The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “See,” Tiny patted the dashboard and looked at Driver. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

  66 – Hope

  “One man of you shall chase a thousand, for the Lord your God is He who fights for you. Therefore take heed to yourselves, that you love the Lord your God.” Stoneworthy meditated on these words as he marched. After the battle, the army reformed and started moving east. The minister took the time to move forward, to think.

  Truly, he had fought as more than a man—was made capable of inhuman feats by the Change. Since he could no longer suffer the afflictions of the living, he was able to fight past human limitations. Ironically, he had found a sort of immortality in death—justification. He needed better reasons to go on killing. He had read every passage; in fact the Bible was full of such incidents where God released his wrath upon his children. The Lord in heaven would kill fifty thousand at a stroke, or turn the tide for Israel against the Philistines—only to turn on the Israelites in punishment. You do not question God. Noah didn’t.

  But Stoneworthy was full of questions. He was a minister and teacher not a soldier. He tried to console himself with thoughts of the Crusades, but they had made a bloody work of converting the heathens, taking the Lord’s word too literally. Heathens are people, too.

  Stoneworthy corrected himself. Heathens worshipped other gods in complete opposition to God’s commandments. Christianity had done great evil in its enthusiasm to do good, and missionaries usually only slightly preceded colonization. The truth was, Stoneworthy had always had difficulty with the Crusades. The ends could not justify the means. This line of thought did nothing to relieve his frustration and guilt. God had commanded him to action.

  A dead woman’s approach pulled him from his thoughts. She looked to be a pre-Change forty years, and would have looked more at home carrying a briefcase than an assault rifle. Her hair was scarlet and emphasized the paleness of her skin. Her left eye was shriveled and had sunken into the skull. Stoneworthy recognized Corporal Milton.

  “Sir,” she said, her voice flat. “Captain Updike has called a halt. His officers have compiled a list of casualties and equipment he wishes to discuss with you.”

  “I’ll be along shortly.” He fell silent. His mind had just begun to wander down self-blaming corridors when he noticed something. A pale light had cast the dead woman’s face in shadow. It took him some moments to realize what he was looking at. It had been so long. A murmur filled the air over the army as other marchers stopped and noticed it too. Turning quickly, Stoneworthy looked up into the thick blanket of cloud.

  The moon! It was half full, but it shone with rare brilliance. The image blurred quickly before Stoneworthy noticed the distortion was due to his tears. It rode a frosted hole in the cloud like a sail—tall billowing cumulus forms marked its progress.

  “The Moon!” a haggard cry went up. “The moon!” A chorus of voices followed. Indeed it was the moon—Stoneworthy stumbled away from Corporal Milton walking as if in a dream. Over and over he heard his own voice groaning, “The Moon!”

  “That’s the sign,” he said, like a prophet. The moon had disappeared over a hundred years before only to be glimpsed from the Tower’s highest floors. Yet there it was, riding over the landscape as it had so long ago. “The Moon!”

  He ran toward Updike’s transport. The preacher would be pleased. Perhaps this would undo the pain that bound him. He hurried by the gathered throng. The army was fast breaking up into weeping chattering groups. “The Moon!” The words flew toward the sky from a thousand jubilant throats. Stoneworthy stumbled many times loathing the possibility that he could lose sight of the moon.

  Oliver Purdue was the first to meet him. The dead man’s face was a shining white mask of hope. “Oh brother!” he yelled, and broke free of the figures that stood by Updike’s truck. Purdue threw his arms around Stoneworthy.

  “Oh brother!” The minister returned the embrace, pushed past his self-control to passion.

  “Oliver!” He held Purdue at arm’s length. “Do you think it is a sign that the Lord approves?”

  “Yes!” Oliver laughed exuberantly. “Why else could God peel away this eternal blanket of night? And look!” Oliver pointed with a bandaged arm toward the east. “It lights our way. It shows the path to righteousness.”

  Indeed, as Stoneworthy followed Oliver’s gesture he saw the winding shimmer—a sparkling ribbon wound its way through the hills toward the City of Light.

  “We are not far!” Stoneworthy smiled. “And the Lord points the way.” He clutched Oliver’s dead fingers. “He heard us brother! He listened to our hearts in this tragic time when we have been forced to embrace the darkness of war. He has shown us His heart to lift our own!” He dropped to his knees. “We must pray! Kneel here beside me.”

  “Yes brother!” Purdue muttered dropping, overcome by tears. “Oh God in Heaven…”

  Stoneworthy concentrated for a moment on his guilt, on the painful memories of death that had walked with him that day. He let it fill his heart until his eyes grew heavy in his head. Tears fell down his cheeks.

  “Oh Lord!” he pleaded with the sky. “Oh Father, I have sinned this day!” Beside him, Purdue wept. Around them, Stoneworthy heard the supplication of his comrades. Not daring to look away, he imagined the army, still streaked with battle grime, dropping to their knees and praying, praying for a break in their long hopeless deaths, praying for forgiveness for their sins that day, for their sins in life.

  “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…” The prayer rose up unrehearsed, pulled from the army by the moon. Stoneworthy compiled his long sad list of sins—called from his memory all the deeds of his life.

  “Oh Father!” He was stricken with a profound sadness. How he hoped Karen could see this. “Oh Lord protect her. Oh God, give her this sign too. Protect her…” His emotions ran from the depths, flooding upwards to a pale point of light that burned into his eyes. “Save her!” He wept. The minister could not escape his guilt. True he had died too quickly to help Karen, but he should not have convinced her to go with him in the first place. She already had too much to bear.

  And since his resurrection what had he done? He had joined an army of the dead bent on destroying the corrupt rulers of the world. And where was she? And why had he not acted? What had the flames that burned upon the garbage bags but not consumed them said? “With this army shall you strike at the heart of Evil!” That was the only way to save her—the only direction he could take for salvation.

  How strange that at this time, before the blazing light of God, after this terrible day of war, how strange that he would think of her. Except that his mind was not occupied by the destruction of his life. And now, as the Lord’s love lifted his sins from him, after he had washed his hands in the blood of God’s enemies, he could feel his loss.

  “Oh Karen!” he blurted, his eyes adrift in tears. “I’m so sorry!”

  The minister felt a hand on his shoulder. He wiped at his eyes, looked at his friend Oliver.

  “I couldn’t save her!” Stoneworthy’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t!” A shudder ran through him. Deep and hollow as emptiness his sorrow welled up and began to drown him. And as he dropped his head on Oliver’s shoulder he understood what had happened to him in the battle. Deep inside him, his pain had festered. His guilt had grown horns and poisonous fangs. Every man that he had murdered with his own dead hands had died as payment for his pain. The City Defenders protected corruption, and corruption had killed Karen. And it had killed him. It had killed him!

  I don’t want to die!

  “Cry Able,” Oliver whispered, smoothing his hair. “You are waking up. Your pain has grown in you. It has fed your doubt. We do the Lord’s work.” Another pat. “But you are full of sorrow because you have died, weep my friend.”

  All around him, Stoneworthy could hear the sorrow of many thousands. Others had accumulated their pain. Others had fed their doubt with guilt. Only by releasing it could they restor
e their faith. Only with faith could they bring righteousness to the City.

  “Look!” A voice rose up excited.

  “Look! There!” came another.

  Stoneworthy’s head rested on Oliver’s chest. He heard his friend’s voice. “Oh dear God, Able. Look! Look! Here is your sign!”

  And Stoneworthy looked up, blinking tears away. He looked to the moon’s opalescent crescent in the sky. There was movement against its radiance. Two black shapes flickered across its surface, whirled over the moon’s face like birds—and then descended—spiraling downward over the heads of the army.

  “Look Able!” Oliver’s words burst from his chest.

  “I see!” Stoneworthy watched the shapes drop lower and he saw wings. The minister leapt to his feet, Oliver rose too—arms still clasped about him.

  “Angels!” A chorus of shouts rose.

  “Angels!” Stoneworthy shouted. “You see, Oliver. Angels of God!” He drew Purdue closer. “Come, let us get Updike. He will need our strength.”

  They ran toward Updike and his gathered Generals who had dropped to their knees. General Bolton and another, Trung Mac knelt to either side of the Captain. Their eyes were locked on the heavens. Oliver and Stoneworthy threw their arms around the preacher. Stoneworthy saw that pain still clenched Updike’s features, but his face flushed with hope.

  “I heard them!” he laughed, one hand instinctively rising to his left eye. “Just before the moon showed itself I heard them singing.”

  Overcome with joy Stoneworthy pressed his lips against Updike’s. He had heard the preacher’s stories, and believed them.

  “Make room!” Updike shouted, as the Angels circled fifty feet overhead. The gathering parted. The Angels, seeing this, turned gracefully, and with a gentle flap of wings alighted. Around them, the army fell to its knees.

  “Praise the Lord!” Updike bellowed.

  “Praise the Lord!” the army echoed. Stoneworthy had only seen the Angels for a moment before prostrating himself. One was golden-haired with wings of pure white—the other had silver hair and gray-white wings. That one held a long golden horn. That one, Stoneworthy knew. Both were large—standing nine feet or ten.

  “Arise! Servants of God!” said the Angel with the horn. The minister recognized the voice.

  Stoneworthy lifted his eyes. There the Angel stood, just as he had in his office—just as he had in the apartment of sin so long ago.

  “I am Archangel Gabriel!” The Angel’s voice carried across the throng without losing strength. “Commander of the Army of God!” Updike sputtered something, but was overpowered by his pain. The Archangel’s eyes drilled into Stoneworthy’s—held them. “You have come far, servants of God.”

  67 - Swimmers

  Felon cursed his recklessness. If he hadn’t indulged his anger and killed the Angel, he’d never have been surprised. But the Marquis had talked too much. He’d said: “I know you.” And Felon started shooting. He wanted to knock the look of satisfaction off the bastard’s face. And he did.

  He was dragged through the cold and darkness. Eventually, numb he realized that escaping his captors would kill him. So he had focused on his limbs, forced them to curl inward, and accept the powerful hands that drove him on. He allowed his brain to relax—to focus on a calming memory: The sun was shining on a boy by a lake. His face was warm. The sun was warm. A breeze turned the leaves overhead.

  Finally, Felon felt the hands on him release their hold—he thrashed sputtering from the water. A faint orange light, like candles, burned his eyes—the cold pulled at his numb limbs, made them shake like palsy. His arms were dead. Numb, flying water was his only indication of movement. He coughed, gasped, fell—shoveled black sand into his mouth—spat. Felon shook his head to clear his eyes of water—his long hair whipped his cheeks like icicles.

  He sprinted for control. Every second put him closer to death. Why he lived now was inconsequential, he had to remain so. Though blinded by the pulse hammering in his skull—his retinas throbbed with gray destruction—he detected shapes and movement. Felon raised a frozen hand to wipe water from his eyes, pistol-whipping himself in the process. He had retained his grip on the .9 mm though his hand felt as cold and dead as the metal. There was no strength to pull the trigger.

  He dragged himself shivering from the water. Hypothermia was setting in. He needed warmth.

  Shapes moved around him. He flopped onto his back snarling, threatening the darkness with his teeth. Death was near. He could taste it—had already rolled it in his mouth. A crackle reached his ears—an echoing crunch of flames. Orange light flickered on his nose. He rolled, levered himself painfully onto his knees.

  A fire.

  It etched the mortar and lines of bricks—a wall, and a doorway. At its base, a clutter of tiles led toward him—broken and fragmented memories of order. Three yards away on white and ruby tiles was a fire. A chair and broken table burned. Beside it, prostrate, a naked man. The feet that pointed at the assassin were white and swollen, the legs warped and twisted. The body slid away from him and was obscured by the flames. A head moved over the fire—a small crescent was all he could see. It was shiny, the skin white—the forehead flawless and porcelain.

  “Warm yourself.” Dead cold words whispered through the darkness. A hand bloated and flipper flat beckoned beside the flames. Felon’s urge to murder conflicted briefly with his will to live—he crawled forward—skin prickling with new warmth.

  “Fire,” the voice said—quietly. It was flat, nasal and devoid of inflection. The speaker did not speak often. “Fear not.”

  Felon’s hand ached, screamed at him to throw the frozen weapon away, but the gun was all he had left.

  “We are Swimmers.” It dragged itself across the tiles. Pale despite the warming light, the Swimmer arm-walked around the flame. Its chest was powerfully built, and shone as though molded of plastic. The head, mounted on a slim and flexible neck was oval in shape—thick hair was plastered to it with water. The face was human, covered in a skin like white wax. Mild discoloration beneath it showed jaw muscle and bone. The creature seemed to have neither eyelids nor irises. The pupils covered a quarter of the eye’s surface.

  “Fire.” The creature slithered past Felon. “We are Swimmers and have no need of heat.” The Swimmer’s weight grated against the broken tile and sand until it moved into the water. Following its action, Felon saw that others—his abductors—waited in the icy water. Their foreheads and eyes protruded from the blackness like frogs’. The Swimmer who spoke to Felon propped itself on its forearms in the shallows.

  “Fire,” it repeated, splashing water under its chin. “We must talk.”

  Felon dragged himself to the flames. He knew that if the Swimmers wanted him dead, he would be dead. So he put aside his thoughts of killing, drew near the flames instead. The heat scorched his frozen skin, but it burned until it won acknowledgement of life. Shivers took him. He shuddered on a deep breath. He gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. Felon had to know more. Anger twisted his lips—he grunted something, and struggled out of his coat and jacket. To do so, he had to set the gun aside by sheer force of will. His fingers resisted, unclenched painfully. Keeping a wary eye on the Swimmers, he laid out his clothing on the tiles. He needed time to think. The Swimmers hadn’t moved.

  Inwardly he cursed.

  “We are unaffected by cold.” The Swimmer pulled Felon from his thoughts.

  The assassin stared into the Swimmer’s eyes. They were black. Unblinking, they might have looked ridiculous in different circumstances.

  “We have watched for you.” The Swimmer’s voice echoed. “Like the Watchers.” The thing’s voice bubbled. “But we listen underground, ear to plumbing pipes and nose to grates. Vibrations say much.”

  “Why?” Felon urged himself to speak. He would have to communicate to gather weapons for survival.

  “They spoke your name. They spoke of your coming.” The Swimmer dunked his head under the water—resurfaced.

&n
bsp; “Who?” Felon worked his fingers. They were numb and cold, the skin prune-like.

  “Those who use you.” The Swimmer drooled water as he spoke. His brethren bobbed behind him.

  “Who?”

  “We listened. Through the hull of his ship, we listened to the Councils of Balg.” Water streamed from the creature’s face.

  “So?” Felon wanted to retreat into silence.

  “He met with Angels. They will destroy the living. They will conquer.”

  Scenarios played out in Felon’s head. He didn’t trust any of the creatures involved any more than he believed the Swimmer.

  “They met in secret. They bargain for the souls of the dead. They bargain for dominion over the living. They seek the destruction of the world.” The Swimmer’s glazed and milky eyes held Felon’s. “You are their tool.”

  “So.” Felon felt no jibe in what the Swimmer said. As long as he was paid, the situation was fine. Had he become a liability to his employers?

  “Balg forged an alliance with the Firstborn, Gabriel.” The Swimmer coughed spraying water from his lungs. He submerged briefly then returned drooling water. “They did not agree with the book.”

  “Book?” Felon wrung his hands.

  “That book which built the Tower. That book that threatens the world.” A hint of emotion wandered across the Swimmer’s face. “The book that foretells the end.”

  Felon wanted a cigarette. Immediately he dug the package from his coat. He laid the wet tobacco by the fire.

  “That book that speaks of the Judgment.” Something like life entered the Swimmer’s tone, and was gone.

  Felon’s hands were tingling. He pondered the idea of removing his boots—dismissed it. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He watched the Swimmer shift his weight from hand to hand.

  “God works through His servants. They do His bidding.” The Swimmer licked nacreous teeth. “Who would institute the deeds foretold in Revelations?”