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

by Bob Williams

  “Maybe they were waiting for—” Cole says.

  “Whoever answered the Midnite broadcast,” I interrupt.

  “No, I meant—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Cole,” I growl.

  “Look, Prescott,” says Cole, “this whole fucking mess is Malcolm’s fault. Shen is over there doing who know’s what—drinking beer, killing angels, killing people! Playtime’s over, champ! I think he’s trying to draw him out.”

  “Look. I agree with you, okay? I do. I don’t know what’s going on with me in regards to Malcolm. Our relationship was contentious at best, but I guess I just expected better of someone I never knew to begin with. Besides, when it comes down to it, Malcolm’s not directly relevant to our mission here. We are here to grab Pops and take out Shen. If Malcolm decides to come out of hiding and show his face, then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Okay, Cole?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good with that. I have a few choice words for him, though, when I see him.”

  “Who is Malcolm?” asks Woolever, looking almost afraid.

  “Malcolm is an angel and a member of the Protectorate,” I explain. “They’re like an angel military watchdog group that’s supposed to just observe us low lyers and, you know, give a few select individuals a push every now and then, but never directly interfere. He basically broke all those sacred rules and helped us take out Kendrick Kade. And it’s also his fault we’re in this mess right now.”

  “I’ll explain it all in a bit more detail than that later,” says Shields.

  “Did you say ... low ... liars?”

  “Yes, I did, but not liars. The winged folk call Earth the Low Lying Lands. We, therefore, are low lyers. They call Heaven the Higher Grounds. It’s all very Stephen Kingy if you ask me.”

  “Dr. Woolever?” says Shields. “You mentioned you had two years’ worth of food. Would you be willing to share with us just this once? It’d be great if we had some food in our stomachs before we go out in a couple of hours.”

  “Yes, of course. Who would like to come down into the basement to help me bring up some items to prepare?”

  “I’d be happy to,” replies Shields. “And while we’re at it, maybe you can tell me about your panic room. I still have no idea where you came from this morning.”

  “Well, we were all asleep, so …”

  “Shitcan it, Cole.”

  Shields and the Doc return a few minutes later with ground beef, brown-sugar baked beans, hamburger buns, and Nacho Cheese Doritos. We eat hamburgers for dinner, have some ice-cold filtered water, and honestly, we enjoy the safety of the situation. We all like our new friend Woolever as he spins a few yarns about his college fraternity and their shenanigans. He calls them “G.P.A.-award-winning alcoholics.” Sounds like a pretty laid back group of nerds.

  After the meal we wait thirty minutes for it to get as dark as it’s going to get. Then we all suit up, arm up, and we let loose on the night. It’s time to figure out how we are going to do this.

  SHEN COUNTS COUP

  “So, Midnite’s lackey intends to make a run at me? Rebecca, my dear, we have visitors. They are down the street at Lobo’s Printing.”

  Shen and Rebecca stood atop the Seventh Son, as they had taken to doing twice a day since the failed assault by the inept crew from Toledo. Each day, they went up to the roof at two o’clock in the afternoon and again at midnight and watched. Rebecca thought the time was wasted simply because Shen could tell they were coming from a hundred miles anyway.

  “It is important to your growth as my right hand. You must take massive steps toward expanding your mind and senses. They are now your most valuable assets. Not your tits or your smart mouth.”

  Rebecca had heard any number of different turns on the original comment over the last month and was frustrated, but she wanted nothing more than to please her master.

  “It would seem Curtis Woolever was indeed a sound investment in resources,” said Shen. During their first week in town, Rebecca had come across the middle-aged man rummaging through a long since looted and destroyed market a couple of blocks over from the Seventh Son. She easily subdued him, knocking him unconscious and bringing him back to brewery with the aid of one of the Freaks.

  When he came to, he wet his pants out of fear. Shen touched him and immediately gave the former college professor his new direction. Dr. Woolever was instructed to first and foremost forget all about meeting Rebecca or Admiral Shen. He was told to go about his daily life of scavenging and surviving, just like he had been for the past couple of years.

  The Freaks were told that Woolever was off limits and not to be touched. He had very important work to do and could not be harmed. His job was to seek out and befriend any newcomers who entered the general area of Seventh Son Brewery. In doing so, he was to determine why they were there, whether passing through, or most importantly, had they heard the Midnite broadcast and come to harm Shen.

  Either way, he was to funnel them through misinformation or any other means toward the Seventh Son, where one of a number of options would take place. One, they would be fed to the Freaks. The damn creatures were always hungry. And it was getting harder but not impossible to control their bloodlust. Two, they would be converted and added to the Freak army. Despite the mild difficulty of controlling them, one could never have enough soldiers for an end-times army. Three, they were touched like Dr. Woolever and sent to different areas to patrol. And finally, if travelers were coming to the Seventh Son do him harm, they were captured, punished, and made an example of.

  Shen was overjoyed to hear that Prescott and his friends felt like they needed to rescue Pops and give him a proper burial.

  What the fuck is a proper burial? These people aren’t priests, Shen quipped to himself. Rebecca said something, but he wasn’t paying attention. He liked Rebecca, but she really did talk too much.

  “Rebecca! Oooh, this will be delectable! Take a few of the creatures and bring me Pops from the freezer.” Shen was no fool. He saw Pops as valuable. Not in the literal sense. He wasn’t worth anything. His foolish and failed attempt to unseat Shen was truly a disgrace.

  Instead, Pops’s value came in the ability to use him as an example to like-minded idiots who thought it wise to make the trip to Columbus to fuck with Shen. He had kept Pops around for this very reason.

  The time was 9:22 and Shen was alone in the bar area. He had been watching through the eyes of Curtis Woolever and had viewed almost everything that occurred at Lobo’s Printing from the night before to this very minute. He knew Prescott and his friends were about to leave Woolever’s to begin their reconnaissance. He was going to have a soul-crushing surprise waiting for them.

  “Little bastards think they can come here and take me out. I don’t think so. Not before I complete my mission,” said Admiral Shen. “This will send them right back to their hidey-hole, where they’ll cry like a bunch of pre-teen bitches having their periods. Of course, they’ll get pissed off, make a new plan with Curtis Woolever, and I’ll destroy them for good.”

  Shen was deep in thought with his amazing plan when he was startled by Rebecca, who had entered the room without his noticing.

  “The Pops-cicle is ready! Ha ha! I thought of that myself,” Rebecca said with pride.

  “Yes. Wonderful. Instruct the creatures to bring him into the parking lot facing North Fourth Avenue.”

  “Master. Pops-cicle! Nothing?”

  “Just do what I ask, Rebecca. Now!”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Shen strode confidently down the hallway from the barroom and out the front door, the bell ringing furiously as he left. Behind him was Rebecca, wearing a sincerely displeased scowl, followed by two Freaks carrying Pops’s body.

  The admiral continued out into the center of the parking lot and stood facing North Fourth, but his gaze was focused much further down the street. He couldn’t directly see Lobo’s Printing, for it was just a fraction out of his line of sight.

  But I sure as shit kno
w it’s there. And within its walls are my sworn enemies.

  Admiral Shentaka Matsura, due to the unknowing assistance of Curtis Woolever, knew he had the upper hand. It was without question that he could go down the street while they were sleeping and slaughter them all unopposed. Even the dog. He would take great pleasure in ripping that dog apart by the jaws in front of Prescott. He’d let that sink in, along with the brutal slaughter of all of his friends, before he took his life last. But simply dispatching them will not do.

  Now that Shen knew that this Prescott imbecile was connected to Malcolm, the pleasure he would take away from hurting him and his cohorts couldn’t be calculated by an earthly number. Not only would killing them provide him with great pleasure, it would without question assist him in completing his mission: to kill Malcolm.

  The Freaks dropped the frozen-solid body of Jonathan Poplovich onto the hard black top surface with the grace of bulls in a china shop. A large piece of Pops’s cheek leading up to his forehead and back to his ear broke off, along with three fingers from his right hand.

  “Idiots!” Shen screamed. He looked to the bigger in stature of the two and asked, “What is your name, son?”

  “Jaimie. Jamie Abel,” the Freak said.

  “Jamie. Your services are no longer required.”

  “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

  “Mr. Abel, could you please walk twenty-five paces north from your current position?”

  Abel looked happy to oblige, and proceeded to walk across the parking lot, into the middle of North Fourth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Abel.”

  Jamie Abel waved as Shen snapped his fingers, and his head exploded like a ripe watermelon. Brain matter, skull fragments, and blood covered the street and sidewalk. The headless body stood there upright for almost a minute before buckling at the knees and falling forward onto its chest. Blood continued to flow from the mangled neck of the former Mr. Abel.

  Shen turned to Rebecca. “Cover your ears, my dear.”

  “The whistle again?”

  Shen put the whistle to his mouth and blew three short, extremely ear-piercing bursts. Rebecca watched as, almost instantaneously, Freaks poured out of the surrounding homes, shops, and the Bud Dairy building as they had before, except this time they were calm, collected, and dare she say, docile.

  Once again, the nearly two hundred Freaks gathered in the front of the Seventh Son Brewery building. They were quiet, focused, and awaited instructions.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a group of three trained killers and one fucking dog down this very street at the former Lobo’s Printing. They have travelled far and wide from Chicago, Illinois, via Fort Wayne, Indiana, to right here in Columbus to kill me.

  “Our friend Curtis Woolever has helped us immensely, and we have access to their plan. In fact, I honestly expect them to be screwing around in the dark any moment. I intend to strike first. DO NOT ENGAGE. What we are doing here is counting coup. Counting coup is an old American Indian tradition which involves rolling up within the enemy’s camp and taking a scalp or two to show you aren’t afraid. We’re doing a role reversal of sorts by showing our potential assailants that we know they are here and we are most assuredly not afraid of them. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, but I will anyway. DO NOT ENGAGE. We are making a statement here, not fighting. If they kill a few of you all, that’s okay. There is much more to do here after this. I imagine our friend Malcolm will be along in no time at all. Do you understand the directive?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Very well. Now let’s begin,” Shen said with complete confidence. “Gather ‘round, all around, but let’s leave a clear line of sight down our fair street here.”

  The Freaks did as they were instructed. Looking down on the scene as though from the roof, Shen saw a perfectly round pie chart of Freaks with a quarter-sized slice missing. He smiled.

  “Rebecca. One more time. Cover your ears, child.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Shen cleared his throat and began to speak in a voice that was as loud as a professional football game public address announcer. “Mr. Prescott! I know you are here. I know you are currently resting up at the former print shop down the street from me, and I know that you and your ragtag group of trauma victim friends and your filthy dog intend to do me harm. You will fail.

  “I also know you are friends of Malcolm’s, and for that I intend to kill you on principle. You must know by now you can’t trust a word he says. He’s only out for one thing: himself. Malcolm has been bending the rules to supposedly benefit those he’s watched for a thousand years. But really, Mr. Prescott, who is he benefitting when he fucks with people’s souls? When he decides who lives or dies? Get your ass out here, low lyer, and face me. Or are you a coward like your winged friend?

  “While we wait for you, and Mr. Cole, and Ms. Shields, and your flea-ridden mutt to show, I thought I might entertain the troops with a light snack.”

  Shen knelt down and placed both hands on the frozen body of Jonathan Poplovich. His hands shone in a faint auburn glow as the frozen body quickly began to sweat from the heat of his touch. Pops’s body was thawed and completely dry within minutes.

  “Mr. Prescott, you are cordially invited to Admiral Shentaka Matsura’s First Annual Protectorate Barbeque!” Shen turned to the other Freak who’d carried Pops to the parking lot.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked.

  “Tom. Masterson.”

  “Tom. Walk down to Lobo’s Printing and invite our friends to the party, please.”

  Rebecca was watching this unfold and thought in an odd way that Shen was cracking up. She would follow him to both of their deaths without question but this new kind of ... wacky Shen was a pleasure to see emerge from the tightass that used to wear his shoes.

  “Yes, sir. Okay.”

  “Well, get going.” Masterson began to walk slowly down the street. He knew where he needed to go despite having never set foot inside. “Wait. One last touch. There!” Tom Masterson burst into flames. He did not panic. He did not scream. He didn’t even break. He waved to the admiral, turned back toward the print shop and walked casually down the street. He was, of course, violently and agonizingly burning alive as he walked. His flesh seared and charred, and in some spots, popped and bubbled. His blood boiled in his veins.

  Shen had his eyes trained a half mile down the street and waited. He knew Masterson wouldn’t complete his trek down to meet Prescott, but he felt pretty damn good that Prescott would come out to meet Tom around the halfway point, maybe a little further.

  He knew the type. He used to be the type. Prescott couldn’t stand to see someone suffer. But he was a not your typical warrior. No. Prescott lived by a different code and sometimes it scared the shit out of his compatriots.

  Wait! ... And here he comes.

  Rebecca was also straining to look down the street. She was getting a real kick out of the Masterson guy cooking alive. Only thing he was missing was a giant bun and the Freaks would eat him whole. Who’m I kidding, she thought. They’d eat the clothes right off his back. Then eat his fucking back for dessert. Rebecca was jerked out of her thoughts by Shen screaming.

  “Rebecca! Rebecca! Look.” He touched her temple and she seized instantly as she began to see through the eyes of Admiral Shen. “There!” They looked directly through the inflamed Tom Masterson and saw a man burst into their line of sight and begin tearing up the road like a bat out of hell.

  “And so it begins.”

  ***

  Shields and Cole do their best to hold me back, but I’ve already decided I’m going there to face the fuckstain. I practically take the door off its hinges, and while I’m not wearing my holsters, I do grab one of my freshly cleaned and fully loaded Glocks off the kitchen table on the way out. Lexi is right in stride with me down the three-step concrete staircase.

  Admiral Shen has called me out, and I intend to talk with him about this. It feels like a thousand ideas and/or thoughts are
vying for attention with my brain as I run out the door, but the first thing that plants is: This is not the endgame. This is the meet and greet. I am not prepared for the first thing I see after Lexi and I pass the tall shrubbery en route to the street.

  I was expecting to see Shen. I mean, I guess I was expecting to see Shen. Some of what he said initially I didn’t hear clearly, so I thought he was closer. What I see is a man completely engulfed in flames walking slowly toward me. No ... not slowly. Leisurely. He’s on fucking fire!

  I pick up my pace to a sprint to catch up to him. Goddammit, I am barefoot and stepping on every little fucking rock and pebble along the way. The man is saying something, but I’m not close enough to understand. Shields and Cole are right behind, both yelling different variations of “WAIT!” No, I’m not waiting.

  When I am twenty paces from the man, I am gut punched by a vision of Matt Whitford. I’d rescued the guy in Chicago when he’d been pinned under a freezer, but then had to shoot him when I discovered he’d been bitten. It has haunted me off and on ever since.

  Shit!

  I ran up to a safe distance from the guy on fire and yelled. “Jesus, man! Are you okay?” Fuckin’ idiot! “Are you okay?” Does he look okay?

  “Amerual Shen ... See you.”

  “Prescott, Goddammit! Hold the fuck on a second,” Cole says, grabbing my shoulder with a vice grip and whipping me around to face him.

  “Cole, this man is literally being cooked alive right in front us. We don’t have time for this!”

  Turning back around, I say to the man, “Okay, one more time.”

  “Ad-imaral ... Shen...wa-a-ants ... see ... you,” he mutters. I double tap him in the forehead.

  I see the big party up the street. At least couple of hundred, like Dr. Woolever said. Plus two, of course. Admiral Shen and his girlfriend, Rebecca.

  “Cole. Shields. Did you bring guns?” I say, panting. Running plus fire had taken its toll.

  “No,” they both answer.