The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “Topp—I order this base to full alert effective immediately. Central Operatives have informed me that events will unfold quickly.” He neglected to mention that most of the information came from his supernatural operatives. “I will keep you apprised of all developments.” He began to walk to the doors. “Program them yourself. I’ll leave my man, Lincoln Carter, here to assist.”

  “We’ll be ready, Prime.” The General’s head did not turn. His shoulders drooped at mention of Carter.

  “Be ready!” The Prime couldn’t resist the urge to bully. He opened the door. The leader of Westprime walked out pleased with the process, pausing only to wink at Carter. He had arranged for the possession of his aide by a Demon who would not scruple about marking millions of people for death, or who never hesitate to kill Topp at the first sign of insubordination.

  42 - Sister

  Karen Cawood sat up. Her head still hurt to the touch, but it stopped aching. She saw the same small sparsely furnished room. The walls were papered with a busy pink and yellow floral pattern. There was a bed, a small desk and a lamp. There was a door across from her, but it was locked. A narrow barred window was set high in the wall. The murderer brought her here the night before.

  He left her blindfolded and tied to the steering wheel while he got out of the car. When he returned, he led her across an open space and down a spiral of steps into a damp, musty smelling place. She was pushed through cool air ahead of him and shoved into a room where she was ordered to take her blindfold off. The door closed.

  And here she was, awake again with nothing to do but wait. Her memories jumped over the last days.

  Able was shot. She was knocked unconscious. Then she woke up in the backseat of a car. Her vision was blurry. Her head pounded. The engine was idling. She heard and felt the trunk close. “Run!” Her mind screamed at her, but her body was overcome with dizziness. The man might have fractured her skull. He got back in the car and she lost consciousness.

  Next came a harsh whisper. “Get up.” The voice was cold. A powerful hand gripped her shoulder. She started to fake unconsciousness, but the hand slapped her face until her skull ached.

  “Okay!” Cawood cried, raising her arms to fend him off. She crawled to a sitting position. The murderer stared at her from the front seat of Able’s car. His eyes were black.

  “Pupils weren’t moving,” he said, his voice flat. His arm was draped casually over the seat. “Breathing was normal. No sleep. No coma. Try that again and I’ll kill you.” He shifted his position; the strange light cut dangerous crescents on his cheeks. The man was wounded and tired. “Up here. Over the seat.”

  She remembered it was dark. Light came from the dashboard’s neon green glow. Karen straightened her clothes. She patted her hair, couldn’t find her coif.

  “You telegraph, Sister,” the man said. “Pregnant pauses.” She saw the cold glint on a gun barrel gesture. “Over the seat.”

  As she climbed over, the man talked. Sweat beaded his brow.

  “Fake emotion. None is best.” He grabbed one of her ankles as she climbed to keep her heel away from his face. Did his fingers linger on the inside of her calf? “Blank face is a gun. Don’t know if it’s loaded.” He sneered, “You’re full of guilt.”

  Cawood dropped into the seat beside him—head throbbing—her eyes searching for his in the gloom. They were green tinted and wet rimmed. The strain made him harder.

  “Where’s Reverend Stoneworthy?” Her words cracked.

  “With God.” There was no emotion in his face. “Try to escape or disobey—I will punish you the first time. The second, you’ll die.” His unshaven lips gleamed in the greenish light. “You’re only worth something to me if you’re controllable.” He glanced down at his wounded shoulder and then up. His eyes fixed on something through the window past her head. Sister Cawood turned to look and something hit the back of her head. She dropped into blackness.

  Then he was ordering her to get up. Her head hurt worse than before.

  She looked across the front seat of the car; saw him behind the wheel. It was still dark, but the sky had lightened to a gloomy gray. They were out of the City parked under a thick stand of pines. He wore a black cotton pullover. Rain dripped on the car.

  “Eat,” he ordered. She took the sandwich from his muscular hand.

  “Where are we…” she started, but he slapped her on the temple. Light sparked across her vision.

  “Shut up.” He bit into his own sandwich. “Now ask,” he growled. The murderer snatched a can of cola from the floor, threw it at her, and opened one for himself.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, handling her sandwich like it was a dead toad.

  “To get even,” he hissed. “Want to know why you set me up. And why you’d set up one of your own.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She placed her sandwich on the dashboard. “Able and I were there on business.”

  “Wasn’t asking.” He looked away, opened the door. The man climbed out, clutching the remnants of his sandwich. She saw a dark stain at the top of the driver’s seat. The murderer moved around the car and opened the trunk. He started pulling things out of it. Taking that moment of distraction, Cawood visually searched the car. The keys were gone. She tried to open the glove compartment. It was locked. She reached under her seat, and the driver’s—nothing. The nun looked into the back seat—nothing. The only positive note was the growing light. Somewhere behind the perpetual cloud the sun was rising.

  He walked to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “Out.” His voice was heavy with threat. Karen got out.

  “Perhaps,” she started, her mind was racing. “You should know my name. I’m Karen Cawood.”

  “Don’t care.” He moved to the rear of the car. She saw that he had piled his bloody clothes—her coif was tangled there as well—about ten feet from the bumper. A two-gallon gas tank stood beside them. He had set a dark blue duffel bag, about four feet long, at the rear wheel of the car. The trunk was open. Nausea twisted her stomach when she saw the pool of blood inside. Able!

  “These trees are nice.” She looked around at the tall pines. Her heart hammered with terror, fearful she would set him off. The trees were especially ugly against the brooding sky. The smell of their sap was strong. “We had a type of pine near my home. That was South Africa—where I grew up. Menlo Park. I had a pet lizard.”

  The murderer watched her. The smell of gasoline was slowly overpowering the pine.

  “Not a serial killer.” He lit a match and dropped it on the clothes. They burst into flames. “Worse.” Gouts of black smoke flew across the damp forest floor like ghosts.

  He walked over, his face set and grim. Karen retreated toward the car, fear hammering in her chest. The butt of a pistol protruded from his belt. A void filled his bony eye sockets. He stared at her. Sinew bunched at his jaw like he was about to pronounce judgment. Something colored his features. He bent, lifted his duffel bag, and pointed at the forest path.

  “Go.” He gestured with the bag.

  Karen shifted on the bed—remembering. The light from the barred window was gray. She could remember the next part clearly. She reached for her crucifix, but was glad it was gone.

  They had walked to the highway. Its surface was cracked and pitted. He swung the bag over his shoulder and started marching north. In the distance she could see the City gleam. Lights burned on its massive spine and soaked the overcast sky with pale light.

  Cawood followed mutely, sorting through her thoughts. She knew this man would kill her. The fact that she remained alive meant something though. Oh Sacred Mother! Was this punishment for her sins?

  The murderer would keep her alive if she cooperated. If she could stay alive, she might find a way to bring this man to justice. She’d do anything to atone for the disgrace she’d brought on the church. By now her superiors must have received a copy of the film. Holy Mother! And poor Able was dead.

  Why did the murde
rer think she set him up? She barely believed Able’s reason for going to the house.

  So if the murderer was keeping her alive, was it as a hostage? Did he need a bargaining chip if Authority tracked him down? If he believed that there was a conspiracy at work against him, and he saw her as part of it, he might believe he could hide behind her living body or trade it for his freedom. But how could she bargain with him?

  A car approached from the north. It moved slowly never wandering more than a few inches from the yellow line.

  “Come!” the man ordered, slipping his shirt over the gun in his belt. They crossed the road to the southbound lane. “Wave,” the murderer hissed as he started waving. “Now.”

  Cawood waved her arms. Perhaps God had sent the car to tip the odds in her favor. “Holy Mother! Preserve me!” she whispered.

  The car slowed. It was old, a Ford with busy chromium grill that was part of a retro-fifties fad decades after Change. It was a light metallic red in color and in good repair. Perhaps the traveler could read her expression. He might go for help.

  The murderer walked casually to the passenger window, the driver was rolling it down. “Hello.” He leaned over, a smile on his face.

  “Hey there.” The man had homely comical features. His eyes were blue and close set, marked with a serious dark line of eyebrow. “Got trouble?”

  The murderer casually pointed down the road with his right hand, while his left came out from under his shirt with a gun.

  “Out! Leave the keys,” he growled.

  “Damn!” the driver grumbled climbing out. His face shifted to angry surprise. He scanned the highway for help. He looked at Cawood.

  “Hands where I can see them!” the murderer spat.

  “God damn it!” the driver shouted. “Just take the car. Go on.”

  “Move,” the murderer growled, gesturing to the ditch at the side of the road. Beyond that Cawood saw a wooded area.

  “We’ve got the car!” she cried, her nerves firing wildly. “Please!”

  The murderer pushed the driver toward the ditch.

  “Just take the car,” the traveler said as he slid down the loose stone and gravel at the road’s edge. “Take it.”

  “Let’s take the car!” Karen screamed.

  “Yeah, take it. It’s just...” The driver’s voice was cut off by a shot. A plume of red appeared on the far side of his head. He toppled.

  “No!” Karen ran at her captor. “You can’t do that! No!”

  The murderer spun toward her with gun raised. The barrel rammed her face, clinked off her teeth. She lurched back.

  “Get in the car!” the murderer hissed. “Now!”

  For a second, Karen tried to find the martyr in her soul. But death was meaningless to this man. “Evil!” she screamed at him, pointing at his face. “Evil!”

  “Now!” the murderer barked, starting toward her. He slapped her hand aside. “In the car!”

  He pushed her with his free hand. She fell to a knee. He gripped her arm, lifted and threw her against the car. “Get in!” He pulled the passenger door open, shoved her. She kicked at his crotch but he turned and her heel glanced off his hip. He leapt on her, pushed her face violently against the seat. His fingers dug into her neck like steel spikes. He punched her behind the ear, and she screamed.

  Cawood heard his breath close, and she swung her head up. There was a thump as it connected with his forehead

  He cursed and hit her with the gun.

  She felt him arch his back, press his hips into her buttocks. She pushed back into him, screaming. He was aroused. She heard the jangle of his belt buckle.

  The murderer spat a curse and slapped the back of her head. Pain shot through her temples as he made a hissing noise and pulled her skirt up, ripped her pantyhose and underwear aside. And he entered her. The gun barrel scraped against the back of her skull as he thrust into her, growling like a mad dog. And she pushed back against him, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of vicious desire. And he grunted, and thrust harder. He pressed her face against the seat; the gun barrel cut the side of her face.

  As he climaxed, so did she. But her heart beat with grotesque satisfaction. Her abdomen quivered and her thighs shook. Maybe that was why she was here. She was as sick as he was. The murderer cursed and snarled and pushed himself off her. He grabbed her wrists and shoved them painfully against the dashboard. Karen turned her head as he lashed her hands to the steering wheel with his belt. The leather bit into her flesh as he pulled on the knot with all his strength.

  “Didn’t hurt you,” he spat at her. “You’re a nun?”

  Cawood smiled back at him with carnal desire, for the first time, feeling some power. She wanted him to hurt her. Emotion wrinkled the corner of the man’s eye.

  He hissed into her ear—intimately familiar. “Wait.” Her cheek burned from his stubble. He pulled the car keys free, then climbed out. She heard him scramble down the sandy embankment.

  He came back and freed her hands—pushed her into her seat. As he turned the car north, he spoke. “I don’t kill without a reason. You don’t enjoy rape without one.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him!” Karen’s voice broke.

  “A sacrifice,” he growled.

  “To who?” she screamed.

  “Me.” The killer smirked. “Who were you sacrificing to?”

  Sitting on the bed, Karen Cawood remembered their only conversation. Afterward, his manner had hardened to something mechanical. This killer was powerful. And he was remorseless. But he wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the rape.

  43 – Shootout at the Pig’s House

  Felon watched the dining room through a two-way mirror studying his old companions for signs of strength. The assassin always searched for strength first. Successful human hunters did not look for weakness alone. Weaknesses were obvious. Vulnerabilities drew a predator like a magnet. Since Felon trusted his instincts his intellect was free to focus on potential dangers. So as in the case of the group before him, he looked for the strongest. That’s the one he had to worry about.

  They were former Regulators, once paid by nascent Authority in the early days of the Change to deal with the uncooperative dead. Regulators would be sent in to quash riots and settle disputes. That was usually done with heavy caliber machine guns, machetes and bulldozers. When the political price of Regulators grew too high, they were “deputized” into the growing Authority forces, or declared “undesirables” and hunted down like criminals. Felon freelanced with Regulators but never considered himself one of them. The legal vacuum they represented was often a convenient place to hide a hit. But the majority of them were amateurs.

  This trio wanted nothing to do with Authority ranks so formed a larger group of criminals with similar tastes that they called the Wild Bunch. Felon had known the trio, and others from their gang for decades.

  But looking at them now, he felt nothing. They’d worked together over the years, off and on, Felon bringing them on as hired guns. The whole thing had almost blown apart on a northern lake five decades after the Change. They had been a tough well-organized team of outlaws at the time, hired to help him track down an informant who was in the protection of some lowlife detective trying to make a name for himself wearing clown makeup. The informant was an Authority Operative who could prove the Prime was going to manipulate election results to get into power.

  The pressure was on and time was short so Felon needed lots of extra bodies to track them down. He farmed out some of the work to independent contractors. That was a mistake. Amateurs and hangers-on were brought. The detective got wise and Felon almost got killed. The clown had unexpected allies. Felon killed him, but the informant got back to the City of Light. News of his existence brought a whistleblower out of the political woodwork, and that had slowed the Prime’s takeover for a decade. Felon didn’t get paid, and rightly so. He’d made the mistake of letting his feelings get involved. He underestimated the detective.

  But thes
e gunmen had proven themselves over the intervening years. Tiny was the brains of the operation, sharing leadership with the Texan, Driver. Felon appreciated Driver’s comprehensive knowledge of the art of killing, and had on many occasions discussed the finer points of it. He was a daring and experienced getaway man as well and so his name. Tiny, on the other hand, still carried some of his pre-Change bourgeois attitudes. He still believed a man’s measure came in how much cash was folded in his pocket. Felon did not trust him as much when it came to action.

  Bloody was a problem. He was a big reckless murderer who hid behind a thin visage of education. Felon knew that education was easy. Wisdom was something else. He’d proven that when Bloody turned a stupid argument over guns into a reason for Felon to kill him. Eight years before, Felon got to a job early and Bloody was the only one there. He was drunk and aggressive. He started into an argument over whether his weapon, a .45 magnum Colt, was better than a .9 mm automatic because of its killing power.

  Felon held that accuracy was everything. The big gunman insisted that fear won a gunfight, and the bigger the gun, the greater the fear. Felon wasn’t afraid of anything. A gun was just a machine. You had to fear the man holding it.

  Bloody took that as an insult and reached for his .45. It got caught in his belt, which was another criticism Felon had offered about its antique shape versus the .9 mm’s sleek design. The assassin drew his .9 mm and shot the gunman eight times.

  The assassin had left then, and did not return. There was a good chance that Bloody’s friends would want revenge. He’d prefer talking to them at a distance, after tempers cooled.

  But they hadn’t talked since. Looking at Bloody now, Felon could see that the dead gunman had allowed himself to dehydrate and grow stiff. His movements spoke to that. The fool wouldn’t be much in a gunfight, but Felon didn’t think he’d pose much of a threat to him either.

  “Well,” Felon heard Driver’s voice through the hidden microphones. “Where in hell is he?”