“You did!” The Doctor bent over and glared into her face. “You were lucky this time! Those boys weren’t. Forget them!” He squeezed until her arm throbbed around his fingertips. “Nursie was too curious about you!”
Dawn tried to pull free of the man. She saw the other children were shaking off their terror and moving away from the tight groups they’d formed. When the Doctor let go Dawn ran to her bed. She threw herself on it sobbing.
He yelled something and stormed out. Two dead workers started straightening up Nursie’s mess with mop and pail.
There was a tug at her sleeve. She looked up to see Meg’s tear-stained face. The little girl climbed into bed with her and hugged her.
“Don’t worry,” Meg whispered, “it wasn’t your fault.”
62 - Aftermath
Stoneworthy looked at his hands. Christ went to Hell for us, cannot I? They were numb from shock and concussion. They were red with blood. He stumbled on a ragged limb, a leg. He couldn’t react. His face had already frozen into a mask of horror. All around him bodies laid, those who were dead before the battle maintained a semblance of life. Moving, twitching shapes intertwined with contortions of pain that transcended the physical. He had thrown his gun away. It ran out of bullets by the time the armies met. The minister was forced to use it as a club. He jerked free of a tangle of clutching body parts. Moaning filled the air. His own mouth quivered with broken words. The new death he had experienced did not spare him the smell of burnt flesh.
…man is very far gone from original righteousness, and is of his own nature inclined to evil, so that the flesh lusts always contrary to the Spirit…
He slapped at his clothing, tried to tear a swatch of fabric from his coat to tie over his nose; but his hands did not have the strength or dexterity. Stoneworthy’s eyes were heavy, but his tears were spent. He looked to the Heavens, raised a fist at the growing gloom. The battle had lasted to nightfall. The Laws of the Realm may punish Christian men with death, for heinous and grievous offences.
“Father!” he growled, his lips too dry for speech. “God!” His feet slipped on blood-spattered grass, tipping him down a slope. Stoneworthy rolled until a thicket of young apple trees stopped him. On his back, the minister glared at the sky. Anger clenched his heart like a vice. His dead lungs crackled and burned. “I call upon you, Father!” The horror of his zeal tried to drag him back into the abyss of fury. He threw an arm over his eyes to push the feeling away. No more. “I cannot turn and prepare myself, by my own natural strength and good works…”
He remembered a living young man, a defender of the City—perhaps pre-Change twenty. Stoneworthy knew that the Change made the truth of it a mystery. But he looked so young, so frightened, when the Army of the Dead clambered through the burning hail of bullets. The dead overwhelmed him. His machine gun hung in his hands, a useless thing—as horror paralyzed him. He screamed when he saw Stoneworthy’s lifeless rage, screamed when Stoneworthy beat him with his rifle. Screamed when he died.
“It’s not me!” the minister wept to the Heavens. “I cannot do this!” But he knew that was a lie, and it dragged him down.
…the Devil doth thrust them either into desperation, or into wretchedness of most unclean living, no less perilous than desperation.
Hours later they found Stoneworthy. A special detachment of soldiers had been assigned to check through the bodies for him. He was just regaining consciousness when they stumbled upon him. The relieved men took him to the command center set up in the shadow of Updike’s transport.
The Army of the Dead had won the battle. There were considerable losses for both sides, and the ranks of the untested troops had broken down in the end, and become despairing mobs—weeping as they killed. General Bolton was busy reforming his troops into effective fighting units. Captain Updike still walked among the survivors holding his temple. Pain constricted his features and made them smaller, less extravagant—less believable. There was a fire burning to the north. That was where the casualties had gone, those that had been dismembered or pulverized and could no longer find it in themselves to go on. Watching the gray smear of smoke rising, Stoneworthy prayed for the souls as the bodies were consumed. Did Heaven or Hell await them? The Change had altered everything. He was an example of that.
By the grace of God we may arise again, and amend our lives…
Medics that checked him over found six bullets lodged in his chest and abdomen. The wounds were oozing a dark fluid; but he felt no discomfort, and once the medics patched him up, he moved without any disability whatsoever. Others had not been so lucky. A woman, whose body was in excellent condition for the antiquity she claimed, had had her head blown away by mortar fire. Another, a man who had died in a fall while painting his home, had been torn asunder by machine gun fire. There was not enough of his body remaining to reattach his head. Updike himself had committed his ravaged skull to the fire.
The battle forced him to accept such shame but the minister could not waste time on the past. Perhaps, like the building of the Tower he was predestined for these stains? He was dead, and he had risen with the others to take part in a war that would define God’s purpose. I killed those men! But it was the Lord’s will, and he a vessel for that purpose. He had killed, had created others like himself. But this was a Holy War.
The Angel who had come to him had set him on this path to righteousness. What will I be when this is over? He had to help clean the world of such repugnance. The burning bags by the Dumpster had ordained it. He would persevere to work the Lord’s will. That was why he was given this opportunity after death. The Army had just won its first victory. It was victory!
Even now, his comrades were going through the fallen on both sides. Those City Defenders who had died in the battle were coming out of Blacktime and he could hear their wailing. They were reborn, and like babes needed comfort—now to help them see the light of the Trinity. Stoneworthy began to see how winning the war was inevitable. Every battle they won or lost swelled their ranks. Fatalities would be rejected by their old living comrades and be welcomed by the dead.
If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.
63 – Lucky’s Diner
Driver knew Lucky’s Diner from near about twenty years before. He and the boys frequented the place when they ran drugs for a pair of gangsters called the Smith brothers. They were big time drug dealers who used to get their product from container ships at the City docks before dispersing them along the coast. The Smith brothers went down in a hail of bullets about a decade past for cheating a resident gangster up in Greasetown. Driver liked Lucky’s for two reasons.
First of all it was on Zero right near the docks. Inland walls were easy to patrol, and Authority did just that—arresting anyone who hadn’t thought ahead to give them a piece of the action. But the seaside of the City was impossible to police, and there were fewer reasons to do so. The Eastern Sea after the Change was an inhospitable place at the best of times, and it tended to weed out the amateurs when it came to contraband and smuggling. And the professionals always gave Authority a cut.
The second reason Driver frequented Lucky’s was that they made great hamburgers grilled straight through with a special Texas hot sauce lathered on like horse sweat. They were fishburgers actually. Since the Change, animals like people didn’t have babies anymore and with dead flesh slithering off the plate, real meat was a delicacy that few could afford or stomach. Instead, food companies made meat substitutes out of little bitty fish from the ocean. Didn’t taste the same, but the hot sauce overshadowed everything, anyhow.
Driver had a passion for hot sauces. He liked it when it hurt. In his old life before he joined up with Bloody and Tiny he had briefly bucked around the idea of starting his own burritos and beer place. He was a real hand in the kitchen, and growing up on his own had put him in charge of all his meals. Driver liked eating, and he hated repetition.
He sat in a booth across from Bloody and Tiny. The salesm
an had suggested Lucky’s after Felon mentioned food. Tiny still hadn’t told them what happened with Lucifer and Driver was fit to be hogtied. Bloody was his usual blank self.
The diner was almost empty: a couple dead prostitutes and some old black guy eating mushy peas. The waitress was dead and no looker.
They had a few surprises on the way over, passing a long line of military transports at one moment, and then furiously preparing for a gunfight as an Authority cruiser came up on them with flashing lights. Nothing had come of it. The cruiser took a turnoff heading west.
The Texan clicked his tongue. It was already burning, numb mostly, from eating an inch-thick fishburger with an extra helping of Lucky’s Death Valley sauce. He was just thinking about having a cigarette with his beer. Bloody hadn’t eaten anything as usual, though he had purchased a bottle of Canadian Club and was gulping it down in greedy mouthfuls. Tiny always ate slowly. He picked at his plate like a bird, though Driver had pointed out that the amount he ate would make the bird an ostrich. Bloody slammed the bottle down.
“Tell me, brother,” Driver asked the dead man. “Does that give you anythin’ anymore? You drink it down like water, but you don’t change like you did in the old days.” The Texan was referring to Bloody’s blackout states, where he would talk and walk normally, but would be afflicted with an expression and eyes that looked like murder.
“Water,” the dead man said.
“It’s like a preservative to dead people,” Tiny said while nibbling fish meat shaped like a chicken wing. “Don’t you remember me telling you about those Pickled Punks me and Killer and Cherry saw up in the north? Well, what do you think those dead babies were floating in?”
“I didn’t reckon it was Canadian Club whisky.” Driver lit up a cigarette. “Weren’t that formaldehyde?”
“Well, almost the same thing.” Tiny sipped at his beer. “I’ve heard that dead guys soak in the stuff.”
“Well, I’ve heard that, but it ain’t why Bloody’s drinkin’.” Driver puffed a couple of smoke rings, wiped grease from his beard onto his hands.
“Taste,” Bloody said, his facial expressions unmoving.
Driver and Tiny broke into guffaws. “Yeah, that’s all you ever drank it for!” Tiny bummed a cigarette from Driver, lit it. Then he squinted his eyes, stared past his reflection in the window. He watched for a minute.
“Is he still out there?” Driver turned in his seat.
“Yep.” Tiny took a slow drag from his cigarette. “Him and the nun and the Marquis. Quite a crew.”
“You think the nun’s safe with him?” Driver saw his own reflection in the glass. His hair and beard had grown wild. He needed a trim.
“Yeah.” Tiny turned his eyes on him.
“I hope he don’t kill her,” Driver said wistfully. “We had enough bad luck.” Then he frowned. “How do you know he won’t?”
“We made a deal.” Tiny smiled. “Felon talked to Lucifer, and I couldn’t hear a word. Though they seem quite easy with each other like old friends. And then when the bastard was getting his gear together he yells at me,
‘Barter what you have.’”
“What’s that mean?” Driver downed half his beer.
“Well, Felon said that nun’s one of the Tower Builders, right?” Tiny flicked ash. “And the Marquis and this Balg guy were trying to kidnap her?”
“Uh huh,” Driver said, seeing now that even Bloody was listening.
“Well, I figure that we could return her for a reward, and look like heroes, or ransom her back.” Tiny looked smug.
“To who?” The Texan scowled. “It ain’t like we’re the Salvation Army.”
“I think the Prime,” Tiny said after a moment’s thought. “He’s got the most to gain at getting her back, and he’s got the money.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Driver growled and lit another cigarette. “What’s to stop him from just shooting us down and taking her?”
Tiny pointed a bony finger at his own chest and smiled. “You’re looking at him. I’ll work the deal.” Then his eyes went urgent. “Besides, with the money we’re getting paid from Felon. Can you imagine if we could get pardons? Retire?” Then he slapped the table. “Or what if I can work a deal, get us jobs with the Prime? Guys like that always need protection.”
“Well,” Driver nodded, and studied the action in the parking lot. Felon was standing in front of the Nova. His gun was out and pointed at the Angel. “Lord, that man…” And then the bright flashes of gunfire.
“Jesus!” Tiny turned at the sound. They clambered in their seats to see the Angel taking the bullets in the face and chest.
“The Marquis!” Driver breathed as he got to his feet.
As Felon fired a full clip the Marquis’ shape shifted and changed. One moment it was the old transvestite, the next they saw a ghostly man-shape, taller than Felon and with wings. And it glowed. What was left of the Marquis suddenly drooped and fell back over the hood of the Nova. Steam or smoke lifted from the body.
“He is an Angel!” Tiny looked at Driver.
“My paintjob!” the Texan grumbled.
Behind the assassin harbor lights glittered a half mile off.
“Something’s wrong!” Tiny leapt to his feet.
Driver was already sliding out of the booth. They ran, pushed through the doors. The other diners watched and smoked without interest.
The Texan’s adrenaline awareness picked up Bloody’s form following. Driver had both .9 mm’s out held high. He saw that Felon had moved away from the Nova, and he was no longer alone. A group of figures struggled with him, had hold of his arms. The assassin’s gun clicked six loud pieces of night—empty from all his Angel killing.
Driver contemplated firing into the group to distract them. But the chances of hitting Felon were too big. He wasted a bullet in the air, leveled both guns and kept running. Tiny yelled something, circled toward the passenger side of the car. Driver could just see a bit of red from Lucky’s sign highlight the nun’s smooth cheek. The whole area around the car was wet—footprints ran everywhere. The fighting jumble of bodies had backed another ten yards away from the car and the light, and had moved toward the curb where the road ran by. They stopped.
Even in the twilit parking lot, Driver could see that it was a gang of naked men and women—but ugly fuckers: various sizes and every one of them as white as a fish. The Texan decided to hedge his bets, and fired into the gut of a big one. A shiver went over Driver’s scalp.
The bullets impacted. The man slapped at his belly as though he was full of bees, and started coming toward him. Driver pulled up short. Over his shoulder, Bloody’s big gun roared twice. The first bullet knocked the advancing fat man’s arm off his shoulder, left it hanging there by shreds, the second made a volcano of his skull. But the bastard kept coming on—blindly swinging his remaining arm! Dead! Past the flailing dead man Driver could make out the others crouched around something. Bloody appeared beside him, they both fired into the fat man chopping him to pieces in a nasty wet pink cloud.
Driver tried to draw a bead on another, just in time to see the last of them slip through the ground. What the! “Come on Bloody, some more crazy shit!” The Texan ran ahead, minding his step on the slimy asphalt. He leapt over the still quivering corpse, and hit his knees near the curb. A manhole was open at the juncture of the street and the sidewalk. Water covered the street. Cautiously, guns level with his eyes Driver took a quick peek into the darkness. Noises echoed up from the depths, distant watery bongs and splashes. He moved away from the manhole.
“Well, if that don’t shake it.” Driver looked into Bloody’s dispassionate face. “Looks like Felon got himself kidnapped.” He turned to see the salesman running to catch up.
“The nun’s okay.” Tiny stopped at the twitching body. “Just scared—Jesus Christ! What in hell are these goddamned things?” He pointed at the corpse with his gun.
Driver walked over. “I don’t know, but his friends took Felon down that sewer.�
�� He looked at the splattered corpse. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Bloody reload his gun.
There was a lot of milky liquid on the ground around the body. The corpse was white-skinned, and the exposed muscle was gray. The Texan stepped on its tapping fingers. Where the body cavity had opened up, he could see that the organs looked fresh, but bloated and pale like over-boiled sausage.
“Jesus! It was dead before we met it.” He looked toward the manhole.
“I heard stories.” Tiny inspected the creature, pushing at its flesh with his gun barrel. “Things like that out in the water, in the Sunken City and down in the sewers. Cannibals!”
“Should we go fetch him?” Driver looked to Tiny. The salesman walked over to the manhole, looked into its blackness.
“I just said cannibals.” Tiny took out a cigarette, lit it. “Felon can take care of himself.” He shrugged. “If he can’t, he’s dead already.”
“But how we going to get paid?” Driver looked at Bloody.
Tiny pointed back at the Nova. “We got the nun.” He slapped the Texan’s shoulder. “See, old Lucifer was right. We get to barter what we have.” He smiled and started toward the car. “Bloody, my plan will be uncomfortable for you but you’re going like it. It’s fucking fate.”
“Uncomfortable?” Driver looked over at Bloody. “Angels and Demons,” he said and laughed. “Now we got Fate to deal with…” He lit a cigarette. “I hope we run across a bit of luck in the process.”
64 – Experiments
Dawn couldn’t sleep. She had tossed and turned but there was too much going on in her head and Nursie’s big face was waiting for her every time she shut her eyes. What was Nursie? And what was a First-mother?
She knew they were talking about her, but mothers were grownups and Dawn was a forever girl. It seemed like everyone but her knew what was going on. And what were the clothes in the box all about? She’d thrown it under the bed like it was hot to the touch. Another shiver ran through her as she thought of Nursie, and she pulled her covers up tight to her chin. Where was Mr. Jay?
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 34