The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “A dead man?” The Prime glared at Bloody.

  “You got one!” Driver gestured to the skinny fellow.

  “We are at war with the dead.” The Prime’s voice quavered. Driver kept his eyes on the Operatives who had come in. They had taken up position, two on each of the Prime’s flanks.

  “We’re just catching up on that part.” Tiny smiled. “But a loyal gun’s a loyal gun.”

  The Prime’s eyes glimmered from cavernous sockets. “Of course.” He looked at the nun. “Reverend Stoneworthy, I wish to thank you.” The Prime walked over and bulldozed the two apart—slipping an arm over the nun’s shoulder. “Sister Cawood, I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Or shall I say, reacquaint myself. For we have met before, on occasion over the years. You and I have much to talk about.”

  When the nun looked up at the Prime her mouth dropped open in horror. A terrible grin spread across the leader of Westprime’s fat face.

  The dead man stepped up to him.

  “You have no right to hold her.” Stoneworthy’s voice rasped—weary and sad. “She has been through enough…”

  “Oh, don’t misunderstand.” The Prime turned to the dead man. “After a thorough debriefing, she’ll be released. And of course, how she cooperates with the investigation will have a direct bearing on your case. Treason is a serious offence.”

  “That is my offense,” Stoneworthy said. Driver admired the stick man’s pluck. “Release her!”

  “You can’t make demands.” Then he looked over at Tiny. “Mr. Tiny. You have said that you and your partners would do anything for me. Here is your opportunity. Remove the minister’s arms if he opens his mouth again.” The nun screamed. Stoneworthy took two quiet steps back shaking his head.

  “Sure,” Tiny said, smiling and shrugging at Driver. “After, we can talk turkey and get this deal done.”

  “Do that and consider it done.” He glared at the nun.

  “Why are you doing this?” The nun’s expression was disbelief and horror.

  “I will need your cooperation.” The Prime’s eyes gleamed with power.

  “I’ll cooperate!” She grabbed at his arms.

  “Karen, no!” Stoneworthy stepped up.

  “You don’t have to do this!” the nun screamed.

  “You’re easily broken.” The Prime chuckled. “And with only a threat.” The big man looked at Tiny. “Remove one of his arms.”

  The nun screamed.

  Tiny gestured for Driver and Bloody to follow him.

  “Don’t matter to me!” Driver shrugged, wondering how he’d remove the dead man’s arm. Messy. He winced, wiped his hands against his coat. “Tiny, I reckon if you hold the feller I can pry one loose.”

  The Prime smiled like a predator, sliding one hand around the nun’s waist. Something was agitating the man—he was almost hopping. The woman leaned away from his bulk. “I’ll escort Sister Cawood to the debriefing. Bring the arm.” He pulled her to him. She screamed. Stoneworthy stepped forward. The Prime sent him sprawling with a powerful shove.

  Tiny stepped up, grabbed the dead man and pulled him over to the bar, pushed him hard against it. Driver’s eyes jumped around the room. Once the pushing starts. Shit!

  “Stop!”

  The Texan froze.

  Operative Morgan had stepped back behind his partner, a small machine gun jumped in his hands. The Prime whirled on him.

  “Put that away!” he commanded.

  “I can’t be part of this.” Morgan’s voice was uncomfortable with the emotion it held.

  “You take my orders.” The Prime held the nun like a shield.

  “I take orders to ensure the safety of Westprime’s citizens.” He kept the gun on the Prime.

  The Texan took a deep breath, relaxed his arms to let the blood pool in his hands. He watched the Operative’s chest. There was a fairly clear shot under his right arm. Might not get the heart, but he could knock a hole in his breastbone.

  He drew.

  Morgan swung his gun toward Driver. That just opened up his chest to gunfire. He had the sense to drop, but three of Driver’s .9 mm slugs ripped his shoulder and neck.

  The Operative’s gun opened up, firing across the bar. A bullet grazed Driver’s calf. Something thumped a few times and Bloody grunted.

  Driver rolled. Morgan’s machine gun swung back to the Prime. The Texan fired at his hand—so did Tiny. The gun and hand flew away in a spray of blood and chopped flesh. Turner fired at Tiny. The salesman took a burst in the stomach, jerked to the side still firing. Stoneworthy took a damaging spray to shoulder and throat. One of Tiny’s shots took an eye out of the Operative on the Prime’s right. The man dropped weeping blood.

  Driver drew another .9 mm. He put two bullets into Turner’s temple.

  The glassed doors to the patio burst open, and four Operatives ran in with assault rifles. They wore full body armor, visors and the whole bit—but they were off their pace a little. Weren’t prepared for the hidden guns!

  Bloody stood in the middle of the room with his .45. One shot cracked the lead Operative’s helmet, sent him unconscious to the floor. The next man hit the ground firing. A brutal spray of lead took Bloody in the chest and threw him against the bar.

  Driver tossed one gun aside, fired at the new threat, and reached into his coat. The radio detonator looked like a pocket watch. He thumbed the primer, felt the harsh stab of a bullet in his thigh, and then pressed the button. A staggering blast lit the room with white flame. A fireball rolled over him.

  84 – Run for Cover

  “The Creature sees Conan with Mr. Jay,” the Creature told Liz and the Quinlan boys. “And others with him, many hundred.” The magician had opened his eyes. Good.

  “Are they okay?” a Quinlan boy asked.

  “You will take the others,” the Creature said, struggling to control her emotions. She felt the little fighter’s pain like it was her own and clenched her fists to keep from crying out. “There will be room.”

  “Listen,” Whistles’ said, she’d removed her moustache so a grimy forever girl’s face peered out from under her derby. “I’ve closed the bar, and it’s packed with as many of us as we can fit. The buses are outside and ready. We’re loading food and weapons. But people are getting curious.”

  More forever children entered the basement and Whistles cursed again, exasperated. “Creature, we got to do something soon.”

  “The Creature sees Mr. Jay approaching,” the Creature whispered and smiled, but the pleasure caught in her throat. “Conan is injured,” she said, “and they are followed.”

  “Fuck!” barked Whistles, grabbing the plastic whistle at her throat and chewing. It snapped and broke in her mouth. She spat it out and started slapping her pockets. “Anybody got a cigar?”

  The Creature turned to the secret door. Already she had sensed their approach. The Creature felt great pain in little Conan; it overpowered her senses momentarily but she rallied on the fact he was alive.

  And then Mr. Jay crawled through the opening with the little fighter cradled in his arms. The magician’s hair was singed, and his features begrimed with blood and soot. His eyes were dark and desperate.

  The Quinlan boys were there, reaching out for Conan. Whistles ran forward too, and helped them set the boy aside on some blankets.

  The Creature had opened her perceptions to Conan. There was pain. His ankle was crushed. There was a deep gash along his spine. He’d lost a lot of blood and his breathing was coming in short gasps.

  “Get this thing off him,” Whistles growled and grabbed for the boy’s curious weapon—a many bladed glove. But Conan’s hand pulled away and a low grumble came from inside the boy’s helmet.

  “Leave it,” Mr. Jay turned suddenly. Little Dawn had appeared on the stairs. She ran down to embrace him.

  The Creature knelt by Conan and was just about to call for the Nightcare medics when something struck her mind like a meteorite.

  Great evil had been sent after
them—darkness in many shapes and bodies lusting, slavering hungry for the kill. Not close, but coming fast.

  “Creature,” Mr. Jay said, and turned to Whistles. “You have buses?”

  “Yes.” Whistles looked up from Conan.

  “The Creature sees you must leave now,” she said, touching Mr. Jay’s shoulder and then to Whistles. “Load the buses and go! You must hurry!!”

  Muttering curses, Whistles patted Conan’s shoulder and then hurried upstairs grumbling something about buses.

  “What is it?” Mr. Jay asked and touched the Creature’s arm.

  “You were followed,” she said smiling. “As we—as I foresaw.”

  “We’ve got time.” Mr. Jay was listening to something far away, he gestured with his walking stick. “And I can hold them.”

  “It is not your time, it is mine,” the Creature said and then walked across the basement. She climbed on top of a large whiskey barrel, crossed her legs and arranged herself facing the secret door.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Jay moved along the line of forever children. In their nightshirts, they were a strange sight. Nightcare fighters hurried them through the secret door and up the stairs. Overhead, she heard Whistles shouting orders.

  “I will hold what was sent,” she said and looked into Mr. Jay’s eyes. “You are needed still.”

  “So are you,” he insisted. “You can’t stay, you’ll be doomed.”

  “I was doomed long ago,” the Creature whispered, reaching out, to caress the magician’s cheek, “when the first fearful humans needed gods.” She smiled. “As were you.” Then she gestured to the terrified forever children as they passed. “You must give them a chance.”

  Mr. Jay hesitated, his eyes heavy with dread. “I am sorry.”

  “We are creatures of habit.” The Creature grinned. “He who delivered us to this has the greater sin!”

  And the magician laid a hand upon her shoulder and then with words unspoken left to help the forever kids prepare to run.

  The Creature shut her eyes. She spent the first normal minutes shifting inward, composing her thoughts and drifting—back to times she’d never reclaim and forward to a life as a woman she would never live. Then she moved into the other time of her special perceptions. And while the unborn faces of children cried and waved and she wept and waved, she found it in herself to smile. It was an honor to lead the Nightcare. The children had shown time again how adaptive humans were. They still might survive what was to come. She drifted. Saw her mother’s face, and her father’s. She sensed activity at hand, movement, little souls arrested, clamoring for age, for lives to come: getting ready, packing things, moving things, giggling and loading the quickly filling buses. A pang of pain went through her as she felt others return. They lifted little Conan and took him up to a waiting bus and to others and to hope.

  And at last she felt Mr. Jay’s hands upon her cheeks and his lips press to hers. A warm stirring in her soul sent a blush into her face and then laughter to her heart. So that would be it? The man I kiss. Well, enough, she thought, remembering who it was that kissed her. He said he loved her and was gone.

  The Creature composed herself, straightened her back, listening to the far off sounds of the buses receding. There was a long way to go, and already the noises of war were shaking the barrel under her.

  But they were in good hands. He had remembered.

  A sound by the secret door told her it was time. She opened her eyes, saw that Mr. Jay had shut and locked the way. The Creature watched as the dark things outside thumped, and banged and smashed the door aside. The false brickwork scattered over the floor as lean-bodied, muscular forms spilled into the room. They were human in shape but smaller. Their skulls were conical and made their faces look larger—beastlike. Mucous trailed from their eyes, and noses, trailed on the floor between their legs.

  “I know you all,” she said suddenly, and the scabrous things leaned back whining like dogs, showing their needlelike teeth. “And welcome you to the Bacchanal.” She shifted and slid off the barrel, her shoulders square and resolute and her mind a blaze of power. “Behold!” she said and waved her arms at the wine racks. “Drink for all.” Lifting both arms her cloak fell into a tangle on the floor. “And pleasure.”

  As the Demons pounced the Creature thought that it was but a moment in a long life. Unpleasant but no worse than Conan’s sacrifice.

  85 – Descent

  “Stop resisting, Sister!” The Prime’s face was a mask of strain. His heavy hands pulled at her arms. She was heaved off her feet again. “There isn’t time for this!”

  Sister Karen was beyond feeling. The explosion still rang in her ears. The Prime had barely shut the doors when the bomb went off. They were knocked down, but the Prime rebounded quickly, fed by horrific energies.

  His aura was black. She struggled with her newfound vision. How could she love something like this? But she had to—her mission said she must. Her heart leapt for joy at seeing Able again, but its childish optimism could not negate the harsh reality. Stoneworthy was dead. And evil had taken over the Tower.

  Even as she saw her friend, she knew that he would not survive intact, that the men involved in this dark enterprise would find a way to destroy him utterly. The vicious and sometimes lascivious handling she received from the Prime meant nothing to her. She’d given her consent for worse in the past. To accept it now on behalf of love was simple. But poor Able was fragile despite his strength—he was not so acquainted with sin.

  Felon had killed Sister Karen Cawood. He’d taken her old life that day on the doorstep, the one she was destroying and now she was being reborn in this. Holy Mother guide me. She had scourged herself of the woman she was, had washed her away in sin.

  Now with the end of the world coming, not even the Mother of God could save her. Had all her belief, all her years of denial and doubt come to nothing. Was it so simple? The power of God was subjective to His will, and efforts contrary to that would be met or rejected according to some Divine principle that stood far and beyond mere human understanding. Who was she to judge God’s plan? She had to submit.

  Karen corrected herself. Not submission, but love was what she needed now. She could not give in to despair or abject obedience. She was a vessel for God’s love. She had to be open so that it might flow through her. That had to be enough.

  The Prime dragged her along a corridor and to the waiting elevators.

  “It won’t be so bad.” The Prime spun her around, snarling.

  “God loves you…” she started but a big angry fist sent her sprawling. Stars sparkled across her vision. When her eyes first set on the Prime, she had been horrified by his aura. It was like Felon’s, in its potential for violence, but lacked the orderly, logical overtones of the assassin. The Prime’s energies were flailing about him like tentacles—a horrible chaos that struck with blind ferocity. He flared hatred and envy at any he gazed upon. He was past reason.

  Did the beasts reason? Did they not listen to Daniel? With greatest love, I offer myself to You and pray that You will accept my sacrifice of greatest love. I give myself to You and unite in Your gift of Yourself to me. Come and possess my soul.

  “His time is finished!” The Prime loomed over her. He stabbed the button beside the elevator. The doors slid apart. “We’ll make up a nice prayer to me.” He launched an angry kick at her. She avoided the main strength of it by rolling into the open elevator. The Prime stalked after her, glared and jabbed one of the buttons just inside. Immediately the doors closed and the elevator descended. “Do not provoke me, Sister.”

  Karen watched the Prime pull at his trousers. Something snakelike writhed beneath the loose material.

  “God loves you, and I love you! Do not hate!” she rasped, and then flung a hand over her head as the Prime struck at her, pulled her to her feet and tore at her clothing. She struggled, and they fell against the wall by the door. Help me to love God more deeply in this act of my greatest love.

  “You
love me? Good GOD!” he snarled, pulling her shirt open. “I own this City! I own Westprime! They think they can take it away from me. Fuck them. It’s mine to the end.” The Prime fell silent. The big man’s hands pulled her skirt up, pawed at her undergarments. “But you are beautiful.”

  She did not try to cover her nudity. Her breasts burned with scratches. But she could see the Prime was lost. His evil was not entirely his own. Part of her wanted to scream, but she prayed instead. “God loves you in his mercy! I love you in your torment.” To Thee we look for strength and aid.

  “You’re a dirty girl.” The Prime’s eyes burned like black fire as they roved over her naked chest and belly. His fat lips opened with desire, a gray tongue flicked out. “Fuck it. I’m going to know you now! ” He pressed against her breasts—pushed her onto the floor while he opened his belt with the free hand. Karen screamed when she saw his pants fall away, when she first glimpsed the double set of organs, one purple and human, the other enormous, scabrous and black. “So you’re God’s wife?” The Prime grabbed her underwear, ripped them off. “I guess you know a few tricks, then.” Karen turned away as he loomed.

  The elevator, jerked to a stop. The Prime’s head popped up. A hunted look crossed his features.

  “Fuck!” He struck her in the face with the back of his hand, and then pushed himself to his feet. The Prime glared at the elevator buttons. He pulled his pants up, shoved his monstrous genitalia away. The leader of Westprime shook his head and slicked his hand over his hair. “Too early for this.” He nodded. “He said we’re supposed to do it in front of him.” He pointed a finger at Karen as a shudder ran through his fat frame. “And you think I’m a sicko.” He turned toward the doors as they slid open, his fists raised. “We’re not supposed to stop here.” He glowered at her. “Unless you hit the button when we…”

  And a little girl of eight or nine pre-Change years walked onto the elevator. She wore a white satin dress that reminded Karen of countless communions. There were white stockings on her thin legs and white patent leather shoes on her feet. A heavy veil hung over her pale face.