End of Knighthood Part III: Ballad of Demise (Reverence Book 4)

by Landeros, Joshua

  Will landed on his feet as Kane crashed into the asphalt on his face. The odd thing was he did not feel his feet anymore. Everything else went numb as he fell backward. The cold hard street welcomed his crumpled body as he lay there. I did it… I finally did it. Venloran had paid for his sins. He’d freed Kane. He had finally avenged Zaneta and Julissa. And yet, watching the Peregrine fly off to the stars, despondency seeped into him. Why? I did it for them. For everyone. I won. We won. Then it dawned on him, and William Marconi fought to get up.

  Please, I’m not finished yet. His body would not allow it.

  Now all he saw were soldiers surrounding him. It was the last thing he saw that night. Even after he could not see, hear or feel, he still kept thinking about that last mission.

  You wouldn’t have to face him alone. When that day comes, I’ll be by your side.

  Chapter 15 – Forward into the Fire

  October 24, 2065 – Carrollton Train Station

  The Carrollton Train Station, like the one in Bradford, was located at the heart of the city. Unlike the former, the Carrollton station was a mall-sized building that the trains actually went inside of. The interior surrounding the boarding area was more akin to a mall or high-end airport. There were clothing stores, trinket shops, and endless bars and restaurants. At one of these bars, a sports bar by the name of New Craze Nation, sat a Crimson Angel.

  Patrick had had nothing but water since his arrival hours ago, but he sat right there at the bar. Having a drink was out of the question for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which that he was still on the run. He wasn’t worried about getting caught, not tonight. Besides, the bartenders were overrun by customers demanding more and more drinks. For now, the smell of chili cheese fries and cigarette smoke would suffice.

  His prolonged stay at Carrollton Train Station had begun as he’d arrived. People with their phones kept passing around rumors about an attack at New York City, and soon after every telescreen in the building was broadcasting about it. He’d been trying to make sense of it all with the little information he had, made all the harder due to the excruciatingly loud chattering.

  Patrick was surrounded by the racket and would’ve gone ballistic if the news report hadn’t been subtitled. Currently, all they were broadcasting were news anchors looking straight at the camera:

  We want to reassure our viewers at home, there is no confirmation that the footage from earlier is legitimate, Patrick read. We repeat, there is no confirmation on the legitimacy of the footage. The PSID is still sorting through the evidence, but we do know that there has been a terrorist attack at the UN Headquarters.

  “It’s all bullshit.”

  Patrick had heard many people say many things during the time he’d sat there to watch the events unfold, but this was the first time he was certain someone was addressing him specifically. Patrick saw it was a much older man than himself, maybe in his fifties. His parted hair and nice suit told him he was some sort of businessman.

  ‘Businessman’ swayed back and forth in his stool like a tree in the wind. “It’s all bullshit,” he repeated, this time more of a garbled mutter than a statement.

  Patrick was poised to ignore him and go back to reading the reports when the drunken stranger spoke again. “It’s been nearly three hours since this attack started, and we haven’t heard shit about whether it’s over, if they got hostages, and that footage, I guarantee, was real.”

  One of the bartenders eyed the man, but he went on pouring a customer’s drink.

  “What makes you say that?” Patrick asked, heart pounding.

  “If it was a simple attack, you know, a bomb or, or somethin’ went off, they’d be telling us so we could do our grievin’. Right now, they’re… they’re… sitting around a table trying to figure out how to spin this.”

  Patrick had hardly any time to absorb the claim because now the bartender was in front of them. He was a young guy, probably around Patrick’s age but with a trimmed beard and his own parted hair.

  “Sir, you either shut up or take that shit outside,” he demanded.

  Patrick wanted to say something in retaliation, but he decided against it was best to let it go. The businessman gulped down the last of his drink. When he opened his mouth to exhale, all Patrick could smell was straight gin.

  “Mark, mark, my words, kids,” he said, directly looking at Patrick, “by dawn everyone’s gonna be asking the same question: ‘Where were you when you heard about Chancellor Venloran’s assassination’?”

  The women seated to the drunk’s right both gawked at him with big, glossy, eyes. One of them started bawling onto the other’s shoulder. Her friend did her best to comfort her.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Christa.”

  “That’s it! You need to get the hell out of here!” the bartender growled. He went as far as reaching over the counter to grab the man by his blazer.

  Patrick no longer sat by and put a hand on the bartender’s arm. “I’ll take him home, relax.”

  The bartender looked Patrick over, saw he was in decent shape, and then focused on businessman again.

  “Sure, right after this fucker pays up. Be quick about it, too, before I have the PSID pick this guy up.”

  Patrick couldn’t formulate a verbal response to that threat. He just hoped the man would whip out his credit card and end the madness.

  “Why should I? It’s only the end of the world.”

  Without warning, the entire bar went completely silent. In one unconscious and simultaneous wave, everyone looked toward the bar entrance. Patrick saw why all the talking had ceased: three fully armed UNR soldiers had arrived. His stomach twisted and he began to tremble.

  The soldiers scanned the room. Do not book it. Stay calm Patrick recited to himself.

  “Everyone pack it up and go home! The Carrollton Train Station is now closed and that includes all business. Go on home!” the soldier out in front stated.

  The bartender complied with no fuss at all. “You heard him, everybody out! We’re closed!”

  Not even the businessman said anything now. Even without him, though, the fire had already started.

  “Fuck that! It’s barely midnight!” called out a voice within the patrons.

  “Yeah! What the hell is going on?!”

  “We ain’t leaving!”

  Several voices were joining in now, and the bartender began to shrink away to the kitchen door. Patrick stood out of his stool. He saw what no else noticed: a nervous sweat on the soldier’s forehead. It spelled disaster.

  “I don’t give a shit! A curfew is in effect! Everyone head out now!” the soldier replied.

  At a table in front of the lead troop, a man reached into his coat pocket. In that instant, a baton smashed his jaw. Teeth went flying, screams pierced the smoky air, and the bar exploded into chaos. The customer hit the floor, and out of his coat pocket fell his cellphone. On its screen was an incoming call from his mother.

  Patrick ducked to avoid a bar stool that flew over his head and then leaped over the counter. He was crouched behind the bar now, but he was far from safe. He heard glass shatter again and again along with curses and cries of pain.

  “Benny’s down!”

  Now gunshots joined in on the cacophony. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Patrick bit his lip and went for it. He shoved his way through the kitchen door without looking back. Despite staying low, his escaped didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Stop! Hold it right there!”

  Patrick darted away from the door, knowing full well what came next. Gun shots blew holes into the wood a second later. As Patrick ran he knocked over whatever he could; shelves of pots and pans, piles of glass plates, whatever was in reach.

  Follow them, go! Dead ahead of him were fleeing people. Judging from the aprons they were cooks or dishwashers. Patrick sprinted as fast as he could on the slippery tiled floor, but remarkably he kept his balance.

  “Hold the door!” he pleaded.

  The employees eith
er didn’t hear him or ignored him outright. The exit door slammed shut. Patrick heard a door open behind him just as his hand gripped the door knob.

  “Freeze now!”

  Patrick twisted the door knob in defiance and then felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. His adrenaline was surging through his body, making his skin tingle and his muscles tighten, but now he gritted his teeth in agony. He got as low as he could and shut the door. He was greeted by the night air.

  The UNR soldier came through that same exit not long after, but he was greeted by an elbow being rammed into his right eye socket.

  Patrick saw blood spurt. He spent no time analyzing the damaged he’d inflicted. He kept his eye on the gun, an FNS Compact model handgun. The UNR soldier was already stumbling backward into the kitchen when Patrick followed up with a fierce kick to his stomach.

  A bullet went into the wall and another into the ceiling as the troop fell on his back. Before he could get another shot off, Patrick brought a frying pan down on his face again, again, and again. In his state of unrestricted fear, he hammered away much more than he needed to. When he finally stopped, there was hardly a face to recognize. Patrick stood over the body breathing ragged breaths. His right arm had done all the work, but a flaring pain was in his left shoulder.

  “Hey, Fernie! Forget that guy! Benny isn’t waking up! I called for med evac! Fernie, goddammit!”

  Patrick didn’t wait for the other soldier to come check on his teammate. He took Fernie’s gun and headed back outside. Every second his wound pulsed. Now that he wasn’t in the middle of a fight, he felt the blood running down his back. Patrick’s eyes darted about the parking lot and all the while he heard sirens getting louder.

  People were running back and forth to Carrollton Train Station in a constant flux. Those who were running to their cars had merchandise in their arms, usually as much as they could carry: shirts, luxury headphones, even bottles of cheap alcohol. The yelling and cheering was no less abrasive outdoors than inside. What disturbed Patrick the most was that not one person stopped to help him. Maybe it’s best I don’t call attention to myself anyway.

  Amongst all the fleeing people, he picked one. Sometimes fate is both strange yet kind.

  While most people were running to their cars, Patrick spotted the bartender crouching his way between the vehicles. His attempt at caution was half-assed, and Patrick was easily able to come up behind him. The bartender only halted when he heard the gun cock. Patrick didn’t even have to say a word. The young man automatically got on the asphalt, legs and arms splayed out.

  “Don’t shoot, sir!” he sobbed.

  “Take your keys and cellphone out of your pocket, asshole!” Patrick shouted.

  The trembling man did so, and Patrick used his left hand to grab them both. Moving his left arm even slightly nearly sent Patrick to his knees. Patrick kept the gun pointed at him as a wave of dizziness hit him.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s your car before I shoot you in the back of the head?!”

  The man kept crying, but he answered, “The blue Tesla at the end of the lot. Please, please, just take it.”

  Patrick listened to the whimpering and lowered the gun. He stepped past the civilian and saw now the man’s eyes had been closed the whole time. That image stayed with him more than anything else he’d seen. How can somebody not want to see it coming?

  Patrick sped off just as UNR Humvees were arriving in droves, followed by ambulances. The night was young, but dawn would come. It would bring a number of revelations to the world.

  ***

  October 24, 2065 - Passamaquoddy Bay

  Every person in Mosie’s mess hall was staring at the large telescreen on the wall. Not one among them was seated, and not one among them was touching their food. The news report they were all watching was showing an image of Manhattan from Turtle Bay. Next to the iconic UN Headquarters, smoke rose upward like a spire.

  “The terrorist attack at the International Summit has finally come to an end. The UN Hall itself was demolished during the horrific events. It will be hours before rescue teams can begin retrieving bodies from the rubble,” the news anchor reported.

  The footage displayed now was of firemen hosing down the remaining flames of the epicenter. Saskia, Halsey, and Ruby were front and center of the audience. Come on already, thought the Tremblay sister. Even with all the ambiguity, she was sure the UNR would boast if they got the chance. The fact that they hadn’t yet was an odd source of hope.

  “Hold on, I’m getting an update of the situation on the ground,” the anchor said. “We’re going to cut to our correspondent Jaime Olsen.”

  The camera now focused in on a young reporter. All around him were flocking civilians. Saskia noticed they were all running toward something off camera.

  “Becky, I’m here at the intersection of First Avenue and East 42nd Street along with thousands of citizens and our soldiers. They’re all here to see the silver lining amongst all this tragedy: the rogue cyborg, S.S.C. Unit 21, has finally been brought to justice by UNR forces!”

  “Oh, my god,” Saskia said in a whisper.

  Ruby placed a hand over her mouth. Halsey stared in disbelief. The many people had gathered in a circle around one stoplight on a street corner. Dangling from that pole was The Wolf, limp as a rag doll. A wire had been wrapped around his throat so tight that everyone could see the blood seeping down his neck. As a final send off, the soldiers had tied a UNR flag just above the noose, giving the body a pseudo-cape. The camera zoomed in intimately, allowing the world to see the crimson in Will’s mouth and his deformed chest. More horrific than any of this, however, were the people who surrounded the fallen soldier. They’re…they’re cheering, Saskia realized.

  “Will, no.”

  Saskia turned her head just in time to see Halsey fall to his knees. The only sound in the room now was that of the man sobbing. His cries of disdain echoed to no end. It was Ruby who knelt next to him and held him.

  No one had any comforting words to spare, not even Saskia. Even with the tears running down her cheeks, she didn’t feel like any of this was real. It couldn’t be.

  For Halsey, this was something worse than a deranged fantasy. Ruby knew this because she, like him, had been through this before. And just like before, she had watched it all from a news report. She held his head against her bosom as his trembling hand gripped her arm.

  “I’m sorry, Joe. I’m sorry,” she said to him.

  Nothing she said would break the curse. The curse of repetition. Halsey had failed the Marconi yet again. On November 21, 2051, he’d had a front row seat so that his failure could be brandished not just to him but the entire country and beyond. Julissa… Zaneta… Will, I let you all down. It’s all on my head. But I swear, by god, I will finish what you all started. I swear it.

  Out of the morning fog that hung over the water, a humongous military naval battleship was approaching Mosie. The crew up top could see it and rushed to report it to their captain. It was a looming goliath in the distance, but even from here they could see its enormous cannons pointed at their puny vessel. It would only take a single shot to blow them away without a trace.

  ***

  Canadian Airspace

  Marisol had always appreciated solitude because of the silence it bought. Long flights in cargo bays led to soldiers attempting to chat with her about past missions or memories of home, nothing that interested her. At least if it concerned strangers. Her normal response was to take a nap, something she’d managed to do even after Carson’s death. This was strange to her; a cargo bay full of others beside herself, but there was no talking between them.

  Jacob Neeson, a high-level target, sat across from her. His weapon was at his feet, leaving him wide open to attack. Enough. That era is over. The last thing on his mind is worrying about me. This she knew for certain. All he’d done since they’d left New York City behind was sob onto Nusaybah’s shoulder. Mari got a glim
pse of her holding his hand and looked away.

  The most injured of them, Bri, was out cold in her seat. Then there was Alex. Marisol couldn’t see his face since his back was to her. His chair was away from everyone else and he kept busy observing the telescreens in front of him. Mari wasn’t fooled. He’s grieving the only way he knows how. She didn’t know if it was healthy to do so. She wanted to help him, wanted to tell him it was okay to let it all out, but she stayed put in her seat. I don’t have the right to tell him anything. If that’s his way of honoring Unit 21, then so be it.

  Marisol focused on the sheathed sword in her lap. The one not her own, the inscription on it told of the true owner. Former owner. It was surreal putting her hand son it.

  “Do you regret it?”

  Adar had popped the question. He was two seats to Mari’s left, and both knew the distance was due to his prevailing mistrust. He hasn’t said a word to me since I first met them all at Hosbon.

  “Regret what?” she replied. Adar pointed at the sword she’d stolen.

  “Claiming that as your own,” he clarified.

  Awfully nosey of him. That was the first thing that ran through her mind, but Marisol wasn’t in a rush to end the conversation. She had shed off the old for the new, and in the process people had died. Will, the Chancellor, but when it had it all really started? She saw now it could have all began with her old friend Carson.

  “Aliss Howard hunted me for years. I never wanted to admit it, but I’ve feared for my life for a long time. Now that I’ve finished it, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s over, so no, I regret nothing.”

  Adar eyed the woman, seeing not a human, but a machine. Still, that didn’t stop him from expressing himself.

  “It’s not over. Far from it.”

  Alex heard the duo talking. He also heard his dear Jacob crying. No matter how much his lip quivered or his eyes begged, he would not let himself do it. Why do so when what Adar said is true? We’re not done. We merely got by on the skin of our teeth as we always have.