Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)
Page 24
We have already started the glory of a forever jihad against evil. Kade is dead! Dead
as Dillinger, dead as Hitler in the bunker. Kaput! There is a man out there in the wind, name of Prescott—
I jerk at the mention of my name, then settle back so as not to miss anything.
—a true warrior, a gift from the baby Jesus. He did it! With friends, compadres, men or women, I don’t know, but worthy Knights of the Round Table. The Mordred of our times has been slain! I don’t know how. Butchered like a pig? Shot to death and strung up by his heels like some goddamn would-be Mussolini? Who knows? Who sees? Some folks helped out Prescott and company. They should be named, these people, whoever and whatever they are. Alas, it is not for consumption.
Cole let out a low whistle. Shields pats his shoulder.
Take it back!
There is more to be done.
Make this stop. Make Shen stop. Make them all stop. Stop the engine of death. Throw a monkey wrench into it, take the controls and crash it. End it all! You’ll have to. The great machine of death—with this, this Shen character/lunatic/commander-in-chief at the wheel—has driven right down US-33 to Columbus. Word is he’s set up his kill store in a brothel called the Seventh Son. Who told me? I have sources. Sources that reach far and wide. You let me worry about that. You listening, Crissman?
Why fucking Columbus? Who knows? Who sees? You tell me, friends and kitties. I have only so many field mice out there chirping at me with the greater news. Maybe it’s not even a final stop for Admiral Shen.
What a disgusting place the world is in right now. I don’t have kids because of an unfortunate issue that occurred on the Cambodian border, but by God this is nothing for any American to deal with. This is beyond the darkness, and I want to spend my retirement drinking high-class gin in a normal goddamn city, not a safe zone, where the only deadly thing I have to fucking deal with is my fucking creditors.
Fucking world sucks now. I hate it! No good television anymore. No game shows with
women with beautiful tits. Fucking stupid. I’ve watched all the Price is Right episodes. All of them. Think about it! That’s a lot. I want to watch something new.
Take it back! Take it back in your own neighborhoods. Find each other!
Fucking take it back. Only thing left to do. There’s only death now, not even taxes.
Take it back!
Signing off. Sorry. We’ll have comedy next time.
SEVENTH SON
Columbus, OH
The Seventh Son Brewery used to be a shining beacon of all that was right with Columbus, Ohio. There was a feel to the place that was rivalled by no other brewery in the city. When one walked through the front door it just felt like home. A friendly smile always greeted you. The service was impeccable. And the beer, well, it was second to none.
Unfortunately, like hundreds of thousands of establishments post-Descent, the Seventh Son was currently a shell of its former self. In fact, it had become something much, much worse.
Whereas it used to be a place that produced smiles, hearty laughter, and general “good vibes,” the Seventh Son Brewery was now the home of one Admiral Shen. Shen had travelled close to a thousand miles to get to Columbus, amassing along the way quite the following of Freaks. He called them his soldiers.
You may have seen only a handful around. But they were there. In great numbers. Waiting.
The endgame was near.
***
“Bullshit, Midnite! I am already here! In Columbus!” He stood from his throne of bones, drew his precious 1851 Colt Navy revolver, and shot the radio. Point blank. The small box exploded into a mess of plastic shrapnel, smoking wires, and dead air.
“Where are you?” he screamed.
A woman of stunning beauty pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen and walked casually toward the position of Admiral Shen.
Her name was Rebecca. She was like an Amazon. Easily six feet tall, with long auburn hair and green eyes. She was every bit of sexy that could possibly be imagined. And just as lethal.
The Admiral had rescued her from certain death when the small, privately-owned lockup facility in Flint, Michigan, where she was residing, had been abandoned by the staff during the Descent.
Shen touched her, and from that moment she pledged her devotion to him until she took her final breath. Shen and Rebecca executed the remaining eleven residents; another fourteen had already starved to death locked in their rooms.
“Yes, Admiral. I’m here. How may I assist you?” Rebecca said.
“Is he ready?”
“Yes, Admiral. May I ask a question?”
“You may.”
“This will be the fourth time. He has not come. What makes you think he will this time?”
Shen stood rigid, briefly considering what Rebecca had asked, then walked directly to her and gave her a vicious punch to the gut. She doubled over, coughing and gasping for air. Controlling the urge to vomit, she returned to an upright stance. Shen never hit Rebecca in the face. Her beauty was not to be trifled with.
“Are you satisfied with your answer, Rebecca? Or do you require further clarification on the matter?”
Rebecca stood firm, doing her damnedest not to broadcast her immense pain. She did not want to disappoint the Admiral.
She walked as proudly as she was capable of, retreating to the kitchen. Once there, she proceeded past the kitchen proper, the grills, the prep stations, the large industrial sink, and dishwasher to the walk-in freezer.
The pain in her abdomen was so fierce that she could feel intense muscle contractions with every breath.
The key to the freezer was hanging around her neck on a lanyard. She removed the key and gently placed it into the lock. Simply turning the key caused agonizing pain to course through her midsection. She turned it until the latch clicked, then pulled the lever handle, causing her knees to buckle. Wiping away the tears of pain and shame that crept down her cheeks, Rebecca composed herself and opened the freezer door.
A cool breeze washed over her as if breathed from the mouth of Lady Winter herself. With the door fully open, Rebecca once again laid her piercing green eyes on Demeter.
Demeter was a Low Lying angel. Yes, Rebecca was well aware of the Low Lying Lands, and all of its working parts. Popular culture would call Demeter a “fallen” angel.
However, books, movies, and television had been getting this concept wrong for thousands of years. When an angel of the Lord chooses to become a low lyer, two things happen.
First, they lose their physical feathered wings. That is, they are still technically there, they just go dormant and may not manifest. Second, and more important, the connection is severed. Whether an angel of the Protectorate, or otherwise designated, they are no longer able to communicate with the Higher Grounds.
This is where history gets it wrong: apart from the loss of wings, the angel is still angelic. The greater sacrifice is the connection to the High Grounds. Low Lying angels are not immortal, but can live for close to five hundred years.
They also retain their angelic essence. This is the ability to heal the sick and wounded, as well as keep their intuition. An angel’s intuition is invaluable.
“Demeter. It’s time,” Rebecca said matter-of-factly. She was honest with herself: this part was always fascinating.
“Fascinating? Watching murder is fascinating? You are sick, Rebecca. In the soul. But all is not lost. You can be helped. You can be freed of the burden you carry within you. What your—”
“You shut your damn mouth, low lyer,” she said with a voice laced with venom. “It doesn’t really matter anyway, does it? You’re about to get clipped.”
Demeter nodded his head reluctantly. “Alas, dear Rebecca, your peace and comfort was not my assignment. Your serenity, unfortunately, will not be returned by me. Take me to him.”
“All right. Let’s go, then,” she said. Demeter was not a fighter. He was defeated. Rebecca felt no danger from him. She found it a bit d
isgusting that this being wouldn’t fight for his life. She took him by the arm and immediately felt what she could only describe as an intrusion occur within herself.
“Rebecca, you have life threatening internal injuries from a blow you just recently received. Has Shen struck you again?”
“Admiral Shen is my master. If he sees fit to strike me, it is his right. Shen owns my life and my loyalty.”
“No one deserves be treated like he does you, Rebecca. You have value. You are a creation of love.”
“Cut the shit, Demeter. Nobody has time for this.” She headed out of the freezer a few steps ahead of him.
“Wait. Just wait a moment.”
She turned around a bit too quickly to let him have it for wasting her time, and the pain in her stomach showed her purple stars. She doubled over again.
“Rebecca, you are evil. Just by your touching me now, I have seen all of the horrendous things you’ve done. Even before the Descent. Yet my final act before my death allows me to heal you. If only so you will know a single act of kindness in your life before it ends. For the longer you align yourself with Admiral Shen, your life expectancy shortens, my dear.”
Rebecca considered this. If this idiot heals me, I can get back to doing good for the Admiral.
“This idiot loves you, Rebecca. Even though you have not loved yourself in a very long time.”
“Fine, do it. Means I can get back to puttin’ the hurt on folks for the Admiral.”
“I can only hope that you will not.”
“Well, you’re gonna be disappointed, pal,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Demeter rose from his seat, thick plumes of his warm breath escaping his mouth in the cold air. He put his freezing cold hands on her face and said, “Take this breath, as it will be one of my last. Allow it to enter your body. Will it to enter, and accept it.”
Still standing in the surrounding coolness of the walk-in freezer, Demeter blew his breath toward Rebecca. The white cloud hit her in the face and filtered around her ears and back around her head. Everywhere it touched her, it left a trace of its presence.
Her face began to feel warm, and the slight feeling of the warmth she felt when she took a shot of good whiskey enveloped her. It infused in her eyes, in her ears, and even her hair.
“I can feel it.”
“Good,” said Demeter. “Let it run its course.”
The warm feeling added an intense tingling sensation as it travelled down into her stomach.
“What is that? What did you do to me?”
“Rebecca, you have a ruptured spleen, you’re bleeding internally, and you’re dying. Let it do its job.”
When the sensation of tingling arrived at the damaged spleen, the warm feeling escalated to what Rebecca could only describe as a grease fire on her insides. She dropped to her knees for what felt like the fortieth time in the last five minutes and wanted to scream as loud as she ever had.
“Do not make a sound,” said Demeter.
After what was surely an eternity, Rebecca rose to her feet, looked at Demeter, and said, “Fuckin’ weirdo.” She then turned and walked out the door, trailing off with, “This changes nothing.”
Demeter, under the circumstances, was surprised to feel himself smile. He looked to the sky.
“You’re welcome, Rebecca. And I think it actually does. Yes.”
Rebecca led him, unshackled, back through the kitchen, through the swinging door, and out to the main bar.
Admiral Shen, in the two-plus years that Rebecca had known him, had never been a patient man.
“Rebecca! Where are you?”
“Here, sir. I was rather enjoying some small talk with our friend,” she said, oh so calmly. She looked back at Demeter.
“It’s pronounced DEH-meh-ter. Not Dee-MEE-ter,” he reminded her.
Rebecca slugged him with a solid right cross, striking squarely on the cheekbone, directly under his eye. Demeter, stunned from the blow, fell over as if he’d been belted with a slap. A gash the size of a fifty-cent piece opened up under his eye and it began to swell.
“Get up!” bellowed Shen. “For the last time, angel, get up, for we have come to the end. Checkmate!”
“I have told you time and time again. I don’t know where he is. You have demonstrated your vast knowledge of the Low Lying Lands and the Higher Grounds. You must know that once I chose to be a low lyer, the connection was severed. I can’t possibly know where he is. And believe me, I wish I did. I wish so terribly that I could talk to him, because I know from Rebecca’s aura that you have the dagger. You possess the Rohan Dagger and you intend to kill me with it.”
“You told him about the dagger, Rebecca?” Shen demanded.
Rebecca, looking stunned, cried, “No, Master!” She glared at Demeter, who merely smiled in return.
“No, Shen,” said Demeter. “I used my intuition. Rebecca has been waiting patiently to see you use the dagger since you murdered Krysteth with it last month. She is quite in awe of the spectacle.”
Rebecca turned and fired a vicious roundhouse kick, which connected with brute, damaging force to his sternum. Bones cracked and broke.
He hadn’t quite expected this from Rebecca. Maybe she was a bit more influenced by Shen than he initially thought.
Of course, it’s been only minutes, he told himself. She’s right back in the fire. Give it some time to marinate.
Demeter knew his time was limited. It was now, in this very moment, that he regretted his decision to leave the ranks of the Protectorate and join the humans upon the Low Lying Lands. For over three hundred and twenty-nine years he had never wasted one second regretting his choice. Until now. This moment. He was going to die. And he had no way to call for help, no way to warn his mentor, and worst of all, no ability to say goodbye.
“For God’s sake, Rebecca! Don’t kill him before I get a chance to,” said Shen.
“We both know that isn’t possible, Master.”
“Leave us, Rebecca. Demeter will share his final moments with me alone.”
With a look of extreme disappointment, Rebecca replied, “Yes, my Master.” She left through the front door, looking back ever so briefly, sharing a final, fleeting second with the one who had saved her life.
Admiral Shen walked purposefully back toward his throne of bones, stopping abruptly at a small table set just off its right side.
The box was exactly twenty-four inches long and was made of solid oak. A work of complete beauty in its own right. The box was untold centuries old, but the finish looked as if it had been applied the day before. Ornate etchings and intricate writings adorned it.
Shen made a spectacle of opening the box. It was all rather ceremonial. He was very proud of himself, as he’d created the new ceremony recently. He bowed to the box, reached in, and produced a knife. Raised it high in the air as if those of the Higher Grounds would approve of what he was about to do.
For this was no ordinary knife. This was the Rohan Dagger. All angels knew the legend, but only precious few had ever seen it. The dagger had been forged by the Superior as the final line of defense against any angel that would turn their eyes to another Father.
The Rohan Dagger was the only weapon in existence that could kill an angel. And it currently resided in the hands of a psychopath.
“How has this happened?” asked an exasperated Demeter. “I didn’t want to believe it until I actually saw it with my own eyes. How ... how did you come to possess it?”
“It was a gift. From a mutual friend of ours. Actually, more of a father figure.”
“No!” Demeter cried, tears welling in his eyes. The one Rebecca had hit was practically swollen shut.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I used to be a ... better person.” Shen held the dagger in a death grip, walked over, and stood directly in front of him. “Demeter, warrior angel, formerly of the Protectorate Guard, giving you the full respect that you have earned, I am going to ask you one ... final ... time. Where. Is. Malcolm?”
“Admiral Shen, my answer has not changed because it is the truth. I do not know.”
“Very well. Oh, I should probably tell you. This is going to hurt.”
Shen bowed ever so slightly. He walked over to the side of Demeter and placed his left hand firmly on the back of his neck. Squeezing with a vice-like grip, Shen lifted Demeter off his knees, and they both rose to a standing position.
“Demeter, you will from this moment on cease to exist on any plane. This is your final death.”
With his left hand still firmly gripping his neck, Shen slowly plunged the dagger, hilt deep, into the stomach of his enemy. Shen released his hand from Demeter’s neck and slowly stepped away.
Demeter howled in pain. He let forth a wail that would shatter the eardrums of most. The pain he was experiencing—there was no equal. No reference point by which a description could be provided. Only in death would he be relieved of his agony.
His eyes lit the blue of an electric current, and his arms extended straight out to shoulder height. His body rose up five feet off the ground.
Rising gradually from behind his shoulders and extending six feet outwards were the physical manifestations of his wings. The instant the Rohan Dagger had touched his blood, he was infected with death.
His heart was aflame. The blood that pumped throughout his body was like fire. His body was burning to death from the inside. Dark patches of burnt skin began to rise. On his face, a welt formed. It grew outwardly to the size a large water balloon before it popped, sending Demeter’s literally boiling blood across his face and torso. Another horrendous scream escaped his lungs. The scorching blue flames that coursed through his veins crept through his shoulders and into his wings.
Every possible avenue by which blood could flow through his wings was now aflame with the Superior’s fire. Demeter wailed again in hellish pain. His wings were now ablaze, and the once-white feathers of the honored angel cascaded toward the ground, forming a blanket of pain, darkness, and ash.