The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  Fifteen minutes had passed since his capture. The darkness had provided him cover from his own advance scouts after slipping into the shadow while thousands of tireless workers cleared the highway. The infantry and mechanized units would move forward soon after.

  Stoneworthy found his walk immensely fulfilling. There were few sounds: wind pulled at the odd tree, ruffled grass; rain pattered in fits and starts. The relative silence encouraged a contemplative state in him and he remembered his time in the wilderness so long ago, when he learned of his mission to build the Tower. Even though he had been naked against the night, the time seemed somehow simpler.

  He knew he was doing the right thing. Gabriel had commanded an Old Testament style Holy War, and Stoneworthy believed in the cause, but he could not entirely set aside the teachings of the New Testament. Truly just men could not forget the lessons of Christ.

  City Defender scouts had called out to him before he stumbled upon their position. They were frightened and Stoneworthy hoped he had not underestimated their terror. They jammed their gun barrels into his face and brutally pushed him to the ground, the whole time bolstering their courage with the derogatory names: “Fucking zombie!” They kicked him numerous times. “Coming after our brains!” The soldiers laughed and dragged him to his feet before knocking him to the ground again. “It ain’t your world no more bone-bag!”

  They delivered him to a forward command post where a surprised Colonel Menedez recognized him from police reports. “It is a pity, Reverend Stoneworthy. You have done so much for this City.” A military man, Menedez could not forget his fallen comrades. “But you picked the wrong fucking side!”

  Menedez contacted City Authority. Enforcers had been placed in the ranks of the City Defenders—as acting Military Liaisons—and a pair of them whisked him away in a speedy transport.

  The sky was dark as they approached the City—and as always, Stoneworthy was impressed with his accomplishment. He had to crane his neck to see Archangel Tower flying free of the City’s Carapace almost half again as tall. Neighboring structures were dwarfed by its size. How often he had wished to see the Tower’s pinnacle in full sunlight. It was a dream that he hoped parley could make real.

  The transports approached the City’s western gates on Level Zero. They had to negotiate enormous barricades of concrete slab and sandbags. Two mammoth doors swung open with ominous silence. In all the history of the City they had never been closed and locked. Overhead, another highway exited through the wall with gates of its own, and another soared over that.

  As they passed through, Stoneworthy saw twenty tanks and support troops clustered around the open space inside the wall. And as the doors swung shut behind him, the minister caught the first hint of a dilemma.

  It was unlikely that he’d be allowed to leave the City now that he was privy to some of its defenses. The idea held no anxiety for him. He expected to be treated as a prisoner of war and allowed the basics despite his dead state. And such a setting would allow him to spread the word. His guards said little to him for the remainder of the trip and rather than draw conversation out of them, he used the time to collect his thoughts.

  When he had first approached the City Defender scouts, he had asked to speak with Mayor Barnstable—perhaps naively. He had been a humble minister so long that he didn’t quite fathom the size of the applecart he and Updike had upset. When the transport roared past City Hall, the minister understood that he had grossly underestimated the situation.

  Stoneworthy had met the Prime on a number of occasions, he worked in the same building after all—though the Prime was said to spend a good deal of his time in seclusion, or traveling back and forth by airship to Europrime and the other more distant nations where meetings between ruling corporations took place.

  By manipulating an International Credit Co. grant that would finance the final construction of the Tower, the Prime had secured the top Sunsight floors for Central Authority Headquarters. They already controlled most of the Tower office space from Zero to Level Two, so it became a sore point for the minister, though he had tried to look at it philosophically. Archangel Tower was completed and the arrangement had worked well enough for the past few decades. It also allowed him to keep a wary eye on the politicians. He had been disturbed by some of the design alterations ordered by the Prime, but seventy-five years of Tower building left the minister anxious to finish.

  The Prime was a large man who wore a straight bang of black hair over a heavy-set face that was predisposed to blotching and blushing. The man was intelligent, and had an orator’s gift for communication. Stoneworthy often found himself caught up by his broadcasts. His message was usually about keeping Westprime safe from foreign influence. He railed bombastically about the citizen’s duty to stand against the mystery of the Change. Despite his patriotism, the minister always felt uncomfortable around him. Perhaps it was his skin—that had a pale oily look to it, or it might have been his anxious restlessness—the Prime had a shifty frenetic quality that belied his bulk.

  As they rumbled up Skyway Three and drove onto Tower Avenue, Stoneworthy glanced out at pedestrians. There were fewer than usual for neighborhoods this far downtown, and those he did see scurried between City Defender checkpoints. They had a stooped frightened look to them that caused embarrassment to burn his cheeks. He was partly responsible for their fears.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, already guessing the destination.

  “Prime wants you,” the Enforcer on his left said. His voice sounded mechanical.

  Stoneworthy didn’t like the idea of the Prime “wanting” him, but he did know the man personally if not well. The top was the best place to start a dialogue. And then he flushed again. What was he saying? The street was the best place for the Word to be spoken. The average man’s soul needed to understand the Army of God. Hadn’t he started building the Tower on these very streets? Hadn’t he first met Karen there? Then he thought of his friend and closed his eyes in prayer.

  It was too late to take the message to the street. Perhaps, this was the example of the necessity of leadership. The people already knew the message, now they needed to be led. If only the Prime could be made to understand. He had authority to countermand the mayor’s orders—even Central Authority rulings. Speaking to him would have the greatest impact. The Army of God was poised to strike. He couldn’t delay.

  Stoneworthy had felt somewhat remiss that he and Updike did not bring the ultimatum to the Prime in the first place. But the preacher told him that their issue was with the City not all of Westprime and approaching the mayor would not be seen as an open challenge to the Prime’s authority. Stoneworthy wished the ultimatum had been better received. The Prime was a shrewd businessman and politician though. The army at the gates would get him to deal. And it was the only way he could hang onto any of the wealth he had.

  The transport approached the high Tower Wall and passed the spear-point gates that protected the grounds. The soldiers were dressed in the livery of Central Authority. A wide circling drive guided them to one of many official entrances. Stoneworthy stepped out after his guards and looked up. The height was dizzying. Even against the gray concrete of the level overhead, the Tower was beautiful.

  “There you are.” His voice was choked with emotion. “I’m home.” His breath sat heavy in his chest.

  76 – Rearguard

  Conan was backtracking and struggling with the possibility that he was disobeying orders. Mr. Jay had told him to help stragglers, and to some degree, since he wasn’t with the rest, the magician could be called a straggler. Bend. Fold. Twist the yak-yak. It didn’t sit well with him, since Mr. Jay had trusted the little fighter with an important and puffed-up position, but he couldn’t shake a nagging gut-wrench that his only grownup friend was in trouble. Hours had passed.

  So he left the Quinlan boys to keep the path open for all the slow-kids who were ready to make the trek and run. Liz was out in the service tunnels pointing the Squeakers out of the
Tower by Sophie’s secret way. He thought about the spooky girl and counted her lost among the stragglers doing her willowy dance or other tweedle-dum. She was just another good reason to sprint back and have a look-see and listen.

  Mr. Jay’s work was ongoing, that much was plain as a nose out of place. As Conan made his way back among the empty dormitories, he passed a constant flow of white-shirted kids flying down the dark like paper airplanes. They all wanted to ask him questions and delay his mission, but all he had time for was a quick series of grunt-grunts and much point-point-pointing with his kill-flower back the way he came. All the boys looked at his murder-fist with can-I-have-it stares and Conan swelled. Helping Mr. Jay was the only thing on his mind. Worry. Shiver. Ghak!

  He didn’t know how many forever kids were stuffed into the Tower but he knew the longer Mr. Jay worked to cut them free, the more danger he’d be in. And the more he’d need Conan’s slash and thrust of the blade-bloom.

  The little fighter wondered about the power that the magician had already used, and hoped that Mr. Jay had not over-guessed himself. Conan had done it before, thinking he could fight men with guns and he had lucky-missed-me scars to prove it. The Tower was sure to be full of unseen dangers, and powers that no one ever guessed of in their wildest bed-wet.

  Conan had butterflies and sour-gut that they had pushed their luck enough already. Too much time had passed.

  He blurred by many more straggling kids and gave them the same encouragement and directions point-point-air-stab before running past them into the shadows. When he came upon a group of children that were running with panic-eyes and prickle-hair, Conan felt a thrill of battle-scorch burn through him. There was trouble for sure. Lots of it. Yum-cut-gulp! By the looks of terror on the rocket-run forever children, something really bad had happened. He hoped he wasn’t too late.

  Conan grabbed the arm of one little boy who right-away started squeaking and dancing in the fighter’s grip.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” the boy shrieked now pushing at Conan’s mask. “The Principal’s here!”

  Conan let him go, and started sprinting the way the kids were coming. Ahead, the forever boy could see a minor change in eye-gleam. It was slightly brighter that way, and there was a reddish glimmer-stain to the walls and floors. A thrill for battle and quiver of yikes struggled in the boy’s breast as he ran ahead, imagining Toffers and Sheps in lethal claw and rip with Mr. Jay. His nimble feet crossed the distance in seconds. Then Conan slowed.

  The doors to the Dormitory had been broken and battered from their hinges—tossed up and scattered like Popsicle sticks. The spooky red light from within showed the bodies of two forever kids crumpled and bent into bug shapes. Conan instinctively slipped under shadow and peered into the room, snuffling the thick air for friends.

  A man stood opposite Mr. Jay in the center of the room. The stranger was much taller than the magician, perhaps two feet or more, and held no weapons. At least, Conan could see nothing dangerous or sharp about the man. He had an old book clamped in one large hand but that was nothing to squeak about.

  Then the little fighter noticed that all the beds and furniture had been swept aside and smashed into the walls. It rested in broken piles of junk and splinter all around the gigantic circle-room. Conan slunk into the shadows and angles of the mess and looked for a place he could get a good peek or where he could help with a stick and twist if it came to that.

  “Your time is at an end,” said the man. “Your kind must learn this.” He chuckled, his eyes focused under wrinkled eyebrows.

  “Save your games, Dantalion,” growled Mr. Jay, pressing one hand to his head and wincing. His metal stick was growing white with power. “This has never been our world.”

  “But it is mine now!” The man bellowed and charged toward Mr. Jay. With each stride he moved farther away from his human skin-shape. Clothes fell away and were replaced with burning muscle and rank fur; the hands became claws, the feet hooves, and the face tipped toward drooling-fang-faced-demon. Its fists grew red with heat, and flames trailed from them like fireworks. Ooh! Aah!

  Mr. Jay held his metal stick high, pointed slightly toward the now-monster-man. Then just as the thing was about to bite and claw and snatch, the magician shouted a word. And the monster froze in the air, its arms and legs and body a blur of stopped time. Flame and sparks still curled off its fists and blazed out of its eyes but it was locked in place.

  It glared down at the magician through slit pupils.

  Mr. Jay walked up to it. His movements were tired and almost old; Conan’s brain whirred doing all the not-yakking suddenly. The magician stood a few steps in front of the monster; his stick was just a cold piece of metal in his hands.

  “My time is ending,” he said, like he was talking to any old body. “I’m looking forward to it.” His words were calm. “But it isn’t over yet.”

  And he lifted an open hand and struck the air in front of the frozen monster with it. There was a blinding flash and the floor shook. Conan’s dazzled eyes saw seven strokes of lightning burst out of the air and rip into the body of the beast and it was gone. A ghost of smoke hung in the dark.

  The magician knelt down, studying the enormous cracks his lightning had broken into the floor. He waved at a last drifting cloud of smoke.

  Conan was cross-fingered ready to step out of hiding when the lights in the room flickered, once, twice and dimmed.

  A mist began to form around the room along wall, even drape-hanging across the space where Conan hid. It was close enough to give him a chill like dew-drop-rain. And as he watched it this mist thickened—spooks and ghosts, and grew heavy and soon made dark shapes of at least a hundred. Tall and massive and muscular, Conan recognized the upright bodies and strange black hats of the Toffers. And mixed in with them the glowing flame-licked spheres, the Sheps, monster beach balls full of teeth—all without their man-skins.

  And there was a blinding flash, and screaming like sirens they rushed in at the magician and knocked him down. Conan heard the thunderous impacts of a hundred bodies smashing into the magician and shattering the floor. Roiling flames licked up from the Sheps as they heated the air like sun-fire and bomb-blast. It lit the Toffers and filled the room with devil-light.

  And there were the sounds of breaking rocks and crushing bones. The floor shook under Conan’s feet, and for an eye-blink a cold rush of fear filled the boy. And the floor shook again. There was a wail of agony—a man’s cry and another blast of power shook the room. But still the Toffers poured their dark strength and flame into the magician.

  And Conan could stand no more of it. He flicked out of his hiding place, kill-flower flashing. The boy sprinted into the forest of muscular legs and roil and started slashing.

  Heat prickled his skin as he moved and weird energy snapped and popped in the air—flickered on his helmet and danced over his blades. His hair stood on end and started to smoke.

  The heat grew more and more and almost plucked the breath from his little lungs but he fought on. Swing-dodge-cut-jump! His anger blinded him to his fear and pain. The Toffers’ towering legs and stamping feet moved around him, some shifting to man-skin, others monstrous, pushing forward, clawing at the tiles for grip and blood.

  But Conan danced among them, smiling-blind to danger. The Toffers and Sheps moved quickly but none fast enough to catch the little Nightcare fighter who was a sharp whirling weapon of murder and death. As they turned, he slashed. As they leapt back, he jabbed. And as their numbers merged they could not move away from his cuts and rips. No sooner would he slash a crotch than he would hamstring a twisted leg, then he moved in close to open up a belly. The blades of the die-flower were singing and streaming ribbons of blood. And Conan smiled and smiled like Christmas.

  He kept slashing and jabbing and cutting all the while dancing a step ahead of the defense. All the while his breath coming in hot gasps on the sulfurous wind that blew around the beasts. His body was running with sweat as he blood-stroked a deadly storm upon
the monsters.

  And then a misstep, a second hesitation and a giant foot came down on Conan’s ankle. Pain blinded him as he tumbled on the tiles. Still stabbing he rolled, the murder blade flickering. He leapt and cut, wove and stabbed as the beasts began to seek him out with their teeth. Smelling his sudden weakness they desired a kill.

  And another searing pain flashed up his spine as a twisting claw found a mark and tore his armor open up the back. The momentum pushed him down and sent him flying. He staggered, fell to his knees and only got his kill-flower up in time to fend off a yellow-clawed hand.

  The air grew hotter—the hair on his head was burning. Talons grabbed his arms and swung him, another set of claws grabbed at his legs and started pulling. Conan’s body stretched and wrenched with pain. His spine burned.

  And then he heard a man shout and he was flung to the floor. So loud was the sound that it hurt his ears and caused the walls around the battle to buckle and crack with deep boulder sounds. There was a horrible animal scream in return and the monsters charged in toward the center where a white flame had suddenly appeared. A circular blasting ring of white fire and power rippled its way outward, tearing the Toffers and Sheps to pieces when it touched them. And a great bellowing rang out, as the killing began. Conan rolled into shadow, his body numb as he watched the creatures run wild in madness—trample each other as they were devoured by flame.

  And as the fire approached, Conan wondered if it would hurt when it killed him.

  77 – Parley

  The Prime felt the concussion through his chair. His visitor sat blankly unaware or was too nervous to notice, but definitely; the Prime had just felt the whole Tower shake. It shook from time to time—there were vibrations. It was connected to the City on several levels and all those millions of cars and thousands of miles of Skyway could cause a ripple effect. The hurricane winds of Killing rains caused it to sway and shudder when they came in late summer and fall. But the Prime had never felt something like he’d just experienced.