The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  Felon jumped down five stairs, glancing heavily off the banister, then dove outward with all his strength. He landed hard on the stone floor. The breath went out of him. Dizzy, he tried to roll. There was a flash of gunfire up the stairs. Bloody’s gun roared and something squealed.

  A big, clawed hand hooked his waist and flipped him over. Felon looked into the face of a huge Eyesore. It was four feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds—a walking tree stump. Its mouth was big enough to hold a football, was lined with long sharp teeth. The two large eyes glared with animal intelligence. Short squat hippo legs propelled it over him, while long muscular arms whipped his chest.

  His gun was knocked away and the thing was on him. Felon drove a fist into its left eye, but the lid and muscle around it contracted around his wrist—started sucking at his forearm. He pulled but could not free it. The Eyesore pummeled him with both fists, thumping with a caliper motion at Felon’s ribs, knocking his breath out.

  The assassin tightened his shoulders, and twisted. He used all his strength to keep its snapping teeth away from his abdomen—already the fangs had slashed his shirt. Drool poured out of the toothy maw and soaked him. Felon was an expert at several martial arts. But those skills were designed for fighting human—or at least human-shaped opponents.

  It pounded on his chest and stamped on his ribs, pushing upward—turning against Felon’s strength.

  The assassin couldn’t find a weak spot, and there was no sign of genitalia to pulverize. Burning yellow mucus seeped out of the thing’s eye socket where it gripped his hand, but instead of lubricating his escape, it caught the wrist like glue. Felon’s stomach twisted with revulsion as the Eyesore’s lips pulled back revealing ripping teeth and black gums. The jaws slid forward as they opened—inching out toward his face.

  Felon’s Derringer was wedged against the floor in its holster between his shoulders—if he could brace the thing’s teeth a way from him with his knees.

  An explosion and flash detonated in the confined cellar space. The Eyesore’s eyes flipped wide in astonishment. Another explosion and the top of its head sprayed a plume of dark red and bone. Felon’s hand came free of its eye socket with a pop!

  He shoved the thing off of him and rolled, completing the action by pulling his Derringer free. He came up with the gun pointed directly at Bloody. The dead gunman stood on the bottom stair. Smoke or steam wafted up from his dead head. Sunglasses still covered his eyes. Small rips and wounds peppered his cheeks. He turned his head from the dead Eyesore toward Felon. The stench of burned meat filled the air.

  Felon wiped the mucous from his red and blistered hand and grabbed his .9 mm where it laid at the base of the closest wine rack. He pocketed the Derringer and shook his head, every muscle aching. “Cover me!”

  Felon ran to the door. Light etched its perimeter. The bedroom inside was small. Bloody was ten feet behind him, giant pistol up and cocked. The assassin raised a finger to his lips. Voices.

  The Marquis said: “Hurry and be gone. This is not the plan.”

  Felon raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t upset yourself,” said another voice. “The fighting has stopped. We must hurry if the assassin is to die.”

  “He wanted the God-wife Cawood. That was the plan,” the Marquis whined.

  “Stop your crying! Give her to me and slay Felon.”

  “But…” The Marquis choked on tears.

  “You are his superior.” There was a pause. “You fought in the war. Give her now!”

  “But she is my only protection!” the Marquis wailed.

  “Give her!” the second voice insisted.

  Felon looked at Bloody, stepped back and kicked the door open.

  Inside, the Marquis stood against the bed. Tears had dragged the mascara down his powdered face. In his thin old arms he held the nun. She was unconscious. Felon’s lips drew back. The other voice belonged to Balg’s assistant. Passport’s long-fingered hand was wrapped around the sleeping nun’s wrist. He flashed long teeth.

  Felon raised his gun. The Marquis pointed a finger at Passport. “He was kidnapping her!”

  “Shut up!” Felon barked. He glanced. She was breathing.

  “A sleep charm.” Passport noticed his look. He released the nun, dropped his thin hand to his side. The Marquis struggled to hold the sleeping woman.

  The Demon’s assistant then crouched against the far wall beneath the barred window. He hissed and faded into the stone.

  Felon grabbed the woman’s arm, pulled her from the Marquis’ grasp and flung her onto the bed.

  Felon glared into the Marquis’ faded blue eyes. “Talk.”

  “Felon, you must understand, it’s not how it looks.” The assassin grabbed a fist full of the dandy’s lacy collar. “Please. Think of all the times I’ve helped you out.”

  “I am.” Felon spat on the floor. “You sold me out!” He was still tense from all the action—he wanted violence. Felon pounded the old Marquis against the wall.

  “Whoa! Hey there!” Felon glanced to see Driver and Tiny join Bloody at the bedroom door. The Texan made a calming gesture. “He won’t be able to explain nothin’ if you tear his throat out.”

  Felon pulled the Marquis closer. He pressed the mouth of his gun against the gangster’s blue-veined temple. “Talk!”

  “This yer girl, then?” Driver muttered. “Good looker. I don’t mean to criticize, but I ain’t a fan of all that black.”

  “A nun.” Felon rasped, pushing the Marquis against the doorframe.

  “Shit. Well there you are.” The Texan checked the action on his gun. He pointed it at the Marquis.

  “Felon.” The Marquis patted the assassin’s chest with his wrinkled hands. “You must understand the whole story.”

  “You betrayed me!” Felon pulled the trigger half way.

  “No!” the Marquis shrieked.

  “You fought in the war,” Felon spat. “You’re one of them!”

  “What war?” Driver pointed his other gun at the Marquis’ belly.

  “In Heaven,” Felon snarled at the old face.

  “What?” Tiny gestured back along the wine rack toward the dead Eyesore. “Is he one of those things?”

  “Different.” Felon felt his killing rage slipping away.

  “Entirely different, Felon.” The Marquis’ face suddenly took on an intangible sturdiness, as though some power was feeding him.

  “Don’t try to slip away.” Felon could feel the old flesh shiver beneath his grip. That’s how they did it. “Can’t surprise me.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t think of it.” The Marquis was recovering his dignity. His voice had changed slightly, losing some of its lilting tones. “You are in charge.”

  “Slip away?” Driver growled. “He got a whole firin’ squad on him”

  “Tell him.” Felon flicked his head toward Driver.

  “The Compact prohibits…” An imperious tone entered the Marquis’ voice.

  Felon snarled at the old face. He wanted to kill.

  The Marquis’ voice gasped.

  “Felon?” Driver piped up. “Any fool can see he’s an old faggot in women’s clothes.” He looked seriously at the Tiny. “I thought we was playin’ that part down, but if the gloves are off, a horse is a horse.”

  “He’s an Angel,” Felon snarled the unbelievable words. “He hid it well.”

  “An Angel? Come on!” Driver laughed. “He ain’t no Angel I ever heard of back at Catholic school.”

  “The scent.” Felon felt a killing rage growing in him again. “Don’t know what side he’s on.”

  “What scent? I can’t never smell nothin’ around him, except all that toilet water he soaks in.” Driver turned to Tiny, shrugged.

  “They stink of cinnamon.” Felon slipped his arm across the Marquis’ throat and started to choke him.

  46 – Sophie

  Conan was placing packs around the open manhole when the hair stood up on the back of his neck like one of those spinner spiders had c
reep and sneaked into his helmet. The prickly sensation made him spin on his heel, the blades of the death-flower blooming glimmer-sharp.

  A slim form in black stood there, leaning into the shadow, in filmy dress and slip-on shoes doing a spook show in the grim. Unmoving, she floated in the shadow-stuffed entrance to a tunnel that led to the sleep and yawn chambers. A white face framed by long black hair hung on the breeze like a spirit. The face was plastic, a mask of a little girl’s smile: the lips pink, the cheeks red, with thin arching eyebrows. The head tilted left then right asking questions. It was Sophie.

  Conan looked out at her from his own mask, though his was of metal and looked like the grill of an old-time motorcar, something the older boys found and threw down some stairs to make it cling-clang-bang. But the little fighter had the finger on it ever since. Just the same he got his point across to her quick with a shift and shake of his head. No, Sophie!

  But Sophie shook her mask back at him like she was a mirror, and pointed at her chest as if she knew better. The skin on her bare arms and calves was as white as her mask or the snow the kid-books yakked about.

  Conan just shook his head again and twitched the sharp fingers on his murder-glove. Why couldn’t she understand? Mr. Jay didn’t want a creepy dead girl on a mission as important as this one. As it was he picked Conan, the Quinlan boys and Liz, the girl who led the first mission to save the stupid-Squeaker. There would be no place for a spook—with “no” all in capital letters.

  But Sophie stepped lightly, cautiously forward. She nodded and pointed at herself again. One of the eyes on her mask was taped shut and gray. A dark brown eye gleamed and glared from the other.

  Conan just shook his head like it was all he had to do and even tisk-tisked like the gramps in the old movies did. Then he made a go-get-the-fuck-off-it gesture with his hands. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Sophie; he liked her, in fact—but not in a kissing-hug-me-baby kind of way because he was done with that.

  But on more than one occasion he’d watched her hush-hush secretly when he found her quietly dancing in a glimmer-beam of light that somehow made it through Zero into the Maze. And at other times he’d seen her sitting stooped, nodding her head and moving her hands like she was talking to a crowd of people with questions and microphones. That was okay with Conan, since he liked the gentle moves she made as she danced. In some way it reminded him of his mom and even got his sniffer sniffling.

  But most of all he liked her because he’d heard her story many, many times told at chirp-slurp and supper and at night as the sleep and nightmares came on, or at other times with other boys on watch who knew the yak, and told it to keep their peepers open and wide.

  It was a story that ran neck and neck with his own. A crazy boy escaped the Prime’s Orphanage and told the fighters before he ran away and never came back. Conan heard that the Prime caught Sophie after the Change and put her in his Orphanage. He heard that the Prime had to kill Sophie’s mother to catch her. He heard that the Prime was taking the girls for himself, and letting his friends do the Bad thing to them. And Conan heard that the Prime took the prettiest and made them prettier and married them, and wanted to keep them for babies when the Change started changing.

  Sophie drew Conan’s attention when she took another cautious-hush step toward the bags. Her eye watched him, and she pointed at herself and nodded her fake and plaster face. The little fighter heard that the Prime chose Sophie for a wife, and married her and made her do the Bad thing, and worse. And Conan heard Sophie was alone in a room after it happened, and he heard that she took the Prime’s gun and shot herself in the head.

  So Conan heard that the bullet killed her all right, and but mostly it killed her face—and the Change wouldn’t let her stay dead in hell no more. Conan heard poor Sophie woke up out of Blacktime without her life, or her childhood or her smile. The Prime found her zombie-dead- walking and ugly so he threw her out in the street, and that was where the Creature said the fighters could find her.

  Conan didn’t go that time, the Creature wouldn’t let him, but one of the fighters took pity on Sophie and stole her the mask from an abandoned old playhouse on Zero. She wore it ever since.

  Conan knew she was a strong spirit-spook to keep going-going-pink-bunny-gone. And he knew that she would be good in a fight, especially when she couldn’t get killed even by bullets or knives or stones. But the other fighters didn’t think she could do an order when she got one, and up until now, she’d didn’t care a yawn or yak about what they were doing.

  The little fighter stood by the bags as Sophie came up to him, her head tilting silently left and right—more questions by chin and wag. She reached out and stroked the blades on his fist-kill with her dead fingers and he smiled inside his mask. Then he shrugged because he was no King-and-Queen and couldn’t say, so he nodded up the corridor when sounds came echoing toward them. Sophie turned rigidly and melted into the shadows. Conan watched her go, some weird feelings in his chest and eyes that only started after he hugged that Mr. Jay.

  The Creature led the way out of the tunnel. Behind her came the Quinlan boys, wiry muscled twins about ten years old who were great fighters and friends of Conan and Liz. All the fighters wore their armor and padding and carried weapons of all kinds for blasting and cutting and killing.

  The Creature looked down into Conan’s mask with the new look she’d given him earlier. It tickled inside his chest again and his eyes twitched as he nodded.

  Mr. Jay’s face was prune-pinched with concern when he looked around at his little troop with watery eyes. “Doesn’t seem right,” he yakked shaking his head. “I know you’re all older than me, but I can’t shake how you look.”

  “And how do we look?” The Quinlan boys asked, raising their shoulders and stepping stiff-legged forward. Short swords hung at their waists opposite small caliber pistols. Their faces were grim as bone breaks and tight underwear.

  Mr. Jay only looked worried a second before the twins released the tension with a same-time laugh.

  “Sorry,” Mr. Jay groaned, found his pack and slung it over his shoulder.

  “The Creature says Liz and the Quinlans know the way into the Tower,” the Creature said quickly. “They’ve been in before.” She cleared her voice. “The Creature thinks you must not be captured. The Prime does his Devil work in the Orphanage and the Creature has seen his friends. Do not fight, we think, unless you must.” She set a hand on one of the Quinlan’s shoulders and then his brother’s. “It will take a day and more by the secret ways unseen. There is a place, and a friend and a rest before you get there. The Quinlans know this also.”

  Mr. Jay had his metal stick in one hand as he helped Liz into her pack. She puffed on a cigarette and groan-cursed at the straps.

  Then the Creature knelt by Conan and whispered, “I love you Max. Go with caution and return with care.” And the little fighter felt his chest tighten up and his throat thicken like hot soup was stuck in there. She’d said something like this before, but now it felt different. He glared at the Quinlan boys, and then hugged Creature with all his strength, taking great care with the blades on his die-flower. He stepped away quickly, and gave a menacing face to the twins who just shrugged, but were too smart to smile or make a wink. Dirty Squeakers.

  The Creature nodded and then smiled into Sophie’s shadows before she rose. She turned to Mr. Jay, acknowledged the concern in his face.

  “The Creature thinks that already your responsibilities grow, Mr. Jay.” And she laughed before saying, “We are glad you understand the precious nature of this company.”

  The Quinlan boys slipped into their packs and then slid down the ladder to the sewers. Slip. Splash! Liz followed grunt-grumble, and Mr. Jay went after. Conan gave the Creature a quick bow and followed the other fighters into the dark. Squint-peek! They gathered in the dim light at the bottom of the ladder, and in seconds the Quinlan boys had hurried away to scour their path for danger. Mr. Jay walked beside Liz. He quick used up his smoking-bad-girl
-good stories and asked for one to puff and chew.

  Conan was pleased that he was given the dangerous position of protecting the rear-bums and backsides; but it wasn’t long before he knew that he wasn’t alone back there.

  47 – Danger Pay

  Driver had never seen an Angel, but he had higher hopes than the broken down old transvestite he was looking at. The word usually conjured up the image of a tall beauty in clingy robes—maybe with a spangled G-string showing through—and definitely no bra. She’d have long hair, blue eyes, and a halo of gold or silver, and maybe tote a horn or one of them harps. But not this fruit. The Texan looked the Marquis up and down then he turned to Felon.

  “What in Hell are you talkin’ about?” He kept his gun on the old man. “He’s a queen, not a Angel.”

  “Disguise.” The assassin studied the Marquis’ face.

  Driver looked over at Tiny, raised an eyebrow. The salesman wore a look of disbelief, but bright-eyed enthusiasm bubbled underneath. Tiny liked surprises of a non-lethal variety, and this was one of them. Now he was looking at it for angles—guess the right time to step in.

  “Hogwash!” Driver barked. “Angels?”

  “Driver, doesn’t matter if we believe it or not,” Tiny blurted. “Something isn’t right here, you agree? Them weird little guys with the guns, and that thing.” He gestured to the body of the big freak on the floor. “And Felon’s the boss.” Tiny flipped his gun into his belt. “If he says the Marquis is an Angel. He’s an Angel.”

  “Oh.” Driver smiled and nodded. “I hear you, brother.” He looked at Felon. “But I would like to know more about this Angel business.”

  “Tell us!” Felon pushed his gun into the Marquis’ face.

  “Mind you.” Driver scratched at his scalp. “Aren’t Angels supposed to be girls with wings up there in Heaven? Shit, we known the Marquis for seventy years and more. He’s a gangster!”

  “Angel,” Felon hissed, as he pushed the Marquis along the wall away from the bedroom and into a crouching position in the corner.