shea spat in his face. Wiping this, he looked up at her.

  “You failed—not the way I’d have had it, but the two of you have failed.”

  “Not yet,” Zakara smiled, “we still have you, and having you we have your genetic material. Not a perfect solution, but good enough to begin this process again.”

  Motioning Shea, the woman lifted Matt off the ground a metre and they turned their backs on him as they withdrew with their people from the field. Everywhere the Trans forces were retreating or overwhelmed, but there were too many, now, between his parents and the leaderless mob attempting to save Feargal. With no choice he pulled his third Harkins since Dilmun and drove this deep into Shea’s back. The woman shrieked and dropped him as she toppled forward. Landing hard Matt didn’t have the time to luxuriate in the pain but was up and racing at his father—whom had been slow in responding. The knife came down in a vicious arc, raking the elder’s face. With that Matt was pulled from Botrous and dragged from the field ahead of his injured, but still mobile, parents.

  ***

  Feargal remained more or less conscious as he was dragged from the field and down the ravine in the back of the mountain. Each time he thought to fade he was shaken or cuffed awake and forced forward down another twisting path. Everywhere the wall of the mountain was shear. More than once he almost toppled over the side—at least once one of the Metas ahead of them fell and the scream seemed to go on forever. He was certain this must have ended at some point, but he never did hear the abrupt conclusion. That could have been because he was expending what energy there was left him in staying vertical and conscious. There would have to be some way out of this mess—after all, he found it several times before. Each of these, nonetheless, were not quite so dire and he had a support mechanism to draw on.

  But Jonah, Roberto, and even Halton were gone. Coral and the better part, or all, of Portland was gone. The SAS were torn to pieces; the ad hoc Meta force seemed to have devolved into a mob and he could no longer hear the support aircraft. Why should any of them care? Leonor was dead and the opening for the Cinn had been
closed—game over. But that wasn’t the case, though most of them did not know it and the UN Security Council and the American DoD wouldn’t be certain what to believe. They could, actually, be busily constructing alternative narratives for what this all meant. Beyond all of these possibilities there was China. Where was she; what had happened to her; why had she left him alone?

  There was bitterness and self-pity in the thought which even Feargal could not let stand. Whatever was happening was what was happening—deal with it and in dealing reinvent self and purpose. There remained revenge; there remained China; the remained hope. Small—infinitesimally so, but an ember which needed to be blown on, fanned, coaxed alive with some dry straw. He’d had everything else taken but there remained that. And since they did not want him dead there would be opportunities as well. Shea was strong and violent, but she was also impatient, bitter, and lacking in any strategic sensibility. There was an edge in this and he’d have to find a way to exploit it.

  Then there was Shaitan. They were the opposite in all ways, but Zakara had been weakened by this evening’s failure and the desertion of most of his Trans and Meta followers when they’d found out what the sacrifice of Leonor was supposed to achieve.

  Though uncertain of the source, Feargal would have been willing to bet this had something to do with Shea—the woman could not keep her mouth shut about anything. Then his mother broken in over the thought. “It’s just up ahead.”

  “You’re certain—we cannot afford to go hunting about. The traitors will be close on us.” There was fear in his father’s voice and this was novel. In Dilmun he’d heard frustration and confusion at the spring, but now it was fear. He smiled to himself. “What’s so funny?” The old man asked through the bandage on his face.