Drawing his team’s attention with a raised finger, Michael spoke in a harsh whisper. “Bobby, what do we got?”
“As far as I can tell, four entrances on the sides of the oval each manned by a pair of soldiers, six on stage, and I count twenty more doing crowd control on the main floor.”
“All right, we need to incapacitate everyone on the upper level. I need the two of you to do that. Understood?”
“What are you going to do?” asked Andrew, leaning over the railing to get a better view.
“I’m going to try to talk to that idiot,” said Michael, glaring at the soldiers on the stage, “and make him see reason. In any case, we can assume the colonel has some sort of switch for the explosives, so we need to work fast. You two use darkness and noise from the digging to cover your movements.”
Giving the other two men a brief nod, Bobby removed a leather-wrapped baton about the length of his forearm, from his long coat. Walking to the end of the suspended walkway, he leapt, effortlessly careening two stories down to one of the tunnel openings, landing with catlike grace in front a pair of surprised soldiers whose eyes went wide seeing him appear from the darkness. Before either man could blink, his hand shot out, his baton piercing the windpipe of the soldier on his left with a hollow crack, covering his hand in warm blood. A heartbeat later he spun on the ball of his foot, his boot heel striking the other soldier in a blinding roundhouse kick to the side of his temple, driving the hapless soldier headfirst into the nearby concrete divider, knocking him senseless. Giving no quarter, Bobby planted his booted foot on the fallen man’s throat, twisting hard before sprinting onward to the next pair farther down the path.
As he ran, he could see Michael descending from the rafters, amber wings aflame, casting shadows on the gathered congregation. “Colonel Wilcott,” he boomed, hanging in midair, “by the United States Code, Title 10, Section 892, Article 92, you are relieved of duty and are under arrest for dereliction of duty. I have orders to terminate if you and your men do not come peacefully.”
Not waiting to see the colonel’s reaction, Bobby extended the length of the baton until it was taller than himself. Coiling like a spring, he vaulted high above into the darkness, aiming for another pair of heavily armed men who had focused on the drama on the floor below. Descending from his great leap, he pummeled the unsuspecting soldier with a double-legged kick to his sternum, blasting the air from his lungs and knocking him deep into the entryway tunnel behind him. The man beside him wasted no time, bringing up his forearms like a boxer to protect his face and neck. Anticipating Bobby’s next strike, the soldier skillfully dodged right to avoid the brunt of the incoming blow, transitioning into a spinning kick that knocked Bobby from his feet.
Bobby fell hard on his back, winded and momentarily put on the defensive as his opponent was swiftly on top of him, pinning him down. He had no time to think, only to respond with pure instinct, warding off blow after blow before crossing his forearms like an X just in time to ward off an incoming knife aimed directly for his heart. While he was stronger, he still struggled to throw off his attacker who, seeing his assault had failed, quickly rolled backward and un-holstered his Beretta in a single smooth motion, ready to fire, only to find that Bobby had been faster, locking the other man’s arm in a grip that forced him to drop the weapon before elbowing him directly between the eyes, knocking him unconscious.
With two more dispatched, he continued on, engrossed in the confrontation on the stage. From his vantage point, he could see Colonel Wilcott, both thumbs hooked into his tactical vest, undeterred. “I don’t know who you are, son,” the colonel began, “and I don’t really give a shit. We have enough plastic explosives in this church to collapse the entire thing, so I’ll give you a minute to forget this bad idea, and get the hell out of here before you get these God-fearing people killed.”
“You’d kill all of these people over money,” said Michael, stalling for time. His wings vanished as he spoke, replaced by a stadium-sized shield that covered most of the congregation clustered together on the gridiron.
Slowing for a moment, Bobby could sense something was different about the pair at the next entrance. From their movements he could tell they were anticipating an attack, separating in an attempt to flank him. Unlike them, he didn’t have to guess; he knew exactly where they were.
Twisting his baton, he pulled off the tip, releasing the monofilament whip coiled inside. Bobby didn’t like the weapon—it was difficult to use, and one of the few things that could hurt him—but time was of the essence, so the risk would have to be taken. With a practiced ease he flicked the weighted tip of the weapon, slicing into the soldier who had moved to the upper level, causing him to fall to his knees gripping his throat and clawing for breath. Retracting the invisible line with the push of a button, he attacked with the whip once again, close enough to sever the man’s head from his neck, a fountain of blood gushing from his headless corpse.
His attacks had only taken an instant, moments between frames in time. The colonel's hysterical laughter brought his attention back to the stage. “Kill for money: you mean like I’ve been doing in these shithole countries for the last four years?”
“You’ve been protecting the homeland,” said Michael, raising his chin.
Colonel Wilcott’s face twisted to an angry shade of red, and in a fury he brought his hand down on the podium beside him, shattering the cherry-colored wood into a thousand splinters. “I’ve been protecting corporate interests, pipelines and oil fields, not the damn homeland.”
Bobby sprinted off once again, his heart racing. He could sense one of the soldiers on this side of the arena taking aim at Michael with a weapon he recognized from his training. Even from a distance he could make out the long-barreled rifle that sat comfortably on its folding bipod, its spiked feet digging into the concrete, its rail system and muzzle brake clearly identifying the weapon as a Barrett M107 sniper rifle. While most small arms lacked the power to penetrate their skin, they had been warned that the .50 caliber weapon was deadly, even to them. Not slowing for an instant, he arrived moments before a shot, leaping the last few feet and striking the sniper with a knee lift, knocking him away from the rifle with enough force to send him sprawling along the floor, eyes rolled back into his head.
As Michael finished off the sniper, Bobby heard him say, “I’ve seen your file, Colonel. You're better than this: hurting innocents.” Michael was standing in midair on the shield he had created, not far from the main stage.
“If you’re at this long enough, you find out that no one is innocent,” said Colonel Wilcott, shaking his head. “We’ve been deployed constantly in the last few years, not seeing our families, no time off, and we have no furlough in place. You know what that means…it means you sit around wherever your goddamn assignment is pulling your pud! Then one day I get a call from my wife. She says she's been trying to reach me for months now, and the army's been giving her the runaround. She tells me there’s an eviction notice on the door, and we got twenty-four hours to move!”
“Colonel, I sym—” started Michael, palms out, trying to calm the situation.
“They fucking stopped paying us our combat pay while we were deployed!” screamed Wilcott, pulling a device out of his tac vest that looked like a trigger of some kind. “Not enough for the mortgage, credit cards weren’t being paid, all while we were all stuck in some shithole in Pakistan, protecting a pipeline!”
“I’m sure it was a mistake, sir,” stammered Michael, his eyes widening as the colonel flipped the cap open on the trigger in his hand, revealing a flashing red light on its tip.
Focusing his attention on what was happening on the stage, Bobby was caught off guard, having only a moment to react, instinctively rolling to his left and coming around to face his attacker just as a blade whizzed by his ear, cleanly slicing through the concrete wall, he had been leaning against, like cardboard. Somehow he had missed the marine who stood facing him, serrated blades as long as his forearm hel
d deftly in each of his meaty hands, each in a reverse grip. The bearded soldier was twice as wide as he was, watching him through dark hooded eyes that never blinked. He came on quickly, slashing left then right, knives flashing silver in the dark, before spinning on his heel, attacking low with one hand and high with the other. Desperate to avoid the blades, Bobby danced backward, blocking an incoming strike with his forearm, surprised as the weapon sliced deep, shredding his sleeve and spilling blood on the matching leather.
Seeing his reaction, the marine stepped back, giving Bobby a tight-lipped smile, mocking him with his bloody knife. “Monomolecular steel—you like?”
Reeling back, he clutched his forearm, wincing in pain. “You’ll pay for that. Ten times over, I promise you,” he said, facing the man with his good side, his baton held in front of him as though fighting with a rapier. With a flick of his wrist he uncoiled the whip, pressing forward and spinning the weapon in figure eights in front of him.
The soldier fell in to a combat stance with one foot forward, the other back, one knife held in front and the other hidden behind him. Waiting.
Switching to an offensive posture, Bobby flicked his wrist in rapid succession, sending the mono-whip out in tight short attacks, to only catch air as the marine easily dodged each strike, responding in kind with a series of spinning counterstrikes and parries that forced him back on his heels.
It continued on like this for a few moments, short probing strikes by each of them followed by rapid retreats, neither gaining ground. Bobby stepped back on his heel, bracing to leap over his opponent and strike from above when the marine, seeing an opening, charged forward, the lumbering bear of a man quicker than he should have been, losing a weapon to knock the filament wide for an instant, quickly ducking past Bobby’s guard. The marine used his trailing blade to strike with deadly precision, slicing the tendon between Bobby’s forearm and bicep, causing him to drop the mono-whip from his now-useless hand, then quickly shouldering him back and returning to his defensive crouch with a smile.
Bobby could feel warm blood flowing down his near-useless arms, doubt surging. He was stronger than this man, faster; this should have been over before it even began. He could feel his face flush a deep red with anger. Down below, he could still make out traces of debate between Michael and Wilcott.
“By the time most of us came home, we’d lost everything. The government said it would be fixed—that was eighteen months ago, and we’re still waiting,” he heard Wilcott say, his eyes never leaving the soldier in front of him.
Wanting this to be over quickly, Bobby changed tactics, striking out with a series of bone-shattering sidekicks going from low to high, only to have the man in front of him once again anticipate each strike, casually dodging each blow before ducking under the last kick and brutally slicing into Bobby’s hamstring. His breath fled his lungs, and he folded to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
He barely had time to blink before the marine was on top of him, expertly slashing at the tendons in his shoulders like a master butcher, leaving him bloody and broken, barely able to move.
The bear of a man straddling him leaned forward, dragging the flat of his blade along Bobby’s jaw. “You had me worried for a second there. You may be strong and fast, but you’re about as wet behind the ears as a grunt who just finished boot camp.”
“Just finish it,” said Bobby, glaring at the bloodied blade, rage spewing from his unblinking eyes.
“No, no, I don’t think so, boy. You just killed seven of my brothers, men I bled for, men I loved. I’m gonna take my time…besides, your boss and mine are in the middle of a talk, and I’m sure you don’t wanna miss it.” The marine dropped forward, shoving his forearm onto Bobby’s windpipe and pressing with all his weight.
His toughened skin made it difficult for the marine to choke him, but the man was brutally strong. Already he was becoming lightheaded, the conversation between Michael and the colonel sounding distant as consciousness fled.
“Then we hear about this fucker here, Pastor Warren of the Blackwood Church, one of the richest men in America, and he doesn’t pay a cent in taxes. Men like him fuck the system and are rewarded for it. Me and my men, they thank us for our service then make us take it in the ass.”
Bobby could see spots in the corners of his vision now, his head spinning from lack of oxygen. Above him, the marine grinned, face flushed red from the strain, the veins on the side of his neck bulging.
Bobby could hear the hesitation in Michael’s voice, feel his heart beating quickly as he tried to calm the colonel. “You have to trust the system. Men like Warren earned every penny.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me, son,” said the colonel, his voice raw. “That fucker lied and cheated his way to success—we’ve all heard the stories. So don’t bullshit me on how honest Blackwood is. He deserves a bullet.”
“They’ll never forgive this,” pleaded Michael. “They won’t just blame you. Every soldier in the country will pay for what you do here today.”
“Doesn’t matter. I was a good soldier my whole life, and this is what it got me. This system is so broken there’s nothing to do but tear it all down, make something new, so I think I’d rather see these bastards pay. I’m done following the rules.”
In the distance, Bobby heard an echoing shot. Everything sounded far away now, the voices in the church a distant murmur, the marine sweating over him little more than a shadow. He closed his eyes, wanting to rest for a moment, forever rest. He began to drift to nothingness: sight, sound, little more than echoes in the distance, even the arm pressing against his throat, threatening to take his life. In his last moment he stopped holding back, opening himself to every living soul in the church, feeling every ounce of gut-wrenching fear, heart-pounding anxiety, and anger—anger most of all. From the soldiers to the parishioners, engulfed in a firestorm of rage. He reached out, not sure how, and drank in all the pain and suffering. Like a man dying of thirst having his first taste of cool water, he sucked in every shred of hate and fear, and he became stronger, able to tear down the entire stadium, hold the weight of the world on his shoulders like Atlas. The feeling lasted only a second or two; once it passed he clawed and scraped his way out of the pit he had fallen into, back to the light, back to life.
He came awake with a start, his breathing loud in his ears as he sucked in a lungful of cool air, his heart racing so fast it threatened to explode from his chest. He looked down at himself in confusion, flexing his arms and legs without pain, dried blood on his uniform the only sign that he had been hurt. He turned his head, trying to get his bearings, and found the sunken husk of a corpse that was the soldier who tried to kill him, looking like an ancient mummy, its vacant stare and yellow-toothed grin sending him scrambling away.
Hearing muttering in the distance, Bobby rose gracefully to his feet, never feeling more alive. Looking out over the arena, he was greeted with a sea of blackened bodies, looking years dead like the marine at his feet, faces forever locked in grimaces of pain and suffering, every civilian, every soldier, a chill running through his body as he counted the dead, wondering…
Shaking off his stupor, Bobby saw Pastor Warren center stage gazing out over his dead flock, his face contorted, a stream of profanity dripping from his lips. Not far away he could see Michael on his back, unmoving, looking like he was simply unconscious. Beside Michael was what Bobby assumed to be the body of Colonel Wilcott, blood still pooling beneath his still form.
He was about to call out to the pastor when a sickly green glow erupted from the man’s palm. Even from the distance Bobby could see he held some sort of jagged crystal no larger than the size of his thumb. He watched curiously as the pastor raised it above his head, inspecting it with a guarded smile, the crystal’s strange glow making him appear pale and waxen. Seemingly satisfied, he walked towards Michael, kneeling at his side. Bobby had a sense of dread when he pulled back the high collar on Michael’s uniform, gently placing the crystal on his nec
k. Just then, a pulse went through the arena, so bright Bobby had to turn away, the afterimage burning into his retina. When he looked back he blanched, not understanding what he was seeing. Like a field of green, he could see crystals glowing on every emaciated corpse, even though clothing, flashing like some strange chorus.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the light winked out…and Michael sat up, his dark eyes blinking in confusion before locking eyes with the pastor, a look of understanding passing between the two. Not wanting to be seen, Bobby kneeled against the concrete wall, burying his head in his hands, not sure if he could believe his own eyes. That's when he felt it—or didn’t feel it. Outside, he could sense the milling crowds, all the people, their worry, the joy of a mother who had lost her young son in the crowd now having found him, but in the church he was alone. He couldn’t sense Pastor Warren, and what was worse, he couldn’t sense Michael.
Epilogue: The Lie
2061
“Just look into the camera and read the script. We’ll take care of the rest.” The news van was cramped and hot, the small space made warmer with the camera crew trying to get the lighting just right for his statement. Bobby had just begun to make his way down to the center stage when Michael called in the all clear. The former stadium had been abruptly flooded with troops, and he had been hurried out and shoved unceremoniously into the news van. Someone managed to find him a new uniform and had the script for what he was supposed to say written and prepared before he could understand what was going on.
Children of the Spear (Novella): Origin Page 13