The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “As we stoke the fires that shall set the blaze of Apocalypse, we must remember his love for us. We must remember that through our sacrifice we assist him in his work. And what is his work?” The Archangel paused after the rhetorical question, as if to study the resolve and restraint of the Army. “As you have risen once from your graves, so the Lord plans to call you up again; but not as soldiers in the pivotal war of earth. He shall call you up again and make you new. He wishes your return to Eden. God wants his children to come home where he can care for them. Where they can share the wisdom of the ages!”

  The Army cried approval. Too long had they spent in their dead bodies to restrain themselves! They wailed and wept. Eden was theirs, re-grown, to share with their comrades in arms, the Eden of Genesis. Updike joined in the exuberant cry!

  Oliver Purdue wrapped his arms around him. Stoneworthy straightened where he stood—a ramrod of purpose for a spine. Atop the granite column—Gabriel watched and waited, his shield-bearer standing at his side. They had taken on the sharp-edged silhouettes of eagles—their wings, hard knife strokes against the moonlit sky. A glow appeared around the Angels’ heads, a warm corona of light that spilled over their shoulders like gold leaf. Growing in intensity, the show of power brought a swelling cry from the Army.

  “We shall come when the battle is hot upon you. Be steady—be good of heart—we shall come. Your faith will be rewarded.” He surveyed the army from his perch, chin lifted skyward—his eyes focused on some distant and unseen force. “Behold Lucifer! Behold! You see here the Army of God! Let its righteousness strike fear in your Infernal heart. Let its faith send quivers through the chains that bind you to this prison earth. Judgment Day is near—and this Army of God puts you on notice. Your reign is over!” The Archangel set his horn to his lips and blew a great blast. The sound vibrated through every cell in Updike’s body—touched deep in the center of his brain.

  He screamed: “Triumphant Lord!”

  “Your Reign is Over!” Gabriel shouted and he blew another great blast—this one smote Updike’s ears like thunder—caused adrenaline to pound in his heart, his head to throb. “Your Reign is Over!”

  Gabriel bellowed this like the final verse of incantation and then flew upward with his shield-bearer. He set his horn a final time and blew a triumphant blast toward the City. Suddenly, their power burst forth and glowing white-hot the Angels rocketed into the sky like stars. They tore through the hole they had opened around the moon, and were gone.

  The Army of God cheered, embracing each other chanting and wailing of hope and faith. Updike hugged Oliver, grabbed Stoneworthy and pulled him into their combined embrace.

  “Peace brothers!” he wept. “His reign will end by our hands.” As his comrade’s dead bodies shook with happiness, Updike watched the moon. The clouds around it began to close. Its rays illuminated the Army—the world—a moment longer, and were gone.

  “God is Love!” Stoneworthy pulled back from Updike, slapped the Captain on the shoulder. The impact traced along the man’s nerves—up his neck and into his skull. A dull throb splashed his brain like molten steel. Worse than before, each ringing ache that followed was more painful than the last. Before the pain could draw a curtain over his joy he croaked, “His Reign is Over!”

  70 – On the Run

  Dawn could barely contain herself. She knew they were still in great danger but to have Mr. Jay with her—to have her fingers entwined with his after everything that had happened, everything she wanted desperately to forget. She just wanted to run and never stop. She felt the presence of her grownup voice quietly approving of the action and accessing the situation. The forever child had to get away from the darkness of the Tower.

  The Nightcare fighters moved with military precision—ran and operated as a precise machine for killing and defense. A weapon honed over many decades, they formed a protective wedge around Mr. Jay and Dawn. The Quinlan boys covered the left and right flank with their swords in hand. Their light machine guns swung from their shoulders, ready for use. They kept in contact crossing the distance with sassy comments from Pearface to Jughead.

  Liz took the lead with the young Conan boy running along in the rear, his tireless legs flashing.

  Dawn had already noticed and asked about the willowy girl of nine or so dressed in black lace dress, theatrical mask and shoes. She ran rather dramatically, where she wanted, but as apparently the property of Conan, whose attention rarely left her. She was just slightly taller than Dawn. The girl’s long legs made her look older. She was waiting for them outside Nursie’s room.

  Mr. Jay said it was Sophie but Dawn could not understand what she contributed to the group. After a few times catching Mr. Jay’s amused look, Dawn could not keep her eyes off the girl who moved like a swan or stork, all long flapping legs and arms. But Mr. Jay reassured Dawn that Sophie had been a great help getting them into the Tower, and the strange girl had once called this place home. Her friend’s insistence that she was good and helpful even though she was dead got Dawn’s blood boiling more. She tried to trust Mr. Jay anyway, even though he had a soft spot for girls.

  When she caught herself looking angrily at Sophie, Dawn was startled by her own jealousy. The dead girl was not a soldier, barely more than a scavenger. But this obsession soon had Dawn feeling angry with herself for being unfair. But, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the girl was a threat and the notion had her chewing her lips in irritation.

  The little crew hurried along the hallway past several rooms that had the double doors characteristic of Dawn’s Dormitory Five. This got the forever girl thinking of Meg, her little friend. How could she leave her behind to the depravities of the Tower?

  “Mr. Jay!” she cried, squeezing his hand. “I have a friend…”

  But something had changed in Mr. Jay. His face was set in a grim mask as he made his way past the other set of Dormitory doors.

  “We’ll get her,” he groaned, with a slight hesitation. A blush had entered his cheeks behind his beard and his eyes rolled. “I had no idea.”

  Dawn was unsettled by her friend’s dismay. He’d usually always find something cheery to say. At least he had in the past. All she could do to reassure him was squeeze his hand as she hurried to match his pace.

  “Up there I think, Mr. Jay,” she said and pointed.

  The magician directed the Nightcare fighters toward the double doors and said, “We don’t have much time.” They pushed the doors wide.

  Inside, the rows and rows of beds held sleeping forms.

  Mr. Jay said, “Dawn, tell the others, your friends, that we can show them a way out.” He shook head. “How much more we can offer, I don’t know.” Then he leaned in whispering to Dawn and the others. “We’ll only take those who want to come. There’s no time to convince anyone.”

  He stood by the door with Conan while Dawn ran to her bed and Meg. She noticed with some irritation that the dead girl, Sophie, had come along with her. The strange girl was almost dancing as she hurried beside Dawn between the beds. Was she enjoying this?

  The Quinlan boys and Liz were going row-to-row, shaking kids awake and explaining fast. This was where the experience and strange maturity of forever children paid off. These kids, all of them, had lived for over ten decades now, and knew how to react without reacting like kids. Soon, the growing noise of waking, washed over the dormitory in a wave, and got to Meg’s cot the same time Dawn did. Her little friend was already stirring.

  “Dawn!” she cried and leapt out of bed to embrace her. Then Meg saw the mysterious Sophie in the mask dance by. She took Dawn’s shrug as an answer and then asked: “What’s going on? Who are these people?” Then she noticed the bloodstains on Dawn’s nightshirt and pressed her hands against her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “I can’t explain it yet,” Dawn patted her shoulder. “But it’s my friend, Mr. Jay, and friends of his…” She attention shifted as she watched Sophie with some irritation. The dead girl had stooped and fished the dress box from u
nder Dawn’s bed. Sophie immediately set the box on the mattress and flipped it open. The dead girl made a muffled sound of pleasure and pulled the veil out—flipping it in the air like a bird and dancing. “That’s not yours…” Dawn started and then gave her head a shake. She didn’t want the thing.

  “Come on, Meg,” Dawn tugged at her friend’s arm.

  The Dormitory was still dark and shapes were running into shadows, lit as it was by only a few dim nightlights. Dawn could already see that the other kids were up—their bleached nightshirts made them look like birds ready for takeoff or ghosts on the haunt. They were grouped around Mr. Jay and the Nightcare fighters and he was talking.

  “I’m ready,” Meg announced after a few frantic seconds of digging under her mattress. She had collected a small bundle of papers lashed with strips of cotton.

  “Okay,” Dawn agreed and took a step to go but hesitated to make sure that dead girl would follow. Weirdo or not, Sophie was Mr. Jay’s friend. But when she toward her bed all she could see was the empty dress box.

  They hurried to the front of the Dormitory by the doors and Dawn was pleased to see Mr. Jay’s look of approval.

  “It’s time,” he whispered giving a glance to the Quinlan boys and Liz. They led a group of some sixty kids out the doors and along the hallway to the right. He instructed Conan to join him in the rearguard and protect stragglers. Dawn and Meg kept close at hand as Mr. Jay hurried beside them.

  “I had no idea Dawn,” he said, wringing his hands. “You have to believe me.”

  The group moved quietly along the hall, an easy thing for forever kids to do—since they’d all lived life in hiding. Dawn was already building fantasies of Nurserywood, and thinking how much fun Meg and the others would have there when Mr. Jay stopped at another set of Dormitory doors. He shook his head and his shoulders drooped.

  “There was no way to know,” he hissed to himself. “Only a monster would imagine this.”

  Then he called to Conan.

  The little fighter hurried over. “You take Dawn and Meg with the rest,” he said and then patted the boy’s shoulder. Conan swelled with pride at the touch and the mission. Then the magician turned to Dawn.

  “Go with Conan.” He raised a finger to quiet her protests. “I know we just found each other, but if we’re to ever meet again, we cannot delay ourselves with arguments.” He hugged her then.

  Dawn felt tears suddenly starting, as she drew away from him but all words of protest disappeared before she could utter them. They were in danger, sure, but it was Mr. Jay’s expression that silenced her. He didn’t look like the same man, in fact, for a second he didn’t look like a man at all. His features had become boyish and childlike. The sorrow in his eyes was overwhelming.

  “I can’t leave the others,” he wept and kissed her forehead. Then he stood and straightened his hat. “I will find you later. Go with Conan!”

  Dawn stole another hug, wrapping both arms around his legs. He kissed the top of her head and tears ran from his cheeks into her hair.

  “Remember,” he said, smiling. “Those who will listen will follow.” He looked at Conan. “Keep the way open for the others I send. And help the stragglers.”

  Without another word, Mr. Jay twirled his walking stick and turned on his heel. He pushed the doors open for Dormitory Three.

  Conan tugged on her arm and then pulled at Meg’s nightshirt. They ran until Dawn could see small white figures ahead.

  71 – Return to the Sunken City

  Something in Felon was out of control and he no longer cared. He knew that he should have ignored the Swimmers, ignored his own vengeful impulses, stolen a car and headed far away from the City of Light. It was possible that disappearing would save his life. Obviously, the powers he had been dealing with had higher ambitions than the destruction of one assassin. He could drop it and run. They still feared him. But he’d live the rest of his life in hiding—with the Change that promised to be eternity. So he decided it to bring the hunt to his adversaries. Rather than the possibility of every turn holding an enemy, go to each enemy in turn.

  A paranoid moment struck him and he patted his pockets again. Felon had managed to find two well-oiled clips for his .9 mm in his coat; a reload for the .44 magnum and his Derringer had not yet come into play. That didn’t arm him for a war, but he could hurt the ones he hated.

  What did Balg or Lucifer, or the Divine powers really care about him? He was a dupe tricked into making a kill beyond his wildest imaginings. Nothing more.

  And what did the Swimmer really know? The assassin wondered if he was that easy to predict. It did feel like something was at work in him—something big that he could not override. A dark passion was growing in him that was limitless in its power to destroy. He wanted death around him. He wanted to be an architect of the Apocalypse that was coming. Maybe he wanted to do the only thing he could: derail the plans of the Powers that had manipulated him. Felon was nobody’s plaything.

  He had checked the docks and found the trawler Wurn used to take him to the Sunken City. There was nobody aboard. Its open cargo area contained crates and boxes covered with a large sheet of weathered canvas. Felon dropped beneath the covering. He positioned himself behind tall drums of fuel where he could get a clear shot of anyone approaching. It was just after eleven when he climbed aboard. Close to midnight, he heard a voice, and footsteps.

  Passport said: “Hurry!” There was the sound of something being struck hard—a muted whimper. “Fithy Eyesore!”

  There were clambering sounds, part of the canvas cover was thrown back, and a pair of heavy bags tumbled in. The boat shifted as a pair of bodies climbed after.

  “Careful with the Master’s property. Fool!”

  Felon heard the deep rumble of the engine; it coughed powerfully to life, and then settled into a heavy groan. The load shifted slightly when the boat pulled away from the dock and Felon steadied himself against the drums until the trawler found its trim. He was right on top of the engine, so its noise made hearing anything difficult, but he did catch snippets of a one-way conversation.

  “Hurry!” Passport’s voice was acid—the engine moaned. “…of the world, and you dawdle.”

  Felon was tempted to come out with guns blazing, but he had to kill Balg first. The Demon might be attuned to Passport’s life—and would be tipped off. If he were lucky, he’d kill Passport right after he turned Balg to Ardor. A rare grin clenched his face as he imagined killing Wurn—he’d shoot the troll in the guts—watch him squirm.

  The boat skimmed recklessly over the waves. Its heavy hull thudded against the choppy sea. The assassin knew the trip would be short at this rate, but it would also be dangerous. The waters between the City of Light and the Sunken City were filled with submerged hazards. To occupy himself, Felon tried to raise his body temperature by will alone—concentrating on those parts of his body that felt frozen.

  As he did, he thought of the Swimmers. Worthless things! The scum were begging for death. He paused to measure his dangerous actions of late, and wondered if he could make any claim of superiority. He checked himself. He wasn’t tired of the struggle—he would fight to the last breath. But Felon was tired of the lies and manipulation. He wanted his power of pain back. It was all he had.

  The killing he had done in his life had not even taken the edge off his hatred. The more he killed, the more he wanted to kill. It was something similar to what his father might have felt when he beat the shit out of him. The less he cried, the less satisfaction his father got from beating him. So he beat him harder until he did cry. Then Felon almost laughed. Psychological bullshit was for people who didn’t know themselves.

  Felon was a born killer, and killing Angels just felt better than killing people. He received something akin to release. He couldn’t stand their pretense, and superiority. Who did they think they were? They weren’t even real—scum with wings.

  The motor rumbled, dropped a gear and slowed with a rocky motion.

  “Caref
ul here!” Passport’s voice had alien intonations of fear. “The Watchers! I hear them.”

  The Eyesore mumbled his stock reply, “The Watchers watch.”

  “And they see, little Wurn.” Felon’s hands gripped his gun.

  “Ah! One descends.” The assassin heard a muffled screech that grew in volume and excitement. An enormous whoosh and rush of air pushed the canvas down—the assassin rolled onto his back. A great leathery flap stroked the air, then another. The boat rocked violently almost tipping an oil drum on Felon.

  “Say nothing, Wurn.” Passport’s voice had a fluting singsong quality. “Watcher,” the Demon’s assistant spoke cautiously. “What do you see?”

  There was a bone-grating shriek, and then a reptilian roar. A fetid odor of decay filtered through the canvas. Another shriek followed, and the covering was hooked by enormous claws, flipped upward and away. The assassin looked up into the open jaws of the Watcher.

  72 – Battle of the Highway

  The western highway approaching the City was well defended. Stoneworthy had been preoccupied by the skies as they marched east, expecting a nuclear blast that would evaporate their purpose at any moment. It appeared that General Bolton was right because none came. The chance of poisoning their own homes had stayed their hands.

  The minister was on edge. Skirmishing troops mercilessly harried and assailed the flanks of the Army of God every mile that they had traveled, never forcing a full-scale confrontation, just worrying away at them with frustrating expertise.

  City Defenders had erected an enormous barricade of concrete slabs some thirty miles from the metropolis where the western highway cut through rugged terrain. The highway’s original builders had blasted a steep-walled trench through a high promontory of granite. It provided the perfect location for the City Defenders to build their breastworks. To the north of the enormous barricade, barren rock climbed to a height level with the top of the defensive structure. It provided the approaching army with a tempting attack route, but was too dangerous for that reason.