Liz groaned through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Well, she won’t come far, the ventilation shaft is welded tighter than a choirboy’s ass.” The Quinlan boys chuckled. So did Conan.
Mr. Jay shook his head, and then looked down at the metal stick in his hands. He raised it, sighting along its length. “I can get through, but didn’t want to draw attention yet.”
Conan saw the metal begin to glow and he smiled. He reflexively stroked the air with his kill-fist, being salt and pepper for a dust up. All that sneaking around was feeling like fingers over the lips and tiptoes and such, and nothing a young fighter would want to do.
But Sophie was moving, she stepped out in front of Mr. Jay shaking her head from side to side like a grandma and laid her long fingers across the back of his hand.
“What is it, Sophie?” Mr. Jay leaned over her, and Conan felt the battle cry in his mind going raspberry when the dead girl started to move the fingers of that hand like they were legs walking up a flight of stairs. Then she pointed to where the shadowy tunnel branched to the right. Sophie made a grunting noise and then pretended she was opening a door.
“There’s another way?” Mr. Jay’s voice was disbelieving. Conan was shaking his head now, catching the man’s gaze and wanting to go: See! See! Here’s the trouble. He frowned. “How do you know?”
But Sophie just nodded her head until her hair jumped around like spaghetti strings. Conan crossed his arms angrily. He was afraid the spook would do something like this and here she was bending the show over a stump.
“She might know,” Liz said, scratching her chin through a cloud of smoke, which drew a bunch of head nodding and hand flapping from the dead girl. She started pointing up the tunnel again as Liz continued, “Sophie escaped from the Tower, makes sense she might know a thing or two about getting back in. And, we didn’t find her right away. She spent years haunting these tunnels.”
“All right then,” Mr. Jay said, turning to Sophie. “Lead the way.”
And Sophie was so happy and nodded her head so much that her spirit even broke through Conan’s angry mood, and he could feel her smile behind that mask. He wondered if she could feel his.
59 – Smelly Nick
Felon stayed back in the shadows. Tiny covered the Marquis. The assassin wanted to be ready for Lucifer. He was bound to resent the intrusion. The Marquis led them a half mile through the sewer to a group of derelicts gathered around a fire.
They were in bad shape, living or dead wearing rags and tattered, either by body damage or boils and sores. Bottles moved from dirty hand to dirty hand. They whistled and made catcalls at the old transvestite. The Marquis fanned his cheeks like a southern belle. Felon shut them up by waving his gun.
The Marquis asked for Smelly Nick. They all pointed along the tunnel.
“He stays down by the main collection basin,” said a dead man, his missing lower lip replaced by a thin curtain of drool. “Likes the sound of runnin’ water!”
They walked into the shadows. Tiny kept a hand wrapped around the Marquis’ left arm and his gun pointed at the center of the powdered wig. The salesman had not stopped talking since they first set out.
“I got to talk to Lucifer,” he whispered excitedly over his shoulder.
“No promises,” Felon hissed. “Cover the Marquis.” The assassin watched for anyone following them. Felon’s troubles could become a lethal distraction if he wasn’t careful. He had to purge the noise in his head before he met Lucifer.
Balg wanted him dead. The Demon had tricked Felon into killing a powerful Angel.
Balg wanted the nun and he had coerced the Marquis, into kidnapping her.
All City of Light Authority was looking for her. He recognized her name, Karen Cawood: the Tower Builder. And the priest Felon killed she called Reverend Stoneworthy: the other Tower Builder. The Authority vehicles chasing them on the Skyway weren’t doing it for their health. The assassin couldn’t have kicked a bigger hornet’s nest.
He had hired three mercenaries to protect him. They were loyal as far as you could pay them—no farther. They were the type of dog that easily turned on its master.
So Felon had one road open to him. He had been reckless to keep killing Divine and Infernal creatures. But he liked it. That emotion blinded him to the danger. It was just a matter of time before he was in over his head. Killing them gave him a false sense of security.
Since Lucifer led a neutral gang, he might want to hire Felon’s gun and abilities. Staying neutral with all these competing interests sometimes required gunfire.
“Ahead,” the Marquis said in fluting tones.
The damp asphalt underfoot gave way to a slope of poured concrete. They moved up it. Felon’s senses scanned ahead. An echoing trickle gave the impression of a big body of water. But the smell said it wasn’t water.
“Tiny will kill you at my command,” Felon hissed in the Marquis’ ear. He snarled, “Predict that!”
Their footsteps echoed on the incline. Tiny played the flashlight over a wide space ahead dimly lit by lantern light. Four tunnels opened on a concrete platform that edged a body of water about thirty feet on a side. Seven pipes of varied diameter opened on the liquid and dripped or disgorged waste at intervals. The air was horrible. The Marquis pressed his scented hanky over his face and moaned.
At the far side of this pool was a ragged figure beside a shopping cart full of bulging plastic bags. The lantern hung from its handle.
The assassin had his gun out.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Tiny and then paced around the concrete platform. The derelict’s lantern made him a silhouette. The man was humming to himself, but suddenly stiffened. Clutching a plastic bag to his chest he turned.
“No!” he cried. “They’re mine!” He had a great mass of frizzy salt and pepper hair. The giant beard covering his gaunt cheeks was stained with wine and food. The man’s dark eyes crossed on the pistol-barrel, then slid up Felon’s arm to his face. A second of bewilderment followed, and then he lifted his eyebrows.
“Ah! It’s you. I heard about you.” He chuckled and dragged a round metal tin out of the bag, started to work at its plastic lid. “I thought you were going to rob me.” He chuckled as he struggled with the lid. “You’re that Quickdraw McGraw fellow...”
Felon glared.
“Quickdraw? Like a cowboy!” The Devil flicked a dirty hand in the air index finger out like a gun barrel. “Fast on the draw...” His eyes flashed around. Lucifer smiled. “Everybody talks about you.”
“Who?” Felon kept his gun up.
“Friends, Felon. Acquaintances...business people…” He laughed. “Them what’s scared of ya, as your cowpoke friend might say…” The Devil flicked his chin back down the tunnel. Then his eyes went serious. “Don’t let’s play stupid.”
“Why the pretense?” Felon looked Lucifer’s hobo costume over—he even had the fingers cut off his gloves.
“And you brought Kepheral!” He waved at the Marquis who nodded. He dug dirty nails under the lid, opened it and then picked a long flattened cigarette butt from the collection within. Lucifer leaned in close to Felon. “Pissed in his own bathwater this time.” He gestured with the can, offering him one.
The assassin shook his head.
“Yes, pretense—no reason for pomp.” Lucifer pinched the hand-rolled cigarette between his fingertips. “Sorry if I disappoint but things have changed?” He shook his head. “You can’t corrupt these people anymore. Declaration of Independence got things rolling…didn’t need any more than that…uh, I guess science had some impact, and Capitalism… The cult of the individual broke the tribes up… spirituality fell out of favor in the west, the real stuff. Just crystals and mood rings now.” He started coughing. The sound was wet and full of phlegm. He lit his cigarette with a wooden match, smiled around the smoke. “Fads and celebrities…people already put themselves before their brother and god. So…what’s the Devil to do?” He squinted his eyes in the lantern light. “But you didn’t come
here for this.”
“Just an act.” Felon’s arm swept at Lucifer’s shabby clothes. He bared his teeth like a dog.
“Your certainty reminds me of faith,” Lucifer took another long drag on his cigarette. The smoke smelled like burning manure. “Would make me proud if I believed in pride any more.” He suddenly stood straighter. His posture slumped and he started laughing. “What do you want?”
Felon gauged the Devil. It was hard to read anything behind the full beard and rags. “Who set me up?”
“You haven’t figured that out?” Lucifer spit out bits of tobacco.
“No, lies.” The assassin shook his head. He gestured to the sewer walls and Lucifer’s shopping cart. “You command legions.”
“Command?” Lucifer smirked.
“Thousands,” Felon growled.
“And where would I lead them?” Lucifer asked with a grin. “My last little outing was not a screaming success.”
“You’re their leader,” Felon hissed.
The Devil looked at him sideways. His dark eyes gleamed. “You don’t get it.” He smiled. “It’s confusing, I know. That fucker John was out of his depth describing the revelation.” Lucifer shuffled over—his feet were wrapped in rope, old shoe and dirty cloth. His body odor was overpowering. “See, it was like a dream I guess, and he mixed the past events with the future.”
Felon turned his nose up, and Lucifer smiled. “Felon, I commanded legions in the Great Rebellion, but we lost. All of my loyal followers were damned for it.” He shrugged. “That kicked the shit out of my approval rating. I won’t lie to you, I have power—but I couldn’t get volunteers for a pussy eating contest.” Lucifer leveled his gaze. “I got them damned, Felon.”
“But you’ve continued your rebellion,” the assassin snarled.
“Here on earth?” the Devil asked. “Sure, in small ways but you know this isn’t Heaven, and tempting you Second-born into evil is too easy for someone of my skills. First thousand years or so, I really took it out on you. But, as your fear of religion faded, so did the fun of fucking with your immortal souls. People stopped talking about God and you can’t fall from grace if you don’t know what grace is... I can’t broke what ain’t fixed!” His eyes did an inward turn and then he smiled. “I had some good times during the Inquisition.”
“This?” Felon gestured to the Devil’s rotten clothing.
“I’m the King of Rebels, remember?” Lucifer said matter-of-factly. “And tempting horny housewives to blow the pool boy is a step or two beneath my station.” He shrugged. “Here’s a bit of that divine awareness, for you: My contempt for you people resulted in a contempt for their tormentor, moi!”
Felon turned away, his mind racing. He whipped back. “You’re not involved?”
“No more than any rat on a sinking ship!” Lucifer smiled and said, “Of course, I can be a spectator and enjoy the irony. Michael always had a taste for you Nodlings.” He shook his head. “He loved bouncing little Nephilim on his knee. I knew it would get him in the end.”
“Nephilim?” Felon stabbed his face at Lucifer. “Michael?”
“Nephilim are human-Angel hybrids. We’re forbidden to create that way.” Lucifer started gathering his bags together. “But that’s what you need to find out: who had the most to gain from the fall of Archangel Michael?” He turned, a puzzled look on his face as he studied Felon’s expression. “Wait.” He pointed a tattered glove. “You didn’t know?” He punched one fist into the other and laughed. “Ah kid you’re in the big leagues and you didn’t even know.”
Felon’s mind traveled back to the scene. He had walked up to Travers’ condominium. He knew something was wrong the moment his mark let him in like he was expected, but it was too late to break off the attack. The big man was well over six feet, with good skin but was otherwise unremarkable. He asked: “What twist of clay dares scold me? Damn them for making me meet you.” The man had stepped up to Felon and whispered, “Love is not for humanity alone.”
Felon drew and fired into his face. The man changed with the first hit. As the bullets struck, his body reformed. An Angel nine feet tall stood there—his wings spanning twenty feet. He was wrapped in golden armor and swinging a flaming sword. The being roared—and the house shook. Felon emptied the clip into his face but the Angel completed his swing. The low roof caught most of the force. Only the tip of the blade pierced the assassin’s shoulder. Felon reloaded and fired into the Angel’s head while drawing a big .44 magnum. The Angel howled again. Felon’s blood caught fire, and flame shot back down the sword. The Angel burst into a white blaze. After the thing evaporated the assassin checked the kitchen. The woman was dead. A stray bullet took her head off.
“You figure out who wanted Michael dead,” the Devil said, pulling him from reverie, “and you’ve got your man, or Angel, or Demon.
“Balg?” Felon’s spirit burned with anger.
“He’s powerful.” Lucifer nodded. “From the old Pantheon and ambitious enough.”
“Working with the Marquis,” Felon murmured.
“Also ambitious,” the Devil agreed. “And one of Michael’s.”
“Two families,” Felon said with a sigh. “Where’s God in all of this?”
“We don’t keep in touch.” Lucifer finished repacking his shopping cart. He pushed it toward the far tunnel, its wheels rattled.
Felon’s mind was ablaze with betrayal.
“I can’t say much more without putting myself in the path of those guns of yours some day.” Lucifer studied Felon. “I’d be dead already if I was connected. It’s possible Michael was a dry run. They’re afraid of what would happen if I got whacked.” He smoothed his rags and looked upward. “His favorite and all.”
Felon shrugged.
Lucifer pushed his possessions deeper into the tunnel when he paused.
“Salesman!” he shouted to Tiny. “Barter what you have!” Then he turned back to Felon. “He’s ambitious too.” As he pushed his cart past he said, “A bunch of us play chess down at the waterfront.”
60 – Skirmish
The rough terrain northwest of the City of Light made travel slow and painful. It was three o’clock. The army had been marching for twenty-three hours and made excellent progress. A force that did not tire assured it, but rolling hills and winding roads were taking their toll. They had traveled sixty miles and would soon reach the terrain that would give them their first sight of the sprawling City.
The army was crawling through a valley south of the wide expanse they had just crossed. The region was hilly, and though the shortcut brought them back to the highway, detouring around tall chunks of rock was wearing on all those feet. Dead skin was as tough as leather once it dried, and could take the wear and tear, but a forced march on asphalt was damaging. The minister had met several in the ranks with feet worn right to the bone. They claimed it gave them a better grip.
Stoneworthy sat on a chunk of granite to examine his feet. Thoughts of erosion had begun to plague him. His hands would wear through in time. Already, the palms felt flat, and were clearly etched with drying ligaments and bone. Heaven preserve me! He made a mental note to get gloves and to pay special attention to his feet. Being newly dead was an experience that could leave permanent damage during the adjustment period. His thoughts drifted over the march.
The track had been arduous and the pace punishing. They had to make room in supply trucks for dead whose lower extremities had splintered or disintegrated. Still able to make a contribution to the effort, Updike was unwilling to leave them behind. But how long would that last? Stoneworthy shuddered at the thought of leaving any of his dead comrades behind.
“War is extreme.” Updike had told him in an effort to rouse his courage. “And we cannot flinch.” In conversations with Oliver Purdue, Stoneworthy had determined that their military leaders had built in contingency plans for the eventuality that would force them to abandon soldiers. “We’ll leave them with enough oil and water to stay hydrated, and return if we can
.”
But Stoneworthy understood the plan’s flaw. The area they traveled was home to wild animals, and pets abandoned after the Change. After domesticated animals turned on people, humanity was forced to destroy those they could. But the numbers of feral pets was staggering, as the wilderness grew. The result was a landscape that teamed with roving packs of wolf-like dogs, bloodthirsty cats and murderous bears. The Change had reversed man’s dominion over the animals.
Attacks had been reported. Four hours into the march, a dead soldier plummeted to his destruction when harried by flock of birds. Shortly after, a dead medic was dragged into the woods and dismembered by unidentified animals—her head was never found. Two hours before, advance scouts ran afoul of a group of wild pigs. Three soldiers were lost before their firepower could be brought to bear.
“Extremity breeds courage,” Updike had said, “Brother, we will do what we can, but this war, win or lose will end it all.”
Those difficulties aside, Stoneworthy struggled with their greater losses. The southernmost army had been decimated and scattered by the Prime’s nuclear weapon. Tens of thousands perished in the blast and thousands more in the firestorm. The high temperatures ignited oil-soaked corpses far from ground zero. General Lorenzo was trying to rally his forces.
General Carstairs and the southwestern force were downwind of the blast. They were digging up Geiger counters to monitor radiation levels. Stoneworthy felt the weight of doom overhead as they marched in the open. City Defense reconnaissance aircraft sent waves of panic when they passed.
General Bolton and his officers insisted that the City Defense force’s use of nuclear weapons this close to home was doomed to fail. A random wind, mixed with the Change’s incessant rainfall would leave the City open to eventual self-contamination—and it was the last City in Westprime. Bolton said that was the reason for building the Army of God this close to the City in the first place. A forced march would put them on their doorstep before they considered sustained use of nuclear weapons.
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 32