The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  The Prime smiled, madness glimmered in his eyes. “First-mother? ” He clapped his hands and looked wickedly at Karen. “She didn’t get away?” He reached out and slid a hand over the girl’s lacey shoulder, as if to see if she was real.

  “Oh,” the Prime said shuddering. He looked back at Karen. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” He looked back at the girl. The doors slid closed behind her, and the elevator started to descend. “Of course, the prophecy has to come true. That’s the way prophecy works. I get the God-wife and the First-mother.” He chortled. “I’m thinking three-way.”

  Karen had pulled her clothing around her as the door opened. She levered herself to her feet. The nun studied the girl. The willowy little thing was swaying on her feet, as though silent music played for her. Karen studied her aura, a distinctive orange.

  “Soon,” the Prime said, reaching into his pants to adjust himself. “I’m going to know you both black and blue.”

  “You heap evil on yourself to justify self-hatred,” Karen said, as the girl swayed. “More sin will not change God’s judgment.” The aura that burned from the Prime was hideous, and searing. How she wished her love could smother it. “Neither will your hate affect God’s love.”

  “Save it for Sunday.” He smiled grimly, glancing at his watch. “There’s a new god in town, and you’re looking at him.”

  “God will win! By the Holy Virgin I swear He will win…” Karen held her arms open to the man. “Accept His love now.” The man’s aura was whirling chaos. Evil faces leering from red fire appeared around him.

  “I’ll make you eat those words,” the Prime said as the elevator stopped. The doors slid open. He pulled her out by the collar. “After a bit of floor-play!”

  The forever girl breezed out of the elevator after them. The Prime saw her too and chuckled lustily.

  A short hall led to a doorway. Past it was a gray-tiled floor. On the far side of that was a big blue door.

  The Prime halted when the little girl stopped some five feet outside the elevator. Her head was tilted forward, the veil a cloud of white over her pale face. She had both hands behind her back and was rising up and down on her toes.

  “What’s with you?” the Prime grumbled. He threw Karen onto the floor then stalked over to the girl like a black mountain about to fall on her.

  The girl looked away sheepishly.

  “What?” the Prime asked, bending over and squinting through the veil. “You smell nice. Let’s see your pretty face.” He reached out and snatched the veil up. Long black hair hung around a white harlequin’s mask.

  “Peek-a-boo?” the Prime chuckled and looked over at Karen. “Kinky!” He put a fingernail under the mask and flipped it up. The face beneath had only one eye. There was a lower jaw, with teeth lined up in a little white row. The rest of the face was a purple-black mass of scar tissue.

  “YOU!” the Prime shouted, but reacted too late.

  The dead girl’s hands whipped around from behind her back and slashed a long knife across the leader of Westprime’s throat. He made a garbled sound and staggered back, and then collapsed against the wall. His hands were slick, pressing at his throat as he watched the dead girl approach. Blood decorated her dress in a scarlet sash as she moved with the same swaying dance toward the Prime.

  He bubbled and coughed as she climbed onto his lap and brought the knife up. A rough cutting noise followed—then a ripping gristly sound.

  Karen screamed and got to her feet; she ran! Clear white fluorescent light gleamed along the length of the sterile hall ahead giving everything a surreal, institutional quality.

  Karen ran. She had no options left. She sped away from the grisly scene. Overrun by terror she sprinted toward the blue door. Her torn clothing gaped, her shoes clattered on the tiles.

  There were symbols marked on the floor. Ancient glyphs she half-recognized in her fear. And from each grew a colored flame, a power source that curled upward mist-like, and wove into the colors emanating from the other symbols to form a fog of undulating hues.

  The blue door began to gleam as she ran toward it. Its edges glowed white and glared with an intensity that she thought would blind her. Then pain tore her abdomen and wrenched her body like a thousand knives had struck her.

  86 – Betrayal

  Captain Jack Updike was confused. He had seen terrible things during his service as an army chaplain in Iraq, and horrors since he had taken up his Holy mission as humanity’s chief resurrectionist. But the battle raging around him was without precedent. The Army of God, comprised of desperate dead men and women was terrible to behold. Its constituents could sustain terrific damage before being forced to the ground, and even then they could fight on with torn legs, severed torsos and mangled skulls. Updike watched a man—his skull exposed from the bridge of his nose down—swinging an axe while City Defenders peppered him with bullets.

  The dead man was wearing a helmet so the bullets rang off it as he rattled forward, axe whirling. With each step his body was eaten away by invisible hail. The City Defenders had thought through the task of fighting a dead army to its obvious conclusion. And so bullets were aimed at heads and upper torsos, anything to undermine the soldier’s ability to think or carry a weapon. Mines, claymores, buckshot any device that could sever, mangle or otherwise incapacitate the dead was employed. The battlefield was already littered with twitching severed limbs, and corpses walked without purpose, their skulls shot away.

  City Defenders were all over the field of battle, dug into gun emplacements, moving by stealth through a system of trenches. They’d adopted the horrific policy of severing the heads of their own fallen comrades to rob the Army of God of soldiers after Blacktime. The thought was hideous!

  Updike reflexively made the sign of the cross—he didn’t consider himself Catholic any more, but the action gave him focus. When the Angels had joined the battle, his head had pounded for the better part of an hour. He was privy to the cries and howls that came from the Divine throats. Then, the pain diminished.

  As the army advanced, the pounding in his head became an uncomfortable throb, and as the battle increased in intensity, it became a tearing anguish. He could barely see when General Bolton gave him a bone-handled .45 revolver.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” the dead man said, before returning to the radio and his communications officer to choreograph the dance of death around him.

  Updike looked at the weapon, and pushed it into his belt. He had never been much of a soldier, and he was not about to become one at the end of the world. It was not a case of scruples either. His soul was built to inspire, not to kill. Although he was prepared to do what he had to, survival would not come at the price of such a compromise. This war was not about that. This war was a reaction to compromise. No more deals. No more practical agreements. Submit to God’s will!

  Overhead he watched an Angel battle a Demon. The Angel used a flaming sword, his halo was argent, and his breastplate gleamed. The Demon was a distorted monster, part buffalo, part swan; it gave off a harsh red glow, its enormous white wings pushing the heavy, muscular body aloft. Its horns were curved and iron-plated. Its tail was like a scorpion’s. The Angel met the beast fearlessly.

  Concussions shook the ground. A bolt of lightning shot to the earth from where they joined. The Angel chopped a limb from the Demon, whose bovine mouth parted around a howl; but the creature whipped its muscular tail with such ferocity that the Angel narrowly deflected it. The Demon bellowed before the Angel could act, and liquid fire shot from its mouth and nostrils. The Angel cried out, blinded. Pain shot through Updike’s mind. The Demon caught the Angel between his horns and rammed him into a pile of rocks that detonated on impact.

  The bull-creature hammered the Angel with its hooves—sparks and fire flew from its victim with each blow. Then Gabriel’s horn sounded and crushed the Demon against the ground. Disoriented, the beast was chopped to quivering pieces by two slashes of the Archangel’s burning sword. Gabriel watched his fa
llen comrade’s body turning to smoke. He screamed in rage, and launched himself into the sky on his long gray wings.

  Oliver Purdue ran over to Updike, panic on his face. “The Defenders guns are destroying us!” Sorrow filled his dead features. “And there are mines! Bolton called them Bouncing Betties. They explode waist high. The wounded are unable to walk.”

  “General Bolton told me to watch for them. We can’t use our cannon! The fighting’s too close.” Updike knew the emplacements couldn’t fire into the throng without destroying their own.

  “The Defenders will try to inflict as many casualties on us as they can,” he continued. “But the Angels have upset the balance. They have almost destroyed the Westprime Air Defense, and their tanks are useless against them. The City has no will to fight.” He paused. “Why else would their Demons come?”

  Updike laid a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “We may not have to worry about the Defenders much longer. They have fallen back once all ready. Though we are taking great damage, we are unstoppable. Some of our troops got past the defenses. Fires are burning on the City walls.” Oliver’s eyes widened, he pulled Updike to the ground. A burning dead man ran past, the fire that consumed him flared like wings.

  “Ugh!” Oliver spat. “This sickens me. I fear that though the Angels are an asset, they have changed our plans as well. Our forces battle as individuals. It is a free for all!” Oliver’s eyes were frail. “We must end this!”

  “That will turn to our advantage. They’re fighting for themselves now. Individuals throwing their faith at the enemy.” Updike pointed to the east. “Look! The gates of the City.” He climbed to his knees. “One more push and we will be at the wall. We’ll bring our cannons closer and take it down. Then, we will begin to win this war. In close quarters, between the buildings, in the narrow streets and alleys, we cannot be stopped.”

  “As you say.” Purdue had an old cavalry sword in a scabbard at his hip. He was an uncomfortable soldier too. “But I begin to doubt.”

  “How can you doubt the mission?” Updike yelled, then ducked as a bullet whizzed overhead. “Look.” He gestured to the battle in the sky. “The City is defended by Demons. Truly, the evil of the moneylenders is proven. They must be stopped!”

  The ground lifted in a cloud of earth ten yards from them. Updike was smashed against the ground by unseen hands. His wind gone, the Captain fought for breath. Sparks flew in front of his eyes. A wide pit had been opened on impact, and in it two powerful beings struggled. Gabriel, his robe in tatters, fought barehanded with a Demon.

  The creature dwarfed the Archangel, stood eight yards tall. Its body had the head of a wolf, huge slavering teeth snapped at the Gabriel’s face. The creature had three muscular arms. Two of them ended in long bony spikes. The third in the middle had a sinewy hand with oversized fingers. It tried to pull the Angel close while it skewered his sides with the spikes. Gabriel beat his wings, halo pulsing as bright as the sun, and lifted himself outside the monster’s reach; but a wild stroke of a stabbing arm caught the Angel at the waist and cast him to the ground with an explosion of breaking rocks.

  Oliver ran the short distance to the struggle, throwing himself in front of the stunned Angel. The Demon was on him in an instant, its spiky arms tore Oliver’s body to pieces.

  Updike cried out. But it was all too late. The wolf’s head devoured his friend’s torso before he could call again. His mind ablaze, he drew Bolton’s revolver and fired at the Demon’s slavering jaws. It howled as tufts of fur flew from it. The Demon’s powerful legs carried it swiftly toward him.

  Updike fired until the gun was empty, and then turned it like a club. A howl like the torment of Hell shook the ground as the Demon crossed the distance in two bounds.

  Gabriel leapt on the monster’s hairy back, fierce fire blasting from his eyes. Updike, overwhelmed, lurched away, stumbled beneath the creature’s bulk. But the Angel used his mighty arms to bind the Demon. Hands that looked too delicate to master such a beast wrapped around its hairy throat. The Demon arched its back—struggled.

  A hot white arc of power flew from the Heavens, lit the Angel’s form like argent. A powerful flap of his wings and Gabriel pulled the Demon’s head off. The body, unaware of its own death stabbed the ground blindly around Updike. Then it lurched back spraying black slime, shook and moved no more.

  “So dies Farbauti.” Gabriel alighted as Updike struggled to his feet. “He will not have his Ragnarok.” The Angel looked down at Updike, his power burning around him like a corona.

  “Oliver,” Updike wept.

  “You weep?” The Angel’s tone was harsh. “You weep for a friend who was already dead.”

  “I weep for a friend who died bravely.” Updike’s mind was swimming in sorrow. “He is gone.”

  “He threw away what he had grown tired of.” Gabriel’s eyes were wolfish. “That is not bravery.”

  “But it is...” Updike’s ire was transmuted into awe. The Angel’s wings spread over him.

  “What is a human life but the wink of an eye?” Gabriel’s expression was reckless. “So brief and futile it barely warrants tears. Weep for the immortals that strive on the field. Weep for those who have eternity to lose. Weep for Farbauti…” He stabbed a finger at the corpse.

  “Every life is sacred. Every soul...” Updike stood up, wiping at his eyes. Gabriel walked to where he had crashed into the earth. He picked up his sword and searched, then found the horn. He leapt into the air, landed in front of Updike.

  “You weep for one dead man.” Gabriel’s teeth flashed threateningly. “And you command?”

  “But we must lament each loss.” Updike drew a hand across his eyes.

  “And while you stink and fuss and drool empires are lost.” Rage gripped the Angel. “Human frailty has kept me bound too long.” He knelt now. His wings formed a wall around Updike. “I run errands in the firmament while you squabble over water holes.” Gabriel’s eyes were piercing. Updike could feel his breath on his cheeks—it smelled of cinnamon. “You served me well enough, man, as you should. But your weakness threatens my purpose and so your service ends.” He hefted his sword. “Your martyrdom will rally your troops.”

  Before Updike could understand the threat Gabriel thrust the burning sword through his chest. His heart jerked and lurched painfully, flame poured from his mouth and nose. The heat from the blade blistered his chin, set his clothes on fire. Gabriel pulled him close; his words were scented with frankincense. The Angel’s piercing eyes bore through him, gleaming red in the dark.

  “I will lead my army.” Updike slid down the length of the sword and onto the ground. A great gout of blood boiled out of him.

  With his dying eyes he watched Gabriel wings spread, as he called to nearby soldiers. “The Demons have slain poor Updike! We must slay their masters in turn! We will clean this City!”

  Updike’s vision darkened, his mind grew dim—he saw faces that he could name. Breath all bloody bubbles, his lips writhed and were still.

  87 – Exodus

  Mr. Jay moved to the front of the bus when it slowed, and the kids crowded around the windows to see the inland wall approaching. It wrapped out of the dark from left and right and was lit evenly by emergency lights. There were other lights too, glowing on the buses ahead and it was soon obvious that something was burning.

  Dawn pushed past the gawking kids to where Mr. Jay crouched beside the driver. The bus crawled by the burning shapes of armored vehicles and tanks. Mr. Jay shielded Dawn’s eyes when they passed the first of the bodies—grownups in uniforms.

  “What in hell happened to those gates?” Whistles blurted suddenly.

  “The Creature sent Nightcare fighters to open them up,” Liz explained matter-of-factly.

  “Man,” sighed Marcus. “Those are some angry kids!”

  “Can you blame them?” Mr. Jay patted the driver’s shoulder.

  And then the bus passed the battered gates. They were hanging on torn hinges burning and ripped like a giant ha
d broken them.

  The convoy had made good time crossing Zero.

  Dawn had never been so nervous and scared while she had waited for Mr. Jay to finish talking to that Creature girl. Almost an hour ago now, she went with the magician to one of the big old school buses that Whistles had rounded up.

  The disguised forever girl said she got them through the Salvation Army. They were used mostly for transporting the living and dead to construction jobs and the like. They also used old buses donated by various companies for transporting the poor to soup kitchens and church revival meetings so Whistles said they had a fair collection of them to rent. That also explained why the buses she got were of many different types and in such varied states of disrepair. Whistles said fuel would have been a big problem, if the Creature hadn’t had the kids hiding it around Zero for decades.

  Dawn followed Mr. Jay, Liz and the Quinlan boys out to an old rusted school bus. It was the last in a line of seven. There were a couple big vans and trucks up front too. Forever kids were everywhere, and Whistles joked they were piled two-deep. She had found a cigar somewhere and was chewing it as she walked with them. Whistles had also grumbled about losing her bar.

  “Ah well, not a place for a nine-year-old girl anyway.”

  A couple of the bigger boys had carried little Conan out. He had some new bandages on him and Dawn was very worried. She admired his spirit and she could tell that Mr. Jay was worried too, and close to tears when he looked at him. Whistles hovered around Conan and had since given up trying to get the deadly glove off the boy.

  The Nightcare fighters were everywhere: boys and girls wearing armor and padding and weapons. Dawn had asked Mr. Jay about the curious belts some wore with metal balls clipped to them.

  “Grenades, Dawn,” he had said dredging up a smile. “Dangerous explosives.” He looked at the little kids wearing the belts and he shook his head. “Not supposed to be this way…”