Otherworld Soldiers- Rise of the Apocalypse

by Fox Lancet

  “You do not believe so?” Syler waved his arm across the area and back to the ruin of their car. “Where is the key, Hunter? Where is the key that we had? That we had in our grasp! Where?”

  Hunter’s jaw tightened when his gaze settled on the empty back seat. “Regardless, he would be pleased with the death we have dealt here,” Hunter responded.

  “Follow,” Syler said, turning away. They all began trotting west away from Broadway toward the dark industrial side of town. Syler and Hunter continued their argument after several blocks.

  “Nothing was accomplished back there, save for recklessness. Not only did it reveal an uncommon strength and zeal in us, but they would have continued to attack, to the point six of us could not defend against.” Syler glanced over his shoulder at the four Apathy regiment soldiers. Ones he knew had been left to guard the gate. He knew why they were here. The gate had been breached and they had pursued.

  “They are hapless creatures, Syler. We need not fear them,” Hunter responded.

  “I have failed to inform you entirely of the extent of this world, Hunter. Yes, you have experienced it first hand, but only in a very minute amount. Where we reside now is miniscule compared to the entire plane of this existence. There are billions of these feeble creatures infesting this world. Until we can procure mass amounts of Demons to this side, we stand no chance. So I, and I know Nefarion too, would advise stealth and obscurity until that day comes.” As Syler ended his statement they reached the door of the warehouse, several miles from the Gothic.

  The six Demons filed inside, Syler was the last and glared out onto the dark streets, listening. He shut up and locked the door swiftly before ascending the stairs after everyone.

  “Apathy soldiers?” Syler inquired when he reached the top of the stairs. The four imposing men stood about the room randomly, but faced Syler. They all nodded in answer.

  Hunter was banging about the back wall, rummaging through crates of ammunition.

  “How many Seraphs crossed and how many Demon soldiers?” Syler continued. The four warriors looked to each other impassively. When Syler did not get an immediate answer: “Did Calious not cross with you?” His tone was irritated as he asked about the regiment Captain. They all shook their heads slightly. Syler flexed his jaw.

  “Well, one of you will need to speak in his absence. Has he fallen?” Syler sat at his computer desk, retrieving four fresh dog tags from one of the drawers.

  “I cannot say, Commander.” One of the Demons had stepped forward after another moment’s silence. A hairline scar ran the length of the left side of his face and a larger, cylindrical one marred his lower right abdomen.

  “State your name, warrior,” Syler demanded, looking back down. He knew many of The First Legion, but mostly its Captains. To keep track of over two thousand Demons and names was a difficult task, one Nefarion did not require and one he did not personally attempt.

  “Lasient of The First, Apathy soldier.” The Demon started casually flipping a dagger while Syler began embossing a silver slate.

  “Tell me, Lasient, how many Seraphs did you follow through the gate?”

  “Twelve by my witness, Syler.”

  “And how many of the Apathy regiment crossed to pursue?”

  “Eight, Commander.”

  “You have lost four. How many Seraphs have been eliminated?”

  “All that remain were the five we tracked to your location.” The Demon sheathed the dagger when Syler held out the dog tags he had fashioned for him.

  “So three. Wear this as identification.” Syler had the rest of them state their names and he proceeded to brand three more slates before handing them over.

  “None of you are aware if Nefarion has been informed of the situation?” Syler leaned back in his chair, its springs creaking. The Apathy soldiers eyed one another before all shaking their heads. Syler sighed, clutching his hands in his lap.

  “You will all return whence you have come. You will ensure that Nefarion is made aware of the breach on the gate. However, you will all wait until the next night fall to leave; the commotion of this evening needs to fade a day. In the meantime, rest and we will supply you with shirts to make you less conspicuous and weapons to use only if necessary.”

  “What of the key?” Hunter began handing the Demon soldiers semi-automatic handguns and additional magazines. He made a quick demonstration of releasing the clip and loading another.

  “That is our private assignment, Hunter. We will discuss it more in depth when the Apathy soldiers are on their way back to the gate,” Syler replied.

  “These are lethal with a pull of the trigger. Point, aim, squeeze.” Hunter lifted the gun and aimed it at nothing particular, miming shooting it before sticking it in the waistband of his pants and pulling a new t-shirt over it to illustrate concealment.

  “I would like for us all to remain here until then before even you or I venture out. And I do not believe it would be wise to go near the Gothic for several weeks.”

  Hunter scowled and turned to Syler. “Several weeks? That will give the key ample opportunity to make herself very scarce.” Hunter’s tone rang with aggravation, still not fully relaxed from the night’s prior exhibitions.

  “Perhaps you will consider that next time you decide to make a spectacle of us. We may not appear properly on video surveillance, but we are clear as the next person to the human eye. If we return, we will be recognized and confiscated by authorities. We would be lucky to escape. And after what humans witnessed us accomplishing this night, I doubt they would send less than what could handle at least six of us.” Syler stood and approached a window, looking out of a broken pane. “Understand?”

  “I do see where your logic has derived, though perhaps we may keep hidden tabs on the theatre. We must recapture the key,” Hunter replied, stepping in behind Syler.

  “We will speak no more of it, Hunter. The more pressing issue at this point is how they located us. We are far from the gate and yet they appeared at a random location when we were attempting to retrieve the key.”

  “Vampires.”

  Syler’s brows immediately furrowed and he swiveled from the window. “What?”

  “Creatures that look like humans though they are not.” It was not Lasient, but another of the four soldiers. Coldon.

  “I know of Vampires. You claim they are how Jacob and his company knew where to find Hunter and me?”

  Coldon dropped his head once in affirmation. “Yes, Commander. Human immortals, they fear us. They see us as a threat to their human supply of sustenance. Seraphs divulged our bloodlust and desire for destruction. They convinced them that they wished to push us back to our world and could do so more swiftly with Vampire compliance.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Coldon half-smile, a dimple appearing on the lifted cheek. “A Seraph under my death-grip admitted it to me the day before we encountered sixteen Vampires in a field aiding the remaining five Seraphs.”

  Syler snarled wordlessly. “Of course. That explains all of our encounters with these wretched creatures. They are but spies! The one I killed. The one you found at the Gothic.” He roared this time. “They are relaying our movements back to the surviving Seraphs! I must have killed the only one who knew of our location or they would have already attempted an attack on us. And they must have requested a permanent watch on the Gothic when we were first reported seen there.

  “How were you able to keep such a close tail on them?”

  Coldon lifted an incredulous brow and bit his bottom lip. Lasient eyed his comrade indignantly and answered, “We are Apathy soldiers, Commander. We are but one regiment below the Elite. Are you implying we are incapable of such a feat?”

  “Well, you acted as feral fools when we met this night, so I have a right to my reservations.”

  Lasient clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding. “Perhaps we seem that way in this world, one where creatures are killed so easily. The soldiers here are but farces for their society.
After ages of not engaging in true battle, what would you expect?” The warrior’s restraint was apparent as the skin of his new pale cheeks reddened and his body heaved, his muscles flexing with anticipation.

  Syler stepped toward Lasient, his steel-toed boots kissing the tips of the other disguised Demon’s pliable, black sneakers. “I understand your excitement to spill blood fanatically, but that was and is not the Lord’s will. Why must I remind every Demon of their duty to him?” Syler wheeled away from the soldier and kicked one of the concrete support beams nearby. The ceiling shook and loosed a light shower of dust. A section of the beam crumbled under the sole of his boot. He returned his attention back to the Apathy soldiers.

  Lasient bowed his head and upper body. “You are right, Commander Syler. We apologize for our exhilaration and distraction from the Lord’s command. In our defense, we did focus on the Seraph enemy, hence the majority of the crossers’ demise. When we found out the ease of these new creatures’ death, we became intoxicated.”

  “It is not a new reaction.” Syler glared briefly at Hunter who smiled handsomely while he looked at the floor in unabashed shame. “But I ask on your return journey to avoid any contact with humans unless it is vital for you to complete your quest.”

  “I will see that it is done, Syler,” Lasient replied. “Does the same apply to Vampires?”

  There was a short silence before Syler’s lip curled in disgust. “No.”

  * * *

  Twenty-one days had passed since the incident at the Gothic and the four Apathy soldiers had long since made their return journey to the gate. Syler still argued with Hunter against making any further appearances at the Gothic, even if they were subtle and kept in shadow; he thought security would still be brimming, emphasized for them. Furthermore, he and Syler had felt Nefarion’s arrival into the world, though the telling presence had diminished within hours. His power had been so palpable there was no mistaking that he had come. Syler insisted they go to meet him, but Hunter convinced him that remaining stationary would be wise, considering they could no longer feel his presence.

  After having had possession of the key, Hunter’s need for it had become ever more consuming. Perhaps if Syler had touched her he would feel as adamant about their reclamation of her. And as was only expected, Hunter was acting against his brother-in-command’s advice.

  He knelt on one knee, bent over a small black backpack and feigned rummaging through it until a stranger passed and ventured out of the Plexiglas tunnel suspended over the highway. It was the time of day that humans of America deemed “rush-hour” traffic: bumper to bumper cars waiting impatiently for the throng of pliable metal to roll them to their final destinations.

  The tunnel he loitered in led from a lot of parked cars to a waiting station where trains consumed and deployed people.

  It was between train arrivals and the tunnel was void of pedestrians. Hunter took the opportunity to cut a large circle out of the plastic wall facing north with a fourteen-inch jigsaw blade. When no one appeared in the tunnel still, he turned south and repeated the action.

  Horns started honking from below. If any of these drivers watched the news, which Hunter was certain a majority did, they knew what was coming. In fact, many started stepping on their gas pedals, turning and jerking their vehicles forward, crashing into one another.

  Hunter laughed ecstatically, fully amused by their panic. He had not performed this feat for almost a month now, and the last time he did it was one hundred miles north in another town. Regardless of the time passed and the distance away, he had to kill two security guards before preparing to perform it again. All the pedestrian bridges had been set up with guards since the first time he had pulled off the act, this being his third.

  When he extricated the first grenade from his bag, people meaning to catch the next train started appearing in the tunnel. Hunter disregarded them. Just as he pulled the clip from the explosive he heard distant shouts and saw many people abandoning their vehicles. Hunter scowled disapprovingly and quickly finished his task by chucking the live grenade out the north hole, far and precise.

  The people who had entered the tunnel started pointing at him and shouting but were interrupted by the succeeding explosion. They all instinctually ducked and covered their heads. Hunter did not flinch and tossed another live grenade out the south hole. He watched, engrossed, as it detonated, thrusting several cars into the air and landing them upside down on neighboring cars.

  Cries elevated and car-alarms erupted, overlapping the report of bending metal as more drivers tried to lead their cars away. Hunter shook his head and reached in his bag for two more grenades. The tunnel had cleared diligently. He removed the clips at the same time and tossed them through both holes simultaneously; they drifted out slightly before dropping straight down. The moment they left his hands, he snatched up his bag and sprinted out of the tunnel, descending steep concrete stairs. Blasts rang and more pangs of obliterated metal shards and the like were deafening to the human ear.

  Hunter landed solidly on flat concrete after jumping past a dozen steps. He glanced over his shoulder at the great plumes of smoke and laughed, pleased with himself. The sounds of emergency vehicles were already apparent past the chaotic din. Hunter threw the straps of the backpack over his broad shoulders and lunged toward a dirt-bike that he clutched harshly before letting it jerk him away from the devastating scene, a persistent smile spread wide on his face.

  After a few miles of riding the black pavement without care, two noisy vehicles joined his rear, sirens screaming. Hunter scowled and regarded them over his shoulder briefly before returning his focus to the street that quickly became past. He lifted his body off the bike, his arms and feet remaining, and aimed the vehicle off the road into a green park that dipped into the Earth before cutting off at a suburban neighborhood. It ran a great many miles along the houses, proceeding under a highway overpass.

  The authority vehicles screeched to a halt at the curb, police jumping out and shouting. They shot their guns at him. Something he knew they only did when they knew someone was armed and dangerous and very wanted.

  He chuckled at the latter thought as he let the motorized bike propel him out of the half-pipe of a park and onto one of the neighborhood streets. The bike peeled around street corners, disregarding stop signs, pedestrians, and other vehicles. At one point, just to keep himself entertained, Hunter pulled a long blade from his boot and split open the stomach of a man attempting to cross the street as he sliced around a corner. The man’s body slumped to the pavement, his guts drooling from his mutilated torso.

  After just a few more blocks, he killed the motor and dismounted. The street he stopped on was very quiet, seeming desolate of any human life. The sound of distant helicopter propellers floated on the air. Hunter sneered and lifted the light dirt bike over his shoulder before eating the remaining distance between him and a vacated house with his long gait. He threw the bike over the fence before retreating to a maroon, four-door compact car.

  Just as he was exiting the street in his new vehicle, Hunter spotted the helicopter in the vast blue sky. He smiled, knowing they would not know where he had gone.

  Since the incident at the Gothic, Hunter had scouted neighborhoods across town. He judged potential escape routes and uninhabited suburban streets. The street he had ultimately chosen had four vacant dwellings. Drunks and drug-dealers occupied the remaining six homes so Hunter knew that any witness to his vehicle swap would not come forward.

  As he turned off the street, he slid on a black baseball cap to shade his unusual eyes and conceal his descriptive hair. He drove west, purposely cutting down a main street that ran alongside the highway so he could glimpse the product of his destruction. As he passed, he cranked the volume of the CD player. The death metal reverberated through the steel frame and glass windows as he laughed shortly while surveying the columns of smoke twirling off the fingers of fire licking the air above the freeway.

  He directed the car away
from the intentional accident and toward his side of town. Regardless of how adamant Syler was about avoiding their return to the Gothic, Hunter was determined to recapture the key. Tonight, a nationally renowned metal band was performing at the venue. Hunter decided that if she was not there tonight then she would never be returning and it would be time for him and Syler to relocate.

  Not only was the grenade-toss for Hunter’s enjoyment, but it was primarily to distract the higher authority away from the side of town where Hunter meant to make a notorious appearance. The road had been paved and the sun was descending in the sky. Hunter was confident his actions were not in vain.

  About a block from the theater, Hunter parked the car he did not plan to come back for. He pulled the cap from his head and tossed it on the sidewalk, casually making his way to the venue’s entrance.

  9

  Saliea

  The grasp was hard and heavy, pulling her close to an unseen, menacing mass. She resisted without struggling, though it did her no good. Red eyes beamed down at her through utter blackness and the sound of a ferocious roar split her ear drums. The grasp hurt and Saliea screamed.

  White sunlight burst into her vision and she sucked in a sharp breath. Pushing off her black pillow, she glanced around carefully: confirming her surroundings, that she was awake, that the dream was gone. Once verified, Saliea breathed out and relaxed.

  The dream had plagued her sleep for two weeks now, the time that had passed since the dream had been a reality. Two determined, giant men had targeted her. For what, Saliea was not sure. She only knew there was something not quite right about them. When she first saw the man climbing over the railing, red eyes locked on her, she felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity. But she had never seen him before. He had been tall, taller even than Sam’s six foot-two inches. Sam had tried to stop the man and received a concussion for his efforts.

  As much as she hated to think it, the familiar stranger was beautiful: muscled, tattooed, with flawless, rugged features. Her heart swelled when she remembered the absolute determination for her that the man had displayed.