And with the extinction of earth’s bacteria that fed on dead flesh, the problem grew to ghastly proportions. The Internment Facilities were soon crawling with dead bodies and twitching body parts. Sadly, there were many such facilities operating by the time the problem was recognized. The end result was that the living shunned the countryside. The idea of camping and having your tent knocked over by a headless corpse was too much for most.
Optimistically, Updike reassured himself that the wilderness had been forsaken anyway. God’s word giving man dominion over the animals had been revoked. The first days were horrible. Animals both domesticated and wild attacked their former masters. Pets were caged or destroyed. Others were released or escaped. Farming became very dangerous.
As he worked, Updike watched the evolution of a terrified culture. There were power struggles just short of civil war, and realignment of alliances, often times with the public wondering who was in charge. The living were barricading themselves in walled cities. The dead within were treated sympathetically at first but were finally restricted to special areas.
By the time Authority evolved into the interconnected world giant it now was, it was too late to stop Updike or his followers. When they turned to him the preacher was the leader of a vast army. Digs had already been started under his direction on the other continents. Updike said they would carry on with their mission, but an Angel warned him.
“Disperse,” it said, and he immediately saw the truth. Such a massive army of dead would terrify the living into action. “Accidents” had already happened with Authority Regulators destroying the dead.
Updike broke his army into smaller groups. These moved to towns and villages that had been abandoned by the living. He continued, taking his movement down into Mexico and South America.
His mission unfolded over decades. The first step was the gathering of his force. Whispered among the leaders of the dead were promises of a new world unfolding for all. Updike awaited a sign.
He was in Peru when it came. The preacher was experimenting with a new technique for softening the ancient bodies of dead Incas.
The Angels whispered three words: It is time. Soon after Updike received an invitation to a conference in The City of Light. He was invited to talk about his work. The theme was The Rebirth of the Earth Religions and the Death of Science.
Updike boarded the plane. That was the way the Lord worked. There were no coincidences.
35 – Guardian
The Creature told him to keep grownups away from the Nightcare, and that’s what he did. The little boy with the lethal fist left Liz and the others to do their wah-wah-wah, sorry Creature-boss but we lost the Squeaker. What’s her name, the real-kid-kid, was too stupid to listen to us fighters and run so the Toffers got her.
Conan flexed his shoulders. They were still tight from all the fighting, and there were little prickly burns on his cheeks where the Toffers’ boom-bomb sent off its sparks and got into his helmet. That threw him off, like it did all the fighters—and there were little green lights in front of their eyes “like fairies” the girls said—and that let the Toffers get away.
Conan and Big Henry did their best to keep up to them and the Sheps but they moved fast once they all peeled their skins. Even Conan couldn’t keep up, and he was the fastest fighter in the Nightcare. So they hurried back and did their reporting and boohooing but he couldn’t stand it so off he went just so. Got some grub and a bit of whisky on his stings and then ran and ran for the edge of it all.
He didn’t wait around while the others did their head scratching and wondering and sniffling. Conan didn’t have patience for that kind of yak yak and standing around not-yakking just made his head think over the olden days. And thinking of that just made him want to go out in the tunnels and make chili sauce out of grownups. All those bad guys walking around asking for trouble, and keeping boys in cages and doing the Devil work on them.
The thought alone had him swinging his die-flower around, scratching it on the stones in the tunnel. The fist-kill was an idea he got from some old crazy movie about another evil grownup who got burned up and killed but came back in dreams to hunt the forever teens while they were fuckity-fucking, as Big Henry called it. But he had a glove on his hand full of knives and Conan liked the idea so much he made one. He didn’t have a name for it yet, and everybody called it something different. But there was a wooden grip he held onto inside a hockey glove, and the whole thing was wired, and taped and screw-nailed together.
There were five sharp blades now, from eight to twelve inches long. There used to be six but that was too many for the size of his fist and the length of his arm. He’d almost cut off his nuts with the downswing one time so he had to trim the lethal blossom.
But he liked taking the slash-fingers and chopping them around in a grownup’s belly, or running them up his legs into the crotch where all the bad business they did on Conan came from. That was real fine and joyful cause they screamed and screamed like the other boys screamed in the Bad house long ago. Conan didn’t scream then. He hadn’t said a word since they first got him and fucked him up.
But seeing the Toffers trying to hurt forever kids just got Conan’s blood up and he’d already run to the edge of the tunnels where he had hidey places, and flop-joints for snoozing and spent the last two nights keeping a ear open for a tap-tap code from the Nightcare or the big-step of a grownup blundering close.
That morning he got lucky and did some wicked cut-work on a bad guy who was walking around below ground with his pecker out pissing. He wouldn’t have that trouble no more. Conan danced in on him before he blinked his eyes, and he slashed his guts until the spaghetti came pouring out. Then he stepped in while the gray-hair was crying and gathering his guts into his lap, and did a few wicked thrusts into the nuts until there was only blood pouring out around hamburger.
Conan froze when he heard a sound. It was a light thrumming noise like a big boot moving quietly over the metal-grated walkways that ran the length of this section of tunnel. Like someone was trying to be funny or sneaky like but made a mistake.
And Conan was moving. His light running shoes barely touched the grating underfoot as he flickered through the darkness. There were always background sounds to hide the little things, but Conan prided himself on being quieter still.
His senses were on high alert, all radar and magnifying glasses, because where he was, many miles in from the fight with that drunk guy, was too close to the Nightcare to allow any monkey business. He thought it might be Toffers, since they’d seen some only a day or so back; but he thought he’d investigate before he sounded the tap-tap alarm.
It was pitch dark. The tunnels were sporadically lit by dim odd and even lights overhead, where they hadn’t burned out. Dark is how he liked it. If he needed the spark and dazzle, he knew where the other fighters in the Nightcare hid glow sticks all over the place in tunnels and sewers.
But Conan knew the dark spots well. That way he could get in close, and see what he needed to see, or do what he needed to do—just peek and sneak or slash and trash and gone! And the dark spots always led up to the light ones, and that was good because that was where most invaders waited and watched and worried and blinked their eyes and peed their pants. It never took more than a second for Conan to fly out of the darkness and do his work—cut and scream and bye.
This section of tunnels was old maintenance ways and stairs for a giant factory on Zero long ago knocked down and built on. They’d left the tunnels though, and these linked up to the sewers that ran all under the City of Light, some new and some stinking old from the times before the Change. But these were perfect places to hide the Nightcare, and even better places to protect it.
Conan froze. Ahead of him in the dim light, he saw a man. The man was tall and pretty thin. He wore a long coat and some kind of weird high hat that had tattered bits hanging down the back. Conan could see him at the crossing of two tunnels and at the foot of a metal ladder that would lead up to a basement
on Zero.
Conan ran ahead. The fist-kill swung back. He was out of the shadow and slashing. The long blades rang once, twice and a third time. Parried and turned by a metal stick held in the man’s hand. Conan did not wait or pause or think. He continued running, took two leaps up the rungs in the brick and flipped himself over backward, this time launched at the stranger’s head. The die-flower flashed again, this time almost catching the man’s bearded face, but ringing again once, twice and a third time on the metal stick.
Conan let himself fall into the shadow, rolled and then charged forward again hugging the edge of darkness until he could burst out murder-hand poised and whipping upward.
This time the blades were turned on the first slash, they slipped past the stick on the second, and chopped into the man’s calf on the third.
The stranger cried out, but whipped his metal stick around and fended off Conan’s new attack. All three sweeps of the fist-kill missed, and the stranger suddenly shouted strange words. The metal stick in his hand burst into white flames, and it was all Conan could do to avoid the eye-fire.
As it was, his peepers went covered in blazing lights and starry and blinded. He tumbled and then ran into the wall, head thumping. The man shouted something, but Conan scurried blindly toward the tunnel of shadows he knew so well, and was soon pelting away into the darkness.
He could barely contain a smile as his vision came blinking back and as he heard the man follow limping now and breathing harshly.
Conan would lead him a little farther. He knew where he wanted to catch the man. There was a very dark crossroads ahead where a sewer pipe hung over the tunnel. Conan would get up there and wait, and then slash the man’s face and throat with the die-flower and that would be that would be that.
Still the man followed—the big stupid-stupid. A quick glance back showed the light from the man’s stick. That was good too, because Conan knew the stranger’s eyes would lean on the light, and would go weak and wobbly in the shadow.
When he got to the crossroads, Conan easily shinnied up a broken pipe and rolled onto the top of the sewer. He laid flat and waited as the man’s footsteps approached ringing hollow on the iron slats.
But the grownup must have paused or stopped before entering the crossroads, because the light did not come further. Conan could not see the man directly, but he could tell the glowy eye-burn waited inside the tunnel and out of reach. And then the worst thing happened.
“Max?” the man asked the darkness. “I’m not like the others.”
And terror gripped Conan because the stranger had just used his mommy-only name and not his fighter name that he got from a movie. Nobody knew the mommy-only name but one or two in all the Nightcare and they knew better than to say it.
“Max?” the man continued. “Those men were evil. What they did to you in the Bad house was wrong.”
And a wild idea ran through Conan’s head. Did this stranger know his mommy? Was it possible that she sent him? He had not seen her since the Change, but Conan remembered her beautiful blue eyes and her big white smile and curly golden halo hair. She was lost with the old world. And the men in the Bad house caught him before he could help her.
“Max?” the man said softly. “I’m here to help you.”
Now Conan tensed his body. He noticed the man had stepped into the crossroads a pace or two. Just the way we like it, here we go…
“What those men did,” the stranger’s voice filled with emotion, “they deserved death for it.”
Conan prepared himself. The man had taken another step. And his yakking was getting a lot of bad not-yakking going in the forever boy’s head.
“But not all men are evil,” the man whispered. “Not all. And it is not right to kill those who did you no wrong.” He kept talking. “You’ve killed too many. Their blood stains you.”
Conan leapt through the air. The man must have guessed his position because he quickly caught the death-petal blades on his stick and slid past. Conan landed on the ground panting.
The man turned to him. The metal stick in his hands glowed brightly. “Your mother loves you,” he said, his eyes wide and feeling.
Conan slashed the air with his lethal fist.
“And she will always love you,” the man suddenly spread his arms and the metal stick fell to the grating with a clang. “I love you, Max.”
And Conan roared and ran at the stranger, the kill-flower open and slashing. He swung at the man who raised a hand defensively, and Conan saw streaks of blood appear.
But the man kept watching, tears in his eyes now. “You’re just a little boy!”
And Conan slashed again—eyes blurring—saw the blade rip the man’s uninjured leg. This time the stranger let out a shout of pain and dropped to his knees.
Conan stood in front of him. The man’s face was awash with sadness. He was weeping. But it was like he didn’t feel the cuts, like instead he saw the cuts in Conan—and they made him cry. He looked right at the deep down ones that the Bad house put in there. The stranger showed him Max in the shadows. And Conan felt his own eyes start to fill with tears.
“Your mother loves you, Max,” the man said, crying openly. “Please let me help you. You’re just a boy.” He spread his arms. “I’m so sorry that these things happened to you.”
And Conan ran at him, fist-kill ready but fell against the stranger’s breast and was awash with sorrow. He wept until his little spirit felt clean.
36 – Sacrifice
The Prime read the report. It was straightforward enough. His Operative, Vanguard, had compiled his preliminary findings and sent them up by armed courier. It was times like that the leader of the western world missed fax machines and Internet the most. A combination of persistent cloud cover and the strange anomalies that had affected electricity rendered the satellite system of the pre-Change world inoperative. Signals that were beamed through them were distorted beyond usefulness. Authority communications technicians had been troubleshooting the problem for almost a century. Nothing electrical worked worth a damn. Even phones on landlines had good days and bad.
The Prime blamed the extinction of real children for humanity’s inability to figure out the technical problems plaguing the world—real children in the sense that they were conceived and grew to maturity. Linked to that was the loss of childhood invention and problem solving, and creativity was dealt a blow from which it could not recover.
The Prime theorized that invention depended upon successive generations of scientists and technicians. Out with the old, in with the new. New ideas relied on new viewpoints. He had read volumes about the Change that described the death of creativity as a response to the more philosophical aspects of the phenomena. Since science could not explain the Change, it was considered untrustworthy, and so doubt had eroded the scientific community’s faith in its own dogma. Stagnation occurred. But the Prime felt the answer was not so esoteric. He preferred taking a little from column ‘A’ and a little from column ‘B.’ The pre-Change view of the world was too narrow and now people struggled to catch up. However, since everyone had been born pre-Change, preconceptions were hardwired.
The loss of invention permeated the World of Change. Art, literature and music were repetition based on old forms. The same went for social policy. The majority of politicians looked for the future in the past.
A sense of confusion went along with it. The Prime believed that humanity had never properly grieved for the generation stillborn. It had not wanted to accept what the inconceivable loss of children meant to their futures. The end needed no more description than that, and there were no more children. The end.
The Prime had never loved or hated children, so he didn’t miss real ones. He lusted after them, and that was how the forever children phenomena worked in his favor. Babies alive when the Change came grew to their relative fifth year. Any children older than that, and teens as well, remained so without physical aging or maturing.
It took much of the guilt away when exerci
sing his passions to know that the soul in the child’s body he desired was inconceivably old. Oh he missed the wide-eyed terror of innocence, but the upside was that the World of Change liberated all of his inhibitions. He was free to experiment.
Adults aged, but they did so at a rate that made it almost invisible. For a moment he marveled at the amount of time it would take him to look old—and he wanted to find out. He was thirty-seven at the time of the Change, and now one hundred years had passed.
But there wouldn’t be a future if he didn’t decipher his Operative’s message. It bore an origin code for the Central Authority offices at Archangel Tower. It was sent an hour ago. He had been in seclusion at the time chanting over a bloody pentangle. The report read:
Eyes Only: Prime
Reporting: Vanguard
- 232 Towerview Terrace to be examined.
- City Authority Enforcement cooperative.
The Prime scanned the sheet. Two City Enforcement inspectors were called to 232 Towerview Terrace, the afternoon of February 17, 107 New Age. The Prime’s enhanced abilities allowed him to quickly absorb the report. The gist of it was simple enough.
Neighbors heard gunshots and called City Authority. Inspectors arrived at approximately 12:45 p.m. They found large a quantity of blood on the steps. (It was later typed to two individuals.) Inspectors called in reinforcements. They entered the house, reported heat damage to door and interior. They found the body of Margaret Travers, cause of death: large caliber bullet wound to brain. (Unreliable to Question.) Corpse repeats: “An angel. An angel.” Central Authority lab techs want to examine the body. Might be more playback in time.
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 19