The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “Easy Driver. You been out on the range too long,” the Texan whispered to himself before looking over at Tiny. “We been drinkin’ bad mescal? Ain’t supposed to be true is it?”

  “You got to remember.” Tiny smiled one of his sharp-toothed smiles then poked his chin at the big gunman. “Bloody is dead.”

  Driver nodded. “Course.”

  “And walking around.” Tiny’s voice was a reassuring drone. “And that isn’t supposed to happen, is it?”

  Driver nodded again. “True.”

  “Well, it seems to me that something strange has already been going on.” He stepped toward Driver, slapped him on the arm. “In a way Angels might explain some this Change.”

  “So we’re all dead?” Driver ran a hand over his goatee. “Shit, that would explain even more.” He enjoyed the fact that he had leapt to the conclusion, even if it was a depressing one.

  “Not dead,” Felon rasped. “They changed the world.”

  “So we ain’t dead, but Bloody is.” Driver walked toward the Marquis, both guns out and pointed at the brittle old chest. “Tell me then, Angel. What did you do?” The Marquis looked at the guns and rolled his eyes pleadingly toward Felon.

  “Later.” Felon’s dark eyes flashed at the Texan.

  “Okay.” Driver stepped back, thought a moment, and then stepped forward again. He waved a gun at the corpse by the stairs. “What the hell is that goddamn thing?”

  “Eyesores.” Felon unwound a bit, but his gun never strayed from the Marquis’ head. “Demon servants.”

  “Demons too?” Driver turned his head toward Tiny and then swung around to Bloody. “Demons he said. Demons.” He turned back to Felon. “We’re talkin’ Demons now?”

  “Yes Demons!” The Marquis bellowed, his voice suddenly full of power. “From the Pit. Crude imitations of the Firstborn. What they lack in sophistication, they make up for in barbarity.”

  Driver shrugged at Felon. “I ain’t complainin’ about the work, but you could’a mentioned Demons.”

  “I work for Balg, a Demon. His servant, Passport, was here. Told this Angel to kill me. He disappeared. A group Balg represented hired me to whack a low-level Angel before he could blow the whistle on them.” Felon jammed his face close to the Marquis’ old cheek. “It was a different Angel—almost killed me.” Felon snarled into the old face.

  “Oh, that’s better.” Driver gritted his teeth. “That fills in the blanks.” He was beginning to think that Felon’s ammo was wet. The Texan threw a quick glance at Tiny. The salesman’s eyes were wide, his mouth half-open. He was taking it all in, already trying to work an angle.

  “Who set me up?” The assassin heaved the Marquis to his feet and pistol-whipped him. The transvestite shrieked and clutched his cheek. “My target met me at the door, but he wasn’t expecting me.”

  “Stop!” The Marquis’ voice had returned. “You must not betray the Divine Compact. You don’t understand the forces involved here.”

  “Talk!” Felon raised his gun again.

  “Don’t!” The old drag queen started weeping. “It was an old debt, nothing more. Felon, you’ve got to believe me. I owed Balg a favor. But he promised me you would not be hurt.”

  “Bullshit!” The assassin’s expression was black.

  “He wanted the nun—the God-wife.” The Marquis twisted fingers in his lace collar. “I had to call him if I saw you. He said you had his property! Honestly!”

  “Fucking Angels!” Felon spat on the Marquis’ dress

  “I am sorry.” The Marquis raised his hands to set them against the assassin’s chest but they were swept away by the gun.

  “Truth!” Felon pressed the gun barrel against the Angel’s temple.

  The Marquis’ whole frame trembled. “I’m telling you the truth!” he sobbed. “Please Felon, I am sorry. I should have told you about Balg, but he said he only wanted the God-wife.”

  “Why?” Felon’s teeth were locked.

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” The Marquis flung an arm over his forehead. “Please don’t kill me!”

  “I figure the old pansie’s tellin’ the truth!” Driver added suddenly. He had stepped back to study the interrogation. “If he’d sell us out, he’d sell this Balg guy out just as quick.” He looked toward Tiny, who winked at him. Then, Driver was truly puzzled. “Tell me though, Felon. If the Marquis is an Angel, how come you can stand around pokin’ his face with a 9 mm. Why don’t he just use his magic and—pffft!” Driver made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Disappear.”

  “Mortal on earth.” Felon’s gaze burned on the Marquis. “Can be killed but they know what you’re going to do. Hard to catch them.”

  “This don’t explain what, Felon? You got this Angel nailed to the wall with your gun. He don’t know that yet?” Driver asked, still puzzled.

  “Felon has an edge.” Tiny piped up now, smiling at the assassin. “Don’t you, Felon?” The salesman had a hand on his own gun.

  “I can kill them. You can too.” Felon flexed his shoulders. “They run when there’s trouble. Turn to energy, but if you hurt them bad before they’ve turned, you make them solid again—no Powers. They can be killed.”

  “Okay, so what are we going to do, Felon?” Tiny seemed nervous. He started pacing. Driver knew his friend’s moods. The salesman wanted to know how to work this deal. “Is he worth anything to us?”

  “Yes!” Felon snapped over his shoulder. “Demons, Angels, and I think Fallen are involved.” He shook his dark locks. “Balg is up to something.”

  “Felon,” Tiny pressed his palms against his temples. “If I understand this. You’re on the run from Heaven and Hell.” He pointed at the nun. “And City Authority.” Tiny swung his face at Driver, a reckless grin on his face. “You offer us a hundred thousand each?” The salesman hung his head. “That isn’t near enough.”

  “Go.” Felon snarled. His red-rimmed eyes burned.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tiny shook his head and made calming gestures with his hands. “Where would we go? If all this stuff is true, we’re probably marked men already. No.” Tiny began to pace. “No. We stand a better chance with someone who has an edge. And, we need the money.” He muttered almost to himself. Then, he flicked his shrewd blue eyes at Felon and the Marquis. “Now, be careful how you answer this, and don’t be flip.” He stopped pacing. “Doesn’t God have to be involved in this?”

  “Angel,” Felon barked at the Marquis, “is he involved?”

  “He is always involved, but we Angels are his ministers, and of course the faithful among the Second-born, the humans, act as his servants.” The Marquis sniffed nervously.

  Driver had a growing realization in him. Ministers? “This all reminds me of the time the Castiglioni brothers went up against the Papedakos, clan out in Old Vegas just after the Change.” He looked at Bloody and laughed. “It’s gangs!” Then Driver realized the ridiculous nature of the whole situation. “Oh Christ! I’m startin’ to believe this shit.”

  “Gangs.” Felon nodded over at Tiny. “Balg said two groups of Fallen Angels were involved. There are three. The third group is the majority.”

  “What group is that?” Driver adjusted his grip on his guns.

  Felon grabbed the old transvestite by the shoulders. “Take us to Lucifer!”

  Driver noticed a wild look in the assassin’s eyes. The Texan looked over at Tiny, and then around at Bloody. Both wore blank looks.

  “Second-born,” the Marquis said haughtily, “you ask too much.”

  “Take us to Lucifer,” Felon smiled wolfishly. “Or you’ll be Élan.”

  Panic registered on the Marquis’ face. His lips traced the word “no.”

  “Élan.” The assassin gripped the Angel’s throat. “I’ll paint this place with your blood.” Felon glared. “Take us to him, and I’ll let you go.”

  “Lucifer?” Driver felt like someone cut his break lines.

  “Why?” Tears started from the Marquis. “We are ruled by the
Bible, and they by the Unholy Compact. None but the Fallen can tread those damned paths lightly.”

  “Bullshit.” Felon sneered. “You’re Firstborn. You’ll survive.”

  “I must have your word that you will not harm him,” the Marquis insisted, hands out and begging. “You cannot even try.”

  “I swear it,” Felon said quickly, left hand over his heart.

  “Then I will take you,” the Marquis whispered, brushing at his dress, eyes on Felon’s gun. “It is not far, and few protections lie between.”

  “You’re going to see Lucifer?” Tiny asked, his eyes wide. “The Devil.”

  “I can trust him.” Felon stared.

  “We’ve got to talk danger pay,” Tiny said.

  “Don’t come.” Felon grabbed the Marquis’ arm. “Fifty thousand extra if you do. Or go—now.” The assassin smiled painfully. “Lucifer might be your only chance. You’re marked men.”

  “I didn’t expect the Devil too,” Driver said sideways to Bloody. “Wish we’d brought some bigger guns.”

  48 – Whistles’ Bar

  “Come on, Jughead!” said the Quinlan twin in the lead with a laugh and giggle. He swung a brick-covered panel out of the way to expose an opening in the foundation. Inside the building, dim light and a wooden floor waited. Muffled music jumped in volume and vibration when the hatch opened.

  “Shut up, Pearface!” snapped the other, who flicked a look behind.

  “That’s enough,” hissed Mr. Jay, “would you both please…God! Give it a rest.” He crawled into the cramped space with grumble and headshakes. Conan just snickered in the rear since he knew the nasty-verb was how the Quinlans worked in the dim dark and around war. Great friends of friends, but everybody else—watch out!

  Conan thought it giggly that as remarkable as the strange new man—the magician—was he suffered the same red-face impatience as all grownups. Didn’t he know you just punch boys in the arm to shut them up or love them?

  The Quinlan twins couldn’t believe it you could see and all that laugh-yak was coming strong on because of it. Why waste chitchat on the lip zip? But they’re looking and wondering where’s the punch-punch-punch enough already lads.

  The Creature told the Nightcare fighters to take Mr. Jay to Whistles’ Bar. That was a place where a friend-in-need to the Nightcare’s cause and sniffle lived.

  Conan knew the place and the fake grownup midget-type in charge. In fact, he knew more than anybody guessed. But, he only visited the place once in a long while, and kept his distance like he’d been told. The dangers were too great for such easy tea parties. Forever kids took trouble wherever they went.

  But Conan knew that Whistles was not a dwarf like he pretended and everyone thought. Whistles was a forever girl about pre-Change ten with a gift for disguise under moustache, makeup and padding. Visitors to the bar came up with the nickname after the “dwarf” tried to kick a ten cigar a day habit by chewing a plastic whistle. Whistles picked the whistle up drinking, and couldn’t put it down. The little “man” never blew on it—just spit and chew.

  Because of Whistles’ secret, she was a friend to Squeakers and Nightcare fighters, and had helped forever kids when she could. Especially if it came to hiding from Toffers and Sheps and scumbags that fucked forever kids.

  The Quinlan boys were supposed to take Mr. Jay quick to Whistles because it was close to the Tower, and because if there was trouble, it was the closest place that might help on the long road home. Wah! Wah!

  So they hurried up curving tunnels, shimmied through sewers and waded in gunk until the path led upward through a series of City maintenance ramps and stairs and gangways to the hidden door that opened onto Whistle’s basement. It was all uphill from here.

  At first Mr. Jay grumbled about delays, but got it shortly later, thinking Whistles had to know they were around and might need help. A minute shuffled by on its knees and they were hidden behind some big beer kegs. Liz hurried up a pile of boxes and through a trapdoor that opened into Whistles’ office. Conan, like most fighters, knew the system. Get into the office and wait until Whistles comes in. Never be seen!

  So they waited, the three Nightcare fighters in a dangerous wedge around the magician. Conan spent the time flying his murder-bloom through the air. About twenty minutes glided by on blades and Liz dropped through the trapdoor nodding and winking upward.

  Weapons got sharp and dangerous when a door opened at the top of the stairs. Music came thumping down and the fighters got ready for war. But the throb of music sank with a bang and everybody phewed like there was no tomorrow. Mr. Jay craned to see the top of the stairs and boots came tromping down.

  Whistles’ hair was black and stuffed up under a bowler hat of the same coal color. A bushy caterpillar moustache covered his chin, and the eyebrows were thick as a wrist. His shoulders cranked out wide and his belly was marshmallow puffy. He carried a big wooden box, and a red plastic whistle hung from his thin neck on a crackerjack chain.

  “Liz!” the short man whispered in a deep voice. Conan was always spooked by the hidden-girl’s man-impression and had to breathe fast or wah wah start cutting—the voice was gravelly and deep.

  “Here!” whispered Liz, who stood and motioned for the others to follow.

  Mr. Jay stepped forward, and Whistles tipped his head back to extend the hand of howdy-do.

  “I’m a friend of the Creature,” Mr. Jay hissed. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “You too,” Whistles grumbled, frowned and then popped the whistle into his mouth. “Joints still hopping upstairs and it’s midnight. Nobody can hear you.” He tapped his foot and looked Mr. Jay up and down. “Not often Creature trusts anybody your height. You a Nightcare worker?”

  Conan knew that the Creature allowed some trusted grownups to help protect the Nightcare: sawbones and teachers and others who could go on the open Levels and get information or money. Conan kept his distance.

  “No,” Liz blurted. “He’s traveling with a girl we’re trying to help.”

  “All right,” Whistles grumbled, then smiled at the little fighter. “Conan, it’s been a long time.”

  And Conan couldn’t contain himself. The magician had sprung something true enough, he was bubbling up all over. The little fighter leapt forward and carefully hugged the barkeep. Whistles’ eyes softened with surprise—keeping a close watch on the fighter’s death-bloom.

  Whistles couldn’t hide a smile though, and hugged him back. The fighter with the murderous fist snarled at the Quinlans and took his place at Mr. Jay’s side. He caught Whistles’ look though, and saw the tear.

  “Well,” the barkeep cleared his throat. “How can I help you?”

  “We had to let you know we were close,” the magician said. “And we need to eat and rest.”

  “I’ll do anything I can,” Whistles tapped the brim of his hat.

  “Hopefully, you’ll never see me again,” Mr. Jay said removing his pack.

  “Okay,” the bartender mumbled, looking confused. “And the buses?”

  “Buses?” Mr. Jay shook his head.

  “Yeah,” Whistles said, nodding. “The Creature contacted me three weeks ago. Wanted seven buses fueled and ready.” He shook his head. “I’ve got them—they’re junkers but they run. The Workers she sent to drive have been sleeping in them. They’ve got a couple trucks too.”

  Mr. Jay looked at Liz. She shook her head. The Quinlan boys shrugged. Conan shook his helmet and twitched his murder-mitt.

  “You don’t know about it?” Whistles asked looking up at Mr. Jay and then back to Conan. “It cost me a pretty penny too.” Then he leaned in whispering, “I was hoping you could tell me what they’re for.”

  49 – The Nova SS

  “His lair is in the lowest part of the Maze,” the Marquis said, aware that the assassin’s gun followed his every move. “Under Zero—the sewers.”

  Tiny covered the transvestite with his .357 magnum. He noticed with a laugh that Driver had both automatics pointed too.r />
  They took the door beside the stairs to the basement where Felon said it opened on the driveway. The Marquis’ hands fluttered lifting his dress clear of the golden bows on his slippers.

  They’d already agreed to take Driver’s car.

  “It’s the fastest thing in this city,” the Texan said with calm certainty. “And I drive it fast.”

  “You do,” Tiny had agreed, glancing back at Bloody. The dead gunman was carrying the nun. The Marquis had promised that her “spell” would wear off soon but the salesman was getting tired of the Marquis’ soon. He’d already delayed their departure by about six dangerous hours. They’d spent the time huddled in the basement taking turns covering the “Angel” while Driver popped out to gas and oil the car. The Marquis said he required time to create the necessary doorway past Lucifer’s defenses and salutations were essential. He’d spent the hours cross-legged on the bed doing a quiet inward chant, eyes rolled up; but that had just put Felon more on edge, if that was possible, expecting another double cross.

  Tiny couldn’t believe his luck. Lucifer! If this crazy shit was true then the salesman was on his way to meet the father of all salesmen. Felon grunted “dangerous” and nothing else. That left Tiny to discuss it with his partners and they weren’t religious scholars by any stretch. He wanted to pick the Marquis’ brain on the subject but that was still a sticky idea.

  He just didn’t want to blow this opportunity on a cold call.

  The slowing drizzle and mist from Level Five overhead suggested that the rain had let up. That high up in the City, leaks and bleeds from sewers and runoff were more likely. Tiny looked at it optimistically: since it hadn’t percolated through quite as much human misery, what fell on his suit was cleaner.

  They crossed the driveway and made their way to the side of an oversized garage where the Marquis kept several limousines. Driver had parked his car in the shadow there.

  “A classic Nova SS—that’s 375 real horse!” Driver whispered proudly as he climbed in. “Metallic black, steel fenders and mags. If the engine weren’t so damned heavy I could put her up on her back wheels and dance.” The Nova was the child of another nostalgic wave that passed through the comfort seeking imaginations of the doomed, this one a re-design of the pre-Change seventies muscle car. Driver loved the Nova because it was roomy inside and its souped-up suspension was rugged enough to take the broken down roads of the Change.