by Chris Fox
“The writers of that show were wise men,” Jordan replied, shoveling a second spoonful.
“I have to wonder how far the werewolves have spread,” Blair added. He took his first tentative bite. Still hot, but good. “Peru was the epicenter and we still have problems with zombies. There were less werewolves in the United States, especially the east coast. They’ve got to be in bad shape.”
A figure glided into the room, snuffing the conversation like a candle. The Mother had returned. Her ivory garments were spattered with blood but were otherwise undamaged. He still hadn’t figured out how she shifted with her clothes. Was it the garment or some power? A waterfall of silver locks flowed down deceptively delicate shoulders, framing an oval face set with emerald eyes. She was both breathtaking and otherworldly.
“You still insist on eating that goop,” she snorted, sitting cross-legged on the bench next to Blair. She slapped a haunch of meat from what he guessed might be a goat on the table before her. “We are carnivores. We eat meat. You need to hunt.”
She seized the haunch with both hands, ripping off a mouthful and chewing blissfully as the rest of them gazed on in a mixture of horror and jealousy. His stomach rumbled.
She opened her eyes and blinked twice. “Why are you staring at me?”
“It’s not important,” Blair interjected, surprised again at the vast gulf between the Mother’s culture and their own world. “We found survivors in Cajamarca and did our best to set up a sanctuary for them. While we were there we ran into something strange. Zombies that were faster and stronger than the others. A more evolved version of the walkers.”
“Evolved,” the Mother replied, cocking her head as if tasting the word. She picked a piece of fat from between her teeth before continuing. “That doesn’t quite fit. They have fed upon the flesh of others, which gives them strength. The more they feed, the stronger and smarter they become. This is why they were a more challenging opponent than the shamblers you first encountered."
“How large can they get?” Liz asked.
“I’ve seen a deathless 30-spans high, this one a primate from the Cradle. It took Ra two millennia to grow it and me another six to destroy it,” she said. Blair’s jaw dropped at the cavalier way she discussed such a time span.
“Mother, I know this might be rude but how old are you?” he asked, bracing himself for a possible explosion.
“I have seen the length of an entire longest count, roughly twenty-four millennia,” she said, continuing her meal.
Blair’s wasn’t the only amazed face. “We must be like children to you. The oldest living human is barely a century. Our entire recorded history is around five thousand years. You’ve seen nearly five times that amount of time.”
“Not truly,” the Mother replied between mouthfuls of raw meat. “I was only awake for eleven millennia. I slept for thirteen between ages, when the sun was dim and cold. But enough of me. Tell me more of your journey. You say you’ve helped these survivors find sanctuary? How many are there?”
“We only located a handful, but there are almost certainly others,” Liz interjected, eyeing the Mother as she waved steam away from her bowl. “We wanted to stay and find more, but you insisted we return. I’m still not sure I agree with that. We should be out there protecting people, but instead we’re back here relaxing.”
“I understand your feelings,” the Mother said, heaving a sigh. She stopped eating and divided her attention among them. “You want to protect and that is to the good, but you must learn to take a longer view. I’m afraid I do see you as children, though there is no insult in that. You think in years or perhaps in decades. I ruled this continent and the one to the north for sixty centuries, and spent another fifty in the land you call Africa. I have learned the ugly patterns of our race. The people in this city are important, but not nearly so important as your learning to hone your abilities. I cannot risk you being overwhelmed when you are untrained. That is why I needed you to return, why you are not there protecting those who cannot protect themselves.
“Fear not, though. On the morrow we will return to Cajamarca and I will create champions from those willing,” the Mother explained. “They will help protect the city as you watch over this Ark.”
“Can’t you watch over the Ark?” Bridget asked, eyeing the Mother sidelong. “I mean, you’re stronger than all of us. We could help the city while you protect this place.”
“Would that I could,” she said, heaving another sigh. “The central chamber is damaged nearly beyond repair. I must create new control rods and I can find the material I need in only one place. There is an island to the east, far out to sea. I must find a ship and journey there to obtain the stone. We will need the Ark’s full strength in the years to come. Tomorrow I will return to Cajamarca. Liz and Blair will remain. The rest of you will accompany me.”
“Mother,” Cyntia said, clearing her throat before continuing. “I wish to search for Trevor, the friend we lost during the second wave.”
“This is the one you fear may have fallen prey to the deathless?” the Mother replied, smile melting. She rested a sympathetic hand on Cyntia’s shoulder. “It is possible the man you knew still exists, but that is extremely unlikely. You are most likely to find a shattered husk with no memory of the man he once was. If you must seek your lover then do so, but steel yourself for what might come. The path you choose is difficult to walk.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Cyntia replied, eyes falling to her bowl.
“So you want me to go with you?” Jordan asked. It was the most uncomfortable Blair had ever seen him. Not surprising. The Mother had ripped his arms off just a few weeks before.
“Yes,” the Mother said, giving a mischievous smile. “I can smell your fear, but you contain it well. I know you remember well our last encounter, but rest assured, you are one of my children now. I would have you serve as Ka-Dun to Bridget. Ka-Ken need the support of a Ka-Dun and I believe Liz has already laid claim to Blair.”
The table fell silent. Blair’s cheeks heated and he suddenly found his stroganoff very interesting.
9
Return to Cajamarca
Jordan slung his pack over his shoulders, cinching the straps around his waist and chest. It carried perhaps two hundred pounds of ordinance, enough to make him the center of a massive fireworks display, should it come anywhere near open flame. He studied his reflection in the mirrored door. His close cropped hair was orderly, his black t-shirt comfortably tight. He looked the same. But he wasn’t.
He’d died back there, torn apart by the Mother when she’d shredded Mohn’s forces. Curiously, of the two hundred people she’d killed he was the only werewolf to be found. There were many sets of tracks leading away, but he had no idea where the others had gone or why. Perhaps it was some animal instinct, some survival reflex that made them flee a predator like the Mother. One he apparently lacked.
He touched the smooth stone door and it slid silently open, revealing the colorful corridor he was already growing used to. He strode boldly down the western passage, passing small diamond-shaped lights every ten feet. They afforded an excellent view of the hieroglyphs, though he appreciated them more for the tactical knowledge they might provide than any beauty they might possess. Many recounted battles with the zombies.
“Jordan,” Blair called, trotting towards him. He pulled up a few feet away. “So you and Bridget are heading out with the Mother this morning?”
“Back to Cajamarca, yeah,” he said, falling in beside Blair. The pair made their way towards their hastily erected mess. So odd to be walking next to someone he’d battled to the death only a week before. “Hopefully we can find more survivors and get them to the church. No idea if any will accept her offer, but I suspect a few will be desperate enough to try.”
“Let’s hope so. We’re going to need all the help we can get,” Blair replied. They entered the mess to find everyone else already there.
“Morning,” Bridget called, giving a little wave. She was
sitting next to Liz, whose hair was loose today. It looked good on her. The Mother sat across from them, cross-legged on the bench. She ate nothing, eyeing the food distastefully. There was no sign of Cyntia, but Jordan could smell her. She’d probably just left.
“Eat your muck swiftly,” the Mother ordered, gesturing to the empty seat next to her. A pair of bowls had been set out, the pleasant aroma of maple oatmeal steaming out of each. “We’ll leave as soon as you finish. I want to reach this city by midday.”
“That’s not possible,” Jordan said, sliding onto the bench next to her. He picked up his spoon and stirred the oatmeal. Maybe it wasn't smart to contradict her, but the words were already out, so he forged ahead. “It took us two days to get there last time out.”
“Just because you have not done it doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. I will teach you to blur over long distances. This ability is like a muscle and will get stronger through use,” she explained, crinkling her nose as Jordan took his first bite. He still found it odd that she survived solely on meat. He was as much a carnivore as any man, but one needed chocolate and coffee too.
“What about Bridget?” he asked, nodding towards the petite brunette. “She can’t blur.”
“She will ride your shadow,” the Mother explained, as if that settled the matter.
Bridget paled and he could guess why. Liz had already learned that trick, but Bridget seemed slower on the uptake. Not that she wasn’t intelligent, but whatever gave them their power was harder for her to use. It was the same for him. Blair picked up all this shaping crap with ease, yet for Jordan it took concentrated effort to do things that Blair considered simple.
“I’m ready,” Jordan said, dropping his spoon in the empty bowl. No sense putting it off. They had work to be about.
“Very well,” the Mother said, rising lithely from her seat. Bridget stood as well, hefting her black nylon pack.
She glanced at Liz and her eyes hardened with determination. Then she turned back to Jordan. Her whole body began to tremble, and a moment later she flowed into the shadows. Into his shadow, to be more specific.
Jordan hefted his own pack, feeling more than a little uncomfortable that Bridget and her pack had vanished so completely. He rose from the bench and followed the Mother as she made her way up the northern corridor towards the surface. The Mother glided into a run, swift but not quite a sprint. Was this the pace she planned to set for the whole trip? It had that feel. Could he maintain it?
Of course he could. He was a god-damn killing machine. He could run for days as a human. Now? Jordan pushed himself, bouncing past the Mother and into the lead. The Mother shifted, suddenly nine and a half feet of silver fur. She bounded off the wall, retaking the lead. He matched her shift, his shirt and pants shredded by the move. Damn it.
Try as he might, he couldn’t catch her. She shot a grin over her shoulder. It was alarmingly childlike for a woman who’d lived forever as a goddess. They burst from the tunnel into the bright morning light, blazingly hot but pleasant nonetheless. They loped southwest, heading back the direction they’d just recently come. Jordan didn’t know what to expect, but if nothing else, this trip would be interesting.
10
Irakesh
Irakesh snapped awake, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted. Dim splashes of ruby and emerald danced on the walls, cast by the gems powering the rejuvenator that had carried him into this new age. The entire structure vibrated as the crystal became a thick viscous liquid that pushed him up through the top. It hardened underneath him, leaving him atop its warm surface.
He dropped lightly to his feet as his gaze darted frantically around the secondary rejuvenation chamber. There were six other rejuvenators, none of the gems active. The silver door was sealed, the Ark glyph on its surface dark. Odd. That should have been lit, even if faintly. Had the Ark run out of power? That couldn’t be or he’d have never awakened.
Perhaps he’d been detected and Isis had locked down the chamber. If that were the case he’d be dead in minutes, assuming he could evade her that long. If he’d had a heartbeat, it would be thudding frantically in his chest. He struggled to calm himself. She wasn’t going to catch him. He was as safe as he could be nestled in the very heart of his enemy’s stronghold. Irakesh had reservations for the first time since he’d concocted this mad plan. Could it be done?
Such thoughts were useless. He was committed to this course now. If he failed, he’d die in the attempt and even if he somehow lived, Ra would flay him alive as an example of those who failed her. A harsh mistress, his mother.
He padded silently on the supple soles of his boots, creeping to the doorway that led into the corridor beyond. All was dark out there, hardly a surprise given the sabotage he’d arranged just prior to the Ark’s internment. All sorts of systems would be failing, though he’d been excruciatingly careful to ensure that the rejuvenators were safe from his tampering.
Irakesh channeled a bit of energy to his eyes, drinking in the near darkness as if it were lit by the full moon. He crept down the corridor, straining for the faintest of sounds. There was nothing this far down. He was on the Ark’s nineteenth tier, a full eight tiers beneath the surface. Either Isis hadn’t made it down this far, or had sealed it off after her exploration. There was no movement; not even the air stirred.
He was completely sealed off. Had he needed to breathe, such a thing would have been the end of him. Ptah’s shaping ensured that the Ark would see him as a champion, which would normally mean life support. Yet he’d blinded the sensors in this area, so the Ark had no idea that someone was alive down here.
Irakesh padded silently up the corridor, marveling at the fantastic hieroglyphs. They told a tale he was familiar with, that of Isis’s exodus from the Cradle. Yet there were many differences from the narrative Ra had circulated. These glyphs painted Isis as a savior of her people, the creator of champions who shielded the unblooded from the depredations of the evil deathless. How quaint. So near the truth and yet not.
He reached a wide stairwell leading to the next tier. Each step was a struggle, because they’d been created for the much larger champions. The males topped seven feet and the females were even larger. Most deathless, like him, retained a near-human form. Some could reshape their bodies, though that was generally reserved for those much older than Irakesh and was a more permanent process.
A wide silver door blocked the corridor, set with the glyph meaning Ark. He hesitated before placing his hand on the warm metal. This was the moment of truth, the time during which he’d be discovered or would know that he was still cloaked by the shadows and by his subterfuge. When the door opened it would trigger an alert. Anyone linked to the Ark would know that he was moving down here. If that someone was Isis, then his very short life was about to end.
Irakesh pressed his palm into the silver, waiting an eternity as it opened. He blurred up the hallway, using some of his dwindling energy reserves to get some distance from the door. He stopped near a statue of Ka-Ket, the Mother’s favorite daughter. He’d never met her, but battle legends said she was an implacable foe. Often called Jes’Ka, or ‘eater of death’ in the old tongue. She towered over him, spear held in both hands. Beautiful. He wished he could have met her in person.
He waited at her feet, listening for the sound that would herald his death. None came. Perhaps Isis had already departed and was securing the area. That had been the plan, after all. Something must be occupying her attention or she’d have felt his presence moving through the heart of her sanctuary and come to investigate.
Irakesh trotted silently down the corridor, taking the most direct route across this tier. He repeated this five more times, gliding through silent rooms that hadn’t known the sun in thirteen millennia. It was a tomb, this place. He exited the corridor into the Ark’s central chamber. This would be the most dangerous place. If there was opposition, it would be here.
He gathered the shadows thick about him, enveloping him like the womb of the very night itse
lf. It wouldn’t stop Isis; she was too canny for that. But it would fool any of her Ka-Dun, had she any left in the Ark. Irakesh crept between the monoliths, gawking at the catastrophic damage around him. The entire chamber had been torn apart by some unknown weapon. Gouges marred walls and floor. The obelisks that powered the place were shattered, only three of five intact. This was why Isis hadn’t detected him. She’d been unable to. This Ark was damaged past usefulness. Unless she repaired it, one of the greatest wonders the world had ever known was little more than a fancy cave.
Was this somehow his work? It couldn’t be. His sabotage had only damaged a few critical systems. This place had been through a protracted battle with a level of violence he’d never witnessed. Though it made his job easier a part of him cried out at the destruction. This place was more than priceless. It was power.
He crept closer to the access key, a statue of Isis, life-sized and incredibly intricate. He could feel the power matrix within, thrumming with the life the Ark somehow still clung to. It was enough for his purpose. He reached for Isis’s outstretched palm, wrapping his cool fingers around the warm stone. It pulsed, sending a jolt shooting up his arm. It hurt, but he didn’t dare release the hand before it had done its work. Another pulse, then a third and fourth in rapid succession.
Just like that it was over. He stared down at his hand in wonder. He’d done it. He’d stolen the access key for the Ark of the Redwood. If he could make his way to the northern continent he could finally show them all. He'd become one of the most powerful Ark Lords the world had ever seen.
11
Deathless
If staring at a woman’s ass were illegal, then the police would already be on their way. Blair gaped openly as Liz bent over to pick up a stack of heavy plastic crates left behind by Mohn Corp. She wore a tight-fitting pair of black fatigues—not the sexiest clothes, but still impossible to ignore on a woman like her. He felt a brief twinge of guilt given his recent flirting with Bridget, but only a twinge. It’s not as if Liz even knew he was looking.