He held the porcelain sides of the toilet and retched repeatedly, until he brought nothing up but a thin streamer of saliva. He spit it into the toilet, stood up, and flushed, as he wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand. He drew in a deep breath as he walked to the small sink, turned on the cold water spigot, and splashed the water onto the hot skin that was his face. He dried his face and hands, walked slowly back into the private office, and sat down behind the huge oak desk.
Willie reached into the bottom drawer and liberated a nearly empty bottle of Gin along with a small plastic bag of white powder, and set them both down on the polished surface. He withdrew a small length of straw from a silver holder on the desk, which had been used to hold pencils and pens before Willie had taken over the office, and poured a large quantity of the powder directly onto the polished surface. He shoved the straw into one nostril, pinched off the other and inhaled deeply. Sucking the powder off the surface of the desk and up his nose. He repeated the procedure for the other nostril and then leaned back into the chair, spun the cap off the bottle and took a deep drink. Thin lines of blood trickled out both sides of his abused nasal passage, and he absently swiped at it, staining the sleeves of the white shirt, as he drank again from the bottle.
No doubts now, he knew. No doubts whatsoever. Even yesterday he had been solidly convinced, despite the evidence to the contrary, that he was on the right side. Not now and now was just a little fuckin' late to find that out. Bullshit! He told himself. You knew from jump what was up. True, true. There could be no other answer. When he felt he had himself under control, he stood and walked back into the small bathroom.
He absently stripped off the shirt, and washed his face and hands once more. Then he walked to a small built in closet, fished out a clean white shirt, shrugged into it, and buttoned it up. Ten minutes later he was back out in the large Operations Room with a group of ten men surrounding him. He had not given any of them a choice about going, but had instead simply stated that they were going, and he didn't want to hear any shit about it either.
He had received none at all. Instead they had all quickly nodded and followed him towards the ventilation shaft when he had turned and left. Once inside, they had cut through to the main shaft with a portable set of torches, and then again, once they had reached the small plant that filtered the air coming into the underground city, they had cut through the main shaft that tilted up towards the surface.
By noon they were outside, after cutting through a steel grating which had been the last remaining obstacle. They had followed one of the lower passages out of the long network of air-shafts and had emerged less than a quarter mile from Watertown. They were completely surrounded by water, but in front of them a sleek gray speed-boat was tethered to an iron pipe that jutted out from the grating that had covered the air shaft.
A few short minutes later they were drifting slowly around the tops of the buildings, which were all that remained of the downtown section of Watertown, and approaching a small hill that was still above water. Willie throttled the speed back, and drifted into a grassy, vine covered bank. One of the men in front tied off the boat, although Willie had been tempted to just let it drift, and they stepped off onto the ground.
Two hours later they were driving slowly down Route 3 after liberating three Ford Broncos from a dealership on the outskirts of Watertown.
The vines covered everything in sight and it was hard to follow the roadway in front of them as it was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding greenery.
It was more jungle-like, Willie decided, than anything else. The only thing that pointed the way was the road itself, which, although vine covered, remained somewhat flat. The trees or at least, Willie thought, what had been trees that lined the road, were completely covered with the vines. The result was a long vine covered corridor angling away from them.
The corridor was the only place the late afternoon sunlight shone through to the ground. The vines that covered the trees were much too thick for it to peek through.
Willie stared out at the passing vines from the passenger side of the lead truck. He had assigned the driving duties to someone else; he didn't trust himself to drive. A full bottle of gin was tucked between his legs resting against the crotch of the jeans he wore, and he sipped from it occasionally as they moved slowly along the road, as if it were water. He had not eaten since he had lost the remains of his breakfast back in the small bathroom, and felt no need to. In fact he didn't ever want to eat again, he realized. In fact, he told himself, I wouldn't give a fuck if I never breathed again. If the ol' frigging lungs just quit right now.
He didn't think they would though. In fact he was positive they wouldn't. No sir, he had bought into something he didn't understand at all, but he did understand he wouldn't be able to buy his way out, and his body would keep right on working no matter what he tried to do to it. He took another long pull from the bottle, then returned it to its former resting place as he stared out at the jungle-like greenery that surrounded them. The driver looked over at him as a deep sigh escaped his lips.
“‘Kay?" the driver muttered.
"Don't fuckin' worry about me," Willie said, "just pay attention to the road, ol' buddy."
The young driver quickly turned his attention back to the road. It wasn't smart, he knew, to ask Willie much of anything. Especially when he wasn't quite tanked, the way he was now, and even more especially after he'd been in to see Luther. He was glad he didn't have to see him. Looking at Willie was bad enough. He concentrated on maneuvering the truck over the vines that covered the roadway, and left Willie to the comfort of the bottle between his legs. There was a full case of Gin in the back seat, and he just hoped it was enough to keep Willie plowed. He could be one nasty bastard when he was sober.
When darkness began to fall Willie had the driver pull to the side of the road, and called another young man forward from one of the two vehicles behind them to drive through the night.
Willie ordered the man who had been driving to head back to one of the other trucks and get some sleep as he would be taking over again come morning.
The would be replacement had started to protest about how he hadn't gotten any sleep, and how he wasn't so sure he could drive through the night, when Willie had pulled a small nine millimeter pistol from his waist band and emptied the clip into him. As he shoved another clip into the pistol he had asked if anyone else wanted to bitch about sleep. No one had, and he had selected someone else to drive, and also made sure that the other drivers were replaced in the trucks behind his.
"You should've fuckin' thought about sleeping before," Willie said as he kicked what was left of the man’s head before he turned and climbed back into the truck, "stupid ass-hole."
Willie managed to get some sleep himself during the night, and when he awoke just before dawn they were entering the Oswego city limits. He knew about the railroad bridge, after they had stopped and once again switched drivers they slowly trundled over the bridge and continued onward. Later that day, almost nightfall really, they skirted around the exit for Webster and headed towards Fairport and then Rochester.
- 2 -
Far away, in a desert that was so much like any other on earth, but yet was not, and in fact was older than the earth itself, two large armies faced each other across rolling dunes of sand as cold moonlight spilled upon them from the star-less heavens.
A shining golden sword quivered where it stood protruding from the sands, separating all but two of the assembled thousands in the desert night. The two stared at each other across a space of bare inches, and their steeds, both large and magnificent; one white, one darker than the night they stood in, faced each other almost as if they too were staring at one another. The masses of silent armies stretched away farther than the desert itself, which was without any real end.
Separated from the mounted pair by a vast ocean, a white robed figure sat silently upon a heavy gold throne studded with jewels of all manner, and stared across the water
s at the two riders where they faced each other in the desert.
The ocean, although perceived as vast, was not so to the figure. If the figure had so desired, it would have only to stretch one hand across the water, and sweep all from the desert with one small swipe. It had no wish however to do so. The figure only sat and watched the two riders with seemingly great interest... Waiting.
As if by some unseen signal the two riders dismounted, and faced each other in the dim light. Their steeds reared and galloped off into the desert night, snorting fire and steam as they went. Their massive muscles worked beneath their lathered coats, and soon they were out of sight. The stillness of the desert once again bore down upon all within it.
Neither man carried any visible weapons of any kind, and although they continued to stare only at each other, seeming to block out all else, both were careful not to be perceived as threatening by the other. It was more as if they were studying one another.
One was known by only two names that could be pronounced with a human tongue, but several that could not, and would never be. The first name was Michael, the second was The Protector. He was a tall and powerfully built young man. His magnificent golden hair was pulled back and bound at the nape of his neck with a leather thong, his deep and expressive eyes held no single color, but instead seemed to shift constantly between shades of red, blue, sometimes pausing and seeming about to settle on one, and then just as suddenly returning to their previous shifting phases of colors. His powerful body seemed as if it had been carved from stone, and somehow seeded with life. Individual muscles flowed smoothly, yet powerfully, beneath the white leather and golden armor he wore. His bronzed arms were bare to the night and the leather tunic ended just above his knees, exposing his powerfully muscled legs and sandal clad feet. He carefully studied the other rider as they circled one another.
The other young man had several names, but was most often referred to simply as The Defender, because of the position he held as speaker for the evil one. He was dressed similarly, only black leather replaced the white, and silver replaced the gold. He was almost as tall as Michael, falling only an inch shorter than Michael's six foot seven inches. His hair was black, almost blue in its intensity, and his eyes were the green of the deep sea. His muscular bulk nearly matched that of Michael's as well, and it seemed despite their differences that they were similar enough to have been brothers. Their rugged faces were similar, even the style in which both had tied their long and curled hair behind them. Their eyes, although vastly different, were nearly equal in the expressiveness they held, and they seemed almost able to communicate with them alone.
The night was absolutely silent. No winds swept the dunes, no wolves howled in the desert night. All was totally and completely silent. Even the crowds that were separated by the golden sword and the two men who faced each other were silent. Nothing moved, save the two that continued to circle one another as all eyes watched, and waited.
They had been brothers once, but that was long ago, and so far away from this world that it meant little to either of them. In truth they both would have been hard pressed to recall it, and if they had it still would have been meaningless.
Although it may have seemed to any unknowing watcher, that they were only perceived as good, or evil, they did not perceive one another in that way. Both understood the concept of good and evil, but neither thought of themselves, or each other, in those terms. When they had chance to meet, such as now, only the figure in the distance could perceive their purpose, or even understand it. They were only good and evil, in the human minds that inhabited the earth, which was far from this barren desert. That was the only medium humans would be capable of considering them in.
The moon traveled slowly across the dark sky as they continued to circle one another, and was replaced by two fiery suns that crossed the sky, only to be once again usurped by the greenish cast of moonlight. Still they made no move, seeming to speak instead with their eyes, and their bodies, as they circled each other. Even during the day, when the two suns had traveled across the sky baking the desert sands, and causing shimmering heat waves to rise from the surface, no sounds of any kind broke the silence that held the desert scene.
When the suns were once again rising from opposite directions to travel the alien sky once more, they stopped and faced each other. They nodded almost imperceptibly and clasped their muscled arms together, hands gripping the elbows of the other. The contact was brief, and when both had withdrawn their hands from the other, they drew back a few steps and paused.
They spoke aloud for the first time, but not with anything that resembled words, or any type of language. A guttural utterance, more felt than heard. When they finished they both nodded once more and stepped even farther apart.
Far in the distance the sounds of hoof beats began to pound in the strangely lit morning air. They grew louder until the two steeds suddenly appeared and pounded into the small clearing of sand in which the two young men stood. Foam dripped from their open mouths, and their flanks ran with sweat. Their eyes rolled as they slowed; each approaching the rider for which it was intended, and once there waiting to be mounted.
Michael turned, and walked to where the golden sword still quivered in the sand. His muscles bunched and stood out, as he pulled the sword from the rock that it lay buried in beneath the sand. A similar beaten silver sword swung from the side of the dark steed, in a long leather sheath. The Defender turned, and withdrew the sword from the sheath and turned back to face Michael.
Michael hefted the sword only momentarily, and then slipped it into a leather loop where it hung suspended from his side. The Defender followed his lead, and then, nodding once more, both remounted their steeds and sped off in opposite directions through the desert sands.
Those assembled seemed to melt, rather than actually move, slowly backwards into the desert. Within seconds, miles, instead of feet, separated them.
Minutes later sounds began to flood into the still desert, almost overwhelming in their intensity after the deep silence that had held for so long.
The pounding rhythm of steel against steel rang out from both directions assaulting the previously still air, and the sounds of thousands upon thousands of whinnying and snorting mounts filled the air.
Great clouds of dust began to form in the distance from both directions the riders had galloped off to. The twin suns continued their relentless travel across the sky, and presently the moon once again cast it’s cold light upon the desert.
Fires could be seen burning in the far distance, on either horizon. It almost seemed as though the suns had set the edges of the desert alight as they had sunk in the sky.
Much later the twin suns seemed to rise out of the fires, and began to sweep across the sky. The clouds of dust in the distant rose higher, and the ringing of metal against metal ceased, only to be replaced by the sound of thunder produced by the hooves of the thousands of steeds that were now racing across the desert floor towards one another.
The steeds reeled and reared as they once again met where the sands still bore the scar of the sword that had been plunged through them into the rock below. Behind each of the young men, thousands of warriors sat on their rearing and snorting steeds. Michael and the Defender faced each other across the sand.
The warriors behind each withdrew beaten iron swords from where they rested in the sheaths suspended from their steeds, and held the flame blackened weapons at the ready.
Michael looked across the vast ocean towards the figure who now stood in front of the golden throne. The eyes showed the sadness the figure felt, but no sound came from the figures mouth. The figure lifted its arms slowly into the sky, and apart, as though each hand was pointing towards the opposing armies. When the arms reached their highest arc, they began to drop back down to the figures side. Once the arms were once more at the figures side, it sat back down on the throne, staring across the ocean briefly, and then nodded its head decisively.
The battle began in earnest.
Michael's steed whirled and those behind him followed as he charged towards the Defender. At the same instant the opposing group charged. The golden sword gleamed in Michael's hand as he charged, and the Defender withdrew his own sword as he came. The battle began, and blood rained down upon the sands.
The figure on the golden throne sat and watched, as tears traced their way across its cheeks and spilled to the white robes. The sounds of the battle reached far across the ocean, screams from dead and dying horses seemingly almost human in their pain and panic; the ringing of metal against metal, almost like the sounds when the swords had been forged and then hammered into shape.
This was a battle that would last without time to mark it, on this strange and alien world. The fallen would be trampled as those that still lived rushed forward to engage whoever still stood or rode.
On a world far away, the figure knew, another battle was beginning. That battle could influence this battle, just as the battle here could alter the battle that had begun on Earth.
The concept of time was only an earthly thing. Here on this world there was no real time, there only was. Days, months, years, none were counted. Here the battle would simply continue until it was finished.
SIX
~ 1 ~
Becky awoke long before Joe, and now sat outside the small tent, watching the last rays of light fade from the sky. It seemed to seep slowly away, and darken the sky above the pines. The wind kicked up briefly, blowing the dead leaves across the ground. They scratched and rattled as they went, making her think of small skeletons rattling in the wind. She felt afraid, and had since she had awakened earlier. She couldn't explain it to herself, but she knew in some way that they were not going to make it to New York in time. She wasn't even sure why they needed to be there, or what sort of difference it would have made if they had arrived in time, she just knew that they wouldn't. She had been tempted to awaken Joe, but had decided after twice starting to do so, to wait until he awoke on his own.
The Nation Chronicles: Book Two (The Nation Chronicles Trilogy 2) Page 12