The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  All the other kids held cutting weapons too, and from straps and belts hung guns of various sizes and shapes.

  “Come on, we have to go,” the girl with the curly hair insisted. She blew a stream of smoke into the darkness overhead. “Toffers and Sheps are coming.” The girl read Dawn’s unspoken question. “Truant Officers and Shepherds—their dog-things have picked up your scent.”

  Dawn’s hands reached out of their own accord and pulled the latch free to unlock her door. She pushed it aside and stepped out.

  The kids’ eyes went wide and round and swept over her form.

  “She’s got no weapons,” a tall girl in helmet and pigtails said.

  “She’s dressed like a kid,” said the big boy with the wide steel hat. “A real fucking Squeaker!”

  Dawn found the scrutiny unnerving. Her hands self-consciously smoothed the material of her little jumpsuit as she searched for something to say. A few wooden matches suddenly flickered to the floor as new ones were struck to life. A second later, the remaining matches were doused and replaced.

  “My name is Dawn,” she said finally. Her voice sounded soft and childlike compared to these rough characters.

  “I’m Liz,” the curly haired girl growled, flicking her cigarette to the ground. “We got to get you out of here.” She looked nervously at the door. They’d closed it after entering. “The Toffers are coming and they got Sheps, meaning they’ll get right on you. Last we saw them—they weren’t none of them wearing their people skins.”

  Dawn shook her head. She didn’t know what a Toffer was or a Shep, and she sure wasn’t going to just leave Mr. Jay because some girl told her too, no matter how rough and tumble she looked.

  “I can’t leave,” she said, finally. “I’m waiting for Mr. Jay.” Then an idea struck her. “Maybe he can help you.”

  “Maybe he can help you!” the other kids parroted, making their voices sound silly and childish. A chorus of quiet giggling followed.

  “Shut up!” Liz hissed angrily. “The Creature said she was different…”

  But she fell silent as something went through the group. Some kind of shared sense traveled over their bodies that even Dawn felt: like a cold chill on a damp morning.

  Then the little boy with the murderous hand crouched, his head click side to side, and his tiny shape flitted across the hideout toward the door.

  “Conan careful!” Liz hissed after him. “They’re here.”

  And Dawn’s breath went out as the kids extinguished their matches and plunged the room into total darkness. She took a terrified step backward, but stopped when a small hand, Liz’s, grabbed onto her arm. She tried to speak—but another hand cupped her mouth and pointed her head toward the door.

  A red glow had appeared in the hall outside, tracing the door’s edges with sickly light. Dawn watched as a brighter focus of light grew and searched at the lower edge of the door, slid its febrile glow on the floorboards there. Then it drew away, and plunged the room into darkness again.

  The fingers gripping Dawn’s arm dug into the flesh until she wanted to scream, but her fear silenced her.

  Suddenly the door split up the middle and splintered inward. Dawn was pulled against the wall as gunfire erupted from the corners—sent a flashing hail of bullets at the impossibly tall men who charged in.

  They wore heavy armor, bulky over chest and shoulders—their legs were hidden by hanging sheets of thick material that seemed to sweep up from the ground to large collars that hid their faces. Black-visored caps sat atop their bullet-shaped heads. The first one in fell on his face—the bright flashes apparently eating into his silhouette as he dropped. But more of them entered, charging over his falling body.

  Liz’s eyes were wild in the violent flickering light. She held Dawn’s arm tightly in one hand and fired a pistol with the other. She dragged the forever girl along the wall away from the intruders. The air crackled around them, hissed with hot gunfire and roared with pain and anger.

  Dawn watched the little boy, Conan, rush at the invaders’ legs, slashing and jabbing with his curious weapon—chopping at the thick forest of legs around him. His little black shape moved too quickly to see.

  Then the tall men, screaming and crying in pain, fell back—dropped into the hallway.

  Liz’s fingers dug into her, seemed to have reached bone as the room fell silent and dark. There was a muffled thump, then blinding explosion.

  Green lights jazzed her vision. She stumbled. Her ears were ringing. She felt cold hands suddenly on her: biting nails, rough skin ripping over her own. She opened her eyes to red light. Strange men without faces loomed. And something panted near her ear—stank of dogs and blood. Faraway she heard the sound of gunfire—then there was only darkness.

  27 – Reckoning

  Cawood’s breath came in hot gulps—her heart raced. …deliver the souls in Purgatory, especially those for whom we now pray… She could barely stand; her legs trembled so. Distantly she wondered if a person could die of shame. Her face and head throbbed like sunstroke—and her shoulders hung from a brittle spine. Cawood stood by the window in her Sunsight office. A still photo from the movie was in her hand. Processed quickly, the black and white image was unmistakable. The nun quickly saw that Raul had chosen the most damning of frames. It wouldn’t matter if the rest of the exchange were captured or not. The picture in her hand was the end of her life here. It showed her in relative close up, talking and smiling—it looked like she was talking. She had no idea what she had said but on either side of her face, throbbing and repulsive, was a male erection: one white, one black.

  When she realized what she was looking at, it had been enough; the sick guilt drove her to the heavy-paned window—and since she had contemplated the worst… Was she prepared for Mortal sin? It would make her an enemy of God for eternity. No atonement. Was she ready to up the stakes of her self-destruction? Make it permanent.

  There were other offices that had balconies. There were service hatches. The fall would kill her, and what came out of Blacktime would be utter damnation.

  Or had she developed an unquenchable thirst for shame? It wasn’t self-preservation that stayed her had. Were the masochistic possibilities of disclosure so attractive? Punish me! Burn me at the stake! It didn’t matter what she was saying in the movie. Whatever profundity the blurred eyes attempted to expound was lost by the abject obscenity of the act. Her arms went slack, swung down, the picture staining the constant black of her dress.

  What was she saying? Hurt me? Whatever the words were, she knew that the gist was: look at me. Hate me. Despise the whore. I am not worthy of the office I hold. Kill me! Let me go! Her stomach lurched. It was clear to her that regardless of the movie’s length, her life ended with the frame in her hand. Anything else was just dirt on her grave.

  Was this proof of a split personality? She’d contemplated it before. Insane. She must be insane. She couldn’t be possessed. She didn’t share Able’s craving for action heroes. Her behavior suggested two personalities and that was mental illness. But could she claim such separation, for hadn’t she taken great pleasure from the lust in men’s eyes as they coveted her? When she thought of Juanita earlier—did she not wish to take the Mormon’s clothes off and lavish her body with kisses? It was too easy to blame a separate part of herself for sinning. As though someone else had enjoyed the night.

  For her memories of the men, despite the depravity, gave her hot and carnal sensations—even now? Those men might have put something in her drink, but why was she there? Was she hoping someone would?

  It was true she had left the church spiritually—but last night, the movie, that was something wrong. That was a sickness and the drugs. And if it was not drugs, then the film was not pornography so much as it was confession. Could it be that even in her sickest state, she had recognized her illness, and this movie was a cry for help? Run from sin!

  That’s too easy! She wanted to rage. Her immortal soul was not something out of a psychology textbook! H
er sins were not the cry for help that fit so comfortably in a sociological viewpoint. She had sinned! Damn it! And now, she had destroyed her life! Cawood looked at the sky—pellucid blue and promising. She raised a fist and hissed, “Why did you do this to me?” As the words left her, tears welled up in her eyes and she sank against the glass.

  “Why did you leave me?” She mumbled, sliding down to gather in a heap beside the window. “I loved you…” And tears dripped from her eyes. “I gave my life to you.”

  And the note with the picture said what? The men she’d sinned with knew she was the Sister—the other Tower Builder. She and Able had been minor celebrities near the end of its construction. She must have made that clear to them or they had recognized her. They wanted money for silence. The mere notion made her want to vomit again. Money? But she knew that whatever was paid would never be enough. It would start with the amount they quoted then increase. And she knew that ultimately, the movie would surface. It would be worth more to the newspapers and the media. And the kind of betrayal in it provoked revulsion even in the meanest of criminals. Such powerful hypocrisy would be hard to contain. That was the depth of her sin. Even criminal minds would find her abhorrent.

  She and Able occasionally dealt with the press. They were called upon to attend charity functions, and speak at gatherings—they continued to raise money for the Tower, for the great works it underwrote. When would Sister Karen Cawood be brought down?

  She began to wonder whether suicide was truly the greater sin. Her life was over anyway. How could she minimize the damage? She would have to leave. Maybe that was it. There was the mission at the New Mexican crater. She could talk to her superiors before this became public. That way it would diminish the impact. It wouldn’t hurt so many at the Tower if she were gone. She got to her feet.

  With your bright and open heart forgive me for showing darkness to the light.

  Cawood took two steps and froze. It was over, and somewhere inside her; she felt sadness but resolution. At least she wouldn’t hurt her friends anymore. Not after this last great convulsion she’d cause them. Then there’d be no more. She moved to her desk, opened the top drawer, put the picture in and shut it away. She didn’t bother with the key. Her hypocrisy needed stronger locks than that. It was too late.

  She walked toward her office door, paused there a moment. Her nausea was gone. She no longer felt dizzy. The nun had been schooled in resignation if nothing else. The church had taught her how to take a beating. She would tell Able after she had contacted her superiors. She wouldn’t bother showing them the picture. There was no point to that. That would just be masochism, forcing herself to squirm while some church Father or Mother Superior viewed her sins. Then she relented. They’d have to see it. Better by her own hand. By now, she had traveled so far away from self-preservation that she didn’t care about the thoughts of peers she’d leave behind. I have sinned against you…

  Worst was the problem with Able. How could she tell him? Cawood glanced at her watch. The day had slipped by as she faded in and out of her cloud of guilt. Able would still be in the Tower. He’d have to wait. She’d be better prepared for him later, after she had talked to her superiors. But tonight, at the latest, so she could avoid his ridiculous mission. She had to tell him the truth.

  28 – The Hunt

  Felon sat in a rental car up the street from 232 Towerview Terrace, Level Four. The car was a wreck. He had paid a large cash deposit and used forged driver’s license and identification to drive it off the Level One lot. It was an old Ford, a rusty Pinto from a pre-Change seventies fad that had struck the City in the post-Change sixties. Felon knew that it was worth considerably less than the down payment but with the extra green, the dealership would be less inclined to miss it and might not even look for the heap if it didn’t return. And he’d always found that if you paid well people rarely asked probing questions. He didn’t quibble about the money, it was the cost of doing business, and this job was going to make him wealthy.

  The afternoon was dark—it was always dark in the City. He wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood, get a glimpse of his prey.

  From his hunter’s blind he had watched people come and go. It had rained off and on all day, beyond the layers of concrete, asphalt and steel that made up the levels above. At its highest point, the City was six layers thick and was well into adding its seventh. There didn’t seem to be any plan to construction. The City just added neighborhoods when they were needed. There was still a constant influx of refugees from the failing inland cities and states, and the wealthy from around the world had begun to make the trip, paying enormous sums of money for Sunsight apartments in the upper reaches. It wasn’t progress. Felon knew it was decay. The City was an expensive refugee camp for the survivors of all that was left of North America. There were similar cities on the other continents—fancy catch basins. They didn’t know they were fucked.

  The assassin sneered and looked out at a fine mist that hung in the air. Runoff and any rain that got through the Carapace poured down road, building and Skyway gutters to collect in vastly inadequate and aging sewer systems on successive levels. These were originally designed to channel the descending torrents of water to the sewers that ran beneath the City—from there out to the sea. But, the sewers weren’t designed for such growth, and were incapable of keeping up with the vast quantities of precipitation that fell. So the water seeped through cracks and holes in this overtaxed system to form a dirtier and rustier rain that fell on the level below where the process was repeated.

  It added a steely gray dampness to the cold air and darkened the street in puddles. The chill leached up through the tires, the car frame and into Felon’s bones. He resisted the urge to run the heater—exhaust was like a smoke signal—and he was already running a risk with a cigarette. His prey was partly omniscient so any activity was dangerous. 232 Towerview Terrace was about one hundred feet up the block from him. This Level Four neighborhood would consider itself upscale. He imagined there was a time that you could see the Tower from the street. Now it was completely obscured by buildings and massive supports for Level Five. The monolith punched through Level Five about thirty blocks to the south. The view was gone now but must have been impressive before the upper level was clamped into place.

  People trudged past through sporadic drizzle. It was rare to see anyone hurry through the perpetual wet anymore. It was going to get you sometime. Umbrellas and hat brims sagged against the onslaught. Raincoats glistened like polished steel.

  The assassin hated the people who passed. He took grim pleasure wishing each one dead. They were losers, every one—unredeemable. Divine and Infernal creatures were right to view them with contempt. The human race had been was destroying the planet before the Change came, gearing up for a manmade apocalypse. The assassin hated that part of the Change; by robbing humanity of the responsibility for its own destruction it let the hypocrites off the hook. He shrugged his hatred away, useless hate. If the situation developed fast, he’d have to be free of emotion. Hating people was like a shunt for his passions. He had to be clean of feeling—sometimes if he hated hard enough, he needed a cigarette after.

  He tossed his cigarette out the window. Even its sizzle in the damp street concerned him. But with the pedestrians and the raucous traffic he doubted his quarry could stand being so finely attuned. Setting a hand on his gun, he lit a fresh cigarette, bared his teeth through the smoke.

  Felon turned to the papers on the seat beside him. Margaret Travers. Age (Pre-Change): 37. Height: 5’ 8”, Weight: 130 lbs., Hair: Brown, Eyes: Green. Felon pulled her picture out. Pale, a few freckles around the nose. Full lips. Slight overbite. She was employed as a paralegal for Divine & Fair Law, a firm that represented the Jehovah’s Witness offices in Archangel Tower. Travers had worked with them off and on for forty years, and acted as temp secretary for offices of other world religions in the Tower.

  The assassin imagined her Angel boyfriend putting the moves on her there. A lit
tle cinnamon smell to the air—a sprinkling of cologne. No woman would be able to resist a Divine creature’s powers.

  He looked up from the papers, glared at the buildings. Travers owned one of the unimaginative condominiums that lined both sides of the street. Hers had seven green steps that led up to the two-story brick structure. The number and mailbox were brass, as was an ornate knocker on the dark wooden door and railing that followed the steps up to it. The file said she worked until 5 p.m., sometimes ate at Daniel’s Cafe but most often made dinner for herself at home. She was punctual person with a penchant for rock climbing and bicycling.

  Felon set a cautionary note next to the rock climbing. Since death was no longer permanent with the Change, most people avoided thrill seeking, since living death was everyone’s worst nightmare, especially a death by massive trauma—like a fall from a cliff. After Blacktime, the unconscious period between life and living death, bones and contusions did not heal. There were surgical and repair techniques that could fix broken bones and skeletal injuries, but few people took the chance of dying lightly. Travers was a risk taker and she could be dangerous. He’d he cap her fast.

  Felon set the file down. Most likely, Travers didn’t know her boyfriend was an Angel. When one of the Divine or Infernal host walked the earth, he did so as a mortal for the duration of his stay. Powerful—but mortal. And mortality bred cowardice among the immortal. While they walked the earth, they could catch colds, sprain an ankle or be seriously compromised by a high caliber bullet. They retained a large percentage of their Divine powers of perception, and they had immense strength. If they had the time to shift into their Divine forms they were invincible.