Samuel was relieved when they all scrambled clear. Now, there was nothing in between Tristan’s cronies and Samuel’s front fender but empty air.
When Tristan saw the oncoming truck, he stopped dead in his tracks. Samuel was close enough now that he could see the anxiety on the so-called Prophet’s face. He didn’t see it for very long, however, for Tristan spun away and began to roughly push his way back through the ranks of his people. Seeing their spiritual leader lose his nerve, the rest of them went from uncertain to terrified as their morale abandoned them, and they, too, turned to flee, stumbling over one another in their haste to find any protection they could before they fell under the wheels.
Most of the zealots made a break for the shantytown, to Samuel’s right. He pulled the wheel to match them, bringing the truck into line with the rickety buildings, and not backing off even a fraction of an inch on the accelerator. He was now close enough to hear their screams through the open windows, as they dove behind the structures for cover.
In the seat next to him, realizing his intentions, Gorman sucked in a breath through his teeth and placed his hands on the dashboard, bracing himself for what was coming.
They hit the first shack at full speed, dead-center with the central mass of the fleeing army. Under normal conditions the flimsy building barely stood up to a stiff breeze, and so when he hit the thing with the full tonnage of the truck, it exploded, its assembled parts blasting out in all directions. The truck shuddered at the impact, but continued through. The unlucky zealots in his path vanished under the bumper along with the metal panels and scraps of wood, five at a time, shrieking. The truck bucked up and over the mass of humanity, rolling over so many that the path behind him seemed paved with the bodies of the evil fanatics.
Samuel’s face was set with resolve. At another time, before the disappearances and Tristan’s rising, toxic influence, the man he’d been would never have been capable of such a thing. But now, he’d come to regard the zealots as what they truly were: Vermin. And, when there’s vermin in the house, one can’t just let them nest and multiply.
No, vermin need to be exterminated, so that the house can be rid of their stink.
He slammed through shack after shack, running down the believers of the Reclamation in droves. The faces of the prison guards they’d killed were fresh in the boiler of his mind, and they burned to give him fuel for the wasted lives he took.
Tristan himself was faster than Samuel had given him credit for; the priest had outpaced most of his flock, successfully scrambling to get out of the ore truck’s path. Samuel sneered.
I might not get you this time, asshole, but you can bet I’m coming back.
The last of the fleeing army fell behind him. He pulled the truck back into the clear, out of the path of the decrepit shacks, many of which were scattered in ruin behind him. The view in his rear mirrors displayed the carnage he’d wrought, colored with the brown and gray of the wrecked dwellings, and splashed red with the bodies of the unlucky.
“Come around!” Gorman yelled, hair flying, looking out his window. “Tristan is still up! We can’t let him escape!”
Samuel hit the brakes, and the were both thrown forward in their seats. He pulled the wheel to the left, and the world wheeled around them as the truck altered its course. The turning radius on it was fantastic; Samuel was thankful that whoever had built the truck had maneuverability, as well as power, in mind.
The external wall spun around and settled, now on his right. Again his foot stamped down on the accelerator.
Gorman was right. Samuel looked beyond the remainder of Tristan’s scattered army, and saw their master out ahead of them, running for his life, as if devils nipped at his heels.
Everything else faded from Samuel’s concentration. He had his target in his sights. Tristan wouldn’t be escaping this time, now that Samuel had a better angle on him. The truck rumbled along, like some vengeful, mythic beast.
He could see now that Tristan was running for the nearest habmod, and suddenly Samuel saw his plan’s weak link. The habmod’s superior construction made it a much more formidable structure, and if the priest was able to get inside before Samuel got to him, he might lose the advantage that the truck afforded him.
His father had obviously come to the same conclusion.
“Samuel....” Gorman warned.
“I know! I see him!”
He veered the truck again into the shacks, in a direct line for the habmod. The truck was practically flying, but even so, he could tell that it would be close. More shacks fell to his advance, and more metal and wood blasted up over the hood.
It was then that his luck took a sharp dive.
One large piece of refuse hit the middle of the windshield squarely, and there was a sound like a gunshot. The glass went suddenly opaque as micro-cracks lanced through it like small bolts of lightning. The loosened windshield rattled against the metal frame, alarming him, but somehow it still held. Samuel dropped his head low and squinted through the cloudy glass, desperate to find a clear spot he could still see through, while the world hurtled by.
Then, the final nail in the coffin was driven in. It could have been the damage from the many collisions...or the age of the truck, having existed for many more years than the two men in the cab, combined. It wasn’t important, really. Whatever the cause might have been, it was only the effect that mattered.
The front tires blew. First, the right, sending out a loud bang, causing the vehicle to lurch over and down and throwing Samuel and Gorman around like rag-dolls inside the cab. Samuel wrestled furiously with the wheel to maintain control, afraid that the careening truck would flip.
Without its counterpart to help bear the weight, the left front tire went also, tossing the men back to the left, and leveling what little view the broken windshield gave them.
All at once there was a heavy vibration rattling up the steering column, and the wheel went sluggish in Samuel’s grip. He wrenched it back and forth to little avail. He’d lost control.
He brought both feet up and thrust them down on the brake pedal, hoping against hope that he could bring the galloping beast to a halt before they hit. The back tires bit into the dirt, clawing and scratching to slow them down, but it was too little and too tragically late.
The truck smashed into the habmod, turning Samuel and Gorman’s world into a haze of flying debris and broken glass. Even bracing for impact, both men were slammed forward. The steering wheel crushed into Samuel’s chest, knocking the air out of him, and he felt something pop in his left wrist. He vaguely saw his father’s body hitting the dashboard, but in the descending chaos he lacked the clarity to discern how badly Gorman was hurt.
Then, his senses shorted out, and he fell into a hazy, scarlet world of pain.
* * *
Chapter 45 – Ejelano
Ejelano anxiously peered over his shoulder at the unalterable approach of the White. It was dangerously close, now...maybe ten minutes worth of walking and closing fast. His brow glistened with sweat, his body screaming at him to act, to do anything, while his mind knew he was uncharacteristically powerless to do anything but wait. As an immortal who was used to having time as an ally, he found himself in an ironic position...facing its fangs.
“It will be here, soon. What of your man? He must act, now.”
I KNOW, I KNOW...THIS DOESN’T LOOK GOOD. YOU’RE NERVOUS. I’M NERVOUS. BUT TRUUUUST ME. THIS GUY WILL COME THROUGH. HE’S LIVED HIS WHOLE FUCKING LIFE FOR THIS MOMENT. HE WON’T GO AND DICK IT UP IN THE LAST FIVE MINUTES. I MEAN, PROBABLY. RIGHT?
Ejelano noticed, now, that beyond the black mass that followed him, the sky was growing brighter. Shapeless, pale holes were creeping into the normal stone-gray, like the color was being dissolved from it.
YEAH, I SAW THAT TOO. IT’S EATING THE SKY, NOW. SAY GOODBYE TO THE GREAT BLUE YONDER, I GUESS.
“This is madness! I can’t just sit here and do nothing, like a piece of meat being salivated over! We have to get inside!
”
HANG ON. WAIT...YUP...IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN. HE’S ABOUT READY TO DO IT. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS BE READY.
Be ready? Of course he was ready. He’d been ready for thousands of generations.
We’re almost there, my love. Very soon you’ll be free, and then, at long last, the nightmare will be over for you.
FOCUS! IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN...VERY SOON, NOW! HE’S ALMOST THERE!
* * *
Chapter 46 – Samuel
When he came to, all Samuel knew was throbbing and blurriness. He felt like his head had been packed full of stuffing, and he struggled to push it back out. He sat, hunched over the wheel, with an exploding pain in his left wrist and a powerful urge to just let the blackness take him.
Then, his door was being thrown open and hands were grasping at his shirt. For a second, he was back in his dream, fleeing the monsters as a child in his first father’s old, beat up truck, knowing that if those fingers gained a hold of him it would mean his end. He moaned and fought back, but he was far too weak from the collision; there was nothing he could do to stop them.
He cried out in dismay, his world spinning, as those hands clamped tightly onto him and pulled him down from the cab. He feebly fought to keep his feet under him, but failed, and he was brought down roughly onto the indifferent ground. Although he was surprised that he was able to keep his ailing wrist and hand from striking the earth, the impact aggravated the injury anyway and he felt the bones crunch and grind against one another, sealing his certainty that it was broken. Even now he could feel the pressure around the wound as it swelled.
The hands were pulling him, dragging him none too gently through the dirt, and he could hear a single voice barking commands to them. He blearily blinked his eyes to clear his vision, but the best he could do was drag himself back to the edge of full consciousness for a only second or two, before it slipped away again. In his few, brief windows of lucidity, he saw things that made him wish he’d been knocked out.
He was on the other side of the truck, now, being tugged like an old sack toward the west gate. There was someone next to him, also being pulled along the ground. The man wasn’t struggling, wasn’t moving at all.
Father?
Haze.
Then, Kelly Prince and her small militia, running in his direction. Their weapons were raised and they were bellowing, coming to help him.
No...Kelly...don’t...there’s still too many....
Haze.
The sounds of fighting all around him. He was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, flopping down face-first. Someone let out a ragged scream...someone he knew? The horrible sound cut off and wasn’t heard again.
Nicole?
Haze.
More screaming. More bodies falling. Somebody was standing over him, not an enemy...somebody guarding him, putting their body between him and those who would do him harm. A woman’s voice cried out...one he knew all too well. She was saying something, ordering someone to stop. Her voice was angry...insolent in the face of the enemy. Then there was a terrible, wet thud, and a body fell down in front of him, the music of the voice...silenced.
No...Kelly...get away....
It went on like that for what felt like eons...him fading in and out, knowing there was a battle raging around him but helpless to do anything about it. More vague scenes of violence played out around him. At long last, the fog started to lift from his sight, and he got a firm hold on his awareness. He tried to push himself up from the ground with his good hand, but a foot came slamming down on his shoulder blades and pressed him back into the dirt.
As the daze receded and he lay there, pinned to the earth, he craned his neck and got his first clear look at the carnage around him.
The first thing he made out was Kelly’s body. He couldn’t see her face—she was facing away from him—but there was an alarming amount of blood running through the dark locks of her hair, dulling its shine. Gorman was to his right, also prostrate, but facing toward him so Samuel could see the signs of life that he showed...the coughing and wheezing. His father seemed to be laboring to get enough air; every time he took a breath, it sounded to Samuel like it was hitching, catching on something.
Samuel felt the sharp whip-sting of regret as he watched Gorman gasping on the ground beside him. It had been his idea to use the truck...his call...but it had failed him, and now they were at the mercy of the merciless. No matter how noble his intentions had been, no matter how much he knew Gorman would protest it, he felt the weight of responsibility for the tragic result.
There were other bodies strewn about, mostly those of the brave men and women that had stayed to help. He saw with dismay that two of them were Nicole Mathers and Ethan Tramble. Their eyes were sightless, their faces streaked with blood.
The sickening sound of a fist hitting flesh turned his head toward the gate. Seth Feron, the jokester, was being pinned against the wall by two others, and pummeled savagely by a third. He half-grunted, half-whimpered at each successive blow he took. His face was a gory, gap-toothed mess, and his coveralls were torn.
The only other gate defender left standing, a young man who looked to be about twenty or twenty-five, was facing down three zealots, frantically swiping his wooden club from side to side to keep them at bay. Samuel tried to yell to him, to warn him when it was evident he didn’t see the one coming up behind him, or the stained metal pipe that she held. Sadly, all that came out of Samuel’s mouth was a weak croak, far too quiet to be heard.
The undetected fanatic drew back her pipe and cracked him sharply on the head with it, and he went down in a heap. She kept at him with her weapon while the others watched, until there could be no doubt that the man wouldn’t ever be getting up again.
The foot that held him down ground painfully into his spine. A second later, its owner spoke, and he found out who exactly it was that stood over him.
“Victory, my brethren! Through fire and ash, we prevail!”
A cry rose up from the remnant of Tristan’s army that still stood. They raised their shoddy weapons triumphantly, and shook them at the sky. The pressure on Samuel’s back vanished, and Tristan walked out ahead of him, turning to regard his captives in triumph.
“Hold the son, and bring me the father,” he said.
Immediately Samuel was hauled to his feet, and his arms were held in the grip of men with far more strength than he could muster. Two others approached and lifted Gorman, whose eyes flared open, and dragged him forward.
“Leave him alone!” Samuel rasped. He was about to protest further, but one of his captors brought a knee up and caught him in the gut, leaving him sputtering and gasping.
The men carrying Gorman deposited him ungracefully at Tristan’s feet, on his knees. Even as he gulped for air, Samuel’s father stared up at the priest with stern contempt, hissing through his teeth.
Tristan dropped to one knee and regarded Gorman at eye level, catching Samuel off guard. When he spoke, it was not malice or derision he expressed. Rather, it was simple, genuine sadness.
“I told you this would come,” he said to Gorman, softly. “My purpose was not to ensure his arrival; no, that was not my place, and nor did he need me, for he would have come no matter what you or I did. You never could have stopped it. My only aim was to educate you...illuminate you. I wanted to unify this place...bring all into the fold so that we could have stepped into the What Comes After together...as brothers. How could you not see that? How could your vision be so clouded? It was always right there, before you. How could you lead so many astray?”
Gorman stared back at him with angry, unblinking eyes, despite his obvious discomfort.
“I’ve heard...your words....” he breathed. “And I’ve seen...what you’ve done. And I see...that the only thing you offer...is death. Your words are pretty...but you’ve preyed upon the pain...in these poor people’s souls. You wormed your way in...through the cracks of...their misery. Their uncertainty. You used them...for your own self-important ideals. A
nd now, look at them. What have you given them...in return?”
Tristan chuckled, darkly. “What have I given them? What have I given them? Rebirth. Transformation.” He gestured to the huge gate. “His favor. When he enters, we will continue to serve him. We will continue to cull the wicked, the unenlightened. We will pour into the Dome and cleanse the last of the faithless. They’ve all heard the Message, but like you, they chose not to heed it. And now, there is no more time. No more allowances. When he enters, he will welcome us as we have welcomed him, and we will prosper as you might have prospered, had you chosen differently.”
Gorman stared back at Tristan, and slowly shook his head.
“When you open that door...you’ll see. When that monster comes in...you’ll see that it doesn’t care any more for you...than it does for me. That’s the only thing...that we have in common...Tristan. To that thing...outside...we’re all just meat.”
Tristan smiled sadly. Then he stood up and withdrew from his robes something that made Samuel’s blood go cold. A long knife, rusty and dull on the flat side, but serrated and gleaming sharp on the blade. It had obviously been sharpened recently; Tristan had come prepared.
“Meat, you say?” he said. “Not I...but you? Most certainly. And it is time for you to be consumed.”
Tristan brought back the knife and widened his stance.
Fueled by adrenaline, Samuel found his voice again.
“No! Tristan, don’t! Don’t do this!” he yelled, his words and face wild with desperation. “Please, no!” Samuel raged against the hands that held him, but they only clamped down harder, holding him like iron vices. His thoughts were racing...searching for an invention, some plea or barter, that would give Tristan pause, but he could find no leverage, nothing he could use for appeal. Indeed, the mad prophet gave no sign that he’d heard Samuel at all.
As Samuel watched, helpless and horrified, the blade came down. Tristan brought it in toward Gorman’s chest, where it sliced in and bit deep, all the way up to the hilt. The fanatical leader put his other hand on Gorman’s back and drew him close, and for a moment it almost looked like he was embracing the elder man, instead of impaling him.
The Footsteps of Cain Page 32
