by Lars Teeney
The group continued on up the street. They avoided a patrol and then came to a large clearing around the fortress. The view from their position was awe-inspiring and terrible. A third of the massive fortress had collapsed into a morass of brick, stone, metal wreckage and bodies. The remaining artillery pieces were trading fire with the Apostate fleet. Tracers of high explosive rounds could be seen zipping through the air and impacting in the water and off the side of the fortress. Shells would overshoot their marks occasionally and land somewhere in the town, blowing apart a shanties and apartment blocks. By now there was no portion of the town that was left on touched, mansion or shanty.
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Ravine had boarded the motorboat moored to the Hermes and approached the smoking hulk that was the battleship New Jersey. It was listing to port, and taking on more water. He steered the craft alongside the hull and ascended the rope ladder hanging down the side. He worked his way down the leaning weather deck through the clouds of burning oil and fumes, toward the bridge. Ravine ascended sets of stairs leading up toward the flag bridge. He heard sounds: grunting and tumbling. When he rounded the corner, and passed some utility pipes he saw it: a bloody confrontation was in tow. Captain O’Leary was slathered in blood and she was squaring off against that woman: the one with the cross scar on her forehead.
Ravine felt a sense of dread when he came to the realization that she had been hiding in the fleet the entire time. He thought about how she waited until the most opportune moment to assassinate Aqua-Deluge. His heart dropped when he theorized about how she died alone and terrified. He wasn’t going to let it happen again; except he was having doubts about himself. He had not been well since he started using ‘Base’ again.
He rushed toward the two, which were engaged in a grappling match. The Prelate had a hold of a shard of glass, which she held like a dagger, slashing at Captain O’Leary. O’Leary grabbed hold of her wrist and kept it at bay. But, the Prelate delivered repeated punches to the face from the metal-clad stump of her left hand, which were taking their toll. The Captain had already taken a number of swipes from the glass shard, which had cut her arm, and she had suffered a stab wound in one shoulder. The Captain was on her back and fended off knee blows to her midsection. Ravine rushed up and tackled the unsuspecting Prelate, knocking the wind out of her and sending her against the bulwark of the observation deck. Ravine threw a punch, which the Prelate promptly blocked with her metal stump. The force of the impact sent pain shooting up his arm, and that momentary lapse was all the Prelate needed. She took a quick swipe with the glass shard to Ravine’s face, which raked his forehead and cheek, barely missing his eye. He let out a yelp and recoiled with hands to his face. He fell back against the bulwark. She raised the glass shard above her head, maneuvering to finish him off, when the broken-tooth, the bloodstained behemoth that was Captain O’ Leary snatched the Prelate by the back of the head and began squeezing. The Prelate felt cartilage pop in her ear, and the crushing pressure the Captain was applying to her head was more than she could bear. Prelate Inoguchi brought the glass shard up passed the left side of her own head and slashed at the inside of the Captain’s upraised left arm. She knew where to strike: aiming for the brachial artery, severing it with ease. Captain O’Leary screamed with pain. The blood spilled out from the wound. The Captain gazed at an oil fire burning on the water below. She raised the Prelate overhead like a toy, and then chucked her down into the raging inferno. She watched the Prelate’s flailing body fall into the firestorm.
The Captain stood for a moment more, began to sway, then collapsed against the bulwark. Ravine tried to remove the blood from his eyes and then climbed to his feet. Just at that moment another round came screaming across the sky and impacted into the superstructure above, destroying the mast and RADAR apparatus. The ship was lost; it was a burning heap of twisted metal. He leaned down to the Captain and checked her vitals; she was still breathing. Captain O’Leary opened her eyes ever so slightly and peered at Ravine through a blood-encrusted face.
“I’m done, she got me good. Let me go down with my ship,” she managed to say. She held out a hand, and Ravine clasped her’s in a gesture of camaraderie, then, she went limp. He let go and left her as she lay. Ravine ran toward the bow of the New Jersey. The ship had taken on so much water that the bow was nearly at the water line. He only had one route off the ship: to jump into the water. The rest of the ship and surrounding waters had been consumed in an intense oil fire. He looked out toward the rest of the fleet and the Iowa, which was sending salvo after salvo at the crumbling fortress. He surmised that Gale finally got the hang of the targeting system, and she was now using it like a true professional. He jumped into the water and swam toward the Iowa.
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Gale-Whirlwind kept an eagle eye trained on the fortress. She would systematically reduce one section of the fort, making sure to destroy all its guns, then she moved on to the next section. She could see that the portion of the fort closest the waterfront still had plenty of serviceable guns. She spied that they were prepping a howitzer to fire. From her retinal display, she observed the round discharged. The arc was high overhead, passing over the Iowa, and it slammed into the S.S. Cape Jacob cargo ship. The well-placed shot tore through the superstructure and the bridge of the ship. Gale focused her field of view on the ship and magnified. She made out the twisted wreckage of the top deck of the ship. Crewmembers were on fire and jumping off the sides of the ship in a vain attempt to save themselves, or at least end their pain. Gale cursed to herself. She needed to put the fortress out of commission right away.
Gale ordered the advance of the Iowa and the remaining battleships. The engine crews scrambled into action. Gale had requested another from the ship’s personnel to take the helm, and after a moment the man raced to the bridge, to steer the ship. The remaining battleships, in formation, steamed forward, at a slow but steady pace. They formed a line, and sailed dangerously close to the fortress; point blank range. Gale lined up the sights of the turrets and ordered a full broadside against the unscathed side of the fort. All guns ablaze with hellfire, penetrating deep into the heart of the fortress that ignited a munitions store, which blew a massive plume through the top level in the center of the fortress. The Iowa advanced further, passing the fortress and into the Strait of Panama itself. She gazed up ahead in the distance: a row of wrecked ships that had been skuttled in the middle of the Strait, to bar passage. Behind the Iowa, she could see through the rear view sensors that the North Carolina had lined up her guns and also delivered a broadside into the teetering fortress. She could see that walls crumbled and fires raged out of control within the fortress. The line of ships followed up with broadsides from the Indiana, and then the Alabama. By this time, with the sheer amount of ordinance being brought down upon the fortress, it had been reduced to a smoldering ruin of steel, stone and blood.
Gale guided the Iowa up alongside the wreckage of scuttled ships. She aimed the Iowa’s guns low toward the waterline and let loose a monstrous barrage. The shells slammed into the wreckage of a trawler, which blew the skeleton of the ship into smaller and smaller chunks of metal. The salvo’s sent plumes of water, climbing toward the heavens. Once she reduced one ship, she set her sights on the others, effectively clearing the Strait of its blockade.
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As soon as the Apostate’s battleships had stopped firing upon the fortress and had moved along to the blockade, Hades-Perdition, who carried Pale-Silence, and Angel-Seraphim moved through the heaped rubble to reach the marina. They had found the motorboat that they used previously to reach the shore, but the helmsman was dead nearby, having taken shrapnel to the chest from all the shelling. It was no matter, as they could run the boat. As soon as they were settled into the swaying boat, Hades fired-up the engine and they set out to find the Hermes, in an attempt to get Pale-Silence medical attention. Pale had lost much blood, but he still stirred. He was delirious, mumbling something about �
��el diablo”. Angel tried to keep pressure applied to his wound. The water was choppy from all the maneuvering of the fleet and the shells that had tore into the surface, agitated the waves. At long last they traversed the watery expanse and pulled alongside the Hermes. Hades secured Pale and climbed the rope ladder with inhuman strength, but even he was pushed to his limits. They all reached the weather deck.
“Blaze-Scorch! You’re going to want to prep and bed and I.V.! Pale-Silence had been critically wounded. Please! I don’t think he’ll last too much longer!” Hades reached out to her via the [Apostate-net].
“Shit. Okay. I’ll do what I can. We’ve already been swamped with casualties from the S.S. Cape Jacob and the New Jersey!” Blaze sounded overwhelmed and out of breath.
“Wait. What happened to the New Jersey?” Hades asked with concern in his voice. He too was also out of breath from carrying the wounded Pale-Silence.
“You didn’t hear? It was destroyed. No contact from Captain O’Leary,” Blaze reported.
No, no I didn’t. There was too much chaos. Alright, we’re coming,” Hades warned. They started off below decks. The three Apostates burst through the hospital ward entrance. Hades jogged down along a row of beds that were filled with casualties.
“Blaze! Blaze!” Hades called out for her, but he was not to be heard over the moans and screams of the injured. Blaze appeared from a makeshift operating room.
“Over here, Hades! Bring him here!” Blaze waved her arms to get their attention. Hades jogged in her direction, passing beds with amputation operations under way, performed by orderlies. The scene was that of organized chaos. Hades reached Blaze, where she had a gurney prepared and laid Pale-Silence on it. Blaze and an orderly wheeled the gurney to the improvised operating room. An orderly took the demon-man’s vital signs, then, inserted the I.V. needle into his forearm. They removed his compromised armor and cut through his undershirt to treat the trauma below. Blaze gave a signal to Hades, which meant she had the situation under control. So, Hades and Angel turned and walked away in silence. They were too exhausted to speak.
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After Ravine-Gulch had patched his facial wound up in his quarters on the Iowa, he changed his bloody clothing and washed up. After this, he headed for the bridge. He climbed the metal stairs leading up to the deck and crossed through the hatchway into the bridge. Gale-Whirlwind had just finished directing several salvos, which cleared the last of the scuttled ship wreckage that had barred their progress. She disconnected her neural implant from the ship’s network. Gale noticed Ravine enter the deck and turned to him. She saw the gash going down the length of his face.
“What happened to you?” she asked with concern.
“I–The assassin, the one from the battle with the Rangers, at the Great Lake! It was her, she has been hiding on the fleet this entire time! W–when I got to the New Jersey, she was fighting Captain O’Leary. O’Leary died from her wounds, but she had cast the assassin into an oil fire. But—I don’t think she’s dead!” Ravine was fairly distraught. Twice he had failed to kill this strange woman, and twice lives had been lost because of it.
“God! She probably killed everyone on the bridge here on the Iowa. When I got here, it was absolutely horrible!” Gale tried not to think of the image that had been burnt into her mind.
“Let me look at it.” She put a hand on Ravine’s shoulder and the other to raise his chin. He winced from pain when she touched too close to the gash in his face. He had hastily patched it up using suture tape.
“What was this done with?” she asked.
“It was a shard of glass,” he answered.
“That’s one nasty wound.” Gale looked disgusted, but sympathetic from the site of the gash.
“Look at you! You mastered the targeting system I installed and destroyed that fortress, and cleared the scuttled ships. Who the hell are you?” Ravine was honestly impressed at what she had accomplished through her own initiative. It made him feel slightly emasculated and worthless, but he didn’t let it show.
“Looks, like you indirectly saved us all by experimenting with the targeting system here. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything today without it,” she conceded to him. Gale looked him in the eye.
“I appreciate it. But, I failed everyone else.” He returned her look.
“Hey, we all knew the risks and it could have been anyone on this bridge.” She inched closer to him.
“I am glad nothing happened to you.” Ravine planted his lips upon her lips and they shared a lengthy, familiar kiss.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The ruins of the town hall laid silent and except for the smoldering pops of fires that had nearly burnt out, and the creaking of spent wood. The gathering hall was a wreckage-strewn disaster area, where once there had been formal gatherings, there was now just destruction. It was a gala of blood and fire. A pile of rubble shifted and cracked with activity. The rubble raised up, then collapsed back down again. Out from under it emerged two figures: one wore the encircled pentagram blazoned cloak of the Order and the other wore a fancy, black cocktail dress that had been torn in various places, exposing skin and cuts.
Friar Francis rolled the dazed and weary Manuela Noriega over. She unfastened her veil to expose her ruined face. She shook Manuela and slapped her face to rouse her. When she came to and saw the horror that presented itself to her, she screamed in a high pitch. A drizzle of saliva landed upon Manuela from the open mouth wound of the Friar. She smiled and slapped Manuela again.
“Listen! Listen to me, you bloody harlot! You mother of whores! You told me once to address you without my veil, well, here it is! Gaze upon your salvation!” Friar Francis clicked her jaws together. Manuela was panicky and terror filled her mind.
“Please! Please! Do not kill me! I beg you!” Manuela pleaded.
“Oh! I won’t kill you. I am here to save your wretched soul. You are the Whore of Babylon, who bore destruction upon your land and upon our Order through your wanton ways! You corrupted the heart of our Monsignor!” Friar Francis hissed at her. She made sure that Manuela got a full view of her facial crevasse.
“Please, I—I beg you!” Manuela could only plead; she could not muster the strength to physically resist.
“Now, you shall receive the wound that once saved me! The one thing that purified me and delivered me from worldly sin!” Friar Francis brandished her cavalry saber in a threatening manner. Manuela begged and screamed, but the Friar knew exactly what would be the salvation of Manuela’s wicked soul. She brought the saber down toward Manuela’s face and then began to cut flesh. Manuela’s screams of pain and terror filled the ruined shell of the gala hall. The screams turned into guttural grunts and then finally shock set in. Manuela then blacked out from pain.
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The battleship the Wilhelm Wainwright sailed at the head of the vanguard of a small fleet. Aside from the giant battleship, there were two other destroyers, an oiler, and two cargo ships. The fleet sailed in a southerly direction, having set out from the capital: New Megiddo City. The Wilhelm Wainwright was twice the size of any battleship that had come before it. Six turrets were situated upon its deck. Its eighteen, five hundred millimeter guns dwarfed the armament of most other vessels. In fact, the guns were so big and absurd that it was well beyond the destructive power needed to put ships out of action. It had been considered by some a waste of material and was overly expensive at the time of the ship’s construction. But, it had been no matter to the Regime of New Megiddo. There was no other governing body to resist that type of military expenditure.
The fleet cut through pale blue waters en route to the Caribbean. The area that the fleet traversed currently, in the past, had once been land. Under the surface was land that used to belong to the American state of Florida. The ships glided over what was formerly agricultural fields that had surrounded the old city of Orlando. The glory of a once prosperous state, albeit a veritable retirement community, had slipped beneath the dept
hs, and only the watery abyss remained.
Keir Schrubb was at the Conn on the bridge of the Wilhelm Wainwright. He sat upon a specially-customized captain’s chair. The chair was heavily-padded leather and assumed a reclining position. Keir also had a liqueur cabinet and miniature bar installed in the bridge. He refused to face any prolonged ocean voyage dry. And now he would have all the comforts of home while commanding the flagship of the Navy of New Megiddo. The bridge was abuzz with activity. Communications officers asked for constant updates from spotters in the decks far above the bridge. Men were keeping track of long-range sensors for any sign of the Apostate fleet. Keir sat in his luxurious command chair with a dry martini in hand. His head swayed with boredom: the ocean was too wide and featureless for his taste. However, he found it a welcome break from his family. His first passion was war, but he was not a naval officer by training. His expertise was of land combat; he had no taste for the slow and deliberate warfare of the sea. He also had no choice but to comply, as it was his father’s wish for him to destroy the Apostates before they reach the capital. Keir was determined to fulfill his father’s command.
Keir thought about his sister: Kate. He had always been jealous of her, and he had desired to succeed his father as president of New Megiddo. He had always feared that the mantle of leadership would be handed to his sister instead of him. But now, with the B.A.G. and the Second Coming so close at hand, he came to the realization that he would never rule. Keir did, however, possess the military might to rule elsewhere. There was nothing saying that he had to return to New Megiddo to perish in the fires of the Second Coming. A plan was formulating within Keir’s head. He had the firepower of an entire navy in his small fleet. He could easily, subdue one of the Caribbean islands. Would he take Cuba or the island of Hispaniola? The possibilities were endless. He could sail further south and explore the expanses of South America, or he could sail east to the continents of Africa and Europe. No one from the Regime of New Megiddo had been in contact with these lands since the closing of the borders. Keir had always been intent to explore the world and to make his mark: now he had the means to do it. He was, however, no traitor, he would first carry out his father’s will. He would confront the Apostates, and defeat them. But, once this task was done he would not return north. He would find his fortune and build his own dynasty.
