Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)

by Bob Williams

  His wings destroyed, Demeter fell to the ground in a heap of grotesque finality. His body continued a slow burn long after his soul was extinguished.

  In the end, Admiral Shen stood before the fifth Low Lying angel he had murdered with the Rohan Dagger. In his mind, he was just getting started.

  Malcolm. Do you hear me? This will continue until you come down from the Higher Grounds and stand before me. I want answers. You will give them to me.

  “Rebecca! Clean up this mess.”

  THE HIGHER GROUNDS

  “This is unacceptable!” the commandant of the Protectorate erupted. “Demeter did not deserve this! He was of pure heart and good nature.” The winged soldier stood abruptly from his position at the head of the table.

  The five other soldiers present, who made up the hierarchy of the Protectorate, reacted in shock at his sudden gesture. He strode across the room to where a solid granite pedestal housed a magnificent gold basin.

  “I wholeheartedly concur, Nathan. At this point, though, we have no clear options.”

  “Vincent, he is killing our brothers! We have to do something,” said Nathan.

  Another of the soldiers, David, spoke up. “Must we consult the Knowledge? Can we not have a conclave and determine the best course of action amongst ourselves?”

  Nathan was inches from submerging his hands in the Knowledge but quickly retracted them.

  The Knowledge had been a valuable asset, available only to the commandant of the Protectorate for thousands of years. The most revered and sacred of the honored guard could tell from whence it came.

  The pedestal was complex and ornate in design. It stood four feet high, and was as pristine this day as had been in the time of its construction. In the center of the pedestal sat a silver bowl. The bowl, regardless of outside action, was a constant three-fourths full. As it had for an eternity, a matching silver chalice rested upon the pedestal. Many thought the Superior himself had been involved in its delivery to the Protectorate, but that was unclear.

  The Knowledge, of course, was never free. Even the most decorated and elder of the Protectorate always paid a price. The last of the order to seek answers from the Knowledge was rendered silent for eternity upon the delivery of the wisdom.

  Nathan understood the ramifications but felt the situation was spiraling out of control. The Protectorate had watched over the Low Lying Lands for an eternity. While the humans had taken many hundreds of years to develop, the guard had been there for every minute of it. Even at times when the low lyers committed atrocities upon each other, engaging in war with one another, the Protectorate always only observed.

  But something wicked had occurred. An event even the Knowledge could not have foretold. The gate to the Neverrealm had opened, and Chaos came through. Banished for millennia, the darkness, the tangible incarnation of pestilence and misery, had returned.

  Chaos and his low lyer accomplices had brought forth the Descent. This catastrophic event crippled all the Low Lying Lands and in many ways destroyed the foundation of the Higher Grounds, as centuries-old philosophies and practices were being questioned, and lines were outright crossed.

  Nathan immediately thought of Malcolm. Malcolm was at the center of this entire catastrophe with Shen. Admiral? Where did that even come from? He was never an admiral. No matter. He must be stopped. Nathan gathered himself.

  “Apologies, my colleagues. As I think this through, I must agree with David. I was rash. The Knowledge will not be consulted this day. We must confer amongst ourselves and determine a deliberate course of action.”

  One named Meredith asked, “What of the low lyer Prescott and his friends? Can they be ... manipulated? Malcolm has already crossed over. This Network nonsense has exposed us all. Is it possible, even acceptable at this juncture, to play the hand that Malcolm has dealt?”

  Nathan shook his head. “Absolutely not. Once Malcolm has been located, he will be dealt with, but we shall do our very best to forget what he has done. It cannot be undone, but it can most assuredly not be repeated.”

  The senior member of the council cleared his throat. Though not the commandant, he was the senior member in attendance by age and longevity within the ranks of the Protectorate. His name was Caster.

  “Nathan, desperate times call for desperate measures.” The others nodded their approval. “Malcolm was indeed wrong. And he should be very sternly corrected. Crossing is not acceptable.

  “You are correct, Caster,” said Nathan.

  “Let me finish. This Prescott, who I might add is a Point of Light, and his friends as it was eloquently put by our colleague, did take down a rather vile agent of Chaos.”

  “It is not relevant!” Nathan boomed.

  “Not relevant? My goodness, Nathan!” exclaimed David. “He was able to withstand the essence of Malcolm and fight the monster known as Kendrick Kade. And defeat him. He is useful.”

  “Nathan, although you are commandant, you are outnumbered,” said Caster. “Come, sit down and speak with us. Use your own knowledge and tactical experience, and help us put together a plan of action. We’ve never had one of ours turn against us. We must act now.”

  Nathan returned to his seat at the head of the table.

  “Very well, then. I will listen to suggestions, but I will make the final declaration.”

  After a prolonged moment in which each archangel offered nothing but silent indecision, the one called Meredith had a most extreme concept creep into her mind.

  “I may have something, Nathan. It is the unthinkable.”

  “Speak your mind, Meredith. You’ve more than earned it,” Nathan said respectfully.

  “The girl.”

  “ABSOLUTELY NOT!” roared Vincent. A vocal explosion erupted among the senior councilmembers of the Protectorate.

  Caster stood. He raised his hands and gestured for everyone to remain calm.

  “She did say it was the unthinkable. Everyone, please quiet down. What are you proposing, Meredith?”

  “We cannot seriously be having this conversation,” said Vincent. “The girl is tainted. She is in confinement. The risk is not worth the unguaranteed reward.”

  Meredith slammed her fist down on the large conference table. Her voice was laced with ice and sharp enough to cut glass. “I have shown you all the respect you deserve. The next to interrupt me will feel the error of their ways. Do I make myself clear?”

  Four heads proceeded to nod.

  “I have communed with her in private. Yes, that is correct. I neither requested permission nor felt I needed to. It is true. She is tainted by Chaos. She is without a doubt what the low lyers would call a ‘wild card.’ But she is motivated. And she has an intense desire to help.”

  Nathan spoke up. “Are her motivations sincere? We know she’s already broken through once. It is one of the many reasons she is in confinement.”

  “What do you mean?” asked David.

  “What I mean is this: the low lyer Prescott, whom we’ve already discussed, is her brother. Is her desire to assist the Protectorate or engage with her brother?”

  “Her name,” Meredith said, “is Emily. And you are free to question her motivations to her face. Right now.”

  The large heavy wooden doors to the conference hall swung open with a loud crash, and there, standing in the entryway, was the most beautiful and deadly weapon the Protectorate had ever seen.

  Emily Prescott.

  AFTER MIDNITE

  The Midnite broadcast nearly sends us off the road, but Cole recovers and brings the Comanche to a tire-screeching stop. In the middle of the road. I mean, holy shit! No worries there.

  We listen. I listen so hard I think my eardrums are going to explode. Why is this man so important? What is it about him? Does he hold some kind of key to all of this? Why do we hang on his every word? What is his story?

  “... Signing off. Sorry. We’ll have comedy next time.” The broadcast ends and dead air stands in for impassioned pleas. Is there more? We continue to li
sten.

  “I think it’s over, Prescott,” says Cole.

  “Shhh! Shut the fuck up, man!” I look at Cole straight up. A glare that tells him I will beat his fuckin’ face in if he says another word before I am absolutely sure the broadcast is, in fact, over.

  “Okay, okay.” Cole gestures, his face a mask of “what the hell is wrong with you?”

  I stare inquisitively at the radio as if I can visualize the words coming out through the speakers, like some kind of crazy Electric Company skit from back in the day.

  The two heads in silhouette.

  The one on the left says, “Take it …”

  The one on the right says, “… back.”

  Then they say in unison, “Take it back!”

  That’s fucked up, even for me.

  The dead air is abruptly replaced by static, and the broadcast has indeed ended.

  Shields puts her hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes. Lexi whines, moves her front paws to the middle console, and licks my face.

  “I’m okay, girl. I’m good.” She continues to lick my face. And I continue to let her.

  “You sure, Prescott?” Cole asks, interrupting our moment.

  “Yeah, Cole. I’m okay. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Doc Midnite … he’s got a hold on me. I mean, shit. I’ve only heard what, two fuckin’ broadcasts. The first one in Normal jacked me so much I was all but shitting my pants to get to Nashville to kill Kade.”

  And it’s true. Right now I feel on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “Well, he is rather charismatic,” Shields says. “And now he’s mentioned us. How did that make you feel? I gotta think that’s going to work both ways.”

  Cole says, “Damn straight. Every person we come across, now we gotta worry about whether they wanna suck your dick or shoot you in the face.”

  “Us, Cole. Us. And come on. We all know nobody wants to suck your dick regardless of whether we save the world or not.”

  “I’ll have you know—”

  “Uh, no!” says Shields, her voice slightly raised to let us know she’s nipping this line of crap in the bud.

  “Right. Sorry, Laura.” Cole dismisses me with, “Always with the jokes.”

  “What did I tell you? Foxhole humor. It’s how we get by. Look around, Cole. If you can’t find a moment here and there to laugh, all you’re gonna do is cry. And let’s be honest, right, Shields? Cole crying … it’s fucking awful! I can’t stand it.”

  A small, defiant smile forms on the lips of Michael Cole.

  “Yeah, fair enough, Prescott.”

  “I think before we get moving again we should break down the broadcast,” says Shields. “Let’s just check and see if we all heard the same thing.”

  “Great idea,” I say. “Cole, what’s the first thing that comes to mind for you?’

  “The Black Hand—or somebody—almost found his ass.”

  Shit. I haven’t thought about the Black Hand since Nashville. They’re underground just like everybody else. But dammit. If they’re plotting something … Oh well, just another element to ponder.

  “Damn. Nice one, Cole. The Black Hand hadn’t crossed my mind in a while. So the BH or somebody got close to his bunker. Shields?”

  “A couple of things, honestly. There is one hell of a word-of-mouth network going out there. We have no idea where Doctor Midnite broadcasts from. It could be Seattle, for all we know. But he got word that Kade was down. I think that’s impressive.

  “Second, it was very vague. But did you get the impression he knows about the angels?”

  “Hmm,” I say. “What was the line?”

  “I can’t remember it verbatim, but ‘some folks helped Prescott and friends. Who are they? What are they?’ Something about ‘not for public consumption.’”

  “She’s got a point, Prescott. I didn’t catch that at all.”

  “I see it now. Nice catch, Laura. Does this information help him and us or hinder him and us?”

  “It only hurts him if he’s found. He could know so much more than he broadcasts. Long as he doesn’t say it on the air, I think we’re above water.” Cole sounds certain.

  “I, for one, hope he keeps that under wraps,” I say. “It actually would’ve been better had he not mentioned us. I already wonder what that’s gonna do for new visitors at Normal, as well as what you already said, Cole. We could be crossing paths with a whole new wave of unfriendlies.”

  “What about you, Prescott?” Shields asks. “Anything we missed?”

  “I think it’s pretty impressive that Midnite knows about Admiral Shen. But after Midnite mentioned Shen, I knew we were on the right path. So do we all still agree? Continue on to Columbus?”

  “Yes,” says Shields.

  “Agreed,” says Cole. “We’re gonna get this fucker.”

  “You guys remember the movie Tombstone? With Kurt Russell?”

  “Yeah,” says Cole.

  “Oh God,” says Shields. “Yes, even I know that one. What about it?”

  “Well, that guy Betty. His head reminded me of Kurt Russell. Now I can’t stop thinking about the movie.”

  “I’m kicking you in the nuts the first chance I get.”

  I watch in the rearview mirror as Shields does the classic Jean-Luc Picard facepalm.

  “No, really,” I continue. “Here’s my idea. I’m going to try and work as many Tombstone quotes into this Shen-dig as I can.”

  “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit,” says Cole. “Shen-dig? You asshole.”

  “Well, I am extremely clever, Cole. One of these days you’ll start recognizing it.”

  “Whatever, Prescott.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Cole, you go on ahead.”

  “What? Why?”

  “So you can tell ‘em I’m coming. And Hell’s coming with me!”

  “Ah, shit, Prescott.”

  “Just drive, Michael,” says Shields. “Please. Just start the car and drive.”

  I fake-pout. “Well, I like the idea.”

  Cole picks up the stack of CDs and picks The Blues Brothers. He slips it in and we are immediately greeted by the trumpet intro to “Soul Man.” I lean my head back, close my eyes, and dream of Chicago.

  THE SCRIBE

  The Scribe Records All Things.

  Shentaka Matsuri was born in Columbus, Ohio in the year 1961. The only son of his father, Shentaru, and his mother, Mari. Shentaru had been a superintendent with the National Police Agency in the city of Okazaki. After a long and storied career, but before many thought it time for him to retire, Shentaru not only left Japan, but took his family all the way across the ocean to the United States, and to what many of his trusted friends called “a most undesirable” destination: Columbus, Ohio.

  No one quite understood Shentaru’s sudden exit from an exemplary career when he was only ten to twelve years away from retirement. The well-earned honor Shentaru would enjoy for a career dedicated to overseeing and protecting his fellow citizens would have held enormous benefit for him and his family.

  The police force in Okazaki had a special relationship with its citizens. Highly revered and extremely respected, police officers were treated almost as the equals of sports talents and performers.

  Many would ask Shentaru why he made such a bizarre decision—why he not only left Okazaki, but why Columbus, Ohio? Why didn’t he choose the West Coast? Or anywhere else? Money was not the issue. Shentaru was a frugal man. The family had never wanted for anything, but they also were very practical. The Matsuri family had a most appropriate nest egg.

  Shentaka (pronounced shen-TAH-ka) grew up as a very well-adjusted Japanese American in Columbus. Far removed from the civil rights chaos that erupted in the southern states, Columbus had graciously accepted the Matsuris into their community.

  Shentaru opened up a laundry and dry-cleaning business and infused a little culture into the area at the corner of Fourth and Fourth. The area wasn’t that happening back then, but Shentaru used this busin
ess model to try to teach his son, even when he was very young, his philosophy in life.

  That hard work is honorable. The rest will come as it will.

  And it did. Within three years, the business was booming. Even Shentaru was surprised, but he’d never show it. He was honored to have the opportunity to raise his son in America and show him what it meant to be free.

  Shentaka went to the best schools and excelled from the beginning. “It is honorable to learn as much as one can in a lifetime,” his father told him. Shentaka believed in honor. From the day he first actually grasped the concept, his honor would guide him.

  The first true test of Shentaka’s honor came in 1972. Shentaru was working late, as he did most nights, because his unfailing word and amazing customer service had made him very successful. Sure, he had people that could do the work for him—his staff had grown exponentially over the years—but nobody handled the top clientele but the boss.

  Therefore, Shentaru and one other employee were at the business at 11:43 p.m. when, as the very crude video would show, two males in their early twenties smashed the locked glass front door and entered the building.

  There was no sound, but it was obvious they wanted Shentaru to give them money. Shentaru waved them away, obviously telling them they had not worked for it, and refused to give it to them. One of the two men shot and killed Shentaru and his employee, looked around for a minute, grabbed the cash register, and left.

  Shentaka Matsuri lost his father for $367.87.

  Eleven-year-old Shentaka considered revenge for almost two minutes before hearing his father’s voice in his head. Taking another man’s life is not honorable. For any reason. Shentaka heeded his father’s words. The correct way to honor him was, in fact, to protect others so this kind of thing would not happen to them. Yes, this was the honorable thing to do.

  Over the next seven years, Shen, as he started to go by, set about establishing himself in and around his community. After Shentaka’s death, Mari sold the business, and the Matsuri family focused on philanthropic work.