The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “As such, the Creature is entrusted with their care,” she smiled and stepped down from her chair to the plated floor. She moved toward the man. The Creature was twelve and a half when the Change came and had been locked for a century in a body that was not a child and that was not an adult. She believed this suspension between realities was what gave her the gift of sight. “But she has long awaited your coming, as have they. You are a dubious guest, Mr. Jay, for her visions say you offer the end of something and the beginning of something.” She smiled and let her hands fall at her sides. “But the Creature sees that this is life.”

  Mr. Jay shook his head and opened his arms. The Creature felt a troubled mood cloud his mind. “I am not responsible for the way the wind blows. I just have to get Dawn back and get the hell out of the City.” He looked around saying, “If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”

  “The Creature understands and sees that,” the Creature said, drawing near and looking up. She was just under five feet tall. “But she did not foresee it.” The word “foresee” echoed around the circular room. “Which is disturbing to her.”

  “I’m finished with the City once I get Dawn,” the magician said and shrugged. “You know the weight of responsibility.” The word “responsibility” echoed, his eyes looked up nervously. “It was a great weight I carried at another time.” He looked down at his hands. “And I will not carry more than Dawn.”

  “Indeed,” the Creature said, pausing to meet Conan’s armored gaze up close. So calm my young friend, she smiled at him. Your tears smell like freedom, little brother. And tears entered her eyes again. Taking Mr. Jay’s hand she drew him to the center of the circular floor by her chair.

  “The Creature sees that this is the truth you hope to realize,” she said to the magician, looking up and smiling before continuing. “But as one who has carried responsibility, you know our hopes rarely match reality.”

  “Hope,” echoed among the children.

  “And we tend to forget fate at such times,” she whispered, dropping her guest’s hand and bowing. “How can we help you, Mr. Jay?”

  His face had gone ashen at the word “fate,” but he quickly regained his composure. “I need to know about the Orphanage. I have to get Dawn out of there.”

  The word “Dawn” followed the gathered circle of children. The Creature smiled as she looked into the ageless faces.

  39 – The Marquis

  Tiny watched Bloody through the dripping golden arms of a candelabra and he shook his head disgusted. Ever since his murder, the gunman was impossible to live with.

  Bloody’s skin was waxy and gray. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of scarred and scratched sunglasses. The hair that grew to his collar was greasy—now matted with dirt, straw and what looked like shards of red brick. Tiny glared across the table at Driver. The Texan had promised to tidy Bloody up for the meeting with the Marquis. But it was obvious that he’d only brushed the dust off him.

  “Now, Tiny…” Driver smiled nervously over the rim of his wineglass, and smirked when his naturally carefree demeanor kicked in. “Don’t go givin’ me your looks!” He set his glass down, lit a cigarette. “Let’s don’t spoil it. I ain’t buckled up to a feed like this in years!”

  Tiny looked down the length of the table. The setting was splendid. It reminded them of the all-you-can eat buffet days before the Change.

  The Marquis’ home was a big brick mansion circled with a tall wrought iron fence in one of the gated neighborhoods on Level Four of the City of Light. The ride there had taken some dizzying turns on the Skyway, but Driver’s Nova SS easily handled the soaring strips of blacktop. These Skyways swept the City’s population from place to place hugging the underbelly of the Level above only to swoop down at reckless speeds to the Level below. There were hair-raising turnpikes and overpasses that dropped a hundred feet on each side of a double lane. Driver loved it.

  They parked around back then entered through the building’s brass double doors. They knew the mansion’s layout, had enjoyed its comforts in times past. There were mirrors everywhere, and all the furnishings were either antique or replicas of 18th Century designs. Every pillar, every cornice carried carved grapevines and angels. The butler showed them to the dining room, told them to refresh themselves and await the Marquis.

  “Don’t worry, Tex.” Tiny picked up his pale glass of Chardonnay, sipped it. “I won’t spoil your fun. But look at him.” He gestured to Bloody’s startling face. “You said you’d spruce him up—looks like you dug him up.”

  “Well, I just started gettin’ the creeps…” Driver’s blue eyes sparkled—his dark eyebrows forming an arc of dismay. He looked over at the dead man. “Bloody, you got to get into the swing of things. You can’t sit there starin’ like a goddamn zombie, askin’ us to wait on every hand and foot.” Driver turned to Tiny and whispered. “Well did you expect I was goin’ to put curlers in his hair? I ran a brush over his head. I ain’t no hairstylist nor any sweetheart dustin’ off his clothes.” The Texan’s eyes flashed with grim humor. “Goddamn it Tiny, I noticed you weren’t linin’ up to lend a hand.” He grabbed a formed fish-turkey leg off his plate, loaded it with chili peppers and tore a strip off it with his teeth. “You a bossy som’bitch.”

  “Rude.” Bloody’s voice suddenly creaked like dry leather.

  His companions looked at him, startled, then at each other.

  “Rude?” Driver masked his surprise with a liberal mouthwash of wine.

  “Talking.” Bloody’s purple-gray lips were granite.

  “Oh, you’re right, Bloody. It isn’t polite to talk with you sitting there,” Tiny said, eyeing the gunman. “Course you could get involved in the conversation and stop acting like a bag of rotten bones.”

  “Damn you son of a bitch.” Driver leaned forward, pointed. “Sittin’ there listening like the C-fucking-I-fucking-A. You got nerve!” The Texan dropped his fish-turkey leg. “Here I am thinkin’ you’re dead and gone, and you’re sitting there eavesdroppin’. And me in the car combing your goddamned hair!” He angrily lit another cigarette. “You must’a had a hoot!”

  “You should know better, Bloody.” Tiny piped up now. “You and your self-pity make me sick. You’re out in the driving shed drinking and crying like a baby while Driver and me rack our brains for a way to make a living. We ain’t crying for you.” Tiny caught Driver’s surprised expression. “You got yourself killed, and you’re wallowing in pig shit and whisky.”

  “Christ yes, Bloody.” Driver’s fingers clenched near his armpits where his guns nestled. They always twitched like that when his temper was up. “Take a bath. Get a new jacket. Christ you smell. You said once that the sorriest piece of shit on the planet was a man who lived in the past. Well you’re a sorry piece of shit.”

  “Amen, brother.” Tiny toasted Driver.

  Bloody’s frame convulsed, his lips pursed, and then his neck bulged like he was going to vomit. He said—his voice a seizure, “Forgive Felon.”

  “That’s fine. I’m glad you got religion.” Tiny looked over at Driver. The Texan was digging into his food again.

  Bloody’s forgiving Felon could mean anything. The gunman’s temper usually followed on the heels of his feelings. In the years they had known him, Bloody had forgiven a lot of people, in a way that earned him his nickname.

  When they had first told him where they were going, he stood there staring through his sunglasses. Driver had picked the location, on the highway north about four hours out from the farmhouse. It was still hours to catch a ferry across the Mississippi Sea. The long straight stretch of highway took them along the west coast of the cold haunted body of water.

  The Texan had pulled off the road and drove about a quarter of a mile over prairie grass. They got out, and motioned for Bloody to follow. Tiny kept his hand on his gun the whole time. The dead gunman moved automatically without any sign of caring. He came to a halt finally, listing to one side, about twenty yards from the car. Driver, dressed in tough black
military pants, shirt, boots and trench coat, took ten paces to the northwest and Tiny, in gray, took ten to the southwest. The Texan turned and stood with the casual pose of a gunman. His twin automatics poked out of their shoulder holsters. His hands were crossed at his waist.

  “Bloody, you’ve had a hard go.” The wind had snatched at Tiny’s voice. “But, it’s time we get back to work. We want you to ride with us. But we’re not sure about you.”

  The dead gunman’s head had tilted forward. The wind tore at his filthy hair. Both of his friends recognized the stance. Bloody paused like that before he started killing. He relaxed both shoulders for the draw, and giant bullets would start blowing things apart.

  At the motion, Tiny took his stance—legs relaxed, one hand in the front pocket of his overcoat. He’d tilt the gun barrel up instead of drawing it. A smaller weapon with a lighter grain of bullet would have done the job. But Tiny was nostalgic. A .357 magnum fired at that angle with a single hand could snap his wrist. But the salesman had a trick. He’d do a drop dive, if it came to shooting—kick both legs forward and hit the ground firing over his knee. He had to get the gun up to take most of its kick along his elbow. Dangerous, but the situation was a sticky one. Driver nodded when he caught his eye.

  “Bloody!” Tiny shouted. They both knew Bloody was a straight shot, and being dead, was impossible to kill. The .45 Colt didn’t have to be all that accurate. Those big bullets could take an arm off. “We’ve got a job with Felon!” He waited a second, watched the dead man for any hint of recognition. “He can make us rich if we ride with him. Driver and me want to do it. Are you in?”

  Bloody didn’t move. Tiny focused his energy along his thigh muscles and down into his calves. He had learned the technique forty years before from a karate teacher. The salesman kept himself in excellent shape, and in the years he’d spent after the Change he had learned to discipline both body and mind. He had to be hard and fast to survive. Bloody was a shining example of what happened if you got slack.

  “What’s it goin’ to be?” Driver had bellowed, the wind plucking at his words.

  “Forgive,” Bloody croaked.

  “What?” Tiny shouted back.

  “Forgive Felon.” Bloody’s voice was a broken thing to listen to.

  Tiny and Driver had looked at each other then, and decided to go with it. Guns would have blazed if Bloody was against working for Felon. They got back in the Nova, drove to the ferry and went east from there. Bloody lapsed back into silence. Tiny had instructed Driver to take them to the Marquis’ La Maison du Porc where they were expected.

  “So you’re goin’ to forgive him?” Driver asked as he dug into a pile of potatoes. “Don’t get yourself killed again.” Tiny and Driver knew Bloody’s trigger finger. And he killed when he started feeling too much. But Felon could take care of himself.

  “Hush now.” Tiny raised his glass. “Someone’s coming.”

  The ornate doors at the end of the dining room swung open and away from them. A dwarf in red silk knickers, stockings and waistcoat rushed in with powder flying from his wig. He held a long brass trumpet. Pressing it to his lips he blew once then barked: “Rise! Rise for the Marquis de la ville de la lumière! La dame de la maison du porc!”

  And the Marquis entered. He dressed as an eighteenth century French noblewoman. His gown was a richly embroidered and lacy bell embossed with glistening jewels. Upon his head was a tall powdered wig of curls, graced at the top with an arching tiara of diamonds. His face was powdered sugar white scarcely disguising his booze-veined nose. The Marquis’ cheeks and eyes were similarly highlighted in brilliant rouge and garish peacock. His ancient chest was powdered and puffed, and poked like a broken fence over the dress’s plunging neckline. His withered throat was accented with a strip of purple silk that exactly matched his dress’s embroidery. He batted his rheumy eyes. They were flat and pale. The old transvestite fluttered a golden fan under his nose.

  “Bonjour mes amis!” the Marquis trumpeted as he fanned his corded throat. “How wonderful to have you gentlemen for entertainment.”

  Tiny rose after his glass. Driver did the same—Bloody lapsed into corpse-like stillness. “A toast gentlemen!” Tiny smiled with all his might. “To the lovely Marquis.”

  The Texan hoisted his glass and murmured, “Charmed.”

  “Tiny!” The Marquis used a fake French accent. “You are the consummate roué as always!” He fluttered forward in silk slippers. Tiny took his hand and kissed the wrinkled knuckles.

  “As beautiful as always, Marquis.” Tiny knew the man’s moods. Inside he felt an overwhelming urge to shoot the old pervert but the Marquis was one of the City’s most powerful and dangerous gangsters. “You make it worth the trip.”

  “Thank you, Tiny.” He flashed his eyes over his open fan. “I was twice your age and more before the Change. And yet, the times have not changed so much that flattery has ceased to work upon a lady.” He looked over at Driver.

  Tiny knew that Driver’s Republican soul had some trouble with the Marquis’ exotic affectations. But Driver had always been a gentleman. The Texan smiled, his eyes glowing pink with alcohol and strain. “Lord, but you’re a dam buster! There’ll be many a lonely and jealous girl down in the haymow this year!”

  The Marquis giggled. “Monsieur Driver, you are such a scamp!” And then he turned his old eyes upon Bloody. “Unlike certain individuals who will eat my food but will not favor a lady’s entrance by rising.”

  Bloody sat like the dead man he was. The face was slack leather—his sunglasses two chipped dark holes. His large hands lay on the table before him as hard and lifeless as rakes. The Marquis moved around the table, his old face a wrinkle of petulance, his dress a storm of rustling silks.

  “Oh, so! Vous bête ignorante!” the Marquis started, and stopped. His eyes were focused on a glistening tear that rolled down Bloody’s cheek. “My gracious. My…”

  Tiny watched the proceedings move rapidly past him. “You’ll have to forgive Bloody, Marquis. He hasn’t been the same since he got killed.”

  The Marquis gasped. His whole body shook beneath his dress. “Oh my dear Bloody! Mon cher homme.” He sat beside the gunman. Tiny tensed watching the scene. He had no idea how Bloody would react to the transvestite sputtering sympathy. The Marquis reached out and drew the gunman’s head to his brittle breast. “Oh my dear fellow.” His bejeweled and gnarled fingers cupped Bloody’s cheek. The Marquis glared angrily at Tiny and Driver. “Gentlemen with a lady you may be, but you are beasts to your friend!”

  “Marquis. We just spent two days in a car with him,” Tiny said. “So we’ve done our part. We’re kind of anxious to talk to Felon.”

  “Oh. He’s here.” The Marquis rose. He left Bloody bent over dead as a doornail. “For hours…” The old courtier’s nose wrinkled. “He’s been watching you since you arrived.”

  40 – Call to Arms

  During his flight to the City, the Angels whispered again. A dead brother bears the word. This contact surprised Updike. The Angels had never been so direct with him before. Past messages arrived—sometimes garbled—usually forming one or two words or short phrases: heal, fortitude, patience, speak the word—little more. He was quite pleased with this new communication. Nothing was left to interpretation. He had lots of time to think about it. With connections, transfers and delays the trip to the City took over twenty hours.

  After the big twin-prop DC-10000 landed, he moved quickly through customs, his notoriety smoothing the way for him. When he traveled he often met living or dead people who felt they owed him a debt—he had freed a wife, a brother, a friend. Liberating the dead had caused many problems, but it had also mended many fences. The truth was, the dead generally accepted their lot. They had to. In order to enjoy any meaningful afterlife: death and the dead status of the body had to be embraced.

  Otherwise, a person came apart, and the mind with it. For this reason, Updike compared the dead to Lepers—individuals whose existence depended u
pon a stark realization of one’s disease. Death, like leprosy, was never going to go away. Updike was sure that the dead kept to themselves for this reason. Too much association with the living, made the dead forget.

  A limousine was waiting for him. He gathered his luggage at the carousel, and waited by the front right fender as a tall man of Arabian origin loaded the baggage into the trunk. Updike paced a few yards along the loading area watching people come and go. They retained the pre-Change expressions of travelers and Updike felt a genuine affection for them. Humans were so adaptable. He knew they were unable to accept their own defeat despite all the signs. He had to admire that foolish optimism. And he understood why the Lord called them “favorite.” The preacher felt anxious, wondering whether they could adapt to the change he was going to bring.

  A man approached. He was a mess and quite dead, it was obvious from his horrific injuries. His appearance left no doubt that the movement from life to death had been recent and violent. He wore a black suit over a long lean frame. His arms were angled awkwardly out to the side like a tightrope walker’s. The front of his shirt and priest’s collar were torn and stained a dark crimson. Updike’s stomach churned as he studied the extent of the wounds.

  Bone protruded from holes in the shirt just above the sternum, and flesh around the punctures splayed outward like the petals of some hellish flower. A coppery odor hung in the air and it was everything the preacher could do to keep from stepping away from the man’s sour aura. But empathy softened Updike’s dismay at last and he allowed his feelings to touch the sorrow of this dead man—it was terrible.

  The limousine driver walked threateningly toward the dead stranger. “Go on! Get!”

  The stranger did not yield at the big man’s approach. Updike needed no more evidence to the fellow’s recent demise, for the dead, once adjusted to their new existence were a fidgety and nervous lot—especially if the there was a threat of violence.