Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1)

by Flagg, Jeremy

  Mr. Cowan,

  As you ponder the situation laid out in front of you, it is clear that things will never be the same. Before you are many decisions, but alas, beyond this point I cannot see nor predict your future. You are an element that seems to defy the strands of probability. I fear that before you lies a path that will test the fortitude of your soul. I wish I could give you more than a simple direction. I have done everything in my power to see you safe to this point. I wish I could tell you that somewhere on the other side of the darkness will be you, standing triumphant. However, I cannot. For that, I am sorry. What I can do is start you on your hero’s journey.

  Go to Sarah.

  With Regards,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  ***

  For the fourth time, Conthan read the letter line for line. The woman who wrote it was older. He could tell by the elegant strokes of her pen she had written it slowly, carefully, deliberately picking each word. He marveled at the beautiful calligraphy.

  As he finished the letter, he stared at the name at the end. It wasn’t a common name, but something about it stuck in his head. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “How do you know me?” he whispered.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The small clear plastic object turned opaque as he pressed his thumb against it. He whispered the woman’s name and gasped as her image appeared on his screen. Every high school student was required to take modern history. One of the most notorious individuals in the last century was Valentine, a psychic driven crazy by her ability to predict the future.

  Browsing further through the document, he could hear his former teacher barking about the importance of history in shaping the future of mankind. Eleanor had been an aide to the first female president. Near the end of her term, Valentine had started to have crazy dreams predicting outlandish future possibilities. The insanity led her attempt to kill the president. Eleanor had been shot, but historians claimed that it was the defining point in history that would lead to “The Culling” of all mentalists. Telepaths had the ability to read minds and telekinetics could move things with their mind. Eleanor was a precog, a person capable of seeing the future. Anybody identified with mental abilities was “put down” for national security.

  The military had kept a detailed list of anybody with these gifts, using their abilities for decades before the Nostradamus Effect took place. During the culling, they began to tear people from their homes and exterminate them in the streets. The article showed a video of a man screaming at a soldier, whose hand violently shook as he turned the gun around and shot himself in the face before his fellow soldiers shot the telekinetic. The military developed a zero tolerance policy for people with the ability to manipulate the world with their mind.

  Only months after the assassination attempt, a terrorist group detonated a bomb in two nuclear power plants in retaliation to an extremist government. The bomb left a good chunk of New England uninhabitable. Vacated, Boston would become known as the Danger Zone. The radiation rendered it unlivable, making it the new dumping ground for the unwanted people of the United States. America turned into a militant state.

  “Bus is heading out, kid,” said a guy behind a dirty glass window.

  Conthan examined the empty bus station. It had been fairly busy when he arrived, but the patrons had moved on to other destinations while he was doing research. He looked at the man behind the glass protective shield. “Thanks,” he said, standing up. He walked down the aisle and out the door to where a bus was idling. He looked at the side of the vehicle and could see a yellow biohazard sign next to the words ‘Danger Zone.’

  He began to step onto the bus and the man at the wheel stopped him. “I need to see your ID and signed disclaimer.”

  Conthan hovered his hand over the palm reader. A series of screens flashed, warning him about the perils of entering into the Danger Zone. He pressed his thumb to the glass, signing the document.

  “You understand that you will be inside the Danger Zone and when not in a proper facility, you will be exposed to mild amounts of radiation. This could lead to radiation poisoning or worse, death.” The man had apparently memorized the document and was spitting it back verbatim.

  “I’ve been before,” Conthan said.

  “We don’t see many civvies make the trip more than once.”

  “Going to see a friend of mine.”

  The driver’s eyebrow rose at the statement. There was only one location to be reached on this bus route. The look on his face went from curious to saddened. “I hope it’s worth the trip, son.”

  “Me too.”

  Conthan moved back to an empty seat. He was surprised by how many people were on the bus. It was a mix of civilians and what he assumed were guards for the facility. He tried to maintain his composure as he scanned the number of armed. He knew they were like the Corps, augmented with various enhancements to their bodies. All of them would be modified to help screen them against the radiation. He had to wonder, what other enhancements did they have?

  He sat against the window and looked at the letter again. It was sixty years since Eleanor had been killed in the Oval Office. What were the chances sixty years later, a letter would find its way into his hand, courtesy of a dead artist? He attempted to think of the journey the letter had to take to reach him at exactly the same time he discovered he wasn’t human anymore.

  She must have predicted it all, he thought to himself.

  Eleanor was the most notorious precog to have ever lived. She had been recruited by the military to train developing mentalists. He had to wonder if she had been aware of just how important this series of events would be. The world knew the United States enlisted fortune tellers, but nobody understood quite how far they could see or what the reach was for their powers.

  Conthan paused at the thought. Nearly twenty years later, the nuclear bomb and the President’s assassination attempt would be overshadowed by a planetary effect commonly called the Nostradamus Effect. To this day, the exact causes of the event are still subject to speculation, but the most commonly accepted explanation is that a variety of stellar anomalies resulted in some sort of cosmic radiation affecting all of mankind.

  Cults began to emerge, claiming Nostradamus had predicted the end of the world and mankind would cease to exist in 2012. Nostradamus himself, believed to be one of the earliest psychics, had foreseen the future of mankind. However, lost in interpretation was that mankind would not end, it would find a way to evolve. Those affected would begin to show signs in the next few years.

  The mentalists that once could be measured in the hundreds were no longer the godliest of the human race. The mutagenesis produced a vast array of results, each of the Children showing unique traits. The Children of Nostradamus became more common and the military was forced to respond as their powers became a danger to the general populace. That is when they began to round up anybody with potential.

  Conthan sighed deeply as he thought of his childhood friend. He wished he was visiting under better circumstances, but he was happy to be seeing her. She wasn’t going to believe what had happened since their last visit.

  He leaned his head against the window and looked out to the storm clouds in the distance. A sign read ‘Danger Zone, 150 miles.’ He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the fact that he was a mouse walking into the lion’s den.

  The bus began to move forward, vacating the lot. Outside the tinted windows, he watched the city pass him by. In the middle of the night, the Twin Towers remained lit like giant glowing obelisks reaching the gods. Gears began to crank and turn as the lead shielding closed on the windows, rendering the bus immune to the impending radiation from the Danger Zone.

  He didn’t dare call Gretchen or Sculptee. He always assumed his mouth would land him in a detention center, but being a superpowered human had never crossed his mind. Gretchen was probably pissed; he imagined her going berserk as the Corps put the art show to an end. He hoped everybody mad
e it out without injury.

  He turned back to his phone and began searching the web for any coverage of the event. It had happened almost four hours ago and not one live feed from New York showed any interest. He went to the websites of both groups of protestors and saw that there was not only no mention of the attack, but no mention of protesting the show. It didn’t surprise him; the government was masterful at manipulating the media. Even The Culling, a mass genocide, was spun as an effort to protect domestic interests.

  He paused at the thought. He went back in his browser to the article about Eleanor. “What if she wasn’t mad?”

  ***

  The Sheraton had once been glorious. The building was a mere eight stories tall, but standing in the center of the hotel one could look straight up to the skylights above. The red rugs had been vibrant before the cleaning staff had been burned away. Now, the conference rooms were turned into makeshift hospitals and the rooms above were crowded with people attempting to survive on the fringes of society.

  Twenty-Seven rubbed the muscle in her left arm. Victor had ordered her to be given a shot for the radiation sickness. He warned her it would keep her alive, even if she wished she could die. After barking that simple command, he had walked off with a group of men to discuss matters of importance with the angel.

  What would happen if they knew the angel’s secret? She wondered just how much the angel was manipulating them. Twenty-Seven had been young when The Culling took place. She had read the horrific accounts of the military sweeping through homes, killing anybody suspected of being a mentalist. It didn’t matter if it was for national security, or for the protection of the human race, it still showed the worst humanity had to offer.

  She had only known the angel for a day and already she could tell the woman preferred to be cloaked in mystery and intrigue. She was no different than her, a human, only she was cursed, a Child of Nostradamus.

  I am not.

  How can you not be one?

  Twenty-Seven found a bench overlooking a dingy grand staircase. She could imagine women in beautiful gowns being escorted down the stairs by gentlemen in tuxedos. At one time this would have been the ideal place for a prom or perhaps a wedding. Now, the dirt was married to the carpet, and dings in the brass railing had left it dilapidated and near falling apart.

  My gifts emerged before the Nostradamus Effect. We were not many, but we existed, more hidden than we are now. I survived The Culling because of a wise woman who foresaw a shadow darkening our existence.

  Twenty-Seven mulled over the woman’s words. She replayed the last sentence and hung on the phrase, “a shadow darkening our existence.” She remembered a letter that had once been delivered to her home in Brooklyn.

  The hotel melted away in a streak of mixing colors. Twenty-Seven gasped as the world around her began to collapse in on itself. From the colors emerged new scenery, a place she had once lived. She looked down to the mail slot, and the letter floating toward the ground.

  Twenty-Seven took a step closer to the door and became aware she was not alone. She turned her head to a mirror mounted in the entryway. Where her reflection should have been, the angel stood, gazing at her, watching her every movement.

  What happened next?

  Twenty-Seven reached down for the letter, surprised at her lack of fear. Her fingers touched the something and she recalled the sensation of fine linen paper. She admired the address on the front of the envelope. She knew the author was a female by the swirling letters and precision penmanship. She carefully tore at the corner until she could remove the slip within.

  She unfolded it and paused at the fanciful script. She turned the envelope over, but there was no return address. She began to read the words.

  Dear Samantha,

  I have no time to waste in this letter, a shadow darkens our existence. My heart breaks for the abuse you have suffered at the hands of men. There is a chance to break the cycle and make a new life for yourself. I do not offer you simplicity, or even a pleasant journey in the days to come. I do offer you a chance to reclaim a woman you have come to mourn.

  72-13-26.

  I cannot tell your fate far beyond the wall. In your journeys you will meet an angel. She will need you as a symbol of what she has to gain as she wages a war within. Guide her. If your messenger is slow, go to meet him.

  Sincerely,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  Before the angel could inquire, Twenty-Seven spoke. “My grandmother used to say that. Do not wait for world to come to you, meet it. She had been a strong woman. She divorced my grandfather during an age where it wasn’t acceptable. She became a pariah in her community. But she never looked back.”

  Twenty-Seven turned to the stairs and began the ascent upward, toward the study. The numbers made no sense, but she knew where she would find the answer. As she approached the door, she hesitated. On the other side was a room she had been scolded for entering even to clean. Her husband treated it as his escape from the world. Here he would drink brandy until he was intoxicated enough to tolerate holding her down and raping her.

  She opened the door. She trembled with the first step. As her foot touched the carpet she continued to think of her grandmother. The woman would have fought back. She would have cursed as he smacked her. She would have swung back in defiance. She would have killed him.

  Twenty-Seven paused at the thought as if it was the first time it crossed her mind. She was sitting at the desk now. She had the combination to the safe sitting in the bottom right drawer of his desk. With a shaking hand, she spun the numbers until it opened and revealed the firearm inside. With the weight of it in her hand, her heart began to race.

  It is a memory, Twenty-Seven. This is not happening now.

  The downstairs door slammed shut. Her muscles tensed. She had been here before. He would stand at the threshold to the office. He would bait her. He would tell her she was nothing without him. He would ask her how she would live without his money. He would end the insults with asking what man would want her now that she was used goods.

  She pulled the trigger once.

  Her husband reached for his chest. He didn’t utter a word as he grabbed onto the doorway and fell to his knees. She watched as he died. She stared at the body, numb to emotions telling her she must save him. His body stopped moving and she continued to stare at the demon lying on the ground.

  The nightmare had ended.

  She reached across the desk and took the phone. She dialed and raised the phone to her ear.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “I just killed my husband.”

  As she looked up from the rust-colored desk, standing between her and the man she murdered was a woman in a robe. She blinked several times before she remembered the woman rescuing her in the Outlands. Her memories poured into her mind as she recounted the trial, the prison, the execution at the wall.

  This will not be pleasant.

  The angel stepped forward, her form floating through the desk. She reached out and touched the trembling woman’s shoulders. Between blinks she went from the chaos in her husband’s office to standing on the mezzanine of an old hotel. Her hands trembled as she gripped the railing.

  I am sorry, Samantha.

  She shook her head. The memories started to settle back into place. She let the sensation of cold metal under her hand ground her. “Samantha died.”

  Or perhaps Twenty-Seven was born.

  She leaned over the railing while she pondered the philosophical point of view. It had been just over a day since she was placed in the Outlands. She had befriended an angel and joined a rogue group of humans and now she was waiting to see what came next. In a conference room on the floor below, she could see the angel talking with Victor and several of the other Outlanders.

  She walked down the grand staircase, marveling at the splendor. Even years past its prime she could imagine the many people who walked down the stairs and pictured themselves as princesses. She stood at the doo
rway to the conference room and listened.

  “You want us to attack the facility?” Victor asked.

  The angel nodded. “They are coming for you. It houses the largest collection of Children on the globe. Inside are people of power, people whose only crime is an astronomical anomaly. Those Children of Nostradamus are allies waiting to be acquired.”

  A man next to Victor shook his head, obviously displeased with the idea. “You want us to die to save them?”

  “When did your heart become so closed off you began to think of your fellow man as ‘them,’ Rodrick?”

  “We have had our run-ins with the government. You know we have no love for them. But what about my people? They’re going to die.”

  “You’re dying now,” the angel said.

  Twenty-Seven knew what she meant. The moment they entered the Danger Zone their exposure to radiation began to increase. They were living close enough to hot zones now that it would slowly cause burns similar to Victor’s and eventually it would kill them. Her freedom came with a doomsday clock, and each minute it ticked down.

  “What are you offering, angel?”

  “Your home is killing you. We will take you north, into Canada. We can make you new identities. We can give you a chance to survive.”

  “We will not give up what’s ours.”

  Victor held up his hand, silencing the man. “What do you want from us?”

  “We will need your vehicles, weapons, and anybody who can fight.”

  Rodrick pushed away Victor’s hand. “What are you going to do to help us fight your fight?”

  Twenty-Seven eyed a man and two girls walking into the meeting. She stayed hidden just out of sight of the room. She didn’t dare interrupt their meeting. While the angel had assured her they would take her in, so far they had treated her like an outsider.

  The man looked as if he was from a science fiction movie, his torso covered in leather straps that ended in shoulder pads. The leather didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing his build, that of a football player who had seen a few too many beers. His hair was closely shaved to his head, leaving just enough of a shadow to show he had any. The rest of his body showed no body hair at all, leaving him almost glistening in the neon lights. His face was hardened, not mean looking, but showing that he had a story to tell and not much of it would be happy.