The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  Its barren surface provided zero cover, and one look at it told General Bolton that a force challenging the barricade from that side would be cut to pieces. To the south, the rains had turned an old wetland into a giant swamp that would slow any effort to go around. To get to the City they had to go through the barricade, and therefore through the worst that the City Defenders could dish out.

  “And if we get through that they’ll be waiting to burn us on twenty miles of the flatlands beyond it,” Bolton snarled melodramatically. “This will be a cake walk compared to what they’ll have waiting.”

  A fifty-foot wall encircled the City’s inland perimeter. It was pierced in three places by multi-layered highways leading north, west and south. The minister knew that all the mammoth gates would be closed and difficult to pass. The City Defenders had raised the barricade on the highway to bring the fight to the approaching army, bog them down or stop them before they got any closer to the City walls. General Bolton’s advance scouts had reported the barricade’s rapid construction and had designed a plan to use against it.

  Volunteers in horrific states of decay were selected for the mission. They were camouflaged and attached to explosive packages before moving by stealth toward the barricade. It was be a pitiful thing to watch with many of them little more than ribcages with arms. Their decrepitude slowed them, but it helped them stay unnoticed as they navigated the ditches and fields in the rain and darkness. Their job was simple: get as close as they could to the barricade and detonate their explosive packs when the signal was given. This plan had been initiated days before when the barricade’s construction was first observed. The volunteers were rushed to the location under cover of night, and had been closing with the rampart ever since.

  Stoneworthy had received some information from Updike—adrift again in pain and near delirium—and General Bolton was too tight-lipped to leak his plans in full. He finally filled Stoneworthy in on the basics, and the Reverend was impressed by the zeal of the volunteers.

  The Army of God was ordered into attack formation one mile from the barricade when Bolton sounded a powerful horn. Before the City Defenders could fire a shell, huge sections of the barricade exploded sending chunks of concrete, equipment and bodies flying.

  Four advance attack groups of infantry burst out of the Army’s ranks and headed for the gaps in the barricade and the City Defenders beyond. Gunfire scorched the night air, and many were destroyed. General Bolton had decided to employ his infantry feeling certain that the City Defenders would make the way impassible for vehicles with mines and worse. And he needed those vehicles in the days to come. Stoneworthy knew that the General had deployed six mobile cannons a half-mile behind them to provide artillery cover against a mechanized force that Bolton expected sooner or later.

  The destruction of the barricades, and the approaching horde of the dead were too much for the City Defenders—who living had apparent immortality to lose. They ran. Only a few remained to hold the barricades—and the Army of God soon added them to their ranks.

  As the smoke cleared Stoneworthy joined Bolton in the wreckage. From their new vantage point, the road dropped gradually for eight miles before heading toward the City over relatively flat and open ground for twenty more.

  “That won’t be easy to cross,” Bolton remarked.

  As if to prove this, a squadron of jetfighters flew the City’s perimeter. Their contrails could be seen against the metropolis’ mountainous glow, the distant jet engines roaring defiance. The City Defenders’ technological angels might lack Divine power—but they would provide a destructive force that the Army of God would have difficulty answering in the open terrain before them.

  After a moment studying the landscape, Bolton gave his binoculars to Stoneworthy.

  “Down there. You can see where the road drops over that hill—there’s a valley to the south. I’ve seen diesel plumes.” The minister scanned the area. The valley ran north to south for about five miles. Stoneworthy knew it well. A small river ran through it, little more than a stream before the Change it now swelled occasionally to flood levels. The depression that it ran through was shallow—but wide, and could easily hide a large force.

  “Let’s hope Gabriel lives up to his word.” Bolton studied the distant valley. “There could be a three-hundred tanks in there!” He left Stoneworthy to recall his cannon emplacements.

  The minister looked around. The ruined barricade would have to be cleared before any of the Army’s mechanized units could negotiate the ruins. Luckily, things had happened too fast for the City Defenders to build anything more substantial or come up with a better defensive plan. Already, dead crews were hauling stone from the road. Stoneworthy looked across the distance. Archangel Tower reared through the City’s hulking levels—stabbing into the constant overcast like a flaming sword. How beautiful!

  The minister’s soul was a seizure of conflict. He had worked so hard. Karen had worked so hard to build it, and such great works were done within it and through its combined ministries. Slowly, it had grown in stature to outstrip the Vatican. But all of that could be lost. The war was just; and it was a pity that destruction was a key to its success—but a necessary evil? He wondered if he could stand to see the Tower fall. Such lofty ideals had gone into its construction—such faith. Only to see it destroyed? And yet, what was the Tower when set against the will of God?

  Stoneworthy and Updike had demanded that the City’s wealth be shared. And wealthy men had refused the demand. What of the people who needed such help—people who had already been cut out of their share? Had they refused Updike’s ultimatum? Had they even heard it? It was possible that after hearing the good intentions and noble aspirations of the Army of God that the City’s denizens could be convinced to join them in their mission and renounce the Gods of money and greed.

  But how to convince them? Perhaps an emissary could bring an appeal for peace. The killing would stop the moment people knew that there was no need for it. As always the wealthy and powerful would be spinning lies to gain the support of the populace. But things were different. Perhaps the Change—one hundred years of its effect would make people—the living—more accepting of the truth.

  If Stoneworthy could stop the killing before the destruction of the City was necessary perhaps repentance could buy the sinners a chance on Judgment Day? Forgiveness need only be asked. He resisted the urge to attempt Gabriel’s direct aid. The Angel’s appearance could do much to convince the unconverted and yet, Stoneworthy knew that this would be wrong. God did not put on displays to gain faith.

  Yet faith was required. Faith. And that could only be gained through understanding. Stoneworthy knew that understanding grew from knowledge. And knowledge of God was contained in His Word.

  A determined smile grew on the minister’s face. Parley was part of every war. Would the City Defenders recognize the white flag? Resolve hardened in him. Parley was the only thing that would make the Army of God clean. They had to offer the cheek to strike before they could exact the harsh judgment that Stoneworthy knew was coming. God’s Word was best heard coming from men, not the mouth of a cannon. He could not watch more killing and destruction go unopposed. It had to stop!

  73 – The Watcher

  Felon barely had time to focus on the creature before it attacked. Its body was covered with shimmering blue-green scales. The Watcher had a dinosaur torso with long rear legs and broad leathery wings. Its teeth were wide tapered plates of some flint-like material, and its snaky red tongue was white and red-veined. Great cheekbones anchored jaw muscles over a ridge of bone where the eyes should be but were not. It had a long serpentine tail that cracked the air like a whip and thick muscular arms like an ape’s. Its rear legs were as tall as Felon—tapering to a pair of splayed bird’s feet with four toes. These were jointed in several places like spider’s legs and two feet long.

  The Watcher slashed these jointed spikes at him but Felon shifted out of the way, opened fire. His gun blazed until the metal bu
rned in his hand. Most of the bullets bounced off the monster’s scales—only those traveling at perfect trajectories would penetrate its body. The Watcher screamed, slashed at Felon again. This time one of the spiky toes tore through the assassin’s overcoat, sunk into the wooden engine housing beneath him. Felon rolled, but the thing’s claw had him.

  Its mouth opened and the Watcher screamed. The creature’s rotting breath rippled Felon’s hair and his ears were pushed to a pitch where all sound turned to a buzz. A heavy hand grabbed Felon’s right wrist, pushed it aside with ease. The assassin slid his left knee under the Watcher’s chin, forced it back as far as he could. He flipped the empty .9 mm from his right hand and snagged the .44 out of its holster with his left. He pressed its mouth against the creature’s forearm and fired once. The thing shrieked as bone and flesh dissolved and it leapt back with a beat of its wings.

  Felon glanced at Passport and would have shot him but the Watcher attacked again. One powerful beat of its wings knocked the assassin into the oil drums before he could gain his feet. The Watcher kicked out, and Felon’s left leg went numb. Blood sprayed across the boat. The assassin reached up to his belt, yanked on the big buckle, and pulled a short stabbing knife free in time to deflect the Watcher’s bite with a slash under its chin. It shrieked again, but Felon pressed, managed a shallow cut along its throat. It turned quickly, smashing the assassin across the hips with its tail, throwing him into the short rail that ran around the top of the gunnels. Felon dropped to the deck, raised his .44 and fired a shot at its face. A chunk of scales came off the thick bone on its forehead.

  Felon howled at the creature, slashed with his knife. He fired the .44 again but was swept into the drums by the Watcher’s tail. Before he could get to his feet its claws sunk into his waist and tore into his shoulder. It shrieked, and pulled him off the deck.

  Growling for escape, Felon was lifted between tall brick walls that formed the channel. The boat dropped away. Constricted as he was, Felon gritted his teeth against the pain, cursed as his knife fell out of his hand. He jammed the .44’s barrel into the Watcher’s groin and fired it empty. The Watcher screamed, raked its jaws at Felon—but its abdomen was torn and spilling a hot deluge on its prey. The Watcher threw its head back, jaws working, throat constricted around a scream. It struck at the assassin like a snake—to sink its fangs into Felon’s throat and face.

  Felon ducked—but his temple struck against bone. Electric shock jumped over his vision as they fell. The assassin saw the crowd of Swimmers bloated, white against the black water now—arms reaching upward. Hundreds crowded the trawler as the water came up hard. It was like a wall of ice when he hit.

  74 – The Dream

  Updike was dreaming. Lying on a bed of flowers he exulted—the aroma of nature penetrated every pore of him. The yellow sun blazed down. Its rays warmed his face with prickly heat. High, high above, clouds scuttled by in long straight lines of haze—Stratus Nimbus clouds—he thought—or was it Nimbus Stratus? The clouds swept by bound for distant lands. He smiled. It had been so long that his bunching cheek muscles felt alien—unnatural. He took a deep breath, tasted the musty, damp pollen on the breeze. Alive. He rolled on his side giggling. A valley swept away from him for many miles, the vista of flowers and grass alive with color shimmered in the heat. Daisies waggled their windswept manes—bluebells grew in the grass like sapphire stars. His body buzzed with sensation. Oh God! He ran his hands over his skin.

  Then Updike turned with a start, forced himself up on his hands and knees. What was that? A voice? No, there was something else—a distant thump or bang—a noise like something heavy had fallen and an echo when it hit the ground. Perhaps a crane had dropped a chunk of iron or steel. But there were no engine noises, so—and there it was again. Slightly louder, and being ready for it—he concentrated on the sound. No, not metallic at all. A thump, like a tree would make after a lumberjack cried: timber! There it was again, a thump.

  A strange anxiety crept into his peaceful state—slowly, subtly. It first showed itself in the unclenching of his jaws, and the disappearance of his smile. He looked to where he had lain in the grass—a strip of green was parted and flattened. But, as he watched, as if by magic the grass thinned and dirt began to show through—black dirt turning to mud that oozed between the blades. Again the thump.

  It startled him—his eyes flashed up—left—right—the distance had closed in with a wall of gray—like fog or cloud. What now? No valley. A cool wind blew about him—he struggled a moment, pulled his coat tight. Thump! His brow knitted, his lips pushed forward in a frown.

  A gust blew across the flowers—their faces dull like faded paint. Updike looked skyward, but the sun had gone. Thump. Heavy gray clouds covered all. He looked down—the grass was withering, brown appeared at its edges and ate its way to the center. Thump. A heavy scent of rot reached his nose, he sniffled, saw the black earth had extruded great leaves of darkness like dung. White worms wiggled through its surface. Thump. Thump. Twice now the sound. What’s this?

  The flowers had changed. The bluebells had turned to hardened ebony orbs, the daisies to white lacquered balls. Thump. Thump. Thump! Before his eyes the blossoms changed—cheekbones appeared—black eye sockets—grinning brown teeth. Thump! Thump! The miniature skulls bobbed on their thin white necks—their mouths moved.

  “Eavesdropper!” they hissed like adders. “Eavesdropper!”

  Thump. Pressure grew. Thump. His ears felt like molten plastic. Thump!

  “Updike!” An itching as hot and urgent as a stroke ran through his brain. He looked at his hands. They were black and crawling with maggots. Yellow finger bones ripped through the rotting flesh like lily shoots.

  “Jack!” His name pulled him from sleep. His pain was waiting to throttle the scream in his throat. Moaning, he clutched his forehead with both hands, kicked his blankets away.

  “Jack?” The voice was Oliver’s.

  “No.” Updike could say nothing more. Pain hammered a hot nail into his eye. He was lying on his back. His bed was moving, bouncing. A thin pillow did not help him. It felt like his skull was shattering. He was in a transport. Where were they going?

  “It’s me Jack!” Oliver knelt over him.

  “Yes.” Updike searched, found the proper answer and repeated it again. “Yes.”

  “It’s a dream. A bad dream.” Oliver pulled a bottle of painkillers from Updike’s pack and fidgeted with a canteen. Water spilled on the preacher’s chest. “How many have you—oh Jack!”

  “No! Don’t be ridiculous!” His voice was brittle. “I’m sorry, Oliver. You’re right. I’ve been pushing myself too hard!” He kept one hand pressed against his left eye, levered himself into a sitting position with the other. Yes, he was in his transport. He’d climbed in when General Bolton ordered the transports and mechanized units to take as many soldiers toward the plains as possible. City Defenders were falling back—likely to other poorly prepared defenses.

  Bolton wanted to take the momentum forward. The rest of the infantry could make their best time and arrive in a second wave over the next few hours. General Carstair’s force would be in position by sunrise. Lorenzo had managed to rally his people and would arrive the following day with 110,000 infantry.

  “Jack.” Oliver whispered, the transport lurched and he steadied himself against the bed. “You’re not getting any better.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He picked up a bottle, quickly read the label. “Damn things give me nightmares.” He saw that his statement did nothing to reassure so he changed the topic. “Almost there?”

  “I’ve got bad news.” Oliver’s dead face held vital sadness.

  “What?” His friend’s urgency was a silent shout.

  “Able is missing.” Moisture clouded the dead man’s eyes.

  “Missing?” Updike echoed. Then, an image—a memory floated across his mind’s eye—a scene: Stoneworthy stood by his transport just after the battle. The dead minister looked too vulnerable, too small despit
e his height to carry the heroic legend others had bestowed upon him. The battle had left his suit in tatters. Stoneworthy had come to him with anxious expectations. He had said that he couldn’t keep killing. Army of God they may be, but their most vital weapon was the Word. And the City Defenders deserved to hear it.

  Updike had declined Stoneworthy’s request to parley with the City under a flag of truce. The time for talk was over. The moneylenders chose to fight God’s rule, and He had sent an army to punish them. Stoneworthy had seemed to acquiesce—perhaps. Updike had been in too much pain to argue his point more finely. The minister saw this, and Updike thought he relented. Stoneworthy had smiled, nodded his head, and gave his blessing before leaving the tent. And now he was missing.

  “Damn it let this end!” Updike groaned as the transport slowed. His discomfort settled on him like old age.

  75 – Return to the Tower

  The visors on the Authority Enforcers’ helmets bore little resemblance to the gothic iron masks that dominated the first fifty years after the Change. Those were molded into likenesses of human faces to protect the wearer’s identity and intimidate any they approached. These new versions were plain shovel blades of polished steel—their surfaces broken by a thin eye-slit of bulletproof glass. An Enforcer sat on either side of him. Their protective body armor wedged him uncomfortably into place. His hands were cuffed in his lap. The transport was lightly armored and offered windows on either side. The drivers were hidden away behind a heavy door.

  Stoneworthy had stolen away from the Army of God about an hour before. His heart was sick with guilt at ignoring Updike’s assertion that it was too late for parley. But the minister could not ignore the lessons he had learned in battle. War was too easy—and the doubt in the faces of the men he had killed begged discussion. Sinners they were; animals they were not. Men of God had to allow their enemies time to repent. They could die later if need be.