Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Fear now assaulted his will. For a moment, he wished for the physical torture to return instead of this new twist.

  “Oh wait, did they not tell you who I am?” Mystery Man asked. “I thought for sure your faux Indian would warn you. I’m the one you’ve been waiting for.”

  Steve found the strength to laugh defiantly. “I’ve been waiting on dinner. You the chef?” He laughed painfully at his own joke, satisfied his wits remained. “Demetrius’s the name, right? Sounds kind of French – they’re supposed to be good cooks, from what I remember.”

  The fingers were back at work. “No, Red Hawk. I’m the nightmare of your so-called faith. The one who brings the darkest night. Some called me Yenaldooshi, some Beelzebub. Your simple backcountry folk called me Old Scratch when they first settled this area. I appear where I want, as I want. And I know all your secrets.”

  Steve prayed. Lord, give me strength. Evil hung in the room. But there would be no surrender.

  “I don’t have any secrets. Not in front of the One who really matters.”

  Dark laughter rattled in Steve’s ears. “I am the one who matters here, holy man!” he said with disdain. “I rule this earth, not your kind. Can you not see that? You aren’t like the young ones. You witnessed the world before, craven and cold. Soulless flesh wandering about, seeking their pleasures wherever they could. That was just the opening act!

  “What do you think of my world now, holy man? All the beautiful pain and suffering…look how it’s brought the best out in your kind! There’s only a few left to deal with. All alone, huddled in dusty old towns. Scattered and faithless! How long do you think your beloved Republic can hold out?”

  More screeching laughter filled the room and then, “And to think, you opened the door and invited my dominion in. I’ve repaid your fool hope and kindness in spades, haven’t I? This simple lot of animals will be your death. You ushered them right in for me.”

  Steve’s heart sank, suspicions of treachery confirmed. His ego had got the best of him, allowed him to believe he’d converted the entire wildlands to the Faith. Years of religious decline before the Reset, barbaric living – no, surviving – after the Reset…he thought the message of hope and strength he’d brought to the tribes put them on a new path. He’d given them a chance to escape the Caliphate, and the Republic a chance at peace on their frontier. Instead, the harvest he’d reap was betrayal.

  “Oh, priest, I feel that hope slipping from you now. The picture’s much clearer, isn’t it? None of this has happened by accident. I’ve been in control the whole time.”

  Demetrius’s words bounced off him. Hollow noise, unable to drown out the inner voice urging him on. Steve’s faith and courage began to flow back. He’d seen the way his message took root in some of the tribes. Perhaps some took advantage of him, maybe evil really was using good against itself. But where some good remained, so did hope…and hope would give him the strength to fight back.

  “Pathetic,” was all he said with a smirk.

  Demetrius’s face twisted and he glared at his captive. “You’re not in a position to insult me, priest. You’ll lose that quick death you’ll be begging for in a moment.”

  Steve’s vision was clearer now, despite the heavy blows and the low light. He finally got his bearings and figured out where he was. High arched windows with ornate trim revealed Beardstown’s Great Hall. Rows of tables and chairs used to seat everyone at gatherings were pushed towards the outside walls, leaving him all alone in the middle. Another hard blink and his vision focused even more, making him aware he wasn’t really alone. There were several other men in the room with them, making a circle, focused solely on him. The familiarity of the space firmed his will, and gave him an audience to work with.

  “Pathetic,” he repeated, louder and firmer. “The epitome of evil is sitting here trying to scare some dirty old priest in the middle of nowhere. Not too busy a day, eh, Scratchie? I noticed you only show up when you got a roomful of real men to back your words.”

  He cast his voice to the group standing behind Demetrius. “Are ya not all sick and well tired of someone like this telling you what to do?”

  Steve’s eyes exploded in stars as Demetrius struck him in the face. His nose was running, but he couldn’t tell if it was blood or snot. He gathered his strength and smiled. “See, boys, I think I struck a nerve with that, eh? How’s about Demetrius here cuts me loose, then we’ll see whose God is bigger and badder? Ain’t that the way we settle things in the bush, boys?”

  Demetrius struck Steve in the face again. “I decide how things are done in the bush, priest! Not them!” He stood up and waved at Steve. “Kill him now.”

  He began to walk out the door, then stopped as a spider-web-tattooed man came running up to him. “Kal is dead!”

  Trey King shot an anxious glance at Demetrius. He’d let the elder man take the lead until now, quietly observing with the others. Kal was the key to keeping the rebellious tribes in line. Without him, the others would want to realign with the Boar King.

  Demetrius held up his hand to Trey, a warning to keep quiet while he considered the options.

  Father Steve didn’t give him the chance. “You’re better than this, Trey. Come on, lad. Your father will forgive you, he’ll respect your move. He loves ya too much, you can work together.”

  Trey looked at Steve. The bitterness he’d shown while whaling with the hose was replaced by fear. Steve hadn’t known him when he was just a boy, but the confused youth Darwin King described in their chats was apparent. His face had gone pale, clear even in the low light. His mouth was slightly open, like he wanted to say something but the words couldn’t form. Did he regret his betrayal? Or just fear of a plan gone awry? The Boar King elicited a wide range of emotions from those who opposed him. The man’s legend was at work again, even here with his adopted son.

  “Come on lad,” Steve said again, quieter this time. “It’s not too late.”

  Ben’s mind seemed to register something, and the boyish fear drained away. Before Demetrius could stop him, he made a break for the doorway.

  Steve burst out laughing, causing a death-filled glare from Demetrius.

  The room filled with murmurs and swears. “Quiet!” Demetrius shouted. “Listen to my commands or you will all perish!”

  No one quieted. Instead, one of the men stepped up to him. His lips pulled back revealing a mouth full of Syn-rotted teeth. He hissed the way most of the savage tribes did when they spoke what was left of their language. “You tell us we’re invincible. Now Kal is dead. Explain!”

  “You simple bastard, get out of my face.” Demetrius grabbed a knife from his belt and shoved it into the man’s stomach. A look of panic and pain shattered the life from his scarred and inked face as he slipped to the ground. Demetrius held the bloody knife up. “Anyone else?” he shouted.

  Growls and grunts came the reply, but no one else made a challenge. “Good,” Demetrius said. “Now do what I told you. Kill this priest and hang his body from the window outside. Let him be an example to anyone who tries to defy me.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” Steve said. “You got the knife in your hand. Why not finish me?”

  Demetrius stood statue-still, staring at Steve.

  The priest smiled. “Boys, I’m tellin’ ya, looks like the big bad man is scared of my magic.” He looked away from Demetrius and to the rest of the group. “I challenge him! Cut me loose and let’s settle this, eh?”

  Demetrius raised the knife and moved toward Steve, but two men grabbed his arms. “No!” one of them commanded. “He challenges you. Face him, or your magic’s no good to us.”

  Shivers ran down Steve’s spine as he witnessed the look of darkness in Demetrius’s eyes. In a flash of metal, both the men holding him were down on the ground writhing in pain from the gashes in their flesh. Demetrius once more stepped towards Steve, then let out a bloodcurdling scream as he arched his back and dropped the knife. Demetrius turned his back to Steve, revealing a leathe
r handled knife sticking out of his robe. It was stuck in the flesh under his shoulder blade, plenty painful but not fatal. There in the doorway stood the person who’d thrown the knife, Darwin King.

  King’s shirt was bloody and torn. His tan skin looked paler than Steve had ever seen it before. Still he stood tall and powerful. “Should have finished me when you had a chance,” he said to Demetrius. “Bad luck for you, that boy tellin’ them your Kal went and carked it.”

  Demetrius screamed and lunged at King. Steve could only watch in frustration, still lashed to the chair. He wriggled and twisted to get out, but the binds were tight. The other men in the room sought the outside edge against the walls, crouching as they did in the bush to watch two men fight to the death.

  King and Demetrius went to the ground in a heap. As one they rolled back and forth, leaving a bloody trail on the old tile floor. First King had the advantage, then Demetrius was on top. Steve couldn’t see the knife, then it was in Demetrius’s hand again. Blood was smeared across his face, making his eyes and teeth absurdly white in the low light. The look was that of pure hatred. He had the upper hand, and tensed to deliver the final downward thrust.

  The room exploded in noise. Geysers of blood shot out from Demetrius’s chest. As he fell face first, Steve saw the rage drain away, leaving just a now-normal-looking man’s shell behind.

  Behind him Max King held a .45 in his right hand. The young man’s shaking nearly caused the weapon to drop, but he quickly came to his senses and pointed it at the others in the room. “Untie him,” he said in a cracking voice. When no one moved he shouted in anger. “Now!”

  The surviving men surrounded Father Steve, working to set him free. The smell and sights of the room nearly gagged him, conditioned though he was from what he had seen in the dying years. There was blood and gore an inch deep in places. But the smell…

  “Dad,” Max yelled as he moved to his father’s side. He pushed Demetrius’s corpse off and started checking the Boar King’s body for wounds. Max found a gaping wound under his ribcage and tried to staunch the bleeding. The older man grabbed his son’s hand.

  “Easy, lad,” he spit out through pained lips. “No use in all that now.”

  Father Steve kept a watchful eye on the rest of the men while the Kings were talking. Still in pain himself, he did his best to muster a menacing glare. “King…Darwin, you need to declare Max as your heir. I give you my oath, I’ll see to it he keeps what you’ve built.”

  Darwin nodded painfully, looking up at him from the bloody floor below. “You’re a good bloke, priest. I hope you were right about that god of yours.” He took a deep rattling breath. “Gotta pay the docket for what I done, I reckon. Thanks for taking care of the boys while I’m away.”

  A thought struck his mind, and he squeezed Steve’s ankle. “Where’s Ben?” he asked.

  Father Steve didn’t know what to say. Discussing Trey King’s betrayal didn’t seem appropriate. What could he say to a dying father about his traitor son? He went with honesty. “I really don’t know. He took off before you got here.”

  King took another pained breath, shallower and rasping this time. The humble, jovial Darwin King disappeared, and the mighty Boar King that held together a group of barbarian tribes through force of will returned. With the help of Max and Father Steve, he sat up. “Look here, you buggers, Max’ll be takin’ over me when he’s ready, right?” He coughed and spit out blood.

  “Until then, the priest will fill in.” Steve’s look of shock was matched by that of Max’s. The shock faded to peace as a tremendous weight was lifted off the young man’s shoulders and fell on another who felt totally unprepared for the coronation.

  Darwin grabbed Father Steve’s hand, hard. “Don’t let me down, right?”

  Steve was still in shock. But he forced himself to nod. “I won’t. I’ll be there for Max and the rest of your family. Your work will stand.”

  A peace came over the Boar King’s face. Strength left his body and he sagged in their arms. Max and Steve laid him gently on the floor, then their eyes met. For the first time, the holy man recognized a leader’s strength in Max’s face.

  “You okay with this arrangement?” Steve asked.

  Max didn’t answer right away, deep in a mix of grief and shock. Finally: “Yeah, priest, the old man was right. I still got a fair amount of learnin’ to do. ‘Sides, it’ll take both of us to bring this motley crew together, right?” The young man stood at the sight of two men walking towards them.

  To Max’s surprise, the surviving tribesmen stepped back and made a path for Levi Marshall and Wasson. They stopped and looked down at the body of the Boar King. Both had blood on their hands and clothes and a look that made the killers in the room back away.

  “We were trying to save you, not him,” Levi said to Father Steve.

  “You managed to do both,” the priest replied. Levi didn’t understand, but didn’t ask any more questions.

  “Reckon the tribes will come back to us now that the devil is dead?” Max asked.

  Father Steve stood beside him, looking at the collection of hardened men surrounding them. “Unfortunately, Max, only a couple of the Devil’s minions are dead. The Devil himself is always workin’ against us. So we’ll need to stick together, all of us, eh?”

  Max nodded, trying to use a man’s will to fight off the tears of a frightened son who’d just lost his father. “You have my word…Boar King,” he said.

  The priest shook his head. “Only one man was the Boar King, son. He’ll never be replaced. But I got a feelin’ you’ll make a name for your own self someday. Don’tcha worry ‘bout that.”

  Father Steve took command of the room. “Listen up,” he boomed to the surviving tribal leaders gathered around. “You go tell your men that the Boar King lives. Tell ‘em the jijis have betrayed ‘em, that they tried to double cross ‘em, eh? You go tell them, kill every jiji they find, and quit attackin’ those fortresses.” He paused. “Anyone challenge my right to give such commands?”

  None replied.

  The priest near shouted when he repeated the command. “Go now. And remember, you tell ‘em, the Boar King lives!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Eastern Bank - Mississippi River

  Near the White City (Present Day St. Louis)

  Biting winds swept the icy flood plains of the Mississippi River, slicing through every layer of clothing, leaving wounds into flesh-invisible to sight but reaching deep inside skin and muscle, causing pain to radiate down to the very marrow of the bone. Boots made rigid from the cold crunched dead grass on compacted soil. Their wearers blew into tattered gloves, rubbed their own arms and the backs of comrades, trying to create any friction to allow a fleeting moment’s relief from the relentless dead of winter.

  Alex Hamilton could almost hear the whistle of that wind through the wrecked buildings of what had once been downtown St. Louis – and was more recently the shining capital city of ARK. From his perch on Bluff Road he could see scorched windows and tangled metal dangling from marvels of the work of man. Mixed emotions cut as deep as the wind. Part of him felt it a just reward for the treachery of his former ally. Vengeance fought with a feeling of hopelessness; ARK had been the only other civilized nation left. Now the Republic was truly alone in the world.

  ARK was a reminder of the world he grew up in, the last example of what a vibrant American city once looked like, before the Great Reset made the nights dark and cold. Cities weren’t his home; the Hamilton family was an agrarian clan, uncomfortable even in the streets of the Red Hawk Republic’s small capital city of Shelbyville. Still, it had been a treat for Red Hawks to stand atop the soaring skyscrapers of ARK when travel and trade was still a hope of things to come. There you could watch the mighty skyships float in to rooftop docking stations, carrying important people and material for hundreds of miles in each direction.

  In the end, ARK was no better prepared for the new world than the empire it had tried to replace, Alex ponder
ed to himself. Just like the United States, ARK was brought down by people behind the warm light of the glowing screen. Everyone had forgotten how to do the most basic things for themselves. Technology had become their god, a god they prayed to from the time they awoke in the morning to the time they finally fell asleep.

  Even after the Reset killed off most of the world, the lure of a return to pre-Reset comforts proved too much to resist for the people of ARK. RenOne, the last known supercomputer on the planet, should have been just a useful tool to help feed and care for a population reeling from the end of the modern world. Instead it became a new updated crutch, just in a much smaller world than before. The Diamantes invited into ARK the same danger that killed the United States.

  That time seemed as far removed as televisions and cell phones; a dream shared by people old enough to remember. Even now, those folks still expected to see a passenger jet land at a local airport, still thought about getting home in time to check the NFL scores on TV or grabbing something to eat at a drive-through on their way. New ways clashed with ghosts of the past, far enough away to seem surreal and yet ingrained from a lifetime of conditioning.

  To the younger folks, all that was talk of magic, and likely made up in the minds of the old and slightly addled. Life now came grown or forged with their own hands. Real to them was the power of the storms and stars. And real to them was the power of the Ancient Adversary, the Devil himself, manifested in a Caliphate horde attempting to kill or convert everyone in its path.

  One by one his men rotated from assigned watch posts to their vehicles. Here they could find some shelter from the wind. But the cold still followed them, trapped inside by the metal cocoon that seemed to let only the heat out. Long gone were the nights where they could leave the engines run and curl up near the firewall to soak in the engine’s warm exhaust. Fuel was too precious here at the end of their supply lines, if the engines would even start, which they often refused to do these days.