by Lars Teeney
“Soon...” he thought.
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“Well, Deacon Baker, I know that you a stepping into very big shoes to fill. But, don’t worry! I have left the office of L.A. Deaconess in tidy order,” Vice Deacon Robertson blurted, his mouth half-filled with chicken meat. He embraced a bucket of fried chicken, and crumbs had cascaded down his robes. Deacon Baker sat next to him in the backseat of the armored town-car. Their vehicle was snug between two military A.P.C.s and flanked by several L.O.V.E. Rangers patrolling on foot.
“Yes, Vice-Deacon, I am honored to take up the mantle of Deacon of Los Angeles,” Deacon Baker confessed. He was a frail man, looking older than his age. His frame was slight, with deep-set eyes and beak for a nose.
“If you need anything from the Central Authority you just reach right out and let me know! I plan to make an impact as Vice-Deacon, you will see.” Vice Deacon Robertson tore the flesh from a chicken leg and packed the meat in his cheek like a chipmunk storing nuts.
“Vice Deacon, what advice do you have for me regarding this “Demon of Los Angeles”? Last week he claimed another Regime patrol. I would like to start my tenure with a major victory,” he meekly confessed. Vice Deacon Robertson spat a piece of cartlidge and skin into the bucket of chicken, then let out a sigh.
“Are you already worrying about such trivial matters? This is your big day, a time for celebration,” Vice Deacon complained.
“Yes, I suppose you are right—a time for celeb—” Deacon Baker stopped mid-sentence when he looked out his window and witnessed one of the Rangers jogging alongside the car fall down on the pavement, “Did you just see that?” Deacon Baker asked nervously, pointing out the window.
“See what, Deacon? I fear—” Another Ranger went down, this time in the Vice Deacon’s field of view. Cries rang out of, “Sniper!” Rangers scanned the rooftops with the scopes of their rifles. One Ranger pounded on the Deaconess armored car, and the procession escort vehicles picked up speed in and effort to escape the snipers. Regime Regulars fanned out, entering nearby buildings to search for the attackers. The lead A.P.C. of the procession was about to round a corner when the facade of the last building on the block was blown outward into the street like a pyroclastic flow from the slope of a volcano. The lead A.P.C. was upturned on its side, and half buried in rubble. The vehicles in the rear of the procession shifted into reverse with smoking wheels spinning against the rough pavement. The rear A.P.C. careened into a three-point turn, disregarding several pedestrians that fell in its path. As it surged forward two more blasts filled the street in front of it with the guts of buildings. The resulting avalanche blocked its path. The procession was trapped in the kill zone.
“Merciful Lord! It’s the Demon!” Deacon Baker panicked and wet his priestly garb. Vice Deacon Robertson sent distress calls to local forces all around L.A. via the [Virtue-Net] and called for reports on what was happening. All he received were reports of chaos. Vice Deacon Robertson frantically scanned the carnage through the windows of the car. All around he saw Regime soldiers being picked off by sniper fire in the smoke and dust clouds. The two bodyguards in the front of the armored car kept their side arms ready for incursions. Deacon Baker started to hyperventilate after the car was strafed by automatic rifle fire.
“Would you shut the fuck up!” Vice Deacon Robertson scolded Baker, who, by now was sobbing like a child.
Robertson looked out the rear window, and through the smoke and debris could make out figures engaged in hand-to-hand fighting. It was the soldiers from the rear A.P.C., fighting a lone figure clad in black. They attacked and he parried with what looked to be axes. The figure in black hooked a soldier around the ankle, dropping him to his back and then buried the other ax in the soldier’s chest. Another soldier grabbed the Man in Black from the back, who reacted by hooking the ax blade behind the soldier’s knee and jerked, severing tendons and veins. The soldier dropped to one knee. The Man in Black spun with the other ax and firmly planted it just below the soldier’s left ear. He dropped. A third soldier rushed the Man in Black with bayonet point; he was dispatched by an ax thrown end-over-end to the face. Three remaining soldiers still stunned by the explosions prepared to aim and discharge their rifles at the Man in Black, which reached for a pistol on the ground, and rapidly fire four shots, claiming two of the soldiers at center mass. The third soldier was put to rest with his remaining ax, which lodged in his sternum with a quick throw.
By now the soldiers from the lead A.P.C. had freed themselves from their overturned vehicle and were charging to meet the Man in Black, all twenty of them. They were preparing a firing line, when, suddenly a hail of gunfire erupted from behind the Man in Black. Several of the soldiers were picked off. A chorus of cries and cheers reverberated through the ruined street. A mass of bodies surged forward at the soldiers; dirty men and women, armed with antique firearms, knives, and clubs. They absorbed a volley fired by the soldiers before they closed with the firing line, swallowing the soldiers like fire ants to prey.
The Man in Black approached the armored car with tomahawk in hand. Vice Deacon Robertson looked at him with horror as he began to hack at the bullet-proof glass with his tomahawk.
“You two! Get out and kill that bastard! Protect your Deacons!” he commanded while Deacon Baker tucked his head between his legs, sobbing. The two bodyguards in the front seat, clad in black suits rushed out of the vehicle to engage the assailant. The suit from the passenger side pulled his pistol and discharged three rounds, which struck the Man in Black center mass. He fell against the car back first and slid to the ground. The suited bodyguard approached the Man in Black to check his vitals. The driver maneuvered to join him. As he knelt over the Man in Black he suddenly found a tomahawk lodged in the base of his neck, life’s blood spilling out while he choked. The driver raised his gun to take a shot but was struck down by a sniper on a nearby roof. Vice Deacon Robertson realized they were now alone, with only the armor of the car protecting them. He watched the Man in Black pull something from a pouch, an explosive, which was attached to the door, then the Man in Black rushed for cover.
“Get out! Get out! C’mon!” He tried to rouse Deacon Baker who looked like he was suffering a heart attack. Vice Deacon Robertson gave up on him and climbed over him with crushing weight. He opened the opposite side door and ran as fast as his hefty frame would allow toward an adjacent rubble pile. He didn’t get but a few feet away before he was knocked to the ground by a shock wave from the detonation. He coughed and wheezed, trying to pick himself up off the ground. Vice Deacon Robertson was thrust back down into the debris by a boot to his backside. He shrieked. Then, he was pulled up by the collar of his robe. He looked up to see the Man in Black grasping him.
“Get your filthy, Apostate hands off me! I am a representative of the Lord on Earth!” Robertson blurted. The Man in Black said nothing. Then he grabbed the masked that shrouded his head and yanked it off. He revealed his true form.
“You! You’re dead—” the Vice Deacon was interrupted, being drawn closer to the man’s face.
“Behold a pale horse—and his name that sat on it was Death, and Hades followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the living creatures of the earth,” Pale-Silence recited with nefarious vigor, eyes like hot coals, piercing the core of Vice Deacon Robertson. His pointed teeth clicked threateningly with each syllable spoken.
“Oh God! Just kill me now!” Robertson beseeched. He had tears in his eyes and his hands were folded in submission.
“I am afraid your God has forsaken you. He has released you to my custody. And I will be sure to deliver you to the Lake of Fire one piece at a time!” He flashed a fiendish smile at the terrified cleric. Suddenly, a motorbike launched into the air by way of a pile of rubble. The bike touched down with a fishtailing skid, stopping just short of Pale-Silence and the Vice Deacon. The rider jumped off and threw the helmet to Pale-Silence,
then he restrained the Vice Deacon and threw a bag over his head. Pale-Silence mounted his Scarab and his comrade loaded the Vice Deacon on the back of the bike. The Scarab sped away through the haze and smoke, to be lost in the chaos of the slums. The Apostate militia was left to clean up the last of the resistance.
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Rupert von Manstein had been raised up to the rank of Vice Deacon, particular due to the misfortune suffered by the late Vice Deacon Robertson. In the last several months, pieces of his body had been found planted in front of Church and Regime buildings throughout Los Angeles. The Vice Deacon’s body parts had usually been marked with a playing card decorated with a demonic crest, booby-trapped with high explosives, which, once disturbed, detonated, demolishing many buildings. This campaign of terror, lead by the “Demon of Los Angeles”, had required the attention of the newly-ordained Vice Deacon von Manstein. After several bloody skirmishes and a failed martial law order, it became apparent to von Manstein that Los Angeles was too heavily-populated to be pacified with his token force. So, von Manstein switched tactics; he laid siege to L.A. itself. He oversaw the construction of a vast wall around the perimeter of the city, over mountains and through the desert.
Vice Deacon von Manstein convinced the Arch-Deacon to lobby the President to send the New Megiddo Navy to form a blockade of the city by way of the Pacific. The President authorized this operation. von Manstein was sure that he would starve the insurgency into submission. But it did not come to be; as usual it was the civilians that suffered in this conflict. Slum-dwellers starved to death in the thousands. It became apparent that the Apostate resistance was still getting food and supplies through the blockade somehow. As the siege continued, Regime support in the region plummeted, and black market activity filled the void left by Regime merchants. Apostates became folk heroes. This too also became apparent to von Manstein, so after six months he lifted the blockade and pulled Regime forces back to the outskirts of L.A., leaving only a few outposts.
Most of the city of Los Angeles became a semi-autonomous Apostate stronghold. Vice Deacon von Manstein would regroup, bide his time, and swore to return to bring the “Demon” to justice. But, soon this plan would need to be put on hold as new crises threatened the very fabric of New Megiddo.
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A SONG OF ASCENTS
“Walk with me, children, let us gaze upon our heritage,” President Schrubb urged his offspring Kate and Kier Schrubb to follow him through the gate.
“Dad, we have been here numerous times when we were kids,” Kier Schrubb complained. He walked along with his father sluggishly, taking swigs from his flask and burning through a cigarette. Kate Schrubb walked in silence, listening to her father’s sentimental tales.TwoRangershurried ahead and unbarred the restored wooden gates to New Megiddo, Texas heritage site.
“Both of you were too young back then to fully appreciate it. You two drove your mother nuts; God rest her soul,” President Schrubb folded his hands in a brief prayer, “Now, if one you are to succeed me as President of New Megiddo—you must truly understand what Brigham Wainwright created here in New Megiddo—” the President’s proselytizing was cut short by his son.
“Pop, I know this already, it was a paradise on Earth for the Faith, and then later the Secular-Progressives tried to revise history by redubbing it Wainwright, Texas—” Kier was then cut off in turn by his father.
“Son, you only parrot your lessons. You do not truly understand. Come,” he said, walking ahead of the group, he gestured for them to follow. Inquisitor Rodrigo hovered in the background, his hands clasping his lion-headed cane behind his back.
“This was the first structure that had been erected by Brigham at the site. It was a fortified church that offered a place of worship and of defense. Later when Brigham’s flock gained a foothold here, they added other structures and the mighty palisade surrounding New Megiddo,” President Schrubb recounted. He led the party into the church fortress. Boot-clad feet sounded against aged wooden planks, echoing through the hall. The structure had obviously been rebuilt in times past and embellished with extra-fine furniture. There were old, polymer-crafted mannequins, dressed as pioneers and the Faithful dating to the early Nineteenth century. Many of these mannequins were in poor shape due to vandalism over the years. All of these elements created a spectacle designed to transport the viewer to different time period. The party approached the pulpit at the far side of the hall. Off to one side was a reenactment of Reverend Brigham Wainwright playing his piano, flanked by his many wives, with his brood of offspring perched on the floor. All engaged in song. When the party drew near a motion sensor detected them, and cued a low-quality audio recording to play,
“Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!
E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be nearer, my God, to Thee.”
The shrill voices of scores of children screeched out with obscene enthusiasm. President Schrubb threw his hands in the air and waved them to the tune, like he was directing a choir of the departed. Kate sat with a blank expression while Kier furrowed his brow and smirked. The Schrubb twins were used to seeing their father go into fits of sentimentality. Hanging from the raised ceiling, above the scene was an a flag of the old Texas Republic and a map of the region dating from the period; a blue field with a single white star. The map depicted Mexico at its greatest territorial extent, represented in red, and the area of the breakaway Texas Republic represented by blue and red stripes. Also near the scene was a plaque displaying text about the story of the Texas Revolution. Among the obvious leaders like Sam Houston, it spoke of the efforts of Reverend Wainwright and the Church of New Megiddo’s contributions.
“A masterful recreation, is it not? President Schrubb gloated. Kier approached the mannequin of Brigham Wainwright and looked it over closely.
“He’s missing his nose and there’s a pentagram carved into his forehead!” Kier announced, quite pleased with his find.
“Yes—yes. I will allocate extra funds for the repair of these blemishes,” President Schrubb stated. He changed the subject, “The point being is that the Reverend and the Faith were catalysts for the Texas Revolution. His stratagem allowed the religiously oppressed in the old U.S. to come to Texas and worship freely. He was able to deliver the Promised Land to Virtuous!” he explained to indifferent expressions.
“Those Mexicans didn’t like losing all that land, either,” Kier added proudly.
“Yes—well, they were incapable of using the land the way God intended. We were destined to receive it. The point is much blood, sweat and tears went into shaping New Megiddo; a centuries-old struggle.” It occurred to President Schrubb that he was not eliciting the reactions that he thought he would get. He changed tactics, “...and lately it seems the tight ship that was New Megiddo has been springing leaks!” he yelled. Kate Schrubb thought she caught his drift and forced herself to sob quietly.
“My good friend and top government scientist, Martino Franco, has been kidnapped! This cannot stand! He is family,” the President uttered, seemingly turning red as he spoke. He looked at Kate with pity as she increased the sorrowful display. Inquisitor Rodrigo approached and offered a handkerchief. She shot him a glance and he returned a slight smirk.
“Now, I gave each of you a government ministry. I want both of you to make locating Martino your top priority,” the President demanded. He looked at Kate and Kier with eyes of fire, “Even more pressing is this news from Los Angeles! It’s a bloody war zone. Two Deacons murdered—the whole city on the verge of breaking away! Inquisitor! This is L.O.V.E.’s problem. What will you do about it?” President Schrubb asked quite ferociously. President Schrubb began coughing and required a concentrated dose of oxygen from his tank. Inquisitor Rodrigo strolled casually up to the President.
“Fear not, my President. I will begin covert actions to retake L.A. post-haste,” the Inquisitor offered. He patted the wheezing, old President on
the back, then walked away to inspect the various exhibits on display in the hall. Kate and Kier each grabbed one of President Shrubb’s arms to support him.
“Come, father, we’ve had enough excitement for one day. Time to get you bake the Presidential suite,” Kate offered, steadying her father. He nodded with agreement, and the three Schrubb’s exited the church. Inquisitor Rodrigo lingered for a few minutes more, absorbing the spectacle.
“Oh, the Schrubbs. They appeared to have grown too big for their britches,” he said in a low tone. He twirled his cane and slowly walked out of the building, leaving poor-quality audio of the children singing on loop.
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WHO WILL TREAD DOWN OUR FOES
Slumming was not doing Evan any favors. He had lingered for another several weeks ‘putzing’ around and trouble seemed to follow him everywhere since he started to carry Craig’s old sword. Every gang and two-bit pusher wanted to test him now. Each time he had sent them scurrying away or laid them low, but the body-count was beginning to bring ‘heat’. If there was one thing that Evan had taken away from his time at the H.E.M.A. school it was that he came to know discipline and when he didn’t have it he craved it. Hanging around in the watering holes and cruising for a ‘tumble’ with local boys was not as fulfilling as it once was. He craved something more; a purpose. Craig had suggested enlisting with L.O.V.E., become a Ranger and put his skills to work for New Megiddo; mostly as a way of self-preservation.
As Evan sat perched atop a pile of concrete and rebar he polished the sword blade and sharpened the edges with a whetstone. He weighed his options. There was nothing stopping him taking his pack and sword and wandering off into the Western Wasteland. He could sell himself as a trade caravan escort or security for homesteads. But, maybe the structure and stability that joining L.O.V.E. provided would suit him better? One thing he knew for sure was that he couldn’t keep doing what he was doing. So, he made the decision to seek out a L.O.V.E. outpost. He did not know the first place to look; they kept a low-profile.
