The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  But Updike held him with a gesture. “General Bolton, I believe that prayer may strengthen us at this time. My orders are not hopeless.”

  The General snapped to attention, as straight as his broken body would allow—then left to carry out his orders.

  Updike lowered himself to his knees, pushing aside his jumble of thoughts and pain. In order to bless his troops he had to be clear with God.

  “Dear Father in Heaven...” he began. “Forgive me my weakness. Forgive me my doubt. Give Your servant the strength to carry out the commandment that You have laid before him. I have sinned Lord, but I can be redeemed as I pray the actions of this army will redeem humanity. Strengthen my arm that it can bear Your sword of Righteousness, and give power to my voice that it might carry Your Word. Bless these troops for their courage.” And he hesitated, then: “And forgive my brother Able for like a good shepherd he gathers strays to the flock.”

  “ANGELS!” A cry rose up around him, gathered strength—became a raucous chant. He drew his head up swiftly.

  Far overhead was a vision from Heaven. A legion of Angels flew—hundreds in three wedges they soared over the heads of the Army of God. They shimmered, resplendent in robes of white and armor of gold. Their burning halos made comets of them. A great clear blast echoed down, full of promise, full of hope and power. The horn of Gabriel had sounded.

  “Hallelujah! To arms! For God!” All around him cries of hope and joy were flying. But Updike could not pry his eyes away from the legion streaking toward the City. “To arms!” He leapt to his feet, ran to the command vehicle and climbed onto the transport. Oliver jumped into the seat beside him, smiling brightly.

  Bolton was already on board, radio screeching. “Captain Updike!” He could not resist some mirth. “Remind me to have you pray in my next hour of need.” Then the dead commander’s face fell. “I need to watch our air cover—wish I could get them a radio up there. Where the hell are my binoculars?” He searched the seat around him.

  But Updike had them. He watched one group of Angels swoop down into the shallow valley in the distance—the same depression of land scouts said concealed a large force of City Defenders, tanks and armor. Like eagles, the Angels folded their wings back and hurtled toward the earth. Swords and shields blazing, they struck. Great gouts of fire and smoke billowed into the night sky. Shock waves rolled across the land, trees shook and burst into flame.

  “They’re destroying the City’s mechanized units!” Updike shouted. “Oh Lord! We’ve got to charge before the jetfighters come in!”

  General Bolton barked instructions into his radio. The command transport lurched ahead. “On my order, Hellfire units, on my order—lay a barrage on pre-set coordinates. On my order!”

  The Hellfire units were big guns positioned at the rear of the Army of God. They would pound any resistance that remained in the valley—and plow a fiery road to the City. Updike raised the binoculars. In jerking pictures, he watched the Angel forces break up—one rolling northeast and one climbing northwest. There was a deep thundering sound across the landscape and jetfighters like black arrowheads rocketed southward through the vanguard of Angels. Flaming swords whirled. Balls of fire exploded in the midst of the Divine beings—broke their formations. Updike gaped in horror as missiles and ordnance exploded in the ranks. Pieces of flaming wreckage hit the battlefield with thunderous impacts.

  Then the jetfighters spontaneously exploded, scattering flaming debris over the land south of the City. A second later Updike’s transport was buffeted by Gabriel’s sounding, the horn’s peal cracking the windshield as it passed. The Angels to the northeast suddenly disappeared in surging blasts of flame. Fifty explosions went off close to the ground—and the blowing of the horn rattled and shook the battlefield again.

  “Driver! Slow down!” Bolton barked. “We don’t want to get too far ahead and there’s bound to be pockets of resistance.” The General’s voice held something like excitement. “Our force to the southwest has positioned its cannon, they’re attacking.”

  In answer, the night sky flickered and glowed with explosions. More jets flew to the north, the streaking flames of Angels close upon them.

  The command transport slowed when the road ahead became impassible with earth and debris. Bolton radioed for bulldozer crews!

  Updike leapt out of the transport and climbed to the top of a rise. The air battle continued as fierce fire and concussion over the City but the moment he raised the binoculars he knew that something had changed. Mysterious glowing red objects hurtled skyward at the Angels. They looked like missiles at first—antiaircraft defenses—but as he watched, he saw their flights change and adapt to suit the movements of the Angels. There was design and intelligence in the movements.

  Then, the flaming red objects joined with the Angels. Distant concussions rolled across the distance and shook the earth as they collided. The binoculars gave him only glimpses. A robed Angel cloaked in golden flame—red electric fire burned over a black creature with the wings of a bat—or a dragon. Demons? Devils? Something was taking the battle back to the Angels.

  Updike looked to the rear. The Army of God was approaching. The rapid advance had forced commanders to load their vehicles with as many soldiers as they could carry. Behind by three miles or more, line after line of the walking dead marched. The other transports would join Updike and Bolton in minutes. The infantry would ring like an anvil soon after. The preacher’s head suddenly flared with pain—searing messages raced through his tortured synapses. Red memories burned him. Thousands of times per second came the word: Betrayal.

  82 – Doomsday

  The burning Angel hurtling past the Prime’s office window was his first indication that events had jumped dramatically past him.

  The second was the sudden appearance of his Demon Ally.

  “The First-mother was taken,” the thing sniveled. “All the delicious children were taken by her Guardian, and poor Lillake was killed!”

  “WHAT?” the Prime screamed, whipping around. The Angels were smashing his F-55 jetfighters to pieces. It was obvious that the Army of God had called in their own powerful allies. “Nursie?” He knew the ancient Demon was getting a trifle dotty in her old age, but she was powerful.

  “Dead!” the Ally wept. “The Principal too… And worse. Consumed by Divine fire.”

  “Divine fire?” the Prime asked. “You said Angels couldn’t get past my defenses!” And then a cold chill ran up his spine as he thought of his captive. If that thing was loose!

  “We’re not sure what her guardian is.” The Demon’s forehead bulged and wrinkled between ram’s horns. Its leathery batwings fluttered. It stank of urine and brimstone. “Burned hundreds of us.”

  “And my captive?” the Prime shouted.

  “He is imprisoned yet.” The Ally cringed.

  “The First-mother?” The Prime’s hands formed rakes.

  “We are in pursuit,” the Ally moaned.

  What was happening? The Prime had only stepped into his office moments ago from his meeting with Tiny. And now this?

  “We have been betrayed.” The creature’s oversized eyes blinked.

  “By who?” The Prime glared at the creature.

  “Balg’s allies in Heaven have betrayed him!” the Demon yelped. “Angels attack the City, when they had agreed to assist Balg against the Army of the Dead.”

  “Nobody told me about allies in Heaven!” The Prime felt the pit of his stomach drop. Betrayal. The Demon’s Assistant, Passport, said nothing about a three-way split. It was supposed to be humans and Demons running the world. What would cause a betrayal now? Unless betrayal had been the plan all along. “What about the deal? We have a deal!”

  “Balg struggles to keep his promise. Even now a Demon army has joined with the City Defenders! The Angels are fewer in number and should be repelled.” A wisp of smoke curled out of the creature’s nostrils.

  “And you? What kind of an ally are you?” the Prime bellowed.

  �
��Our Union was to help you bind the captive, give you Powers and defend your tower!” the Ally said bitterly.

  “Defend the Tower then!” The leader of Westprime spat on the floor. “Find the First-mother!” Don’t panic! The Demons said they could handle the relatively small force of Angels out there. Damn! He would have told the same lie. The Prime was sick of assurances. He hated overconfidence. Time to take charge.

  He peered out the windows to the west, watched fiery flying shapes, hurtling up to meet the Angelic threat.

  “We can overcome the Angels.” The Demon sniffed and then froze. The Prime watched its head arch back on a long neck. Its eyes disappeared into its skull. Finally it said, “Our seekers have the First-mother’s trail. I must go.”

  “Well, get her!” the Prime bellowed as the Ally shimmered, became translucent and disappeared. Steadying himself with thoughts of hate, he marched over to the phone. His Demon organ twitched and squirmed like an eel. Betrayed by the incompetence of superiors! Betrayed by bargains. Betrayed by Powers!

  “Get me General Topp!” His voice was sharp iron. A minute passed. He pondered the depths of betrayal. He’d show the two-faced fuckers.

  The General picked up the phone. “Yes, Sir!” His tone was as stiff as a salute.

  “Topp,” the Prime began. “I want to initiate the Final Solution.”

  “Prime, sir.” Topp’s voice cracked. “I understand our troops have engaged the enemy on the southern and western flanks of the City.”

  “Yes, General.” He paused looking at the dirt under his fingernails. “So what?”

  “Sir, I wondered,” Topp started. “Is it possible that the war can be decided in our favor using conventional means?”

  Fucker! “Conventional?” He ground his teeth. Ignore the fool. “It is 3 a.m. Topp.” He cleared his throat, holding back a tirade. “I want those birds in the air in one hour and fifteen minutes.”

  “But sir!” Topp’s voice broke.

  “But sir what?” the Prime asked, keeping his voice soft.

  “I can’t fire on my own people,” Topp blurted. There were a couple of hollow rushing pops, and then a thud. The telephone receiver bumped and squeaked.

  “Hello Prime?” a new voice said.

  “Hello Carter,” the Prime chortled. Topp’s soft spot just cost him a pair of bullets in the brain. “Good work.”

  “Looks like you were right about him,” Carter continued.

  “The missiles are ready?” the Prime asked.

  “Affirmative,” Carter said. “On your command.”

  “A minor change in plan,” the Prime said. “I want you to launch at targets in both “A” and “B” groups in one hour and fifteen minutes.” The leader of Westprime had long ago traded out the duplicate key launch method, and replaced it with loyalty and hidden Demonic assassins.

  “And I get to keep Carter’s body,” Carter’s possessing Demon said.

  “Drive it in good health.” The Prime was pleased this much of his plan was working. Now the nun! His captive said he had to know the God-wife before him. Sick fuck! The mere thought got his Demon organ rising. Then he’d rule the world.

  “In one hour fifteen minutes the missiles launch,” Carter said.

  “Unless I say otherwise.” The Prime started laughing and slammed the phone down. Do an end run on me! You’re about to experience the Mother of all betrayals! He would be safe underground when the birds started flying, if he had to go through with it. “I’ll show you fuckers Apocalypse!”

  83 – Shootout at Archangel Tower

  Driver wanted to walk into the meeting with a big smile on his face. His old man always told him that if you can’t do it with a smile don’t do it. He’d tried to live that way, and had done pretty well up to the last few days. Things were getting stickier by the minute.

  He was wearing a Kevlar vest and carried clips of ammunition in the pockets of his long black overcoat. He wore bulletproof greaves under his black army pants and a baseball cap of the same color pulled low over his eyes. His long black overcoat concealed empty shoulder holsters that left the Texan feeling naked. He didn’t like Tiny’s plan at all. No more than poor Bloody did.

  The dead gunman clomped along in his big black shoes, looking out of place in his tattered brown jacket, corduroys and green shirt. Bloody never wore body armor and hadn’t changed his attitudes in death. His shoulder holster was empty too.

  He made a good match for the nun, whose quiet intensity had begun to give Driver a case of nerves. She’d been real helpful getting them into the Tower but got quiet once she looked around a bit. Then she started whispering to herself, and her eyes rarely met his. Instead they scanned around him like she saw invisible flames or something.

  “I hope Tiny knows what he’s doing!” he muttered to himself as they strode off the elevator. Two men in dark suits stood in front of an oak-paneled reception desk. The tallest, a black man, was poised on the balls of his feet, arms bent slightly for the quick draw. Driver noticed the bulge under his left armpit, and guessed that it would be one of those small automatic assault guns. The other guy sported a similar bulge, was older, and had a worried look about him.

  “I’m Central Operative Morgan, this is Turner,” the black man said. “We will shoot at the first sign of hostility.”

  “We’re unarmed and you know it.” Driver pointed a finger remembering the thorough frisking downstairs. Those Operatives were suspicious of the empty holsters, but Driver told them he left the guns in safekeeping so he wouldn’t have to write his congressmen to get them back.

  “I like the way you boys do business.” The truth was, Driver wouldn’t have minded working for the Prime. A life on the run got tired.

  Operative Morgan looked at the nun. Her eyes opened wide and she smiled. “You’re a strong color.”

  Morgan frowned, cast a glance at his partner, and looked back to Cawood. “Sister, welcome back to Archangel Tower.”

  “We rescued her.” Driver couldn’t stand a two-way conversation that he wasn’t part of.

  “Rescued,” Bloody echoed.

  “Fucking zombie,” Turner hissed.

  “He only died just a while back so…” Driver glared. “We’re here to get paid.”

  “Paid?” Morgan sneered.

  “If you’re giving them away you should get out of the nun-trading business,” Driver snarled.

  A tremor ran through both Operatives. Morgan gestured to the hall behind them. “After you.”

  It was a short trip to the boardroom really, nun in the middle, Driver on her left and Bloody to the right.

  Morgan stepped up and opened double doors onto a big room. A long wooden bar with red stools ran the length of it. Tiny sat there at the far end—his lips stuck to a big glass something. The salesman set the drink down smiling.

  “Hey brothers!” His face looked a little pale. He wiped a knuckle under his nose, turned the glass with his fingertips, and then walked toward them. Signals. That meant get Bloody into position.

  “Hello brother!” Driver walked up to Tiny, nodding. “Hey. The Prime knows how to live.”

  “Oh yes.” Tiny slapped Driver on the shoulder four times, used his other arm to sweep the expanse of the room. The salesman’s hand rolled over onto its back as it passed a pair of glass doors. Four guys on the patio. “This is living boy!”

  Morgan and Turner stood at the entrance. “The Prime will join you shortly.” They pulled the doors shut and left.

  “Well, Driver, what are you drinking?” Tiny walked behind the big bar with the Texan. It would provide cover. Driver winked at the big gunman who left the nun by a barstool. He came around opening his coat.

  “Any damned thing I want.” Driver talked. “The tequila looks like it was drug all the way up the Rio Grande.”

  “You’ll all die here,” the nun groaned, her eyes frantically searched the room. “Operatives are colored wrong. They don’t trust the Prime.”

  “Cheery.” Driver gave her a tig
ht-lipped smile with lots of teeth.

  Bloody pulled his shirt open and Driver yanked the duct tape aside that closed the vertical incision they’d made in his abdomen.

  “We’re all going to die.” Cawood’s face flushed as she stared around the room. “I can see the color of death.”

  “Don’t care about the color, as long as I go down in a blaze of glory,” Driver whispered, reaching in and pulling a package out of Bloody’s torso—a plastic-wrapped .357 magnum, then his .9 mm’s. He set them under the bar. Tiny got to work on his. He pulled out Bloody’s gun, ripped the plastic off it and stuffed it in the gunman’s holster. He drew out another package containing a lump of C-4 explosive. He flicked a switch on it and set it amongst the bottles under the bar. The alcohol would give it a little extra kick. Driver pulled the tape back over the incision then unwrapped his guns. Bloody closed his shirt.

  The doors opened. A big man in a black suit strode in with a gangly chap, skinny as a twist of barbed wire. The big guy had a plain face with saggy pig jowls under a stupid straight bang. The second man was obviously dead. His clothes were tattered, and had bullet holes all through them. Morgan and Turner followed.

  “Able!” the nun cried, and she ran toward him. The dead man cracked a leathery grin and opened his arms. They embraced. Two more Operatives entered. They closed the door behind them.

  “Mr. Prime,” Tiny began. “These are my partners, Driver from Texas, and the big fellow’s Bloody.” The salesman walked around the bar after the Texan. Bloody followed.

  The Prime moved toward them. He ran his eyes over Driver, turned to Bloody. Something wasn’t right though.