The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  Felon spun around to kill Wurn, but long thin hands closed on his throat. Passport’s teeth were exposed in a carnivorous smile. Felon shoved the hot gun barrel into the narrow face. Their impetus took them through the office doors and across the open companionway. They wrestled, struggling onto the yacht’s deck. The rail shuddered when they struck it.

  Below, the water was thick with Swimmers. Their waxy bodies pressed against the yacht’s hull and choked the sunken street. Their lifeless eyes glimmered as they surged upward. Their hands clawed the air.

  Thin lines of blood ran from Passport’s temple but his confident smile remained. Fury fired Felon’s mind. The assassin craved murder. He heaved back and pounded his forehead into Passport’s face. The Demon’s assistant frowned when the first blow crunched home. Felon rammed his skull into Passport’s face again and again, until the thin cheekbones collapsed and blood welled from the raw wound of his nose and mouth. Passport’s eyes crossed and Felon dropped him over the rail. The Swimmers pushed upward on the waves, claws catching the Demon’s assistant before he hit the water. They tore him to pieces.

  Felon staggered back, dizzy. He looked down; saw his left pants leg was slick with blood. The stitches had ripped open. He had to tie it off or risk passing out. He had no idea how much blood he’d already lost.

  He turned. Lucifer was standing there. Black smoke from Balg’s immolation curled out of the doorway behind him.

  “You’re my favorite!” the Devil said and smiled.

  89 – The End of the Wild Bunch

  Driver thrashed awake. He coughed on a lung full of smoke. The room was dark. He pushed himself upright. The action brought a gasp of pain from him. With trembling hands he felt the wound in his thigh. It was ugly. The bullet must have snuck past his bulletproof greave, and mushroomed on impact. It had torn a hole three inches wide, ricocheted off the femur and mutilated the delicate venous system. He was fucked. Blood was seeping out. He pulled his belt off, tied it tightly around his upper thigh. If he was lucky, the Texan knew he’d just lose the leg.

  He focused on the mind techniques that Tiny and he had learned so long ago. Breathe. Calm. Breathe. Calm. He had to push the anxiety away. The pain was terrible, but it wouldn’t kill him—panic would. Driver saw one of his .9 mm’s on the floor where he fell. He picked it up, pulled the clip and yanked a fresh one from his vest to replace it. He had to get out. There was moaning all around him. A few feet away he saw the dead minister’s smoldering shoes. The fire had ravaged the fellow.

  To his immediate right he saw Bloody. The impact of the heavy caliber bullets had exposed most of the upper right section of his ribcage, and had torn the right arm off. It hung from a few useless pieces of muscle that twisted like little worms. The dead man looked at him. His sunglasses had been knocked aside—the glass was pitted and scorched.

  “Over,” the dead man said.

  Driver stifled an angry curse. He had little strength left. “Where’s Tiny?”

  Bloody turned his head along the length of the bar. Driver could just make out the salesman’s legs in a tangle of bar stools.

  “Dead,” Bloody said, focused on the distance.

  Driver dragged himself through his own blood toward his fallen friend. The Texan clutched at his chest when he got to him. The salesman’s eyes were wide, looking into nothing. He was in Blacktime.

  “Well, goddamn, Tiny you bought it,” the Texan whispered, as he probed the salesman’s wounds with his fingers. He had misjudged before. The two bullets had struck Tiny in the stomach, but a third had knocked a hole in his sternum—stopped his heart.

  “So, I guess you’ll know how Bloody feels, then.” For promise his immediate emotions grabbed onto the potential of Tiny’s walking death. “The king is gone but he’s not forgotten…” But it’s not over yet. “You’re goin’ to be hell to live with.” Driver had to survive the next few minutes—just long enough to get some help for his leg. He couldn’t imagine the three of them walking around zombies.

  He looked back at Bloody. The dead man’s sunglasses had frozen on him. A powerful feeling rested on his features.

  “Don’t go gettin’ sympathetic!” he muttered. Crawling toward Bloody. “This ain’t over yet.” Driver looked at the dead gunman. His legs were undamaged. “Ain’t no fat lady singing, brother…”

  “But I guess I need some cover, till I get this tended to.” He looked at the salesman’s body. “Tiny’ll be as right as he’ll ever be. He can wait a spell.” Driver scanned the room. Moans still escaped from dying lips. “There might be reinforcements comin’ though. Can you help me get somewhere so I can stop this bleedin’?”

  Bloody bent his legs, then pushed himself up with his remaining arm. The fingers on the other fanned the air where they hung. The gunman bent and heaved Driver to his feet.

  “Thank you, brother. I need to get somewhere with water, or heat—a kitchen maybe.” Pain and blood slowed him. He limped beside the dead man, his damaged leg dragging. “I’ll bet we could hide out just about anywhere.” He paused to look out a broken window. Many miles out, a battle raged in the clouds. The sounds of it echoed, rang hollow, and the Texan hoped he wasn’t deaf. The sky was filled with glowing red tracers, bullets, he reckoned. And there were burning white shapes of power rocketing through the clouds, and red fellows with batwings flying. The ground was alive with fire and the flicker of gun battles. “With all this shit goin’ on, it would surprise me if they look for us at all.”

  They turned the corner in the hall. Driver saw that the elevator shaft on the right was active. The button to summon it was lit up.

  “Get down, Bloody.” Driver gingerly positioned himself beside Bloody’s ragged form. “Don’t move.”

  He closed his eyes, heard something thump. Felt air move beside him. But blood loss started to get the best of him. Sleep was drifting close, and he was awful tired of swimming. If he just latched onto that restful feeling for a minute—let go, he could rest. Just for a minute.

  90 – Raphael

  Karen looked up at the face of the Angel who carried her. Moments before, she had heard voices that she recognized, but all those impressions were lost when she opened her perceptions to the impossible being. I am Raphael. His eyes told her. He shimmered with a golden light that warmed her soul. She was dying. The colors in the air had torn her insides.

  But the Angel’s gaze promised hope. His beautiful face looked down at her, a bright smile spread across it. Be at peace. He told her without words. All will be well. The scent of cinnamon wafted from his brown feathers.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, her lips stuttered over the words.

  “Forgiveness is God’s.” The light of his halo muted the illumination in the hallway.

  “I have sinned.” She berated herself that she had found no other answer—that her love was not enough to stop the Prime, or Felon.

  Raphael smiled. “You doubted. A question validates the answer.”

  “I did nothing.” Tears blinded her.

  “The time for any of us to do is past.” The Angel carried her along the hallway.

  Karen sobbed, her heart sucked down by despair. Poor Able. Where was he now? She could remember the shooting and the explosion.

  “You have witnessed rare events.” Raphael breathed the words like spring. “Such a thing can be hard to endure.”

  “Such pain.” Karen ached. She longed for memories that she could not bring up. Her life before the Change was gone, and her life after it was beyond her comprehension. All she had was the noise of guns and anger, the sound of death and terror.

  “Pain remains our greatest teacher.” The Angel closed the elevator doors. “Listen past the noise, and you will hear that pain has purified your soul.”

  Motion. Karen felt the urge to retch, was overcome with dizziness. The elevator was climbing.

  “Why?” Her body jerked. The Angel held her like a child.

  “Pride. My brothers tried to take the Scroll of the Lamb and
hide it. They feared its opening.” Raphael kissed her brow. “I took it, and hid it from them.”

  “And now you can open it!” She tried to raise her shoulders, but fell back in pain.

  “Unlikely.” The Angel’s light soothed away her pain but could not return her life. She felt her stomach lurch as the elevator came to a halt. The doors slid aside. “The Scroll of the Lamb will be safe in my cell. Events will ensure as much.”

  Whether it was the Angel’s light, or her desperation, she struggled to get her shoulders upright. On the floor, two tattered figures. Driver’s face was covered in blood, his leg laid open to the bone. Bloody was a crumpled mass of exposed muscle tissue and skeleton.

  “Rest in peace,” she watched their tangled forms as she was carried past. The Texan’s eyes were half open—his forehead smooth.

  “Your strength is great. For you could hate them, yet you choose to love. That is why I love humans.” An ironic grin twisted the Angel’s features. “Perhaps you see the difficulty our Father faces.”

  “Won’t they come back after Blacktime? I can’t think.” Her words were coming garbled. “Resurrected?”

  “Perhaps. Yet when Gabriel dies, his hold upon death will die with him.” Raphael studied her intently. “There will be no more resurrections.”

  Her mind reeled around the words. She raised a hand to her temple. “I can’t think.”

  “I foresaw that the God-wife Cawood’s coming would distract the Powers that contained me—and so I encouraged the Prime to seek you out. I did not foresee the magic at my door killing you as it has. For that I apologize.” He kissed her forehead. “You allowed me to escape. Alas, I did not get to you in time.” Remnants of smoke hung in the air of the Prime’s boardroom. But the Angel’s scent dispelled it.

  The explosion had shattered the windows. Damp wind blew through them, tugging at her hair. Raphael carried her to a place by a broken window. Gently he set her on the carpet, and then gathered himself beside her. The wind touched her face and lightened her mood, but it could not shift the dread that pulled at her. Raphael folded his wings around them. He cradled her head in his arms. They watched.

  Parts of the City were burning. The sky flickered like fireworks to the west as the City Defenders fought with the unstoppable forces of the dead, of Heaven and Hell. Flashes like lightning burst against her eyes.

  “It is beautiful in its own way.” Raphael looked wistfully at the battle. “But any spectacle can steal a breath. The Final Battle has spilled into the City.” His flawless finger caressed her cheek. “Dear sweet humanity.” The Angel turned his eyes to hers. “Suicide bombers all.”

  “Able?” She struggled to sit upright, but her vision blurred with the effort. “Is he here?”

  “He watches us.” Resting on his right elbow, Raphael looked toward the bar.

  “Able!” Karen sobbed. “I’m sorry.” She pulled Raphael’s robe. “Take me to him.”

  The Angel studied the distance. “He shakes his head. Reverend Stoneworthy does not wish you to see him now.” Raphael pressed a hand against her shoulder. “He was badly damaged by the flames.”

  “I love you, Able!” Karen tried to twist her head. She could only see his legs stretched out on the scorched carpet. “I have to hold him.”

  “He nods his head, touches his heart.” Raphael looked back to her.

  “Oh, Able.” New tears exhausted her.

  “Hmm,” the Angel said. “His thoughts tell me he knew about the photographs. A copy and letter of extortion was sent to him also.” The Angel’s voice thickened.

  Karen’s heart suddenly fluttered. He knew! And he still took her on his mission. He didn’t judge her. “We can’t let him die alone.”

  “He won’t.” The Angel looked to the hall and Karen followed his gaze. The little dead girl stood in the doorway. Her mask was gone. Her single eye was a sad and tearful glimmer. The dress was soaked in blood. Her ruined face looked weary. Relieve the sufferings of the innocent victims of war; grant them peace of mind, healing of body…

  The dead girl walked over to where Able was crumpled, and she curled into his lap. She wrapped his useless arms around her shoulders.

  A tear formed in the Angel’s eye. His voice grew husky. “Love and War. Pride and guilt. That is God.”

  “But,” Karen began, “the war out there is fought by Angels too.”

  “You’re not the only ones made in His image. Creation and destruction in one shell,” he whispered. “I do not discount my brethren’s responsibility. Ultimately, we are as powerless as your people. Afflicted as we are with freedom.”

  “Where is Christ, can’t he stop this?” A sharp pain ran below her ribs.

  “He does what he can.” Raphael patted her arm.

  “And God?” Karen shivered.

  “God has made a choice.” The Angel watched her thoughtfully. “He is also afflicted with freedom.”

  “Can you stop it?” A chill was growing in her.

  “No. The time is come.” He blew warm breath on her forehead. “Do not fear.”

  “Run.” Nausea swam through her. “Fly from here.”

  “I will stay. Our time is ended.” A wistful expression passed across his face.

  Distantly, she heard a long drawn out roar—growing in volume—far off, like a jet flying. Briefly, she remembered contrails in the South African sky.

  “I hear a plane.” Karen shouted, “Able, can you hear it?”

  “Gabriel will try to flee soon.” Raphael grinned. “But he will find the door to Heaven closed. By breaking God’s covenant, he has renounced his Principality and his Power.”

  “Please,” Karen wept. “I don’t want to die.” She reached out a trembling hand to touch the Angel’s face.

  “No one does.” Raphael’s tone was diminished. “But how else can the world move past us?”

  Cawood studied the silence for signs of hope. She could hear distant explosions. The drum taps of weapons. Near at hand, was the whine of an electric motor somewhere beyond her sight.

  “It is time.” Raphael looked to the ceiling as though he was listening.

  Sister Karen took a deep breath of cinnamon.

  91 – Lucifer

  Felon glared. The Devil had shaken off his shaggy disguise and exposed his native form. The Fallen’s body like his brethren’s was a masterpiece shaped by a perfect hand. Its structural design was the epitome of strength and beauty. Its color reflected the natural tones of creation. The facial features were a refined version of the harshly drawn hobo Felon met in the sewers, but recognizable.

  Now the ruby lips were sculpted, drawn forward in an insolent half-pucker. Lucifer’s dark brown almond-shaped eyes had enormous pupils that made them look black. They reflected orange and green from the yacht’s running lights. He stood as tall as Felon, and was dressed in black homespun tunic, wool leggings and boots. Overall, his body was robust, raptor-like, made more so by the long black wings that grew out of his back. The feathers were glossy, casting a blue gleam from their edges. He carried them folded down the length of his spine.

  Felon locked his knees against his vertigo—he imagined driving his fingers into the Fallen’s eye sockets and pulping his brain.

  “The war is almost over.” Lucifer mused, and his face broke into an impish smile. “Thank God! ”

  Felon scowled at him, glanced at the rail. Water continued to splash up from the clot of Swimmers. There were hollow thumps and the yacht shifted against the dead weight.

  “Things have gone well.” The Prince of Darkness took a step toward the bow to gaze along the Street of Walls. “It’s a pity I’ll miss the finale.”

  “How long?” Felon voiced between gasps. His boot was full of blood.

  The Devil turned to him, puzzled.

  “How long have you planned this?” The assassin slumped against the rail. The half-light from the ship’s running lights made Lucifer a silhouette. The assassin drew a ragged breath. A groan came from the ship’s hull. />
  “My fall was just the beginning.” Lucifer smirked.

  “The first rebellion.” Felon looked at the shifting deck. Blood was pooling around his foot.

  “The only rebellion,” Lucifer said with a flicker of eyelash.

  “Allies on the inside,” the assassin hissed around his pain.

  “Michael.” Lucifer’s eyes showed delight. “We planned it together. You should have seen our final battle. Oscar winning performances.”

  “You convinced others.” Felon focused on his breathing. He had to slow it down, to slow his heart, to slow the bleeding.

  “My followers: yes, Michael’s: Never! But only about the war, not the plan.” Lucifer flexed his wings, moved closer to Felon still. “After my fall, my brethren in Heaven had the time to truly study the future our Father had planned for them.”

  “Pride,” Felon mumbled, his vision blurring. He blindly swung his head. The sunken street was filling with bodies. The boat was moving forward. Dead fingers squeaked against the hull.

  “Godlike pride.” Lucifer laughed. “Our Father intended us to be servants, messengers, guardians. We can fly, Felon and read minds. We’re immortal! Michael and I knew it would just be a matter of time before our brothers saw the error of siding with God. And the Revelation of St. John made Michael’s job much easier. Imagine, serving God from the beginning of time, wiping the runny noses of humanity, carrying an endless stream of messages and warnings to the Second-born fools, only to be rewarded by being judged their equals at the end of the world.” Lucifer laughed. “Michael was the most human of my brothers, having developed a taste for your women over a series of undeclared trips to Nod. A weak spot that I exploited as I brought him into the rebellion.

  “We needed Gabriel. He was a proud fool who was glad to see me go and he could have caused trouble if he got wind of the continuing rebellion.”