Dread Uprising

by Brian Fuller

  “Nice.”

  They used their last syringe on the one he and Goldbow had team-killed near the compact car and then walked to the immobile body of one that had a BBG. Goldbow had shot him twice in the shoulder and in the back of the head, and he twitched, reaching out with his off hand seemingly at random.

  Cassandra eyed the Dread for a moment. “Got a knife?” He pulled one out of his backpack and handed it to her. “Well, there’s not a lot of art to this, really. I’ll do the first for instruction. You get the next three. Now, make a good deep cut.” She sliced away the Dread’s sweater and did a large crosswise cut across the abdomen. The twitching arm flailed about. “Could you stand on that?” she asked.

  He trapped it. This was gross.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Next, you . . . jam . . . your arm in there. Yeah, it’s icky. Find the heart aaaaaand . . . pull hard.” The heart came free with some uncomfortable squishing and slurping sounds. Cassandra plopped it in the duffel. “A polite Dread. Didn’t bleed at all. You’re up next. With your Strength, you could probably do some kung-fu thing and rip apart the ribs to get at it.”

  Trace didn’t consider himself a wilting violet. He’d been in the military, and his dad had taken them out hunting every fall, but tearing the heart out of a still-moving person would take getting used to. He’d be sure to take extra Stingers on future missions.

  Cassandra handed him the knife, and they went to the next Dread who had wielded a BBG. Trace had shot him in the head twice, and he wasn’t moving at all. He cleared the jacket and sliced away the shirt. With a little yell to help him past his discomfort, he raised the knife and used his strength to ram it into the sternum and crack it open. After pulling apart the bone, it was easier to slice away the major arteries and pull it out.

  “Nicely done, Surgeon Jarhead,” Cassandra commented snidely as he dumped the heart into the bag. “No need to be so precise. Two more.”

  After collecting the Dread’s weapon, they found the next under the SUV, pelvis cracked and a leg disabled. He bared his teeth at them and tried to scoot away using his arms. Cassandra casually strolled around and broke his neck with a vicious kick.

  The sound of a loud diesel engine set them on edge. Someone had come.

  “I hate it when you’re right, Jarhead. Get the duffel! Let’s move!”

  Chapter 17

  Sheid

  Trace grabbed the duffel as he and Cassandra sprinted into the damp grass and deep darkness among the tombstones to the south of the line of cars. Like a jet, a diesel engine roared through the stillness of the cemetery. Trace dropped behind a large pillar gravestone with a base wide enough for both of them to hide behind, Cassandra sliding in beside him. The thunderous engine provided sonic camouflage while Trace unzipped his backpack and set to reassembling his rifle.

  Cassandra lay on her side and held her BBG against her chest. They had only managed to get about 120 feet from the first car parked on the drive.

  “Do you still have the miniscope?” she asked.

  He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her. By the sound of it, there were two vehicles, both with heavy engines. The deep growling of their motors pulsed through the night, vibrating the damp air. Cassandra leaned up, took a quick look with the scope, and swore under her breath.

  “It’s one of those jacked-up pickup trucks and a Suburban. The Sheid is in the truck with a normal. The Suburban is chock-full of armed and armored Dreads. This is insane. I’ve done this for five years and never seen this many Dreads in one place. Never. We get caught and we won’t see the light of dawn.”

  Trace nodded gravely as car doors opened and closed. They lay as silent as mutes in the light rain, their clothes thoroughly drenched.

  Trace’s dad flashed unbidden into his mind. That man would probably still think his son was a loser, even after a night like tonight. He’d think that Brandon would have taken it to the Dreads better. He would probably be right. Trace shook his head to snap out of it, finding Cassandra squeezing her eyes shut. Thoughts of inadequacy pounded on the door to his mind, demanding entrance, but he hung on to his purpose as the thick feeling of evil overspread them like a fog.

  When Cassandra did open her eyes again, they were tinged with sadness and remorse. She looked away.

  Muffled voices and splashing footsteps echoed disjointedly into the night, the sounds of movement staying to the north of them. The mist that had clung to the graves seemed to have moved on, taking the added concealment with it. After a couple of minutes listening to someone give orders in a low voice they couldn’t quite make out, Trace reached out and took the scope. Cassandra mouthed “Be careful” as he slid up to take a look, pressing the Record button.

  Four Dreads in flak jackets and tactical helmets wandered around the gravestones nearest the cars, holding what looked like BBRs. Two others investigated the area close to the mausoleum. This was the kill team, Trace surmised. The Sheid was still morphed as Tela, but to Trace’s vision, the evil creature was almost lost inside the haze of darkness that encompassed it. Even more surprising, the man without an aura—the same one he had spotted in the underground garage—stood over the body of the Dread with the neck Cassandra had recently snapped. The auraless man still wore the suit, and a half-burned cigarette smoldered between his fingers. He took a drag and turned, face displeased, and signaled to the Sheid with a nod.

  The Sheid approached at a relaxed pace and raised its arm. A tendril of darkness the circumference of a large snake writhed out of its hand, billowing like a cloud of smoke from burning rubber. Like a striking serpent, the tendril plunged into the chest of the injured Dread and flamed lava orange. The Dread disappeared, dust spilling out of his sleeves and pants as the Sheid returned to stand obediently in front of the truck.

  “Did you find her?” the man yelled to the Dreads searching around the mausoleum, the first audible command Trace could hear. The man’s voice was powerful and deep but with a raspy quality.

  “No,” one yelled back. “The SUV’s over here. The Trash Angel van is here too, but it’s cleaned out.”

  Clenching his fist, the man angrily kicked at the pile of dirt from the Dread the Sheid had killed. He paced for several moments afterward, hands on his hips. “Get the cars out of here. Move it!”

  The Dreads took the SUV near the van and the four cars driven from the convention center. The car he and Tela had arrived in remained. Trace lay back down and waited as the graveyard emptied, returning to quiet and relative darkness. The engine of the truck still hummed, and once the cars were gone, Trace inched back up and resumed recording. The auraless man loitered by the Sheid, waiting until the last of the cars left, taillights disappearing around the shattered gate. He crushed the cigarette.

  With a scowl, he leaned back against the truck, undoing his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. Partially hidden beneath his clothes, something hung from his neck. It was attached to a leather thong, but the headlights of the truck to his left didn’t provide enough illumination to make out what it was. As he concentrated, a red glow flared around the object beneath his shirt. The glow lasted only a few seconds before it was extinguished.

  He lit another cigarette and paced around the truck until someone stumbled into the glow of the headlights. Trace nearly jumped. It was the female Dread, shot in the shoulder and hip and using a stick to hobble forward. She trembled, eyes wide with fear. The man got in her face, his tone harsh but words too low to hear over the growling of the truck. After a few seconds, he stepped back, waving the Sheid over. The woman fled, but the Sheid’s reach was too long. The snaky tendril shot like an adder into her back and flamed, her clothes and dust falling to the ground in an instant. The man hopped into the truck while the Sheid gathered the clothing of its victims and threw them in the truck bed. A few moments later, the Sheid hopped in and the beastly vehicle backed out of the drive and into the rainy night.

  Nerves unclenching, Trace lay on his back in silence with Cassandra as the rain peck
ed at them. They waited for fifteen minutes to ensure a trailer hadn’t been left behind. Trace tried to process what he had seen. A Sheid killing Dreads? A normal ordering a Sheid around? Or was it an Ash Angel Blank, a traitor? And what was the glowing object? It had almost seemed like the female Dread had been summoned by it.

  “What did you see, Jarhead?” Cassandra asked as she sat up, hair matted to her face.

  “Check the video I recorded,” he said, handing her the scope. “I don’t know what to make of it. The man smoking the cigarette was in the garage at the convention center, too. I got a good picture of him there.”

  Cassandra watched the recording in stunned silence, exclaiming in surprise every now and again. When she finished, she handed the scope back to Trace. “This . . . this is unbelievable. Fourteen dead Dreads and Tela safe is good, but this is the most important thing we’ve accomplished tonight. We’ve got to transmit this to Maggie immediately.”

  “Do we take the car?”

  “No. Let’s walk for a while and get a cab. Something about this is nagging me, but I’m no good at Ash Angel lore.”

  “What’s going to happen to Tela?” Trace asked as they walked toward the iron gates.

  “She’ll probably end up with Ash Angel bodyguards for a while,” Cassandra explained. “I’m sure Corinth would like to volunteer. I hope the Dreads leave her alone, but after a massacre like this, they might want revenge.”

  “But Ash Angels kill Dreads all the time,” Trace countered.

  “Yes, but in ones and twos,” Cassandra explained. “There haven’t been twelve Dreads killed in a single operation for at least as long as I’ve been an Ash Angel. The Sheid killing two more is disturbing.”

  “Dreads killing Dreads?” Trace said. “Sounds like a win to me.”

  “No,” Cassandra said. “It means someone is in charge and dealing out punishment for failure. And Shedim have never obeyed orders from a centralized leader as far as I can remember, but my lore’s not good. I’ll check in with Northwest Operations. You call a cab and see where Corinth and Goldbow are.”

  Ten minutes later, Trace was relaxing with Cassandra in the back of a yellow cab cruising toward Seattle along sparsely traveled streets. Corinth and Goldbow had ensconced Tela in a Super 8 far from their original accommodations. Goldbow sounded upset, though Trace could hear Corinth and Tela laughing it up in the background. Corinth was good with the ladies.

  Northwest Operations had Cassandra tied up on the phone until the cab came, half of the conversation an argument where she pointedly and vulgarly informed them she would send the video to Archus Magdelene only. During the cab ride, they wirelessly transmitted the file from the scope to Cassandra’s Ash Angel phone, and she forwarded it to Magdelene.

  When finished, Cassandra leaned over and spoke quietly, so their bushy-bearded cab driver couldn’t overhear. “Well, Jarhead, it’ll be interesting to see how your Active Mission Evaluation turns out after this one. They’re going to question why you didn’t take Tela to a safe house and instead had her camped out next to you on a mausoleum roof while you picked Dreads off with a sniper rifle. Whether you pass or fail, your missions always make for good coffee talk.”

  “The Dreads knew what hotel room I was in,” Trace said. “I couldn’t be sure they weren’t all over the safe house, too.”

  “I get it,” Cassandra replied. “But it’ll be a hard sell to Ramis. He’s tough on the AMEs for Gabriels.”

  Trace turned toward the window, peering out into the dark. Had he blown it again? Once the mission got hot, he hadn’t given his evaluation a second thought. It hardly seemed the point. Worrying about how it was done was the province of Ramis and Magdelene. He just got it done, and rules and procedure just never sprang to mind as he was putting the hurt on the Dreads. He knew that if he failed the evaluation he would have another shot, but he was anxious to get out of Trevex and out into the world.

  “Who has the final say?” Trace wondered. “You?”

  “No, no, no, Jarhead,” Cassandra corrected. “I’m being evaluated, too. The result is a negotiation between Ramis and Maggie, though Ramis has the final say.”

  “Great.”

  She elbowed him. “Cheer up. He’ll probably dock you for endangering Tela. I doubt he’ll buy your argument that the safe house might have been compromised. But fourteen Dreads dead and capturing crucial intelligence? It’s hard not to call that a win.”

  Her phone beeped a few minutes later, and she looked at it and smiled. “Maggie sends a whole string of exclamation marks. The Archai is going to piss their collective pants when they see that video.” The phone beeped again. “And, as a reward, it looks like we get to fly home, Jarhead. I’m going clothes shopping first—well, after we find somewhere to burn the hearts.”

  Chapter 18

  Archus Magdelene

  Trace and Cassandra spent the night burning hearts and sending in reports. Corinth and Goldbow kept watch over Tela in a Motel 8. Corinth had convinced her to accept a new security detail, and Northwest Operations had two Michaels at her side by morning. They all met at the airport the next morning, though Goldbow had left earlier, called away on another mission. Trace worried over his evaluation until dawn, and after a dark, wet night, Rapture was never more welcome.

  By the time they arrived at Trevex late that afternoon, Athena awaited them with an unprecedented pile of forms that took Trace the better part of eight hours to fill out. Gratefully, Archon Ramis didn’t show up to frown upon him, so the only discomfort he had to suffer was driving his socially awkward car back to his apartment at six in the morning. While he couldn’t afford anything as spectacular as Cassandra’s Caddy, he recommitted himself to purchasing a replacement as soon as possible, one that didn’t inspire mockery and shame.

  Walking into his apartment returned a sense of normalcy to his wired brain. He still hadn’t unpacked completely, boxes and furniture scattered about just as he had left them. Today he vowed to act normal. He would eat a bowl of cereal, take a shower, watch the news, unpack and organize, check the mail, and in general try to forget red auras, the swirling blackness of Shedim, and gutting Dreads with a knife. It would take a puzzle or two to get the squishing sounds out of his head.

  He sliced open the tape on the food boxes first. The Ash Angel Provisioning Center had determined he liked Raisin Bran, Captain Crunch, and Fruit Loops, and while not very adult, he couldn’t complain. Today would be Fruit Loops. Without hunger driving the spoon, he ate for the pure pleasure of it—the sugary taste, the crunchy texture, the sweet milk left in the bowl to slurp down at the end. It all came with no weight gain or cavities. He could eat forty bowls. Had Ash Angel researchers figured out exactly what happened to the food they consumed since it went in one end but not out the other?

  He was grateful for the multitude of canned and boxed foods. The AAPC had correctly guessed he couldn’t cook anything that required much more than operating a can opener and turning a stove knob. Next, he arranged the living room. He noticed he had no pictures of family or friends and supposed it was his job to come up with suitable Storm parents and siblings to adorn his apartment with. He had just finished scooting the couch against the wall and angling a chair in the corner when someone knocked on the door.

  Prepared for another visit from Mindy and Scarlett, he was surprised to find Archus Magdelene at his doorstep. The head of the Gabriels was dressed in impeccable and expensive fashion, though she’d opted for business formal in a black pantsuit rather than Cassandra’s fashion-model looks. At six-foot-two, Trace was used to being taller than most women, but Magdelene looked him right in the eye, her pumps elevating her a couple inches. Her long red hair was pulled back in a bun, and she smiled at him, hazel eyes serious but lacking the bitterness of Cassandra’s.

  “Sorry to show up unannounced,” she said. “Do you mind?”

  “No, no, of course not,” he answered nervously. “I’m still unpacking, so sorry about the mess.”

  She steppe
d in, and he closed the door, signaling for her to sit on the couch while he took the recently situated chair.

  This was about the AME. Had they decided already? Was it typical for an Archus to pay a Cherub a personal visit? At least she seemed pleasant enough. He considered offering her something to drink and thought better of it. He hadn’t had time to stock his fridge, and he doubted Ash Angels drank water for the pleasure of it.

  She surveyed the place and him for a moment. “You know,” she finally said, a grin sliding up her lips, “I thought you’d be taller.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” he returned. “I thought you’d be shorter.”

  “Most men do. The height comes from my mother’s side. Anyway, enough of the pleasantries. I’ve come to talk to you about your recent missions . . . and about Cassandra.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Looks like you shop at the same place.”

  “True,” she agreed. “Whenever she’s around we typically make a run to some expensive store. We’re going this afternoon, as a matter of fact. Looks like you should come with us.”

  He didn’t mind his grungy jeans and T-shirt, but he certainly didn’t blend in with Cassandra and Magdelene. “First priority is to get rid of the car they gave me. It’s the one with the camper.”

  She grinned. “I thought I saw old Roaster out there. It has a lot of history, but suffice it to say it has seen the demise of many Dreads. But on to business. Archon Ramis and I had a fairly . . . involved . . . discussion about your performance in the program so far. So let’s review what you’ve done in the field, first from his perspective. To him, the ride-along mission was an unmitigated disaster, though off the record I do have to thank you for a good laugh. Your second training mission was going according to plan until it was blown. During that mission you ignored the orders of your handler and disregarded protocol 44-2. Again off the record, I congratulate you on the 99-1 comment. Clever for a Marine.