by Bob Williams
Shen joined the R.O.T.C. at his local high school in 1975. He enjoyed the regimented aspect of the military, and aside from the training he received when the unit met, there were also volunteer opportunities.
Upon graduation from high school in 1979, Shen Matsuri joined the United States Army.
Shen’s honor was tested a second time when, in 1983, he was in Beirut, Lebanon during the Lebanese Civil War. Shen, as a member of the U.S. Army, was part of the multinational force there providing assistance. Two truck bombs, carrying over 21,000 pounds of TNT struck two housing barracks, killing over three hundred U.S. and French soldiers.
Shen survived the attack with only a shrapnel scar on his face. Unfortunately, it reminded him of the event every time he looked in the mirror. The incident damaged Shen emotionally. There was no honor at all in what he’d survived. He didn’t know how to process such a massive death toll, why he’d survived, and what should happen next.
For the first time, there were fundamental questions of honor that needed answering, and his father’s wisdom seemed trapped in the distant past.
At this point Shen needed a little guidance. Shen had been designated a Point of Light early on by the Protectorate, and he had been saved in the attack.
Nathan, commandant of the Protectorate, then assigned a very highly regarded member of the guard named Malcolm to oversee this particular case more closely. Malcolm immediately formed a rather special and overly protective relationship with Shentaka. Relationship is a curious word for it, though, as it was one sided.
Malcolm pushed Shen through the end of his military employment and guided him back to Columbus where, at age twenty-five, he joined the Columbus Police Department. Joining the police department was the answer Shen had been looking for. He was able to distance himself from Beirut, establish new friends, a support network and, most importantly, honor his father by protecting the citizens of Columbus.
Shen graduated at the top of his class a year later and started patrolling soon after. He was very well liked by everyone in the department, especially the long-serving veterans. He afforded them great courtesy and respect. And he was always picking their brains, trying to learn everything he could. Shen rose quickly.
After a little over a year on patrol, Shen applied to join the SWAT unit. His test scores, proficiency with weapons, and physical capabilities were all exemplary. He quickly earned the nickname “Mayor” by his fellow unit members because, as they said, “His shit didn’t stink.” And also, many of them felt Shen was going to run the town someday.
Fifteen very successful years would pass in the life of Shentaka Matsuri. He rose through the ranks of SWAT to unit commander, meaning he no longer entered buildings—he ran the field operations from the perimeter. He was considered by many to be the best hostage negotiator around, and his success rate and loss of life record was nearly untouchable. When Shen finally decided to turn in his body armor for a suit and tie, everyone knew he would be mayor and anticipated all the good he could do. Many local businessmen and politicians had already expressed their interest in backing him when he made the jump.
He would never get the opportunity. August 22nd, 1992, Columbus SWAT was dispatched to the place where Shen’s American life literally began: the dry-cleaning and laundry business that still bore his family’s name. Security systems had come a long way since the early seventies, and patrol car response times had also.
A lone gunman had the entire staff seated in the front lobby of the store. The front of the business had large glass windows so people walking by could always see what was going on inside. Shen’s father had insisted on those windows.
The man inside was clearly agitated and was pacing around within the shop, visible to all the law enforcement personnel on the scene. He waved his guns around and barked nonsense. When the SWAT team arrived and set up their mobile command, the man quickly made all the patrons and staff stand up as a human wall across the entire front of the store. It was now impossible to see what was going on inside.
Hours upon hours of negotiation with the man got nowhere. Shen was privately furious this was happening again at what used to be his family’s place of business. He finally drew the line after over ten hours of stalemate talks. He told the man he was going to come in and talk to him, alone and unarmed.
Everyone tried to talk Shen out of this highly irrational maneuver. Even the suggestion of such a course of action by Shen was completely out of character.
Within the Higher Grounds, Malcolm watched this situation closely. He was nervous. This was out of character and the completely wrong tactical decision. Malcolm knew he was not to interfere. The Protectorate was dispatched only to observe from the High Grounds and, on very rare occasions, influence situations. But this felt all wrong to Malcolm.
Shen stood outside the front door, his hands in the air. It took several minutes for the man to let him in. Once he did, greetings were exchanged. The conversation began. Shen inquired about the health of everyone in the room. No one had been harmed.
Shen asked about food and water. Could he have some food and drinks delivered? No. The man didn’t care if everyone starved to death.
Were people being allowed to use the restroom? The answer was the evidence of large wet stains in the expected places on several of the patrons, male and female. Shen started talking to the man politely and rhythmically. He explained that what he was doing had no honor. That whether he’d had no honor in his life up to this moment, if he let these people go, this would be the beginning. This was an opportunity for him to stop this type of action. Whatever experiences had led him to this moment, he could change the future by altering the present.
Malcolm was now present in the room. He felt the tension on the air and sensed the situation was going to end in tragedy. He was not visible to the naked eye and was standing mere feet from the men locked in debate. He inched closer. Malcolm had been a member of the Protectorate Guard for a thousand years. He had never before crossed the line prohibiting interference. He had never come down to the Low Lying Lands. He couldn’t begin to explain his actions and hoped he wouldn’t have to. He watched. He listened. He waited.
Shen knew he’d made a mistake. Why had he done this? It was quite simple. This man was dishonoring his father, and Shen wouldn’t have it. He stepped closer to the man. He told him that things had gone on long enough. The patrons of the establishment were tired, scared, and hungry, and a good many of them had soiled themselves. He told the man once again he had no honor, and he had disgraced himself, humiliated the fine people of Columbus, and it was time for it to end by his own decision, or he, Shen, would do it for him.
The man said his name was Robert Kensinger and that people would remember that day forever. That he would go down in history. He said he would be famous.
He then turned and started firing his handgun randomly at the customers he’d been holding hostage. One, two, three, four people fell to the ground.
“No!” Shen screamed, and without thinking about drawing his weapon, he charged the assailant. Robert Kensinger turned, fired one round at Shen and another into his own mouth.
For an angel of the Higher Grounds, time is both infinite and finite. Time as it circulates upon the Low Lying Lands has no meaning or significance to those not of it. For millennia, bringing new recruits unto the Higher Grounds and the Protectorate had been a process of many steps, with rigid guidelines that were not to be trifled with.
While it is not the first step in adding ranks to the Protectorate, without question the single most crucial step in the process is for the Point of Light to be given the choice to make on their own. Every watcher of the Protectorate that oversees an accepted candidate must always give that person the option of joining the Protectorate or ascending in regulation fashion.
This did not happen. The bullet that erupted from the barrel of Robert Kensinger’s gun screamed violently through the air and struck Shentaka Matsuri directly in the head. The small entry wound appeare
d in the middle of his forehead, shattering his skull, annihilating his brain, killing him instantly. He was dead before he hit the ground.
His body was also empty before the bullet exited the rear of his skull. The millisecond the tip of the bullet touched the first skin cell of his face, Malcolm seized the essence of Shentaka Matsuri and took him to the safety of the Higher Grounds. Shockwaves rippled through the Hall of the Protectorate.
This was a stunning breach of protocol, and the hierarchy had never seen the likes of it. No one knew exactly how to proceed. It would be a lesson in futility paid back in full with the blood of their brothers and the cursed stench of ashen feathers.
TRAVEL HAZARDS
The Comanche comes to a stop in the long-since deserted parking lot of a convenience store called Schlagheck’s Gas ‘N’ Go. We’ve been driving for nine consecutive hours, minus pee breaks and leg stretching. Our fruitless tour of “all the fuck over the place,” as Cole has dubbed our four-month search for Freak activity, has taught us all one very important lesson: sometimes you just need an hour or so away from each other before things get testy.
So here we are on Lima Street in Huntsville, Ohio, taking a break from each other. It’s after midnight, and all of us are exhausted. This place, Schlagheck’s, will most likely be where we bed down.
Cole, Shields, Lexi, and I all practically fall out of the Jeep onto the worn blacktop pavement. Large cracks intertwine throughout the parking lot like veins caught in the weak glow of the streetlight. I follow the barely visible cracks until they are overwhelmed by the darkness, and suddenly a chill sweeps over me that covers my body in goosebumps.
“Why don’t we go ahead and do our best to stay in or around the light source,” I say.
“Great deduction, Sherlock. Any other morsels of intelligence?” says Cole.
“Guess what, Cole—”
Shields jumps in. “Okay, gentlemen. Simmer down. We stopped for a reason. Not only are we tired, we’re a little bit tired of each other. Do I need to count to ten and make you boys hug like little children, or do you think we can get on with it?”
I turn and walk past the pump in the direction of the store when I hear Lexi’s unmistakable bark. It’s not the “we’re in trouble” bark but more the “hey, idiot!” bark. I turn and see her sitting attentively next to the gas pump.
“What is it, Lex?” I ask. She barks and brings her paw up and taps the gas pump.
No fucking way. What did you teach this dog, Cory Stalker?
I don’t smell anything in the air, but then again who the hell knows when the last time this pump was used. I walk back toward the pump and begin to look it over. It’s covered in dust and soot, but everything looks to be intact. I lift the hose off the cradle and flip the tongue back. I squeeze the pump handle and … nothing happens. I then put the end up to my nose and oh my god I smell gas! At least I want to very badly. It is, after all, a gas pump, so I most likely smell gas, but Lexi seems pretty sure.
The Comanche had been filled up before we left, but we’ve already used one of our reserves to refill the tank, and it’s unclear how much longer it will take to finally reach Columbus. Finding gas now would be huge.
Cole dips back into the Comanche and brings out the Mossberg shotgun and slings it over his shoulder.
“The pump seems intact,” I say. “Let’s check it out when we get inside. See if it works. Stock up.”
“Good idea,” says Shields. “I’m going to take a look around out here. You guys want to see what’s inside?” She clicks on her small military-grade flashlight and holds it at chest level. She then rests her opposite gun hand ever so slightly on her flashlight hand and heads off into the darkness. “You boys play nice!” she says, her voice trailing as she walks away.
“So much for staying in and around the light source, huh, Prescott?”
“Did she ever listen to you back at the MSZ?”
Cole half-smiles. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t. Good point. The stars must be aligned.”
“Even the sun shines on a rat’s ass sometimes. Shall we check and see what’s going in Schlagheck’s Gas ‘N’ Go, my good man?”
“But of course!” Cole says as he walks up and stands next to me. “I will follow you anywhere—as long as you go in the door first.”
“You know B.A. would’ve never done Hannibal this way.”
“That’s irrelevant, because I’m Murdock.”
“You know, Murdock would’ve never done Hannibal this way,” I say.
“Shut up and go already.”
“Fine, fine. “You probably like Liam Neeson more than George Peppard, you communist.”
“Who’s George Peppard?”
“First Freak I see is getting you for a snack, asshole.”
I turn back and start walking toward the glass doors of the store, digging for my flashlight as I go. Oddly enough, the closer we get to the convenience store the darker it gets. That fucking street lamp is giving me chills with the shitty job it’s doing. I half expect a taxi to pull up and the exorcist to get out and stand underneath it. You know, just to complete the process of shitting in my pants.
“Prescott, wait. Stop!”
Lexi growls.
“What?”
“Where’s your fucking head, man? Look!”
“Look at what, Cole? Use your words.” I’m getting frustrated. Lexi begins to bark. She sounds scared.
“Turn on your fucking flashlight and point it at the doors to the store, motherfucker!”
“Okay, okay!”
I finally dig it out of my pocket, twist it to the on position, and shine it on the doors. If Emily had appeared right in front me riding a bolt of lightning and slapped the shit out of me, I wouldn’t be more stunned. Lexi goes down on all fours and whimpers. Written in blood is this message:
HEADS UP PRESCOTT!!
WE’VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU!!
“What the fuck?” It’s all I can muster.
“Fuckin’-A, right? What the fuck! The longer I fucking hang out with you, fuckin’ more fuckin’ weird shit gets.”
I take a couple of deep breaths.
Malcolm. Malcolm!
I draw one of my Glocks and fall back on my Marine training.
My light leads the way, followed by my weapon.
“We have to go in there, Cole. Before we were scavenging, now it seems this fucker Admiral Shen wants to continue to pick a fight with us. Lex, on my hip.” The German Shepherd jumps up and walks with me stride for stride.
“Okay, then,” says Cole. “It’s about time we get to kill some Freaks.”
“Shit—Shields! Cole, break off. Go for Shields.”
It takes him only half a second to register and change missions. “Got it!”
He vanishes into the black hole of night before I even turn back around.
Malcolm, where the fuck are you? I don’t understand. I need answers! And … I need your help. Please.
I am mere steps from the doors when I am hit with a stench that just about buckles my knees. I know that scent. Shit. It has become much too prevalent in the post-Descent world we live in. Death.
“Come on, Lex. Back to the Jeep. Neither of us could make it in there. I need some protection, and you’re staying outside. End of story.” I open the back and hurriedly rifle through all the shit in there looking for the bandanas and soon find them. Thank you, Cole, for wanting to look like a misplaced rancher on occasion.
I grab three, tell Lexi to stay by the vehicle, and sprint back to Schlagheck’s while tying one around my nose and mouth. Now it’s my turn for a look; only I looked like a misplaced stagecoach robber. I pull up my sprint just past the pump and draw my Glock once again.
I twist the flashlight on and progress with caution toward the double glass doors. The bandana is helping but the godawful odor is creeping into my nostrils and making my eyes water up.
“Goddamnit. Come on!” I am at the doors at this point but pause a second to wipe my eyes. The close
r I get to the doors the more I think I see a chain of some kind wrapped around the handles. But what it actually is, is a chain of human fingers.
What the fuck? Freaks are rage monsters. I can’t say I ever imagined them sitting around sewing. That’s for another time. Gotta move.
I quickly do away with the finger chain, grab the right door handle firmly, and pull. It opens. I release and let it close. I tell myself to breathe. I got this. I swear you could hear a pin drop standing outside this place. I have no idea what is going on or what’s going to happen inside, but it’s time to find out. I just don’t want to die before I get to Columbus.
I fling the door open, bolt inside, and dive over the counter. It feels like the safest place to be. Unfortunately, I dive headfirst into a Freak who is just beginning to rise as I leave the ground. I crash into him and we both hit the back wall with force and fall to the floor, where the display shelves proceed to rain about five hundred different types of cigarette packs on us.
I am kicked really fucking hard twice before I have a chance to get my bearings. Once in the gut and another in the shoulder. Because it’s dark, and I am in a very tight space behind the counter, I take the worst of the collision and the fall. They must be size-twenty boots, but they work as the slap in the face I need to come around.
I throw five or six rapid punches in several directions and feel like they land on the Freak a couple of times and the counter a few times. But he skitters away a bit to put some space between us.
I see a few beams of light fighting for life through the dust-filled air from under a mountain of Marlboros. I scramble toward my tac light as if my life depends on it. Fishing it out from under the pile, I fumble it quickly to its brightest setting and shine it directly toward my assailant.
“All right now, motherfucker. Want to start this dance over again?” He cowers in the force of the flashlight’s beam, refusing to look up. I keep the light trained on him as I walk toward him.
His head is turned away from me and tucked into his chest but I can hear him mumbling something incoherent.
