EARTH'S LAST WAR (CHILDREN OF DESTINY Book 1)

by Glenn Van Dyke

  “Why haven’t you given us your name?” Novacek asked, very aware that he had not given his own.

  “If indeed I forgot, please forgive me.” The man rose, his stature becoming resolute, imposing. He seemed taller, more formidable than before. With a sigh, resigned to discovery, “My name is Enlil.”

  Novacek reached for his blaster. Seeing Novacek’s reaction, the crew did likewise.

  Enlil’s gaze hardened. Deep creases in his forehead betrayed an underlying, seething hatred. His eyes revealed a deceivingly dangerous persona.

  A flurry of images suddenly flashed through Novacek’s mind. What he saw stretched his imagination to the point where for the first time in his life, his small glimpses of insight into the future made no sense.

  The stranger, moving ever so slowly so as not to raise alarm, his hands straight out to his sides, moved closer to Novacek. In the center of Enlil’s pupils, Novacek saw a burning fire alight. With a guttural god-like voice that filled the room, “No man has ever spoken to me as you have—and lived.”

  As understanding dawned and the flashes of Novacek’s vision began to fall into place, his finger pulled the trigger.

  Enlil swatted him away with one arm as if he were a gnat.

  Slamming against the cavern wall, Novacek crumpled to the floor. He fought to remain conscious, his vision black as night from the jarring jolt, his head and back aching terribly. If bones had been broken, it was masked beneath the wrenching pain.

  While he listened to the cries and terrified screams of those around him, a deafening shrieking roar like nothing he had ever heard before filled the cavern, curdling his blood. He could hear the snapping bones of people being killed. From his left, an intense flash of heat singed the hair on his arm, making him roll aside to escape.

  Slowly, as his vision began to clear and he could make out the shadowy forms of people scattering—his eyes focused upon the horror from which they fled. In disbelief, he raised his blaster and fired.

  ***

  The sun had just crested the eastern mountains, as Steven and Ashlyn were gently set outside the wall. The warmth of the early morning air greeted them.

  Paris saw them first and ran over to them, stopping midway to pick up Ashlyn’s clothes which they’d set atop a rock. “Need I ask what you two have been up to?” she said staring down at Steven. Though his erection was gone, his engorgement from his time with Ashlyn was still heavy—and it was the largest cock she had ever seen.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, if I told you,” Ashlyn replied.

  “I think I might,” said Paris, her eyes fixated on Steven.

  Likewise, Brummon, distracted by Ashlyn’s naked body and wobbling breasts, stood helpless, watching her put on her white cotton blouse. When she shimmied into her panties and blue jeans, he absentmindedly dropped Steven’s clothes to the ground.

  Steven didn’t blame him, for Ashlyn’s body was a spiritual experience, but he still felt a possessive sense of keep it in your pants, buddy.

  “We were just about to leave, and head back to the rest of the crew,” said Brummon.

  “You were going to leave?” questioned Steven, completely bewildered. “Why—we weren’t gone very long?”

  “It’s been four days. How long did you think we were going to wait?” said Paris with sincerity.

  “Four days?” repeated Steven. He looked at Ashlyn. “It felt like twelve, maybe thirteen hours.”

  “Not on this side of the wall!” countered Tomlinson.

  Ashlyn looked at Steven, “There must be a time differential within the containment field.”

  “Well, that isn’t the only odd thing,” said Tomlinson. “I hiked up the western face of the southern mountain to get a look behind the wall, and guess what I saw? Nothing! From up top, the whole thing is invisible, even the wall. It’s just another valley with more rocks, trees and scrub-brush. When I tried to climb down into it, I almost broke my nose when I ran into its invisible shield.”

  “Enough of the hocus-pocus talk. I want to know what’s on the other side!” said Paris, anxious to hear what they had found.

  “Answers!” said Steven. “Answers to everything!”

  ***

  Three days later, traveling by night and sleeping during the heat of day, Steven and his party crested a small dune, the sun just beginning to rise at their backs. Before them, two hundred yards away, was a long, slow-moving, slave caravan.

  Crouching low on the dune’s crest, binoculars raised, they watched the procession.

  “I count 311 prisoners, 57 Igigi,” said Steven.

  “That’s my count too,” agreed Ashlyn.

  “By Igigi, you mean Grays?” asked Tomlinson.

  “Yes. The Keeper said that’s their proper name,” said Steven.

  “They’ll always be fugly Grays to me,” said Tomlinson.

  “Cavemen, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” said Maria. They were straight out of the textbook, large, heavy bones, brows and thick, straggly hair over the majority of their body.

  “Yes, there’s cavemen down there,” added Steven, almost chuckling.

  The captives were naked except for a few with leathered skins upon their feet. Each slave was bound to another by a single, iron cuff around the wrist and tethered by a heavy chain. Like cattle-drivers, the Grays kept them moving. They held a rifle in one hand and a twirling whip strung with razor sharp barbs in the other—always at the ready to lash those who were lagging behind.

  As Steven, Ashlyn and the others watched, an older woman stumbled and fell. Even as her partner, a silver haired female Neanderthal pulled at the chain between them, trying to urge her to rise, a Gray discharged his weapon making a clean slice across the woman’s bound wrist. The freed Neanderthal immediately turned and again joined the moving procession, dragging the cuffed severed hand along in the sand behind her.

  The old woman lay on the ground, clutching her stumped arm tightly to her chest, screaming, pleading for her fellow slaves to stop and help her. But not one of them bothered to even throw a glance in her direction.

  As the next guard came upon her, he put the tip of his rifle to her head and pulled the trigger, silencing her.

  “Why didn’t the other slaves try to help her?” whispered Paris.

  “Look at all the whip marks. Their spirit has been beaten out of them. Death is probably a blessing,” whispered Steven.

  Suddenly, Paris’ back exploded. Her blood, flesh and pulverized bone fragments erupted with a splash, dousing Steven who was next to her.

  Behind them, a dozen or more Grays were walking toward them, their pulse rifles blazing.

  Steven raised his weapon, firing at the nearest Gray in the advancing line. The laser struck him, slicing a clean line across his thin neck. His head fell off his shoulders as his body briefly stood erect, rebelling against gravity.

  Screams from the crew broke out, “I’m hit, I’m-,” cried Maria as another blast killed the words that hung in her mouth.

  Shooting, moving, rolling, they struggled to avoid the blasts that were cutting them down. Steven caught a glimpse of Ashlyn as her blaster failed to fire, rolling she pulled the trigger again, nothing. Her weapon had malfunctioned.

  Ash dove and wriggled round three incoming shots. Her training and reflexes served her well as she twirled and spun, unloading the four knives on her armguards in a flurry. The first two, caught its victim square in the throat. The next two struck their target between the eyes. The forth knife caught a guard square in his chest, buried up to the bolster.

  Cartwheeling round, she pulled yet another hidden knife from her right boot and with a side-arm release, caught a Gray in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his heavy rifle.

  Ten of the twelve Grays had been dropped when from behind, they heard, “Zae Zig!” said a Gray in a snake like hissing drawl.

  You stand, thought Steven as he translated the Sumerian words.

  Ensign Smith swung round to fire, but before he could pull the t
rigger, he was hit by several blasts.

  “We surrender! Everyone cease fire!” yelled Steven as he dropped his weapon and raised his hands into the air. Without turning, Ashlyn and Brummon did the same. Only the three of them had survived.

  From their left, came several more Grays, who quickly encircled them.

  Ashlyn looked down at the bodies of their team that lay sprawled around her. When she saw Tomlinson, who lay on the ground a few meters away, she saw that he was bloodied and hurt, but alive. In acknowledgement, Tomlinson gave Ashlyn a wink and then closed his eyes.

  Ordered to stand, they were then told to strip out of their clothes. Steven, wanting to wipe away Paris’ clinging flesh and blood with his shirt—was given two hard lashes across his back with the barbed whip, flaying his skin.

  The Gray, who had whipped him, pointed the tip of his rifle toward the ground, motioning for him to drop the shirt. Two of the Grays then collected their clothes, weapons and gear, allowing them to keep only their boots.

  A short Gray, even by their standards, then pulled a shiny metallic rod from his belt and planting it into the ground, activated it. A loud, thrumming sound and heavy vibration, droned beneath their feet. Forty meters away, two explosions erupted from under the sand as nearby Uttu reacted to the noise and went racing away. The Grays had known that the Uttu would be drawn to the moisture of the spilled blood.

  Steven and Ashlyn turned suddenly, reacting to the sound of a rifle blast. One of the guards was walking round the team, shooting each person who had not risen, in the head.

  As the executioner came to Tomlinson, Ashlyn stepped forward. “Enlil. I want to talk to Enlil.”

  Steven had no clue what Ashlyn was doing.

  The words stopped all the Grays in their tracks. The nearest one approached Ashlyn, hitting the back of her legs with his rifle, forcing her to kneel.

  “Bring yo’r head to him, I wi’l, so you may talk,” said the Gray in poor English. He followed the words with a screeching noise that grated like a knife blade on a honing stone. Raising his rifle, he put the tip of the barrel to Ashlyn’s head.

  “Gil-im mi! Enki gil-im Igigi,” screamed Steven. “Kill woman! Enki kill Igigi,” Steven repeated in English. “Hurt her and Enki will hang your head upon his belt. Enki has sent us to deliver a message to Enlil.”

  The Gray, a bit surprised at Steven’s use of their native tongue, paused only briefly before, “You li’! God Enlil, ki’l Enki! We se’ if Enki sav’ her,” taunted the nearest of the Grays to Ashlyn. With a crack, his whip began lashing her.

  Steven started toward her but the Gray standing behind him butted him in the head with his rifle, dropping him face first to the ground. A streaming trickle of blood ran from his hairline down into his eye, blurring his vision. Steven struggled against the darkness that he felt closing in around him.

  A lash from a whip struck Steven across his face, splitting his cheek open down to his chin. It was only the beginning as the guard who had struck him continued lashing him repeatedly.

  All the guards who were watching, began jumping, swinging their whips round in the air, an exhibition of their excitement over seeing humans whipped.

  Ashlyn’s Gray, intent on killing her, lashed at her furiously.

  Between lashes to himself, Steven fought to catch glimpses of Ashlyn. She lay motionless on the sand, her body a bloody and shredded heap of flesh.

  Steven’s hatred seethed, building into an uncontrollable rage as the Gray gave her stroke after lashing stroke. He tried to will his abilities to aid them. He had done it before, when he had saved Avenger and slowed Ashlyn’s Sharkfin, but now—the power escaped him and he cursed himself for failing her.

  He suddenly understood how helpless, how powerless, Novacek must have felt when he witnessed the death of his wife. It was crushing.

  Though he knew not what he could do physically, his muscles tensed, bulging in preparation to go to Ashlyn’s defense when he heard, “No, Steven. I can endure the pain. We can’t die here. We have to survive so we can face Enlil.”

  Through a tormented and anger-enraged mind, Steven declared his love for her, and for that only, did he find the strength to hold back.

  Only when the Gray grew tired, did he stop whipping her.

  “Zig.” Ordered the Gray wanting Steven, Ashlyn and Brummon to get to their feet. Brummon rose first, but Ashlyn lay still as death. If there was any movement of air filling her lungs, it was imperceptible.

  Steven struggled to get onto his hands and knees, his tortured and twisted face a reflection of the immense pain that was ravaging him. Crawling toward Ashlyn, his pain threatening to push him into unconsciousness, the trail of blood behind him painting the sand red—he reached out touching her hand. Feeling the familiar tingle, though it was faint, it was a ray of hope. It was with a mighty scream, that he managed to stand.

  He tottered, his legs shaking uncontrollably. His left eye was swollen shut, the right filled with flowing blood. The top of his left ear hung limply, as did the left side of his lower lip dangle, ripped. Spatting out the blood in his mouth, he made a quick swipe with his arm to clear his vision. He grunted heavily as he lifted Ashlyn up. Throwing her arm round his neck, he held her fast, supporting her weight on his shoulder and hip.

  Ashlyn was little more than a blood covered rag doll. Of the dozens of wounds, the slash that ran from her left ear down her neck was the one that worried him most. The only possible explanation for why she was still alive was the Water of Life.

  Steven had been right; death was a blessing for the slaves. For the pain of his own flayed back, arms and legs dredged up such wishful thoughts.

  Within his mind, he was screaming at Ashlyn, pleading for her to answer him. In response, he heard only the brutality of stark silence.

  Heeding the prod of a guard’s rifle, Steven walked her down to join the waiting slave caravan. Though Ashlyn clearly wasn’t capable of supporting her own weight, he was grateful that she was able to shuffle her feet. It was almost as if she were mimicking his steps, his movements. It was something and seemed enough for the Grays to spare her life.

  To say that the pain was unbearable was an understatement and yet it was renewed with each step. His blood loss was heavy, and he felt faint. It was sheer stubbornness and the thought of future revenge that kept him from blacking out.

  Upon reaching the caravan, one of the guards cuffed them together.

  Brummon was partnered with the Neanderthal woman they had spotted earlier. It was only as Brummon’s eyes scrunched, and his face turned green in nausea, that Steven realized the source of his reaction.

  Following Brummon’s gaze, Steven saw that one of his testicles was hanging outside his scrotum, which had been ripped open by the barbs on the whip. Steven’s pain had been so intense, that he hadn’t noticed. With barely a care, he pushed it back inside thru the tear. It was all he could do.

  Brummon’s mouth dropped in shock as the cave-woman cuffed beside him, reached out and flipped up his cock with a finger. When it fell, like it were a toy, she reached out wanting to do it again, seemingly hoping that it might stay up this time. When he quickly covered himself, stopping her, she bared her blocky, yellowed teeth at him. Her look was one that could either be construed as mocking him for dismissing her or an overtly, flirtatious overture. Either choice had the same effect. He was suddenly very self-conscious.

  When the cave woman grabbed one of her hairy breasts offering it to him, the focus of her intent became clear.

  The two men in front of Steven and Ashlyn, never flinched, never moved. Like everyone in the caravan, their backs looked like a game of pickup sticks as layer after layer of scar tissue told of their long abuse. A rancid stench permeated the air as the odor of festering sores and open wounds filled his nostrils, and if he’d had the strength, he would have vomited.

  “Ngir,” Walk, Steven’s mind subconsciously translated from Sumerian. It was accompanied by the hum of twirling whips as they again got the
caravan moving.

  For the better part of the day, under the blistering heat of the dual suns, the caravan marched along, slowly following the twisting path of a dried riverbed.

  Steven’s inward calls to Ashlyn remained unanswered. She had retreated into a catatonic world of silence, a place of quiet, a place without pain and Steven feared that she might never return. She simply walked, matching his footsteps.

  Finally, just minutes after sunset, they were brought to a halt at the base of a tall bluff. Steven watched as one of the guards hammered in the rod that would drive the Uttu away. Then, he pulled a bundle of three, thin straws from a quiver on his back and hammered them into the ground until out of each, a spring of water sprouted.

  “Nan.” The call for the slaves to drink had been issued. The people rose timidly, all eager, but none wanting to be the first to drink. It was a weathered, middle-aged man who broke the stalemate. Apparently, as Steven came to learn, the first person always received a single lashing across the back before drinking. He also learned that the first person could drink ‘til he was done, whereas the timing for the others was up to the discretion of the supervising guard.

  Over the next hour while the slaves took their turns, Steven tried to rouse Ashlyn. As before, all his efforts went unanswered. Looking at her badly, tattered body, he was fearful that she would not survive the night, and it was all but a certainty, if she didn’t receive her ration of water.

  Kneeling to pick up her limp body, her head lifelessly flopped to the side. “You’ve got to live, Ash. You’ve got to because I don’t want to live without you—even if I could.”

  Carrying her to the end of the line at the springs, Steven’s tears began to flow. He could feel her life force ebbing away. He could feel his own strength waning in response.

  When her turn came, he lowered her feet to the ground and supporting her weight, gently led her lips to the water. With its touch, she slowly roused—“Yes, that’s it, come on Ash, drink!” Her mouth parted and she began to gulp heartily. Before it had hardly begun, it seemed like her time was up and as the guard’s arm rose in preparation to strike her with the whip, Steven quickly scooped her up and whisked her away. The Igigi guard, knowing that Steven had not yet taken his turn, removed the stakes, giving an indignant squealing laugh as he did so.