“Imagine the foyer of the arena. Would there not be pictures of hockey players and of figure skaters? And would they not be the fresh sweet faces of children? There would be trophies, and plaques and awards—with names engraved, names of teams and of children, and long ago dates: Fastest Sprinter, 1988.” Updike watched Stoneworthy’s face smooth over with understanding. “I would not wish this army to see that. I would not want their purpose darkened with loss or revenge. We must have an army of righteousness to serve our God—to serve His Apocalypse. We cannot have an army of despair.”
The jeep took a sudden lunge and jerk to the left, jarring Updike out of his reverie by banging his head against the roll bar. Pain lit fire in his mind, but the painkillers must have been working for it quickly dulled. He hoped he had been entirely truthful with the minister. Updike had given him the logical, tactical argument, but he wondered if he truly doubted the faith of his troops so much. These people had handled more than that. They had died and returned to an existence of numbness. And still they had faith.
The gray noon sky lit up on the southern horizon like a sunrise.
“Jumping Jesus!” Bolton shrieked, moving stiffly forward in his seat. “Driver, get Lorenzo on the radio. Try to raise Carstairs.” General Lorenzo was leading the southernmost contingent of the army of dead. Carstairs led the southwestern arm. The driver fumbled with the jeep’s handset. He shouted a few things into it, turned the knobs—twisted dials—static and electric noise.
“Sorry, General! Interference.”
Updike knew that things had just taken a drastic turn but the pain in his head kept him from realizing its full impact. He retreated from the ache by thinking back to the town they had passed. He remembered seeing something in the coarse tangle of grasses by the faded remnants of a picket fence. Lying on its back—bleached corpse white by eternal rain and time, a chubby little arm and shoulder, beside it the round and pitted head of a plastic doll.
57 – New Deal
The Prime was a creature in the grips of dynamic opposition. The forces that worked upon him tugged at his mind, threatening to tear it apart. One moment, he was ecstatic. When the mood took him he moved his bulky body along the hall to his office as though he were about to take flight. Triumph! Triumph! Fucking Triumph! The tactical nuclear strike had reduced some eighty thousand corpses to burning dust—those farther from ground zero caught fire and spread the flames through the ranks—turned it into a holocaust.
During the moment of ecstasy the Prime allowed himself to imagine the hobbled army of renegades, tramping north through the wilderness, holing up in abandoned towns, doing whatever it was dead people did, and the next minute, a rocket whistling toward them, then a bright light turns them to vapor.
The Prime giggled. He nickered like a newborn mare. It was just a pity that the process was so quick! Drop and roll. Drop and roll. He would have enjoyed drawing out their molecular unbinding. Nonetheless, the Prime was caught up in the desire to do it again immediately. And thus the oscillation began.
The moment he thought of doing it again, he was gripped with killing anger. When that mood took him his movements condensed to the weight of a black hole, and his features darkened, as though the concentrated hatred that boiled in his veins would cause him to implode and drag the rest of the Tower to Limbo with him. That bastard Updike had forced him to show his hand. He was willing to use nuclear weapons.
It was a good and bad thing.
In the grips of a mood swing to dark, he stormed past his secretary’s pleading look without so much as a snarl. The Prime crashed through the door to his office. He plowed across the room, rage making clubs of his hands, and spun his large chair to sit in it.
A man sat there.
The Prime leapt away. “What the…”
The intruder stood. Smiled. The Prime was astounded by the man’s height. He was almost seven feet tall.
“Forgive my unannounced arrival,” he said, the Prime now noticed the lack of pigment in his skin. This gave his black eyes the appearance of holes. He was dressed in white cotton; he wore a wide-brimmed Panama hat. “But I couldn’t risk the regular channels.”
“Get the FUCK out of my office!” The Prime was already moving away. All of his weapons were in the desk. The leader of Westprime was dumbfounded. How the Hell?
“Before you consider calling your security, I wish to inform you that the people I work for have full knowledge of the Union.” Long yellow teeth leaned out of a smile.
The Union? The Prime’s mind raced with the idea of being burned at the stake while an ignorant mob howled like apes. No one knew about the Union.
“Who are you?” Knowledge of the Union could undo all of his work. Then he realized using of the nuke was already flushing competitors out of the woodwork. Fucking Updike!
“I am Passport, assistant to the Demon.” The white man bent at the waste like a wet bread stick.
“Demon?” The Prime’s thoughts raced. His Ally had never mentioned having servants?
“Oh, I see where your thoughts are running,” Passport said matter-of-factly. “The Demon for whom I work is invested with a magnitude of Powers far above that of your Ally’s.”
More powerful than my Ally? The Prime knew that there were other Demons. He suspected there’d be a confrontation like this one day. But he wasn’t ready—or was he?
“And, who is this Demon?” The Prime needed information. He took a step toward his desk.
“I work for Baron Balg. He resides in the Sunken City.” Passport moved his hands on many jointed arms. They bent every which way. “He offers you something.”
“Offer?” The Prime’s insulted ego growled, “I’m the leader of Westprime. I don’t need gifts.”
Mischief played at Passport’s strange, thin lips. “Of course, Prime. You have no need of gifts. Neither do you need suggestions. This is simply an offering.” He smiled. “You’re acquainted with offerings?”
“Offerings?” The Prime glared into the interloper’s eyes. As he remembered the Sending Room: the pentangle of blood, the weeping sacrifice. Dark father hear me!
“Great leaders achieve their prowess with two things chiefly: wisdom and strength. Your strength, like my master’s, is great. And yet, it may now be time to apply wisdom to its use.” Passport pursed his lips. He moved across the room toward the window. The sunlight burned on his white skin.
“What are you talking about?” The Prime had moved closer to the desk and the guns in its drawers.
Passport turned to him. “I am speaking of those who will lead.” He took a couple of steps. “You are the leader of the New Age.”
The Prime was ready for that. He had even fantasized about such an offer. His Ally had informed him of a vast hierarchy in the Pit that consisted of thousands of Dukes, and Barons and Princes. In reality, the Prime had always expected a visit from Lucifer himself.
“There are hundreds of Barons!” the Prime said finally. “Is Balg the best you can do?”
The intruder smiled. He tilted his head as though thinking or listening. “It is the Baron’s assurance that he will be King of Demons on Earth. He has need of an ally among the humans.”
So that was it. The Apocalypse was here. The Demons were going to war. Let’s do it!
“And I’d be his puppet?” The Prime knew the Demons had been banished to the Pit with the coming of the One God—they wanted out.
“Balg is too practical to think that either of you could share power outright.” Passport wrung his long-fingered hands together. “And yet, the world is changing.” The stranger smoothed his pants leg with the back of a hand. “And as the world changes, it moves farther from what you know.” He paused. “The Baron wishes to rule his Demons on earth, and you rule your humans.”
“Rule.” The Prime’s Demon organ slid between his legs, writhing like a snake.
“There are forces converging on the City of Light that will plunge it into darkness.” Passport sauntered toward the desk, dragged fingertips along its e
dge. “These forces must be stopped.”
“You think I’m afraid of a pack of corpses?” the Prime growled. “I just cremated a bunch of them.”
“Indeed you have. And yet, is this a style of warfare that is safe for the people that you hope to govern?” False concern colored his voice. “Your power would be decreased with too reckless an application of these devices of yours, would it not?” Passport reached up, removed his hat. “Power is meaningless without adoration.”
The Prime didn’t speak; he was thinking feverishly. That was a good point. He’d always imagined some survivors. He’d need slaves. And it was more exciting to control the unwilling. Maybe he’d just take out the other Primes. Then he shook off the line of thought. That was his plan. His Final Solution was in place just in case the worst happened.
“It is Baron Balg’s wish to assist you in the repulsion of this band of rabble. He offers troops. It is my master’s belief that your City would be better defended with such aid.” Again the assistant to the Demon showed teeth. “It has been foreseen that your ground forces will be no match for the dead and their allies. The dead bear the memories of the old world with them, and they wear the faces of those who are gone. It will terrify the living forces under your command. And the dead are hardy, for they need nothing, nor do they fear death. Your forces will fail without the help of Balg.” He smiled. “And the dead have allies—those who would come to whom both Demons and humans pay homage.”
Angels? Fallen? If the Divine and Infernal ranks were coming, humanity and Demonkind both had everything to lose. And if he didn’t accept the Demon’s help, then he’d have another army attacking his flank. Perhaps his captive could shed some light.
“What does Baron Balg want in return?” The Prime had to know his options.
“He wants to share the earth when the battle is over. You will rule yours, and he will rule his. Together you can repel the One God’s forces.” Passport straightened his shoulders. “Demons and humans evolved on this planet together before the coming of the one.”
“I need to think,” the Prime started but Passport cut him off.
“You don’t have time,” the Demon’s servant said. “Your show of strength has forced all hands. Powers greater than the Army of the Dead are on the move.”
The Prime knew his Final Solution could still rule the day. Topp had the coordinates and the weaponry to burn it all if there was a double cross. “If I accept this premise in theory I have a question. My forces are unlikely to see the inclusion of a Demonic horde as a good thing.” The Prime thought this over. “Is it possible for the Baron’s soldiers to approach in some other form or fashion, either separate from mine, or in an appearance that would not provoke a negative reaction in my people.” The Prime enjoyed the phrase my people. He was too realistic to believe the line, but it had a ring to it that appealed to his messianic egotism. What if the Prime could lead humanity to a better place? So long as they obeyed him, what did he care? And, what about the other Primes? With a Demon army behind him, he could bomb them all back to the Stone Age, or better, relocate the Demons to lands now occupied by his enemies.
“Demons are consummate shape shifters, and darkness has always been their ally.” Passport replaced his hat. “But there is little time for debate. The Army of the Dead moves toward its first victory.”
“Not that I buy one word of what you’re saying.” The Prime slid along the wall toward the window. “But let’s just look at it in theory. This theory that you propose, I will need time to study its ramifications.”
“Very well.” Passport straightened. Passport began to walk toward the door; he paused and turned. “I will contact you in twelve hours. Perhaps by then, events will have demonstrated what I have tried to convince you of in words. Good day, Prime.” Passport pulled the door open, froze there a moment and walked out.
The Prime was across the floor in a flash. He swept the door aside. His secretary looked up at him. “Yes, Prime?” The leader of Westprime looked up the long hallway that led to an elevator. It was empty. He looked to either side of the door.
“Miss—” The Prime could not remember her name. “Whatever… Has there been anyone here to see me, today?”
“No, Prime.” The secretary’s round blue eyes reflected the overhead light and glinted like sadness. “Is there someone I should…”
“No, nothing!” the Prime said and pulled the door shut after him. His office was empty. Of course, if Passport were a Demon’s assistant, then he would have knowledge of Infernal powers—if he wasn’t a Demon himself. Suddenly, the Prime became aware of the dampness on the back of his jacket. He had sweated it right through.
58 – Stowaway
Conan lagged behind far enough that he could barely hear the Quinlan twins yakking about taking the lead. The little fighter knew he had to do something about the spooky dead girl that was still following them and it was starting to twist his underwear. He’d heard her off and on, and saw her move like a silent shadow before he crawled through the hole in the foundation of Whistles’ Bar. Sophie was not a real fighter, and he thought she might do something creepy to fuck up the Squeaker rescue. And if he could hear her, other things could listen too. So he backtracked to catch her and say: Sneak-and-peek-go-home.
After a few hours wink and snore, they left Whistles’ and dove back into the darkness. They were now deep in the crisscross-curly-spiral crust of concrete and rebar, maintenance and drainage tunnels that made up Level Three. Conan knew that the ventilation shafts were close. They gave the fighters doors into the Tower in the past. He quietly-secretly cross-finger-hoped the last information gathering sneakers had not been seen and the way was still open arms wide. Once they were into the main body of the Tower, the shafts would take them anywhere they wanted to go and peek: even the Orphanage. Kids that got away didn’t remember much about the place except that bad things happened, and they didn’t know the way out with panic screaming in their ears.
But most people were yakking that the Orphanage and the science place could be found near the bottom of the Tower.
He didn’t have to backtrack far—and was screech putting on the brakes when a sudden quiet thump brought Conan’s die-flower up and ready to carve and kill. Ahead, the vent-lined tunnel took a jog to the left around a new support structure for the upper levels. Just past the corner, the dim yellow maintenance lights could not see into the shadow.
He scurried forward and stopped. The little fighter took a quick view around into the dark. His breath caught. They were both surprised—with throat-lumps and ghaks! Sophie was there. Her mask, hands and legs seemed scare-show floating against a velvet curtain. She fast pressed herself against the wall, obscured by a heavy cable.
Conan hurried up to her shaking his head, and pointing the way they had come. Go on go! Sophie just lifted a cold white hand and pointed at her chest. Then she shook her head and with a tilt of her mask made it clear that she was coming with them. No you go on fuck off, Conan!
Frustration shook the forever boy, and he slashed the air with his blade-petal. Go-the-fuck-off-home yourself! He growled without words, then he grabbed Sophie’s arm and pointed into the shadows shaking his head. On an impulse he nudged his visor up so she could see his face mouth the words for her to go. Go. Go. No! Still Sophie shook her head.
A voice came from behind him.
“We’ve got a stowaway…” Mr. Jay said with a chuckle, “So to speak.”
Conan snapped his visor down and turned, a chill running up his spine. He pointed back into the shadows and shook his head.
“You don’t think she should come,” the man whispered and stepped close to Sophie. She looked up at him through her single eyehole. The dead girl shook her head like an angry old gummer. Mr. Jay laughed, “And she’s quite certain she should.”
Conan made fists of both his hands and shook the air with them. Too spooky. He stamped a few paces away from Sophie and turned to watch. He didn’t know what to do. Sophie couldn’t c
ome. She was too dangerous, and nobody knew what she would do.
But Mr. Jay didn’t understand. He smiled in a sad way and then reached out to stroke the dead girl’s mask.
“You won’t tell me why you want to come,” he said, without expecting an answer. “And so I can only guess.” He nodded, but Sophie shook her head and moved toward the wall. Go on! Go home Sophie! “It is important to me that I not fail.” The magician’s face was grim. “I must rescue Dawn and leave the City.”
Sophie took a gentle step forward, one long finger crossing her heart.
“You promise you will not interfere with my mission?” Mr. Jay asked. Stupid. Damn. Grownup! Sophie shook her head vigorously, until Conan thought her mask would fall off. The little fighter was so angry he could shit kittens, but what could he do? Go home please!
“Come with us then,” Mr. Jay said and turned, his eyes resting momentarily on Conan’s visor before he started jogging back toward the Tower. “I am sure my little friend here will keep an eye on you for any sign of mischief.”
Conan’s chest pumped up with pride waiting until Sophie started after Mr. Jay. Now that she was not sneaking after them, the little fighter realized with some gosh-blush respect that Sophie ran very quickly for a dead girl—for any stupid girl.
And they were both fighters in their own way. Before long Conan was running at his top speed, doing his best to keep up to the dead girl’s easy stride. Out of the gloom, the Quinlan boys appeared. Their faces were sour lemons, and it was clear from their stances that they were blocking the way. We’re fuckity-fucked!
“The vent’s welded shut,” said the twin on the left.
“Can’t get in that way,” said the twin on the right with Liz stepping out from behind them. She was just about to light a cigarette when she saw Sophie. Liz scowled and the dead girl shifted behind Mr. Jay.
“What’s Sophie doing here?” said the forever girl, lighting her cigarette.
“She followed us,” Mr. Jay said, Conan looked up at the man and nodded his agreement. Stupid-stupid-spook! “And I told her to come with us.”
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 31