by Chris Fox
“That’s asking a lot,” Liz said, wishing that she could take the words back. She wasn’t very good at playing meek. She moderated her tone. “You’ve been trying to kill us for months. Because of you, the world is burning and the champions who should be protecting it were never created.”
“That’s hardly fair, Ms. Gregg,” the Director gave back, clasping his hands behind him. His calm was infuriating. “We caused neither the zombie nor werewolf virus. Those were set in motion in a distant past we’re struggling to understand. We did try to contain the spread of the werewolves, but much to our embarrassment we failed utterly. That said, you have every right to your animosity. But you have to ask yourself, what’s best for the world right now? We can’t change the past.”
“So you’re what’s best for the world? The benevolent corporation helping to restore humanity,” Liz replied, her tone laced with venom. She took a step closer to the glass. “What is it you get from all this? A chance to rule the new world?”
“You’ve seen entirely too many movies, Ms. Gregg,” the Director said, smiling for the first time. He took a step closer, within easy reach if she wanted to seize him through the tiny window. He had to know that. “No corporation is benevolent. A corporate entity exists for one reason, to look after the interests of its shareholders. But that doesn’t mean we’re all soulless suits who dump oil in the gulf and rig elections. Mohn isn’t perfect, but we do have humanity’s best interest in mind. We want to help the world recover from the greatest calamity in living memory.”
“Let’s say I buy your bullshit,” Liz said, glancing at Jordan. His face betrayed the barest hint of concern, but she had no idea why. “What is it you want from me? I’m not interested in being your lab rat.”
“I’d like you to stop Irakesh,” the Director said, breaking eye contact as he glanced at the camera above him. He turned back to her. “My superior isn’t convinced that can be done, so I want to show him it’s possible. I need your help to do that.”
“Liz, he’s on the up and up. About this anyway,” Jordan broke in, joining the Director next to the window. “This would just be a simple training exercise. We’re not asking you to do anything that would compromise your safety or that of the team’s.”
The Director shot him a sharp glance after that last part, and she wasn’t surprised. The way he said ‘the team’ meant he still considered himself part of their pack.
“All right. I’ll play along for now,” she said, taking a step back from the glass. At the very least, the cooperation would get her out of this cell and might give her a chance to escape.
The Director placed his hand against the glass again. It flared red, then flowed into the ground like a curtain of ice melting. The Director gestured down the hallway. “Right this way, Ms. Gregg.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, resisting the urge to bolt as she stepped into the hallway. Jordan fell in behind them as she and the Director made their way past another pair of cells.
“Up two levels to a training room. I’ve got something special to show you, something that might provide an edge against Irakesh,” he answered, nodding at the guard who waited next to a thick steel door. The guard made no obvious move, but the door slid open. He eyed Liz warily, clutching his rifle as she passed. What had they been told?
They entered a wide hallway that led to an elevator. The walls were featureless grey, no decor beyond signs leading to a spiderweb of smaller hallways. The Director waved his hand in front of the panel next to the elevator, then turned to her as they waited. “What I’m about to tell you is known to only six people in the world. Well, six surviving people, anyway. Not even the commander had any inkling.”
The doors slid open with a hiss and the Director stepped into the elevator. He waited for her and Jordan to enter. Then he stabbed a button marked 19. The door slid shut and the elevator moved smoothly upward. “Mohn knew a catastrophe was coming on or around December 21, 2012. You’re familiar with that date?”
“Sure,” Jordan broke in, his scalp gleaming with sweat under his freshly shaved stubble. “Every crackpot X-Files fan knows that date. The world was supposed to end. We all thought it was horse shit, just like Y2k.”
“It marked the end of the Mayan calendar, didn’t it?” Liz asked.
“Yes, the end of their long count,” the Director affirmed. The elevator slid to a smooth stop and the doors opened. He stepped into a cavernous room lined with training mats. The walls were covered with an array of wicked-looking swords, axes, and spears. Many were crudely shaped obsidian, though a few were more modern blades. “Nor were they the only culture to come to that conclusion. The Egyptians knew it, too. So did the ancient Chinese and the aborigines of Australia. They all predicted the same approximate date.
“It represents the beginning of the next age,” the Director explained, striding towards a raised dais at the far end of the room. Something golden glittered on top of it. He paused, waiting for them to follow. “The age that just began is called the Age of Aquarius. Your friend in the pyramid back in Peru went to sleep in the Age of Leo, so far as we can tell.”
“That doesn’t explain how you knew all this was coming. Blair says our earliest recorded history comes from about four or five thousand BC,” she said, following him towards the dais. Jordan lagged a bit behind, staring curiously at the weapons on the walls.
“Professor Smith is mostly right,” the Director admitted, stopping next to the dais. The glittering object was a wide-bladed sword. A broadsword, if her memories of Trevor’s D&D games were accurate. The Director picked it up by the hilt, holding the glittering blade aloft. “The history we know is recent compared to what must have existed, but there were many artifacts and quite a few ruins to suggest an older culture. There was Plato’s legend of Atlantis, given to his mentor Socrates by an Egyptian Pharaoh. There were tales of magic, tales of strange beings and of gods.”
“So you believed all those old legends enough to prepare for the end of the world?” Liz asked, aware of the skepticism leaking into her tone. She didn’t care. Her gaze fixed on the blade. There was something familiar about it, like a half-remembered melody she wanted to hum.
“We’d never have accepted them without proof,” the Director admitted. He offered the weapon hilt first to Liz. “This is part of that proof, one of three objects with inexplicable properties we’ve gathered. Each is incredibly powerful, but beyond that fact they are each unique. We also gathered a number of lesser objects, but using them drained their energy until they went inert. Each of those is on the walls around you. This one is different. Our scientists tell us it’s charged with the same energy as the other two objects, but the one man who attempted to harness it was burned to a cinder in the blink of an eye.”
Liz took the proffered weapon, testing the weight as she gave an experimental swing. It felt right in her hands, as if it had been crafted for her and her alone. It was just the sort of cheesy magic sword she’d have expected in one of the fantasy novels Trevor loved so much.
Ka-Ken, this is a weapon without peer. It is forged from Sunsteel, just as the na-kopesh wielded by your enemy. Through it you can gather energy, even from the sun. Even the Mother lacked the secret of their forging. This one may well be unique, and its lineage goes back to mighty Osiris and even before.
“Where did you get it?” she asked, forcing her gaze back to the Director.
“It was recovered from the bottom of a lake in England, one at the center of a great deal of mythology,” he explained, gesturing at the blade. “The runes you see carved there are no script we’ve ever seen, though they appear more Egyptian than European. More than one of our scientists have theorized this might be the weapon that gave rise to the legends of Excalibur, though that is mere speculation.”
“It was designed for my kind,” Liz said, certain it was true, even as she spoke the words. “I could use this to take down Irakesh and that treacherous bitch Cyntia. I’m sure of it.”
“Excellent
. That’s exactly what I was hoping to learn,” the Director said, giving what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Now all I have to do is convince my superior to give you the most priceless weapon we’ve ever recovered.”
51
Wild-Cat Tom
Irakesh drifted to the ground, green and black wisps crackling as he solidified. A large silver box coalesced next to him, prompting a sigh of relief as he saw his prize was intact. That more than anything would give him an edge over the other Ark Lords who had no doubt appeared in recent days.
He gazed up at the steely grey sky, small black veins of smoke the only reminder of the wreckage that had so recently rained down from the heavens. It had been scattered all over the strange rocky landscape. The mountains around him were jagged and austere, the granite bones of the earth laid bare. It was unlike any place he’d ever been, brown and desolate. Only a few scrubby bushes dotted the surrounding area.
The only other feature was a thick black road leading to a smattering of structures to the north. He searched his memories, but found nothing about this place. Yet another reason he must rely upon Trevor. It irked him, but he had little choice. Irakesh gazed skyward again, searching a moment before he found another crackling green and black cloud.
It was smaller than his had been, but not by much. That alarmed him. Trevor shouldn’t have been able to pick up such advanced shaping so quickly. Yet he had. It presaged the powerful deathless he’d become.
Trevor’s friends were still in pursuit; of that Irakesh was certain. The Ka-Dun hadn’t come any closer, but neither was he growing more distant. Odds were good he was marshaling his forces for another strike. By the time the Ka-Dun caught up, Irakesh would be at the Ark. Ra willing, he’d have time to detonate the bomb, as well.
Trevor’s cloud approached rapidly, drifting landward as Irakesh had done only moments before. Trevor's Risen was still in control, though that would change as soon as the danger had passed. It was an interesting failsafe, the addition of a second consciousness for all deathless. He wasn’t sure he’d have made the same choice if he were crafting the virus today. The Risen was potent, but sometimes did as it willed rather than as the bearer wished.
Hot wind swirled around Irakesh as Trevor’s cloud enveloped a shrub a few feet away. The green tendrils pulsed weakly, gathering into a tighter and tighter pattern until they coalesced into the man himself. Trevor blinked rapidly, sagging to his knees and bracing himself on a neighboring boulder. He looked both disoriented and a little ill. Unsurprising. Shifting your entire body to energy took much from the best shapers, and Trevor was still struggling to master the trick.
“What happened?” he gasped, staggering back to his feet. His strange copper hair played in the wind, a reminder of how much the world had changed since Irakesh had begun his ageless slumber. His contemporaries had been dark skinned with dark hair and eyes.
“I gifted your Risen with the knowledge of form shaping. You became pure energy, a taxing but potent ability,” Irakesh explained, studying the road stretching in both directions. The sun’s warm embrace trickled power into his depleted reserves, but more slowly than he’d like. He had to remind himself that it was early in the cycle and as such, it would be years before he had anything approaching his former power. “You should be able to draw on that knowledge now that you’ve used it, but I’d caution you not to use it too freely. More than one deathless has transformed back midair, plummeting to their untimely demise.”
“Thank you,” Trevor said, rolling his neck with an alarming series of cracks. He eyed the silver box next to Irakesh. “You saved the bomb? That’s impossible. How did you get it to the ground safely?”
“A great many things are possible for a shaper,” Irakesh replied, unable to suppress his grin. Saving the bomb had been extremely taxing. He’d very nearly failed. “Now we need to find a way to transport it. If Cyntia survived the fall, she’d be ideal for carrying the box. Neither of us is strong enough to move it quickly.”
“If she didn’t survive we can find a four-wheel-drive vehicle of some kind,” Trevor suggested, squinting in the sunlight as he studied the road. Irakesh was quietly pleased; his thrall still seemed cooperative. Perhaps it was the man’s relief at Cyntia’s possible death. That didn’t surprise Irakesh, as Trevor’s growing distaste for the fallen Ka-Ken was obvious.
The unmistakable cocking of a shotgun sounded from behind them. Irakesh turned to see a trio of men rise from the surrounding desert like a mirage made flesh. Each wore mottled tans and grays designed to fade into the landscape, with odd-looking goggles he was unfamiliar with. All three had rifles at the ready, the black barrels and dark wood unlike the previous guns Irakesh had seen. Their leader had a bushy white mustache and leathery skin, with a thick belly that suggested he enjoyed beer.
He gestured at his companions to remain behind him, and then stepped forward with his rifle aimed at Irakesh’s face. “Just what the hell are you poor fuckers? Ain’t never seen anything like what you just did, and that makes me want to fill your pointy asses with lead. You got a reason why I shouldn’t?”
“I can offer three,” Irakesh said, taking a step closer and raising a calming hand to Trevor. He didn’t want his thrall killing these men, not just yet. “Firstly, your pathetic little weapons cannot kill me. Try if you wish. But know that when you fail, tales of your death will echo through this new age.”
“You got balls redder than a brick built shit house, so maybe you’re the fucking devil hisself in this new hell. Don’t mean I’m afraid of you,” the man shot back. He called back over his shoulder, careful not to look away from Irakesh. Smart. The speaker turned to a companion. “Roberto, either one of them so much as moves I want you to give 'em one of your special presents.” The man he indicated was almost as wide as he was short, but he moved well despite his girth. He gave a tight nod, reaching into a satchel hanging from his belt.
“You said three reasons,” the leader said, turning his full attention back to Irakesh. “It’s dryer than a goddamn popcorn fart out here and I ain’t that patient to begin with. My finger’s starting to itch, so why don’t you finish your blustering so we can kill you and get back to something more interesting?”
“Assuredly,” Irakesh said, grinning at the unnatural patch of darkness he spotted along the side of a boulder behind the men. “The second reason is that we can protect you from the things you call zombies.”
“Don’t need protection. We’ve been taking care of ourselves pretty damn well, thank you,” the man said, finger tightening imperceptibly. Irakesh found his misplaced confidence endearing. He’d make an amusing thrall if he could learn obedience.
“Very well. I believe you’ll find the last reason the most compelling. Cyntia, would you eat the man’s companions? Start with the fat one,” Irakesh called, hoping he was right in his assumption. If not he’d deal with the matter himself.
The patch of darkness detached from the rock, shifting into an eleven-foot-tall werewolf. She lunged with all the ferocity of a female, massive maw engulfing Roberto’s head, even as her meaty hands wrapped around his midsection. He gave a muted shriek that ended abruptly as Cyntia ripped his head and most of his neck free. Blood fountained to the dry dirt as she wolfed down flesh and bone.
The second man, a tall, lanky fellow, turned to run. Cyntia didn’t even set down her meal, dragging Roberto’s remains by one fat arm as she leapt. She came down on the man’s back, driving him to the ground with a sickening crunch of bone. His rifle tumbled away, forgotten as she began savaging his shrieking form.
The remaining man's jaw fell open as he eyed his companions' corpses.
“Yup, third reason was definitely the best. You got me fucked in the ass like a prison yard bitch,” the mustached man said. He set his rifle slowly on the ground. “Name’s Wild-Cat Tom. Kill me if you’re gonna, but if not can we get out of this heat? I got a little ranch a ways north. Boys and I hunt pigs up there. Used to do it with tourists, but works just as well n
ow that the world’s gone to shit.”
“Very well, take us to this camp. Is there some form of transport there we can use to journey north? Oh, and Tom, from now on you will address me as master,” Irakesh said, grinning broadly. If Tom was disconcerted he hid it well.
“Yeah, I’ve got a big Toyota Tundra. Uh, master,” Tom said, bending slowly to pick up his rifle. “It guzzles gas like a pig eatin' shit, but the roads are a mess and it will get us around the worst of it. Where is it we’re going?”
“North,” Irakesh answered, turning to Cyntia. “When you are done feasting would you be so kind as to carry the bomb? At least until our new friend can load it onto his transport.”
Cyntia glanced up at Irakesh, face coated in gore as she worried a piece of grizzled fat. She gave a low growl, eyes feral. Excellent. Her beast truly ruled now.
52
Water Landing
Blair peered out the right side of the cockpit as the plane soared over the moonlit bay glittering beneath them. It was a sight he knew well. He’d seen the Golden Gate Bridge often enough, because he lived a bare forty miles north. Yet even from this altitude he could tell that something was wrong. A myriad of dim blocky shapes were spread across the bridge, straddling lanes or pressed against the guard rail as if trying to escape, just as their human owners had no doubt attempted.
Dozens of figures picked their way between the vehicles, their shambling gait all too familiar by now. Blair heaved a sigh, turning to Steve, “I didn’t really expect it to be any different than the other cities we flew over, but this is home. I guess I still held out hope that somehow it hadn’t spread this far north.”
Steve turned in his chair, peering over a pair of black sunglasses he’d liberated from the corpse of the captain who'd once sat in that spot. His stubble could almost be called a beard, but had been cut fashionably short. “Being a pragmatic bastard sucks. I expected as much, but it does sting. The bay was home for both of us once upon a time.”