The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “Thanks Jane.” Cawood walked away from Juanita and back to her chair. “I feel much better from my nap. Sister Powell and I were reliving our times at the mission at the Mexican Crater.”

  “Oh.” Jane smiled at Juanita. “It is nice to have friendship when the spirits are low,” she said now directly to Juanita, “Our Sister Cawood has not been herself lately.”

  The Mormon smiled at Cawood and then joined Jane at the door. “Don’t you worry.” She slid a reassuring hand over the secretary’s shoulder. “We’ll both keep a close eye on her.” She looked back at Karen. “She’s doing important work! All that divinity is wearing on a mortal.” Juanita winked and smiled. Cawood’s guilt was now firmly back in place and held there by Jane’s Catholic concern.

  “I’ll drop into your office later.” The nun smiled in a knowing way and nodded.

  “You will.” Juanita nodded slowly and then smiled at the secretary before leaving.

  Cawood looked at Jane and tried to cover her shame with words. “I want to thank you for looking out for me also. I’ve been involved in a project of some importance.”

  “With Reverend Stoneworthy!” Passion leapt into Jane’s eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it.” Jane took two steps in. It was now that Cawood noticed her secretary held an envelope in her hands. “I can always tell.” Jane looked to the ceiling, color coming into her cheeks. “Reverend Stoneworthy is such a passionate fellow.” She hugged her hands to her bosom as she entertained a secret notion. “He is such an inspiring man; don’t you think he would have made a great Catholic?”

  “He is a great friend to us,” Cawood said and nodded.

  “I like to watch him. When I can. His face. I imagine, it’s the way, well forgive me, but it’s a saintly face.” Jane’s eyes moistened with sorrow or lust. “And I like to watch what goes on behind it. He’s such a godly man. Seeing him I know there is hope for us.”

  “Of course there is.” Cawood dropped into her seat. “While there are people like Able around.”

  “Indeed. And your own good work, Sister,” Jane said. “Though he’s working you to death with his project I’d say…” Then she lifted the envelope in her hand. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten.” She walked toward the desk. “I’m unfamiliar with the return address but a courier dropped it by just moments ago. I didn’t want to disturb you with it, since you were poorly.” She squinted her eyes at the writing on the envelope as she paused before Cawood’s desk. “I don’t know it. The address. And the name...” She slid her glasses on and held it close. “Brother Raul, it says.” Jane’s expression was thoughtful. “Dear, do you suppose he’s a man of the cloth?”

  Blood rushed in Cawood’s ears. Distantly she heard Jane say, “My goodness! Oh, you look terrible I’ll go get water.”

  Cawood gasped for breath against the rising tide of darkness.

  25 – Special Arrangement

  Balg kept a lot of skulls in his office, and the majority of them were human. There were horned and fanged versions of exotic or otherworldly shape, but there was no doubt that human skulls were the Demon’s favorite. Skulls decorated the ends of table legs, served as decanters for liquor, and crowned the backs of the large wide chairs that sat on either side of the desk. Smoke issued from the eyes of a particularly large cranium that Balg used as an ashtray. A long brown Cuban cigar was thrust like a spear through a ragged hole in the temple.

  The Demon grinned at Felon with carnivore teeth. Moments before, Passport led the assassin up the stairs they had used to reach the Games Room and over an open companionway to a door facing the stern. The Demon’s assistant held it open for him, and then left. Balg was waiting.

  The Demon was dressed in a dark purple silk tuxedo. His horns were more pronounced than on the last occasion they met, and his nose seemed wider, more goat-like. The room itself was alternately shadowed and lit by numerous thick candles, giving it a murky quality that made discernment of the actual decor difficult. As the candles flickered, shapes would appear from the gloom: an ancient bust of a long dead Roman senator, and the face on a forgotten Rembrandt emerged from the deep dark shadow. The desk itself was massive, carved from a single chunk of some extinct species of tight-grained black wood.

  “Felon.” The Demon rose, flexing inhumanly broad shoulders. “Sorry I’m late. Success sucks. I’m always fucking working.” His eyes glowed momentarily. “Let me start by complimenting you on the professional job you worked on Stahn.” He clapped his taloned hands. “You are an artist. Honestly. A fucking artist. Please, please! Sit down.” The Demon gestured to the chair opposite his.

  Felon took the seat, half-turned, keeping his peripheral vision on the door.

  The Demon pointed to a large leather sack on the floor beside his desk. “Your payment and a bonus too, for carrying out your orders so fucking perfectly.” When Felon’s expression failed to change, or carry anything, Balg’s face drooped, and then flashed again into a hungry smile.

  “I’m sorry I’m doing things this way. I know you don’t like surprises.” Balg dropped back into his chair.

  Felon’s mind worked on a theme. Both Balg and Passport were using the word ‘surprise’ with a frequency worth notice. Something was up.

  The Demon continued, “I have something I would like to discuss with you, and since you are not in the habit of expressing gratitude with a friendly visit, I thought it would be wise to entice you to drop in by other means. I want to talk to you about killing an Angel.”

  Felon scowled, his eyes shifting to the shadowed corners of the room.

  “I just got back from a big meeting that I engineered myself, and claim full credit...” The Demon smiled wickedly across the desk, his pleasure evident. “As you know, the world has slowly divided into camps since the Change began. Groups of powerful beings, and families, organizations acting in cooperation with groups of influential humans: this that, it’s complicated. Deals are being made anyway.” His face fell into mock pathos. “And the killing, Felon—the killing…it has got to stop.” Balg’s eyes twinkled with crocodile tears.

  Felon eyed the Demon.

  Balg’s face flushed suddenly. “Like that fucker Stahn!” The Demon grimaced. “I guess that’s funny now that he ain’t fucking no more. But Stahn didn’t follow the rules. We had a deal, me and Stahn. What did he do?” The Demon laughed. “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about family.” Balg snatched up his cigar, snapped it between his teeth and dropped back into his chair. He puffed away, glowing eyes studying the assassin. Mirth and anger flickered about his bestial features.

  Felon watched the Demon in turn. He had long ago stopped trying to read their inner workings by their expressions. His greatest defense came from careful study of their body language and posture.

  Again, a tiger’s smile crossed the Demon’s face. His eyes glimmered with power. He laughed, powerful fingers pantomiming a piano in front of him. “You are a joy to watch, dear Felon—inscrutable Felon. You are buried fucking deep, and yet you give yourself away at times. Control fellow. Control. You hate too hard!” Balg straightened his muscular form and took a long pull on his cigar.

  “Now, where was I? As you know, there have been warring factions in the world, certainly the power center seems to be the City, but the wars have gone on long enough. Especially, the Angel conflict that has been going on over two thousand years—good versus evil, all that.” The Demon chuckled maniacally. “And only since the Change has the war been able to leak across onto the earth. And we Demons have been caught in the middle from time to time—for no fault of our own, of course. And as you know we are considered different by both of the Divine factions.

  “I have just now come from a meeting with very influential Fallen. They also have difficulty with the constant conflict that goes on between the three groups—I mean four counting mankind.” Balg chuckled as he stubbed his cigar out. “Now, Fallen they break into three big families. One directed by the former world champion Lucifer. Ther
e’s a rumor that he hit bottom—just lost it. Anyway, his old gang is strictly into turf control. They just want out of the scrapping. I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. And I don’t care, because they recognize turf… Do you understand that Felon? Turf?” Balg pounded his desk.

  Felon glared.

  “So, Lucifer and his boys are running a skid row deal down in the sewers under the City, if you can believe that. Repenting some say, but I don’t believe it! Someone told me he gave his fortune away to charity. I think he drank it.” Balg’s eyes glowed. “So, those guys are right into the Holy Compact thing and repentance and all that. You know the deal they got with Heaven.”

  Balg continued. “So they made their own Bible if you can believe that, and they go by it. Let’s call it Epistle Envy. Whatever, the other two gangs of Fallen not directly under the control of Saint Lucifer are still bound by the Compact and don’t want to piss off the Dark Prince, who still commands the majority at least you know, he’s a figurehead. And everyone’s a bit twitchy about the whole wrath of God thing, which is supposed to happen if the Compact is subverted.

  “Us Demons, we have latitude when it comes to the Compact. Hell, some of us are Catholics…but we have latitude since we pre-date the whole Christian thing. So, some of these Fallen have watched how Demons work, and they like what they see.” Balg chuckled. “I have my own superiors to answer to just like you. But they’re very easy to buy, if they notice this shit at all. Demons are different. You know that.” He cleared his throat. “We have a hierarchy of advancement, once you get made, you can go up the chain. There’s a King of Demons but you know he’s really more interested in his take and getting some poontang… I know the guy, he’s nuts for pussy. All he thinks about!”

  Balg shifted in his chair. A grin spread across his powerful cheeks. “Myself, I want advancement. I’m a Baron, but I’ve been a Baron for about four hundred years. It’s time to move up.” He chuckled at the irony. “Well, upward—so to speak. But, there are two Fallen with a great deal of power running the other gangs I mentioned. And it came to me that perhaps we could work a deal. Talks began three decades ago. And I just got back from a meeting now.” He took a breath. “I understand you have worked for Fallen in the past? One named Kest hired you to whack one of his boys.”

  “Liars,” Felon hissed. “Cheats.” Kest had deducted a Voided Soul-Procurement Clause Tax. It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t in the agreement. Of course, as Kest pointed out, it wasn’t out of it either—unless Felon wanted to reactivate the clause.

  “Hey, you ever eat out with them. It’s like perdition. They take so fucking long figuring out tips…I just whip out the wad and pay it, you know. It’s embarrassing. But they are powerful. I will be the first to admit it. And they are made of the same stuff as...” Balg set the clawed fingers of one hand against his lips and pointed upward. “So I couldn’t ignore the possibilities of what might come up from an alliance with them. Fallen I spoke to, know of you, and understand our relationship. So I decided to offer them a gift of good faith.”

  “Faith!” Felon spat; already his reluctance to deal with Fallen was rising.

  “For a sum that you can pick, I want you to do a number on a certain Angel from the Celestial Choir. Now, he is of minor importance in Heaven—barely more than a fucking cherub, okay? And his behavior is hardly worthy of an Angel—the hypocritical bastards. But it is possible that a certain group of his contemporaries up there is not in direct opposition to the thoughts, feelings and aspirations of all Fallen. They are all brothers. You know, it’s family. It’s a family fucking deal.

  “This particular Angel is privy to some of the dealings and discussions that have gone on. Some of which meetings I’ve already mentioned. So he is a guardian Angel gone bad who’s having an affair with a human woman. He fell in love—supposedly.” Balg’s eyes flashed white rings of disbelief. “If he were to get whacked in a compromising situation then any testimony that he has given or could have given will be suspect. And his mouth will be shut. My friends within the Fallen ranks, and their friends among the Divine, will have an annoyance out of the way, and will have acquired trust and good faith with the Demons under my command. Which is good for me. And, in the long run, good for you.”

  Felon sipped his drink. Killing Angels was dangerous work—this deal sounded complicated—might be a swan song. He wouldn’t want to push his luck after it.

  “Deposit $3 million in cash in an account of my choosing,” Felon said. “Put $2 million in gold ingots in a safety deposit box upon completion of the job.” He contemplated asking for Infernal protection after the hit; but knew that no one could be trusted.

  Balg laughed long and loud, stroking his horns as he howled. “Felon! I thought you were getting soft.” The Demon pounded the desk. “Done!” He reached out to Felon; the assassin stood, reluctantly took his hand. “Passport got the papers drawn up—we’ll just fill in the blanks and arrange the finances before you leave.”

  “When do you want it done?” Felon turned to go.

  “Tomorrow morning, at eleven!” Balg raised his hand. “I’m sorry for the specific timeframe, but we know he’ll be at his girlfriend’s and his guard will be down. Fuck he won’t see it coming and then me and my associates can go to the next stage in our plans. The easiest money you’re ever going to make.”

  Felon almost protested. Twenty-three hours made it dangerous. No time to plan. He’d set it up. If things weren’t safe, he could abort. No one would complain. And it was worth taking his time. He knew that once this job was out of the way, he’d have to disappear for a while—maybe retire. He’d be too hot to do anything else.

  “Wurn will take you back to the mainland.” Balg’s face was a mask of joyous teeth. The door opened, Passport entered. “See to the paperwork first.”

  Passport nodded, made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Felon waited for the gangly secretary to leave and followed him from the office.

  26 – Tea Party

  Dawn was playing quietly with some plastic cups and saucers she’d found while exploring their hideout. They were tucked away in a box with other junk from the old days. She jumped at the chance to have a tea party, but had quickly grown bored with it. Mr. Jay always encouraged her to play because he said that the happiest people he knew were young at heart. And, he would add, somebody had to remember how to be a real kid, in case real kids ever returned and needed to know. So, her mind was bouncing from childish notion to adult idea—and getting excited about Nurserywood and real tea parties when she heard something rattle and click in the hall outside.

  She blew out the candle that sputtered on the table, and hurried to her cubbyhole, slid the door into place and flipped the slat to lock it. She sat in the dark, terror clutching at her heart as the doorknob to the hallway rattled and then roughly turned. The squeaking of old hinges followed. Then there were little creaks and knocking noises—as something entered, and whispery sounds like dry leaves rattling in the wind. Her breath was coming in rapid little bites and big gulps and she started to feel a little dizzy. Calm down. The grownup voice in her head warned. Slow your breathing. One. Two. Three…

  She had pulled her quilt over her and was just doing what the voice had suggested, when the door to her cubbyhole started rattling and banging against the wall. Oh, Mr. Jay! Panic flashed through Dawn. The fine hair on her arms stood on end. The door rattled and banged again and then fell into a silent and quiet state that was far more terrifying.

  “Hey kid,” a youthful voice said finally—it was childlike but had a raspy edge of weariness. “Kid. Come on out. We won’t hurt you, and we don’t have time for this.”

  Dawn’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart thumped in her ears.

  “Come on,” the whisper continued after a few silent seconds. “We ain’t got time for chitty chats or pitty pats or patty cakes!”

  Dawn was startled when a quiet chorus of whispered laughter followed—that ran louder until a shushing sound silenced it.


  “We ain’t got time,” the voice insisted, followed by much mechanical clicking and rattling that sounded like machinery. “We’re here to help you.” There was more whispering, and the hushing sound. “Kid. We’re just like you so don’t be worried. We know you’re spooked, but you don’t have to fill your diaper.”

  “Diaper!” Dawn blurted, before clapping a hand over her mouth. She heard giggling outside and then harsh whispered words.

  “Enough!” the voice hissed as the door to the cubbyhole shook briefly and was still. “Look out at least if you can.” Then the voice went quiet. “Here, give a sec…”

  Dawn cautiously approached the door. With small fingers she slid the little wooden flap aside that hid her peephole. There was only darkness. Dim gray lines showed the edges of the boarded up windows—but the gloom was heavy and trended to black shadows. Suddenly, a match flared blindingly. It swooped up through the air, illuminating a hand, a set of rough clothes on a small body, the shoulders bulky, the arms and legs knobby with padding. The match’s orange yellow light traveled upward until it hovered in front of a small face—a forever child, a girl with freckles and curly hair and big round eyes. She was perhaps pre-Change nine but still about Dawn’s height and weight. The flame suddenly flared as the girl lit a cigarette. She pulled it out of her mouth with her free hand and then smiled.

  “There! You see? I’m a kid too!” And then: “Shit!” the girl cried out as the match burned down to her fingers and she threw it to the ground where it went out. There was giggling and then a string of angry curses as the girl scolded. There was a sudden multitude of wooden scratching sounds, this time echoing all about the hideout as six new flames sparked to life and traveled up to reveal as many other forever children.

  There were an equal number of boys and girls. Their ages ranged from six to something near eleven or twelve the biggest: one broad shouldered boy in handmade armor and padding wearing a wide metal hat. Across from him to the right of the girl with curly hair was a little boy, the smallest. He was wearing a brass helmet like some kind of museum piece—its fluted edges curled down over his narrow shoulders and swept up over his covered forehead. A welded grid of flat metal straps like a basket hid his face. His left hand looked monstrous like some lethal flower. Its five sharp petals were shiny knife blades almost as long as the boy’s arm. The small fist that held them was covered with a padded hockey glove and well bound up with heavy layers of duct tape and wire.