“Good. Move us slowly out of the garage and let me know when Leader Breen’s Battle Group comes into sight.”
It will not be long until my plans are finally in place. A new world will be right here for youngsters like dear Breen, if they let me force the door. Well, the door is for me, not them. I share power with no one—especially males. They do not know that yet, but they would soon.
Their SHORT pulled out of the garage onto what had once been a six-lane parkway. Hasty repairs made for tough and bumpy going, but it was passable. She knew that most of the streets in the city would never see vehicles again. Buildings falling across them blocked passage.
Quickly, a second SHORT pulled in front of them to lead the way. Behind, a third protected the rear.
Mistress Ann had not been out of her five building enclave since she had assigned herself as the first Mistress almost fifty years before. Now in one day, she had seized the entire assembly and was about to start a tidy little change of leadership. It would really be the Second Gender war with the Others, led by herself, as victors. No Hunter would stop her this time. She patted the pocket of her robe and the bright blue scarf folded inside. The Wicca had been an interesting experiment, now it was obsolete. Yes, The Blue was a fitting name for her new venture.
One she was done, all these homos would disappear—along with The Blue
She quietly thanked Kimraig for the large material handlers in which they were riding; he could have included windows.
She looked at her trashed city. Buildings were down everywhere. The Choker weeds coarse black-green creepers forced their roots into improbable cracks in older foundations. Other buildings, newer, shed decaying facades onto parkway lanes making their route twist and bump between the piles of rubble and stunted trees barren of leaves.
Good place for an ambush, Charles.
“Signal, Mistress.” Rat hunched over the steering wheel concentrating intensely. “Leader Breen say, inside ‘da garage.” She paused, “second signal like before, no words.”
The second signal confirmed that she would not have to contend with rogue-hit teams when it came time to secure her new building. She had given explicit instructions, capture them do not kill them—seasoned assassins were hard to train. Her personal troops had done well.
Finally content, Mistress Ann spoke. “Take us to Number 6 Building, now.” Her new building had not been One Nine from the time she first read this upstart Hunter’s Action Plan.
She settled back with her memory of that first day she had gone to work in a new city. Her own Number 1 Building had been the Crandall Towers back then. Twenty-three stories of professionals whose business was making money from the US Government. Looking out the cracked front shield, she remembered walking here as a child. She also remembered the people, noise and excitement as she had taken her first full time job as an analyst for Syntax, the highest rated think tank in Manhattan.
Her first task of the day had been buying gum from Bradley, the creepy derelict operating the corner newspaper stand. Then the second task, to make sure she did everything she could to take over at Syntax—starting that very first day.
At twenty-one years, she would work on the 21st floor. The number twenty-one was now her good luck charm. She chose Syntax over all the others who had wooed her Computer Science Doctorate. The others did not woo her personally, but her dissertation: Applying Computer and Photo Recognition for the Prevention of Nuclear War. Syntax had asked her to dinner in the Senate dining room. Three Syntax executives, all females, spent most of the evening delving into her as a person. Or rather, how this particular person had managed such a provocative piece of brilliance. They were also the only company who had asked how a twenty-one year old managed to get a doctorate.
The answer was simple. She had finished high school at sixteen, along with enough Advance Placement credits to make her a collage junior. When she reached the age of twenty, her father’s money and influence forced her Dean to accept challenges to any class that was not computer related. From then on, she tested out of most classes. She was in control.
Yes, that creepy derelict on the corner had been her first step to this Builders community she had assembled, body by body, following her own design. The second step had been the government representatives gathering at Syntax while analysts like her conjured up reactions, based on fact, for how an enemy would react to specific stimuli.
They would not listen. As a collective whole, they were exact copies of each other even when the letters of their organizations were different, all swine slurping at the government money trough. No care for what she proved would be the results if they retaliated with megatons in response to a few suitcase and dirty bombs.
They did not care. Think tanks were just conjecture—guesses or personal fantasies fueled by Mensa brainiacs. It was all about spending the dollars flooding from the House and Senate staffers whose job it was to satisfy We the People. As long as the individuals they worked for remained in office—if they had enough vote buying money in their war chests—the staffers did not care either. They would get to be first at that trough.
The doddering old US Vice President came one day, drawn by their CEO’s famous open bar and its willing barmaids. He wandered into her final briefing and laughed at her conclusions. When she demanded to know why they would not even discuss her concepts, he tried to put her in her place.
“What do little girls know of war?”
Ann knew about war. Ann cared about how its use would guarantee a safe society. She knew what the information in front of her reveled. Yes, she was think tank, but she knew fact from conjecture and fantasy from reality. She also knew Admirals and Generals with loosey-goosey trigger fingers. If you used wholesale war against shadows, it would not be long before there were no humans to build that safe society.
It was Friday. Syntax had reluctantly granted a request from their largest customer. Her CEO had taken the responsibility of firing her himself. Dumb, he was not. He asked his most promising employee to take the weekend off, which she never did, and return on Monday. He would have a team selected to interview her for her next employer. She would remain on payroll until she found her spot.
Ann had become a commodity just like the opinions her company sold. He would gain undying gratitude from one company’s CEO just for a chance to interview this woman. He thought he might have trouble finding someone who did not have government contracts under this administration—obviously not.
Monday, early, she was in the conference room. At lunchtime, she was feeling nauseous after four hours of fielding questions from headhunters representing the biggest private firms in the nation. Ann always stayed in for lunch, so she missed the TV news alert from Montana. Earthquake swarms had swept the Yellowstone region twice since two am that morning.
Not to worry, she informed the little bimbos who would assume her work. Montana is a long way away. She questioned the need for three little airheads to take over her work. The customers are always right, her boss had replied. This transfer would take so long that she would have to report again tomorrow, just so three sets of spiky heels could carry two files each, to their offices.
The whole floor was full the next day, with everyone at his or her desks. Ann strolled in with a definite short timer’s attitude as the building began swaying and shaking, fire alarms sounded endlessly. The conference room was closest and she managed to make it under the gigantic oak table with dry panties.
Quickly, several smaller quakes followed. A nightmare sharp up thrust slammed her into the underside of the tabletop and held her there, vibrating against its sharp support skeleton. After a series of harsh shudders from her building, she dropped back to the floor.
Get to my computer.
Ann cared little for the health and welfare of those around her. Her computer came first. Sell her stock via on-line account; then, go to streaming news media, looking for the next bargain to rock her way. She had made a small fortune after opening bell the morning of 9/1
1. Oh yeah, pretty good for a preteen.
Not this time, power blinked out as a fourth quake shook the building lasting twice as long as the first two combined. It took only seconds for the emergency power to rescue the building, but her stock trading site had disappeared. When the site tried to come back to her screen it would not load. These quakes must be bad.
The bedlam from her co-workers finally registered. Everyone was on their cell phones, screaming at their hand held drones to make connection. Others, giving up, banged landline sets against desktops with no better luck. Firmly, completely, unequivocally cut off from a world they knew nothing about, holding their dead pacifiers.
“Oh, I hope I remembered to turn off the fire in the break room,” she heard a secretary say from across the open space. There was nothing to make fire in that room, only a small electric range, automatic turn-off when the lights blinked out.
The fish gathering around the office heard only the word “fire” and right out of a horror movie, they took their cue—panic.
Not Ann, she waited for calmer times. A few level heads—men, women, girls, young and old, perhaps a dozen—remained in the office space. She heard broadcast news and found the noise not ten feet from her—a small emergency radio with an FM band. Soon they all clustered around.
In seconds, they wished they had no news. A large—super large—volcano had opened up in Yellowstone National Park. First reports indicated little communication with the states of Montana and Wyoming plus a number of other states all the way to the west coast.
A self-described expert on volcanoes explained his version of the ash cloud that would cover the nation. His descriptions finally dribbled off with the warning that all those listening repent, or suffer the consequences. More experts took his place, drivel without revealing one speck of true news or fact, until the station broke in with an unconfirmed report of a nuclear explosion near an Air Force base in Florida.
“Everyone, listen please,” Ann said in her best I-am-in-charge voice. She was taking no chances on loosing these few people in case they were stuck here for any length of time.
“We will begin hunting for supplies in case we have to spend the night. Anyone have experience in this building?”
That was all it took, someone to lead and get them involved in their own safety. Everyone had important assignments. Search for food, clothing, meds from locked desks and more people.
Water must be first on the list, even if it came to empting toilet tanks.
Two-person teams went up to the two floors above. Four, in a single team, went down one floor below. Instructions: find people; repeat the search procedures; report as soon as possible. Ann deftly led them all into the decisions without giving a single order.
She would check the Observation Stroll, a fancy name for a balcony that ran unbroken around the entire building. She had to see the devastation for herself.
The only entrance to the Stroll was in the executive offices. The first thing she recognized was the 59th Street Bridge. It was no longer a bridge. Spans were down, pummeled with heavy tidal wash. She had never paid much attention to the location of any buildings she visited or their location on a map. There seemed to be a whole lot fewer than she remembered.
This city had claimed her three months ago. In that time, she had never explored, preferring only to work and take the subway two stops from her walk-up to this building. The earthquakes had taken or damaged most everything her eyes could sort out, but she could not make a rational estimate of what remained. If there were people down there she could care less.
There seemed to be a lot of new water surrounding them. It may be an optical illusion from this height, but the river channels were much wider, she could not shake the feeling they were higher above the water.
Someone in this building must know this city.
Another someone must have a little police experience.
A few had to be mean enough to kill.
Their search gave them very little supplies for what she feared a new day would bring.
As the days passed and catastrophic events continued to unfold, she knew they needed a new government. She could design several, but which would be durable? They were mostly young women and a few old men. Then she knew. There could be no better format than her only fascination besides work—modern witchcraft—not benign but like the brutal covens of legend.
Ann decided the ruling body’s name had to be The Wicca, their bible the Wiccan Codex, with herself as head witch. Number 13 will be my new lucky number. That thought forced her first lunatic giggle—the first of many.
* * *
This is not good, that old bat Mistress Ann, has left me alone too long, Kimraig thought. A steady film of perspiration bit into the cuts and bruises strangling his wrists and ankles. Close air was wearing on his nerves. The small cargo hatch behind his head was open as was the driver’s door. He could feel a faint stirring of air. These SHORTS were not a place to spend a quiet afternoon.
Pressure inside his steel box indicated a sheltered location. Basement garage of One Nine, he guessed. He resisted the urge to pull against the handcuffs fixing him to the temporary seat. Anxiety screamed. Hey, I do not wait!
The SHORT rocked. A cool draft brushed the beads of sweat on his forehead. He coiled. Leader Breen bent over to clear the narrow opening to the cargo area, moving toward him with her short dress sword in hand. All female Builder’s, Troopers and Queens, carried this small version when not in battle dress.
He forced down the urge to lunge, but his thoughts were slower than his bodies’ reaction. He moved—maybe half an inch.
Damn near tore your hands off, start thinking!
What the hell was Leader Breen doing in the robes of a Mistress?
She moved to his side and placed her sword on the seat next to his left hand, the hilt within his easy reach. She unlocked his legs first, knowing he would do nothing with cuffed hands. When the cuffs fell to the floor, the keys followed. Breen slid into the seat so recently occupied by Mistress Ann.
“My sword is by your hand. Do what you have to do,” she sighed.
One flick of the sword and he was done. Leader Breen’s head rolled back toward the driver’s compartment, her robes of indigo blue splashed with...
There was no blood, because he had not moved. It was only a flashing thought, quickly gone. That thought pushing away a deep need to be with her. A need that had almost obscured the isolation that he lived with.
Her sell-out had numbed him, yet her sword remained untouched. The memories of their Mating Ritual, twin sons, and betrayal burning every nerve; he was almost unable to rub the feeling back into his hands.
“Why?”
Leader Breen fought hard not to show her relief.
“Had you not stayed with me last night, you would be dead. When you killed Mistress Ann’s Leaders on the concourse the day of The Gender War, her plans for the future went to the compost heap. I had to make sure you would not join her plans. She likes hostages. I gave her you.”
Breen held up her hand as he started to snarl. She would not break eye contact.
“Please, hear everything.” She paused, only until he settled back. “Mistress Ann wanted your head. You knew that, but then you made yourself useful and almost indispensable. Your plan to take this new building was perfect. Then there I was, as much a hero as you. She said she saw me as the driving force she had been at my age. I was groomed to implement her new government—equality for everyone, including males.”
Kimraig sat silently, willing himself to hear every word. He smelled deceit.
“Mistress Ann selected five Hunters as prospective mates. That male would help me govern One Nine. I was to choose last night. I did, she was livid.” Breen shrugged and continued. “This morning, before the Wicca Council, I announced you, Kimraig, as my mate.” Leader Breen took time to sit back against the hard seat.
“Go with me on this,” she continued. “Once I take over here at One Nine, you and your
little army can go your own way, all but Midge. Mistress Ann owns her. She reported every move you made.” She still had not broken eye contact. “Leave her alone.”
No! Midge will not last a day on the roof of Number 4 Building, he thought.
“After the parlay, I convinced her to grant you full immunity. Will you help?”
Finally, she closed her eyes tight and shuddered.
“Trust is a fickle mistress.” Kimraig picked up the sword and turned its hilt to Leader Breen. “I have no choice.” He looked away. “Is that all?”
Breen nodded only once. Mistress Ann was right. Lying did get easy. As she moved to leave the SHORT, she turned. “Brody-1 and Hunter Curtis are outside with a new set of battle armor. Wear it.”
She had no sooner cleared the doorway, and Brody-1’s overlarge form blocked out what little light there was. Battle armor landed at his feet, not his Hunter’s armor, different cut. The deep indigo blue matched Breen’s robe.
Brody-1’s curt voice grated on his ears as she handed him the helmet.
“There is one-way communication inside this helmet. Meaning all of us can yell at you but you cannot talk to us, less we make the connection for you. There is a telepathy block in the helmet. Which means no one can communicate with you by thinking at you either. Understood?”
He nodded as he locked eyes with the woman. He was not quite sure how good she was in hand-to-hand combat.
“Too bad, I want you to screw up so I can crush you myself. Talk to Mistress Breen like that one more time and that will happen. You got that old man?”
“Good luck,” he said
Fighting fair against this monster might be counterproductive. Her performance did make it hard to resist a chuckle.
Old man she calls me. Well, maybe this will be fun.
He heard her muffled voice yelling outside. “Hunter Curtis, get your sorry butt in there and make sure he knows which way is up. God, they continue to surround me with idiots.” Heavy footsteps faded away.
The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) Page 11