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

by Bob Williams

  “I was with him the day I acquired this Comanche. Cole, you would’ve loved Coop. Shields, he would’ve grown on you. So ... yeah. That’s something that makes me smile.”

  “That was pretty awesome, Prescott. Thank you for sharing. Cole, you’re up.”

  Cole sits motionless in the front passenger seat, his head pressed firmly against the headrest. He says nothing.

  “Cole. Hey, bud! What makes you smile?”

  “You know I don’t do this kind of thing, Prescott. You guys were good. Thanks for sharing and stuff. I’m gonna pass.”

  “Not so fast, my friend!” If only I had some kind of sports mascot head to put on. “I’m gonna need you to pony up, amigo. What makes you smile?”

  “Prescott. I told you—”

  “What makes you smile, jackass?”

  “YOU GUYS!” Cole shouts. Lexi whimpers. “You guys.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, but he can’t see me. “That’s awesome, man. Care to elaborate?” My voice suddenly sounds a little funny.

  He inhales deeply and lets it out. “Because I’d be dead by now for sure if I didn’t know you both. I don’t even know if the Murfreesboro Safe Zone was going to be enough in the end. I was feeling pretty shitty back then, Laura.”

  “I know, Michael,” she says, stealing a glance before turning back to drive.

  “Anyway, it’s well documented. I lost my whole unit in a busted Ranger mission and ever since then I’ve felt like I’ve been living life with a gun in my mouth. Shields laid the groundwork, but meeting you, Prescott, has given my life meaning. There’s work to be done and I have the skill set needed to do it. I may not show it—and sometimes, Prescott, you and me are oil and water—but I’m grateful. I consider you my friend. I know you and Laura care about me and that makes me fucking smile, okay?” He gives a half-hearted laugh.

  “Thank you, Cole. That was badass.. I most definitely consider you my friend as well. You too, Shields. And Lexi! We have a nice little band of asskickery!”

  “Okay, Prescott. Where are we going?”

  “Take 270 south to 670 west. Take Exit Four-A to head north on Fourth. I know where we are gonna set up shop. Phase one of this operation is going to involve a lot of watching, a little scouting, and fair amount of waiting. But we’ll get there. This motherfucker is going down.”

  Exactly twenty minutes later we pull into a residential property. It’s early morning, before sunrise. Our lights are off because I know how to guide us. We pull into a lot that wraps behind a cinder-block house. On the ground in the rear of the property is a bloodstained and tattered sign that says Lobo’s Printing. The backlot gives a clear but distant view of the Seventh Son.

  We pile out of the Comanche with a collective sigh. We’ve made it to Columbus. Finally. As a group, we are motivated. I can tell that Cole is ready suit up and go in right then, guns blazing, for Pops. But we can’t have that. Malcolm gave me the timeframe. We had about twenty-four hours to get Pops or he’s Freak food. We intend to rescue him, give a warrior’s burial, and preserve his honor. That is our pledge. And it was one we mean to keep.

  “Okay, everyone. Punch the clock. Time to go to work.”

  RESCUING POPS

  Phase One of Pops’s rescue is sleep. I have to insist. There isn’t much of an argument from Shields but Cole is a little ornery. I calmly explain to him that half-shut eyelids are of no use to Pops or anyone else if we go right into the lion’s den and get killed because we haven’t pulled the tab on our frosty cold beer of due diligence.

  That seems to resonate, and within minutes we have all scouted suitable sleeping arrangements within the oddly kept former printing business. It’s a little too clean and ... situated for a post-Descent residence, but it really is too dark to get a real feel for it, and we are completely exhausted from the travel and the bullshit that has come along with it.

  I’ve been around guns over half of my life. The military, protection for work, and of course, the Descent. There are a small number of sounds in relation to guns that you cannot mistake in any way when you hear them. One of those unmistakable sounds is that of a shell being racked into a shotgun.

  I startle awake to find a man standing three feet away with said shotgun pointing directly at me. Lexi has perked up and a low rumble resonates from the German Shepherd.

  “Can I help you, friend? Seeing as how you and your friends are in my house,” the man says. The shotgun looks heavy for him, and it is already starting to shake a little. He’s a little stooped, has disheveled, dirty blonde hair, and wears an impressive set of spectacles. In short, maybe he’d have been more comfortable with a laser pointer in a college auditorium, not holding a shotgun on trespassers. I can’t blame him, though. It’s the post-Descent way of life.

  “Yes. Actually you can help us quite a bit,” I say, ditching the cobwebs from a sound sleep as quickly as I can.

  The man shifts his feet, I see the glint of the barrel, and before I know it, the shitty plush living room chair that was way too close to me is reduced to debris. The roar of the shotgun is deafening in the close quarters of the room.

  “Goddammit!” I yell as pieces of white stuffing rain down around us. The ringing in my ears is substantial, and I swear I dribble on my undies.

  “Do. Not. Confound me, mister! I was not born yesterday.” Something in me wants to laugh out loud at this guy, but I understand where he’s coming from. So diplomacy rules.

  From behind me I hear Cole and Shields come stumbling into the room, freaking out.

  “Prescott! Prescott!” says Cole. What is making this situation significantly more difficult is that the lights are still off and it is solely the light of predawn providing the illumination for this party.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Stop!” says the man, who is extremely agitated at this point. Or is he scared?

  “All right! Everybody shut up!” I say. “Cole and Shields. I’m fine. Lexi? SIT!”

  Lexi sits.

  “Mister, I will shoot your dog if it even looks at me oddly,” says the man. “I was once bitten by a large mutt when I was child, and it was really quite unpleasant.”

  “Jesus Christ, Prescott. Take this guy already.”

  Another deafening blast of the shotgun shatters a framed mirror and takes a chunk of the wall with it as it crashes to the floor.

  “Will you please shut the fuck up, Cole!” I growl. I turn to the man. “Please excuse my friend. He’s still upset the Tribe didn’t win the World Series at the end of Major League.”

  There! I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

  “What is your name, sir?” I ask, honestly wanting to know.

  “Curtis. Dr. Curtis Woolever.”

  “Okay. Dr. Woolever. Can I call you Curt?”

  “You may not.”

  “Fair enough. Dr. Woolever. My name is Prescott. These are my friends Michael Cole and Laura Shields. And this is my dog, Lexi. We have travelled a long way to get to Columbus. We have a job to do. Actually, two jobs to do.”

  “Why should I care? You broke into my home. I should plug you all right now!”

  “Plug?” I say.

  “I’m the one with the gun, Mr. Prescott!”

  “Don’t call him that,” Cole and Shields say simultaneously.

  “Dr. Woolever, please allow me to explain. We had escaped a pretty hairy situation a few hours away from here in Huntsville—”

  “Alabama?”

  “No, sir. Ohio. We hightailed it out of there and drove straight here. We were exhausted. We knew we needed to be in proximity of Seventh Son Brewery, so we picked this house. Seems like a lame argument now, but the door was unlocked, and after a very short look around, we didn’t believe anybody lived here.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Again, that was our mistake. If you so desire, we will pack up our stuff right now and leave. We in no way, shape, or form mean you any harm.”

  “Well, I don’t know ...”

  “Dr. Woolever,” says
Shields. “Hello again. My name is Laura Shields. Just telling you again to help our conversation. Have you been listening to the Doctor Midnite broadcasts?”

  His eyebrows perk up. He has a lot of tells. “Yes. Of what consequence is that?”

  “It’s great that you do. May I ask, did you hear the most recent broadcast?”

  “Well, goodness ... about half of it. The man hadn’t been on in so long I had taken to not leaving the radio on for such long periods.”

  “Okay, okay. That’s good. Two things. One, that guy over there”—she points at me—“that is Prescott. The Prescott. And we are the ones that took down Kendrick Kade.”

  “I see. And I’m the King of England.”

  “I’d really like to see your crown, asshole,” said Cole.

  “Shut the fuck up, Cole!” I say.

  Shields interjects. “These two idiots just love to argue with each other. What’s important here is this. There is a man ... Okay, hold on. Have you noticed anything strange going on around here lately? I get the feeling you’ve been holed up here for a while, observing the world around you, right? You don’t venture out often, do you? And when you do, you don’t go very far. Am I right?”

  Woolever was silent for a moment. “Barely ever. In the beginning, when everything was falling apart, I was able to covertly stockpile food and supplies. I have enough for a couple of years if I ration well. I don’t have enough to add four mouths.”

  “That’s not a problem. We’re hopeful we won’t be here very long.”

  “Dr. Woolever,” I say, “we mean you no harm.”

  “Back to my question,” says Shields. “Anything strange going on around here?”

  Woolever appears to still be sizing us up. I can’t blame him. It’s a fucked-up situation.

  “All right, yes,” he says. “I’m a very intelligent man. I used to teach physics and I’m an expertly skilled mathematician. I know percentages. The three of you are obviously skilled soldiers and I don’t pose any threat to you at all, do I?”

  “Well,” I say, “usually, no. But we’ll congratulate you. You did get the drop on us.”

  “Dr. Woolever, we are here to help,” says Shields. “What can you tell us?”

  “It’s just as you said, actually. I don’t go out often and never so far so that I can’t get back quickly. I’m not the most imposing figure.” Woolever stands about six feet tall and weighs about a hundred and eighty pounds. It’s clear he’s spent his time in classrooms and not the weight room.

  “Okay ... I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming,” says Cole.

  Woolever inhales and exhales deeply. “Yes. There is something very disturbing going on down at Seventh Son Brewery.”

  “Okay. What do you mean by that?” I ask. “And how long has it been going on?”

  “Several times I’ve seen lightning strike the building itself and the surrounding area, such as in the parking lot. But the sky was clear. And in the last week, leading up to your arrival, it has been very ugly down there. I haven’t even left the house. I’ve climbed up onto the roof a few times, only at night, to try to see what’s going on.

  “I’d have to say, six or so days ago, there was some kind of fire down there and somebody was screaming bloody murder. It was horrid. I think they burned somebody alive. You know—the ... creatures? Right, they look like us, and then they don’t ...”

  “We call them Freaks,” says Shields.

  “Ah. The name suits them.”

  “Was there something else? You said the week has been ugly.”

  “Yes. Very much so. Just a couple of days ago, I watched as a man and girl stood atop the brewery when two green army vehicles pulled up. Not Humvees. The four-door Jeeps. Nothing special.”

  “Pops!” says Cole.

  “What?”

  “Most likely,” I say. “So, what happened with the Jeeps and the people in them?”

  “I can’t tell you that. The last thing I saw before I ran for my safe room was about two hundred or more of those Freak things pouring out of every house and building within half a block. Your friends never stood a chance. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” says Shields. “We didn’t actually know them, but what we’re doing here does relate specifically to one of the men in that group.”

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine there’s much of him left to do anything with but bury.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do,” says Cole. “One of the men in that group was called Pops. We need to recover his body and give him a proper burial.”

  Woolever looked us over with such a peculiar look I had to smile.

  “Shields, we kinda got distracted. Want to finish your spiel?”

  “Dr. Woolever, we are to assassinate the man you saw standing on the roof of the brewery. He is called Admiral Shen, and it is of the utmost importance that we discontinue his life as quickly as possible.

  “Now, you have stated a couple of times already that you are a smart man. Are you a rational man? Because there are few things you need to know, not only about the situation you are currently in, but also about the lies you’ve been told about the Descent. Have a seat and we’ll fill you in.”

  Dr. Woolever takes a few steps across the room and sits on the nondescript sofa that resides next to the former love seat. Shields and I tell him everything, starting with the true nature of BH-2014, all the way through to Shen being a fallen angel. Dr. Woolever takes it all in with a nod here and a deep breath there. In the end, he sits all the way back in sofa and closes his eyes. Shields and I look at each other. Then I turn to Cole. He puts up both his hands in an “I don’t know” gesture.

  “Doctor,” I say. He has both his hands in the air, pointing in various directions, and is waving his arms—not erratically, but like he is trying to work this all out in his mind like a math problem.

  Finally he says, “Makes sense. How can I help?”

  ***

  Approximately six hours later, Dr. Woolever wakes us all in accordance to the sleep arrangement we had agreed upon. There is no way we could possibly have proceeded without it. I wake quite refreshed and ready to go. Shields is coming around and Cole looks like he could commit homicide. That could actually work in our favor. I cautiously take Lexi out to pee and consider trying to get a look down the way at the Seventh Son, but that would have me out in the middle of the street. Our reconnaissance will have to be at night.

  In the daylight, I’m able to get a much better look at Lobo’s Printing. Gray stone, one-level home with a below-ground basement. Small front porch with two stone pillars and a view of nothing but the street and some shitty houses across the way. The fact that this place is stone means there is a certain level of fortification if we have to fight from it. But it is very small and could be overrun quickly if we are outnumbered or strategically outclassed. Which is very possible, knowing Shen’s background in S.W.A.T.

  Lexi and I reenter through the alley-facing back door and head directly into the kitchen, where everyone is sitting around a small round Formica kitchen table. Coffee is on the second round, and the smell permeates the air like an old friend. But not a close friend. More of an acquaintance, seeing how the coffee is Maxwell House.

  “Okay, Her Majesty has now tinkled. Yes, ma’am, you are such a sweet little pooch. Okay, let’s begin. Dr. Woolever, what can you tell us about the general area?”

  “Well, up until about a month ago, it was a ghost town around Fourth and Fourth. I would head out in the late evening on occasion to do a small bit of scavenging, and I felt relatively safe. All told, I’ve killed three of those Freak creatures.

  “The first time was just over a year ago. I was out “shopping” and a fellow came up to me out of the blue. I didn’t know any better, so I let him tag along with me. After a while, he started to act a little fidgety, and right when we got to the market that I was pilfering from, he grabbed me and he ... he ... changed into that monster. I fought and clawed to get away. I barely did be
fore I ... blew his face off. That spot was ruined for me from then on.”

  “I think what Prescott meant was ... lately,” says Cole.

  “Oh. Yes. Well. As I said, in the last month, it’s been rather peculiar. It was a bit like a parade when ... what was his name?”

  “Admiral Shen,” I say.

  “Right. Admiral Shen. He came down Fourth Avenue like it was the Macy’s Day Parade. Then they stopped abruptly at the Seventh Son. Shen, as I said, had a girl with him. The two of them stood before a massive number of creatures and spoke to them. Shen, not the girl. She’s like a second-in-command or something.

  “I was too far away to hear what he was saying, and when he was done the creatures slowly broke off and went into the houses surrounding the brewery and the giant, empty Budd Dairy building.”

  “So basically, he sent them to lie in wait for Pops,” says Cole.

  “How could he have known Pops was coming?” says Shields.

  “The Midnite broadcast,” I say. “The Freaks are kinda like the invisible moat to Shen’s castle.”

  “Shit, man. How can we possibly get past that? Three of us versus two hundred?” says Cole.

  “I’m not sure, Cole. Nobody ever said this was going to be easy.”

  “Okay,” says Shields. “Dr. Woolever, go on. What else?”

  “Once the creatures ... um ... Freaks dispersed and filed into the surrounding properties, it became scary quiet. From time to time I would see Shen and the girl standing on the top of the brewery, looking around, but nothing happened.”