The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  21 – Day at the Office

  Sister Cawood hurried back from the washroom. Her guts still boiled and burned. She had almost vomited twice in the elevator coming up—barely made it to the bathroom. Sour digestive juices still scorched her esophagus and her whole body ached. Her reproductive organs stung, throbbed with the slightest vibration or pressure. Chastity! Every atom of her wanted to go home—pull the curtains, climb back into the bed and pray she’d wake up later from the nightmare. Obedience.

  She was going on autopilot now—true, she had to think. But being in the office kept people from wondering, even forming a question about her. People trusted her. If the film ever surface they’d believe her if she said it was a fake. A sick cramp rippled through her bowels and she almost headed back to the washroom. We implore the aid of Your tender mercy, that being restored to bodily health; she may give thanks to You in Your Church.

  She had to stop. Had to. It was suicidal. She had no idea what drug she had taken or whether she had taken others. Not the slightest idea how much alcohol she’d mixed with it. Chastity. And what of venereal disease? Oh Virgin preserve me! She had to make an appointment with a doctor. What Doctor? Memory of the night at the bar had degenerated into red-tinted snapshots of hell: snippets of faces, laughter, hard probing kisses and smoke and bodies. Each image brought regret and nausea. Blessed Mother!

  She flushed when her mind slipped back to the hazy evening’s end. Obedience. The men she’d awakened with—a surge of shame sickened her—they’d told her that the other man, Raul, had a camera. Maybe they were kidding her. Trying to freak her out.

  Then she realized the choice for stopping herself might have been taken out of her hands. A dark depressing chasm opened under her with the thought. It’s over! Cawood paused beside her secretary’s door. Jane was too perky, too Scottish to see now.

  The nun doubted she could hide her shame in front of Jane. And if she spotted Cawood, Jane would bring her a thick armload of files—something—chatting—she’d want to talk about the Church and God. Cawood couldn’t take that now. She paused outside Jane’s door listening. She had to get past and into her own office. Once inside, she could close and lock her door: claim she was meditating. God come to my assistance, Lord make haste to help me. Jane respected that.

  Then she could spend the morning napping as her body detoxified. Again the thought of Raul and the camera flickered obscenely through her mind. “After,” she promised herself, believing that rest would prepare her for dealing with what had happened. Whore! She could contemplate her doom. A part of her relished the notion. No more hiding. Bless me Father for I have sinned.

  Temples throbbing, she listened at Jane’s door. The old manual typewriter clattered away, ring, and a rough metallic grind as the carriage slid back into position. Technology didn’t work well after the Change. The church had embraced the devolution. Cawood held her breath then hurried past, praying that Jane would be focused on her margins.

  “Sister Cawood!” Jane’s voice still held a distant Scottish brogue. “Reverend Stoneworthy…”

  But Cawood was into her office, and had shut the door behind her before Jane could finish. Able Stoneworthy sat across from her desk. He looked up from a book and smiled. Then his eyes squinted and he sat bolt upright.

  “Karen! What happened?”

  “Oh…” Cawood patted down the front of her black dress. Straightened her sweater. “I have a touch of something.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, was distressed by its heat. It would be red with shame. Holy Father.

  “You look terrible!” Able hurried to her side. A warm hand wrapped around her upper arm. “You should sit down. You’re flushed.”

  “I feel like I’ve been flushed.” She tried to distract him with levity.

  He nodded. “Well, you shouldn’t be here if you’re not well.”

  Cawood wondered why she had bothered. If she missed more work there’d be more questions.

  “Women’s stuff too,” she muttered as she was led to her desk. Mention of women’s stuff always put the minister off.

  “Oh.” Able gently steadied her in her chair. “That—well—yes…if you’re not well.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She stuffed a peppermint into her mouth and was rewarded with a wave of nausea. It usually settled her stomach and covered any left over scent of detox. I have sinned…Generosity. She offered one to Able. Chastity. He smirked, took a mint and popped it into his mouth.

  “You have to take better care of yourself.” Able settled himself on the edge of her desk.

  “I’m fine.” She struggled weakly with her chair, sat forward.

  “You’re not.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve been seeing a general, what shall I say. Decline?”

  “Decline. You sure know how to talk to a girl.” A whore!

  “You haven’t been taking care of yourself.” Able’s furry brows combined. He raised his hand against her protest. “No. No. You haven’t and it’s time you did.” The minister rose and paced away alternately sucking on his candy and talking.

  “It is common.” He chewed.

  “I saw it in college,” he said, lips sucking, “and throughout my career.” The minister paused a second to try to break the hard candy with a single bite, demurred. “That individuals of a philosophical or religious frame of mind tend to neglect the body.” He worried at his candy gazing out the window at the cloud tops. “And, such scathing is typical of ancient religious practitioners and mystics… In an attempt to release oneself from the demands of the body, excoriation of this kind, abnegation and denial—can give a person a keener view.” He turned back to her. “And I admire it. I admire that kind of conviction.” He approached her desk again. “But you’re going too far. You’re unwell. You’ve lost weight and I’ll say it, you look like hell!”

  Able reached over to pat the back of her clammy hand. “You must keep life in the body for your spiritual explorations to continue.” He smiled warmly. “Do it for me, would you?”

  Cawood couldn’t believe her ears. Killing me with kindness… She sighed. Her self-destruction might never stop if people kept loving her. They believed in her and that drove her farther into it. Unless she fought. And for a moment, she felt an old part of herself clamor forward. It yearned for her to talk, to confess. Bless me Father for I have sinned. Looking into Able’s dark, sincere eyes now she knew he would not damn her, she knew he would help. All she had to do was tell him she was a whore and a drug abuser and worse. And then it would be over. She just had to live beyond her shame.

  “Able,” she started, warmed by her friend’s attentive stance. “I…” She looked away, shame momentarily overwhelming her. “I just want to thank you for being my friend.” Cawood smiled up at him. Deep emotion brought moisture to her eyes. The minister rested a hand on her cheek. She grabbed his wrist and pressed her cheek against his palm. “I’ll take better care of myself.”

  “As you reminded me.” He flashed his teeth. “We’ve been through too much together for you to have to say that.” Able stroked her cheek. “I need you alive, my dear. You inspire me to greater works.” Then in his slightly self-conscious way he joked. “And you know the rules about the dead. You turn yourself into a corpse and I’ll have to take the elevator to visit you on Zero.”

  Though it was grim humor, she found enough energy to smile. “Why are you here?”

  Able looked puzzled. “Why? Oh, here in your office? I just wanted to see if you will be prepared regarding tomorrow morning’s enterprise.”

  Cawood briefly thought back on their last conversation. Able’s Angel… “Oh, yes. When did you want to do that?”

  “I was told he would be expecting us at eleven.” A gleam sparkled in the minister’s eye.

  “He?” Cawood’s muddled head could not make the leap. “The Angel?”

  “Yes.” Stoneworthy patted the back of her hand. “He is expecting us then.”

  “Well.” She didn’t know what to say. “Tomorrow
morning, then.” Stoneworthy was too buoyed by his own excitement to see her doubt.

  “Can you imagine the responsibility put upon us here my friend?” His whole body grew rigid with excitement. “A minister waits his whole life to redeem the lowliest soul, while always remembering that in each heart, regardless of the size or station, including his own, resides a soul—flawed, yet cherished by our Father in Heaven. We are born forgiven, we need only ask. And to be chosen now for such a work, to redeem one such as this.” He could not restrain his mirth and chuckled. “How wonderful the works of heaven.” Able held his hands out smiling. “Look at me, I’m shaking.”

  “Yes.” Cawood grappled with another bout of nausea. “Wonders.” She levered herself forward. “Are you sure about this, Able?”

  “Ah, yes, you catch me at it even now.” He shrugged his lean shoulders. “And I have asked myself if my excitement is a form of pride.” His eyes welled up with tears. “But I assure you, if I shake, it is my fear that I will fail. I have faith in the strength of God. And if He chooses me, I cannot fail. Yet, it is the way of a wise man, to doubt his own abilities that he might be better prepared should he be called upon to use them.”

  “Okay.” Cawood slid back in her chair. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

  “Yes, I’ll stop in at nine…” Able’s eyes shone before a stern look settled his eyebrows. “Eat and get some rest.”

  “Thanks, Able.” Cawood returned the handclasp. “I will.”

  “I’m going to the chapel,” Stoneworthy said, and almost danced out of the room.

  The nun watched him leave, the door shut slowly. Angels! She didn’t think that she could take it if Able lost his mind. Her thoughts felt crowded with sin and haze. She closed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair, letting the cool synthetic leather brush her cheek. The door opened. Purgatory.

  “Sister Cawood.” It was Jane’s honest voice.

  Cawood sat up, saw the secretary’s head and shoulder peeking in the door. “Yes Jane. Good morning.”

  “Begging your pardon, Sister.” Jane inched in a little further. “But I’ve been negligent with some of my office duties, and have missed you on occasions past when I would have had you sign some papers and other such work. Would it bother you now, to sign some few of importance? I would appreciate the kindness.”

  Pulling herself into a sitting position, Cawood nodded and gestured. “Yes. Jane, I’m sorry. And it’s my duty to keep on top of things, come in, come in, please.”

  Jane smiled and entered. The nun’s heart sank. Her secretary held at least twenty pounds worth of signing. She covered her sigh with a smile.

  22 – The Boat

  Wurn cut the engine. The trawler glided up to the yacht. Its plastic bumpers thumped gently against the fiberglass hull. The Eyesore hissed at the sound, and pressed a sausage finger over his lips. He rolled his worried eyes then set to work. A hurried flick of the troll’s arms cast the bow rope and then the stern to an ugly pair of his brethren who looked down from the yacht’s high rail. They secured the ropes and lowered an aluminum ramp to the water. Wurn scrambled onto this before turning to steady his boat with splayed hands. Anxiety clutched the oversized features that hung inches over the darkness.

  Felon was in no hurry. He studied the other Eyesores. Deformed like Wurn they went about their duties with strength and precision. He watched the interplay of hard muscle and bone and stored the information for future reference. They’d be dangerous in a fight. He glared at the aluminum platform. Its tight lattice of aluminum strips gave the impression of safety. Oily water churned inches below it. The assassin stepped out of the boat, foot touching the platform for a second, and then climbed the ladder. He slipped over the rail onto the deck. Wurn hurried after. The troll’s anxiety overwhelmed him at the last second and he fell on his face

  The Eyesores laughed coarsely at Wurn’s antics and hauled the docking ramp free of the water. They grunted against the strain. Felon watched. For a second he thought he saw bone white fingers slide free of the aluminum lattice and sink back into the murk.

  The other Eyesores were like Wurn in size, but had unique deformities. The creature with the bowline had a red beard growing from a baby’s face. Crooked teeth glistened through a constant lather of drool. Its body resembled a dwarf’s. The other creature had no lower jaw, which turned its mouth into a puckering hole from which a snake-like tongue wriggled. Its hands had two powerful fingers and thumbs on each, and its feet were pig’s hooves. Both of the Eyesores wore drab gray coveralls and were trussed with tool belts. They busied themselves securing Wurn’s boat while the troll struggled to regain what composure he possessed.

  He looked up at Felon. “I will take you to Master Balg.” His eyes glinted in the light from the windows. Felon caught a shape reflected in the oversized pupils. He whipped around .9 mm in hand. A tall thin man was standing there. The stranger froze—focused on the gun.

  Felon glared. The man stood well over six feet. His body had a long, stretched quality that reeked of the supernatural. He was dressed in a loose white suit, and his hair tumbled between his black eyes in a spiraling white lock. Behind him the fiberglass upper deck loomed. There appeared to be no doors in the ship’s superstructure, and the light from the windows gave the entire ship a ghostly glow.

  “Mind your station, Wurn!” the stranger snapped, and the troll hurried to aid his brethren. He offered the assassin a long thin hand. “I hope I did not startle you, Mr. Felon. It is always disconcerting to be surprised.” His voice was deep and throaty.

  Felon slipped his gun away and stared at the welcoming hand until its long fingers dropped away quivering.

  “Do forgive my rudeness, Mr. Felon. We do not get many visitors to the yacht from the mainland. As you are aware, we normally receive all guests at Master Balg’s offices in the City. My name is Passport, assistant to the Demon. Master Balg’s previous assistant Senji Shaiko met with a rather unfortunate demise when a dispute over petty cash caused our employer to lose his temper.”

  Felon knew Shaiko. He was a medium-sized Asian man with pencil-thin mustache—a professional who wouldn’t waste time gloating.

  The assassin looked past the thin man.

  “A most unfortunate incident.” Passport’s eyes gleamed with growing embarrassment.

  Felon studied Passport’s face. The Demon’s servant looked human enough, but something reptilian lurked behind the nacreous white skin.

  Felon snarled and started searching for his cigarettes. He kept an eye on Passport.

  The thin man’s head followed the arch of his eyebrow to his full height. “Master Balg has been taken away on business, but will return shortly. He has instructed me to see to your comfort until then. Would you follow me, please?” The gangly form spun effortlessly on his heel and led Felon along the deck toward the stern. “Master Balg has a number of yachts in his fleet, but counts this one his favorite. The Kennedy, he calls it, after a long dead family whose dealings with him led to their dooms. I believe he has always been an admirer of the cautionary tale.” Passport laughed.

  Thirty feet from the docking ramp he stepped through an arch into a short hall that ran between two facing doors. “He enjoys the yacht’s comforts, which are numerous and you will find obvious, but most of all he desires the ship’s mobility. As you can imagine, with the number of competing family businesses at work within the Sunken City, one cannot be too careful. He retains his offices in the City of Light for business functions with the mortals, but has on this occasion allowed you access to The Kennedy to reward your proven loyalty.” Poised at the door to the right, Passport bowed to Felon.

  “Master Balg has instructed me to inform you that he is most pleased with your work. Further, he apologizes for changing the mode of payment. The remainder of the ingots is here, with a bonus I might add. Master Balg has further employment opportunities that he would like to discuss with you in person.” He opened the door gesturing to the lighted hall beyond. “After you.”
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  Felon scowled and twitched his chin at the door.

  Passport smiled, pointing at his own chest. “After me. As you wish.”

  The assassin followed the angular form through the door and down a curving stairway. Music floated wraithlike from below. At the bottom of the stair Passport paused by a set of massive gilt doors. “My Master’s Games Room.” And he swung the doors wide. “Offered for your comfort.”

  Felon was hit with a wave of hot air that reeked of cigarette smoke, body odor and brimstone. The music, haunting before, became discordant. It was lost, and commingled with mad laughter and screams, and a distant chorus of human voices moaning. The sounds pealed and swung between terror and glee.

  The Games Room ran away from him some forty feet. The floor was covered in an enormous Persian carpet; its surface depicted Judgment Day. Against one wall, a fifteen-foot wide Jacuzzi steamed. In it, bodies writhed. Six people—men and women—thrashed and howled in water that rolled and steamed like it was boiling. Any of the bathers who could blindly thrash his way to the side was bullwhipped back under the surface by one of four deformed Eyesores that guarded the perimeter.

  Opposite this were three steel crosses. A man in black leather cowl was crucified upon each, fastened in place with barbed wire. Felon watched as four naked women tore at their flesh with pincers, taunted them, and applied hot iron staves to blistered parts of their anatomy. The assassin felt Passport’s gaze upon him. He growled.

  His guide led him across the room. Further along were six tables upon which an equal number of men and women were strapped. They screamed and wept as Eyesores performed sexual and violent tortures upon them. The trolls gleefully raped, and thumb-screwed their victims, flat eyes shining with liberating malice.