Evolution

by Hope Anika

  And if she stepped over...she would be lost.

  Which was just dumb.

  Still, she didn’t look. Instead, she stared out at the wash of pale brown and said, “I wonder what he meant by ‘beware the exiles.’”

  “Presumably another faction. There is GenTek, who Adam referred to as the ‘Makers.’ The Reverend and his Order, who are, potentially, the men in black. And now, the ‘Exiles.’ Exile is a term which implies those who have been outcast or who are—”

  “Refugees.” Ash sat up a little straighter. “The other Primaries.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She sat forward. “They’ve banded.”

  “They are little more than children.”

  “The oldest primary would be eighteen by now,” she pointed out. “And they aren’t normal kids.”

  “You do not know that.”

  She snorted. “Were you normal?”

  A narrow look.

  “My point exactly,” she said.

  “County Road K,” Ruslan replied. He slowed the Impala and turned onto a narrow dirt and gravel road that led toward a series of uneven mounds dotted by large, flat pieces of pale sandstone. Dust billowed around them as they drove further into the craggy hills, leaving the highway and civilization behind them. A sign had been stabbed into the hard-packed earth, a simple wooden creation with the words “Road to Rectification” painted across it.

  “That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Ash observed darkly.

  They traveled several miles in silence, deeper into the remote, distinctly unfriendly and barren desert wilderness. There was no traffic, neither coming nor going. Her watch read 9:57, so either no one planned on attending the 10:00 a.m. service, or the reverend’s followers were a punctual bunch who’d already arrived.

  The Impala crested another small hill and the land suddenly flattened out into a narrow band between two large knolls, crumbling earthen hills propped up by misshapen chunks of dark red clay and large pieces of blond sandstone. The hills were rough with scrub brush and cacti.

  The land between the uneven peaks was level, a tapered valley covered in short, thick clumps of yellow grass and peppered with small islands of shimmering golden sand. Just beyond the narrow basin, Half Moon Bay was visible, a small, oblong disc of pale blue water surrounded by jagged rock and a long earthen dam. The water sparkled in the sunlight, so low it was little more than a large puddle.

  The road bisected the land like a pale, raised scar and led to a huge, cream-colored wall tent that sat smack in the middle of the valley.

  “A travelling show,” Ash murmured, studying it.

  A nice tent—expensive—clean and well cared for. Several long, simple wooden benches sat along the outside walls; two sections at the front were tied open, allowing people to come and go at will. A handful of cars sat parked in front of the tent: a giant, ancient Buick, a sporty new Subaru. An aging Volkswagen, a gleaming Audi. A rusty RV, a couple of motorcycles. An old Army Jeep.

  An odd mix.

  A handful of people lingered outside, talking. They were dressed simply, nothing too fancy, but nicer than jeans and t-shirts. Ash was glad she’d donned the pale green button-down shirt and tailored black pant suit she wore; even her hair was tamed this morning, a sleek curve of shimmering platinum. Next to Ruslan she looked almost professional.

  Except for her battered face.

  Ruslan parked the Impala, and they climbed out into the dense, relentless heat. A light breeze blew, doing nothing to dent the impenetrable warmth. They walked toward the tent, and the people in front of it moved inside. Music filtered toward them, something filled with strings, a thrumming, low bass, and a piercing, mournful flute.

  Inside the tent was surprisingly cool; three large ceiling fans whirled overhead, installed along the interior steel ridgeline of the tent, and in each corner a large, ice-cooling fan blew chilled air through the space. Speakers hung at the far corners and rows of metal backed chairs sat neatly aligned before a plain wooden alter. Bright yellow sunflowers occupied two tall glass vases on either side of the altar, their large heads bobbing in the breeze.

  Behind the altar, hung against the wall of the tent, was a painting. Big—nearly ten by ten—and not what one would expect to find as a backdrop to Christ’s teachings. A somber Jesus, a serene Mary, angels and apostles and winged cherubs—those were often depicted in a house of God.

  Not a grisly scene of battle, complete with headless bodies and amputated limbs and entrails that stretched across the battlefield in a sinewy web of stomach-churning viscera. Men in agony; men on fire, screaming, their hands stretched toward the sky like talons. Men cleaved in half; men in pieces. A thick, ruby-red river of blood flowed beneath them, and despite their evident slaughter, a wild, unhinged fervor reflected in their features, like the famed Berserkers swarming an enemy. And that enemy...

  That enemy had no face. Black, featureless figures whose weapons were not steel, but elemental: fire, water, wind, even lightening projected from the dark shapes, who were little more than smudges of ebony paint on the canvas. Neither men nor women, they pressed forward not by might of sword, but with the fury of the earth: a towering, inescapable wave of seawater, a wall of hungry flame. Bolts of jagged lightening burned giant, blackened holes through their enemy.

  Beneath the raging battle, the earth crumbled, massive cracks that turned into chunks of splintering ground and disintegrated into black, empty space. Behind the dying men, a fiery, abnormally large alien sun swallowed the horizon in a wash of crimson and brilliant yellow-orange, washing the macabre scene of death in shimmering, ethereal gold.

  It was horrific.

  “Apocalypse,” Ruslan murmured, studying it.

  A chill washed through her. “Quite the recruitment tool.”

  “Indeed.”

  They took a seat toward the back of the tent, far enough away to be able to both see the show and the crowd’s reaction to it. Ruslan sat on the end, Ash next to him. The rest of the row was empty.

  She was surprised at the number of people—at least thirty. Considering it was 10:00 am on a Wednesday in the middle of nowhere, that was unexpected. The why of that—what, exactly, did Kline preach?—combined with the residual horror of the painting was enough to make the dread that had taken root within her unfurl, barbed and poisonous. That icy, steadfast knowing sat in her gut, and part of her desperately wanted to share it with Ruslan, but she knew better. The man didn’t even have it in him to consider intuitive leaps; he would never entertain the idea of such unreasoned certainty.

  But Ash trusted her instincts; they’d kept her alive. She followed her gut, listened when it spoke.

  And right now, it was screaming.

  “New visitors,” said a smooth, southern-touched voice, shattering her thoughts. She looked up to see a young man standing at the far end of the aisle, so extraordinarily beautiful, she blinked in wonder.

  “Hello,” she said, staring at him.

  He smiled, and it was like the sun suddenly appeared to shine down upon her. “Welcome.”

  Every part of him was golden: his hair, the color of honey; his skin, warm amber stretched over bones that were perfect in form and shape; even his eyes, light caramel brown, framed by a thick web of slightly darker lashes. Slashing golden brows, high cheekbones, a square jaw, a lush and firm mouth. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, but he was...

  Delicious. A thought that made her blush—because he was a child—but still.

  Damn.

  That he was wrapped in a pristine white suit—shirt, tie, even shoes—only highlighted his beauty.

  “Thank you,” she said, suddenly aware of Ruslan sitting motionless beside her. He was close, much closer than usual, probably more so than he would’ve liked due to the metal chairs’ proximity to one another. His presence pressed against her, and his scent filled her nostrils; even as golden boy began the journey down the empty row of chairs toward her, it was Ruslan’s unmoving form she was
aware of.

  His pale, unwavering gaze focused on the young man and catalogued every detail instantly. It was not a friendly look.

  Not that Ruslan did “friendly.”

  The young man indicated the empty chair beside her. “May I?”

  In his hands he held a printed bulletin. Between that and the suit, it was pretty clear he was part of the program.

  “Please,” she said and smiled at him.

  His golden gaze drifted over her face, lingered on her bruises, and then slid to Ruslan beside her. The warmth drained from him instantly, the sparkling sun plummeting to night.

  “The Order of Rectification and Rebirth welcomes you,” he said coldly.

  “Indeed,” Ruslan replied with equal chill.

  “Sit,” she said and patted the metal seat beside her.

  The young man jerked his gaze back to her. It softened, and he smiled again as he sat down beside her.

  “Thank you,” he said. He sat back and studied her with a kind of frank and unhidden appreciation that made her face go suddenly hot. “Have we met before?”

  Definitely not. She would not have forgotten this kid. “Unlikely.”

  “You seem familiar,” he murmured, and his soft southern drawl was golden, too. “My name is Bridger.”

  “Bridger,” she repeated and offered him her hand. “I’m Ash.”

  “Ash,” he echoed and slid his hand around hers. Kid or not, his grip swallowed hers, and he didn’t shake her hand, but lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips against her knuckles. “The pleasure is all mine, Ash.”

  Another blush flooded her cheeks. The way he was looking at her...wow.

  The kid packed a punch.

  She tugged her hand away. “Are you a member of the Order, Bridger?”

  “Yes, I am.” His voice was soft, his gaze an open caress. “And you? What brought you to our humble congregation today?”

  “Murder,” Ruslan responded flatly.

  The music cut off abruptly, and two bright lights flickered to life, illuminating the altar. A man stepped into the light, slight and too thin with a large, beak-like nose that dominated his pale face.

  Reginald Kline.

  Clad in another white suit, his silver eyeglasses reflecting the light. He looked older than he had in the photograph she had seen, harder somehow. His narrow eyes assessed the crowd; his hands lifted into the air.

  “The beast that thou sawest was, and is not,” he announced, his voice carrying easily through the tent, “and shall ascend out of the bottomless pit, and go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder, whose names were not written in the book of life from the foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is.”

  Because that makes perfect sense.

  “Revelation, Chapter 17,” he continued, almost tersely. “The foretelling of the Unnamed, and the summoning of those who understand that what is and is not and cannot be.”

  A ripple murmured through the crowd. Beside Ash, Bridger was silent, watching Kline with rapt, unblinking attention. Just behind the Reverend, off to the side, was another man in a white suit. A big, hard man who looked like he could take a hit from a sledgehammer and keep going: broad, thick bones, a flat, fat nose. A jaw that made her knuckles ache just looking at it. His hair was black, slicked back against his skull, and his eyes were small, dark points that watched the crowd like he was department store security hunting for shoplifters. His hands were clasped behind his back, his feet braced, shoulders square.

  A man whose snow-white suit did not conceal the darkness within.

  Especially when said man spied Ruslan and focused on him like a bloodhound that had scented prey.

  "You are worthy, our Lord and God,” Kline droned on, his features grim, “to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they were created and have their being. Revelation 4:11. But we know there are those who were not created by the will of our Lord and God, abominations engineered by men who believe their existence lay outside the domain of the Almighty. We know that those Unnamed atrocities defile creation itself, and that their very being is an affront to our Lord and God. But above all, we know those abominations must be gutted and thrust back into the darkness from whence they came, or all that we are, or could ever hope to become, is lost.”

  Nods and murmurs of agreement rolled through the people around them. The man behind Kline stared relentlessly at Ruslan; Ruslan stared relentlessly back.

  “I have chosen the Book of Revelation this morning.” Kline held up a copy of the Bible, bound in aged red leather, gold lettering winking in the light. “Because time grows short. We can no longer afford to wait; the Unnamed will breed unremittingly, and with their progeny will come the absolute annihilation of our species. We must act swiftly, without hesitation. We must strike before they can fully assemble—because make no mistake, they are assembling. And once they have found one another...” He turned toward the painting and studied it for a long, drawn-out moment. “The world will bleed red until the Kingdom of God again returns to earth.”

  Several “amens” sounded. Then the Reverend opened his Bible and began to read.

  Ash tried to follow the words, but they simply flowed past like unremarkable landscape. Instead, she studied the people. A mixed lot of folks, as their vehicles had reflected: a wealthy couple who wore fine clothing and glittering gold jewelry. A young couple in pressed linen and silk; a pair of older women in flowered dresses and small, matching blue hats. An old man in overalls and a faded red shirt. Three men in biker leather with black and white bandannas and matching dragon patches on their jackets.

  Her eyes wandered over them all, a mixture of colors, cultures and ages. No one stood out. The first two rows of chairs were filled by people entirely in white—men in suits, women in lacy dresses, children in miniature versions of both. The third and fourth rows were filled with cloaked white figures, their hoods raised, hiding them entirely from view—a sight that made the dread dogging Ash turn heavy and leaden in her belly.

  The man who watched Ruslan was unblinking, like a serpent; Ash half expected his tongue to flicker out and taste the air. Beside her, Bridger watched the sermon as if he’d never seen it before, and his eyes gleamed with something bright and glinting she couldn’t read. Halfway through Kline’s sermon, a boy stood up from the front row and sang an a cappella version of a mournful song about darkness and death and sacrifice. Then another reading from Revelation, a somber reciting of the Lord’s Prayer, and finally, the Reverend’s closing.

  “Rest assured, the Order will cull this unnatural herd which has been unleashed upon the earth,” he promised gravely. His face said it would not be easy, and it would not come without cost. There was no hyperbole, no affectation of religious fervor, just plain, unflinching fact: there will be blood. “The Order will cut the head from the beast and hang it high for all to see—but we cannot do this without you. We need your eyes and your ears; you are our scouts and our infantrymen. We must act as one, or we will be destroyed as one. Remember that all those whose names were not found written in the book of life were thrown into the lake of fire. The time has again come to cast those who do not belong into the flame. Go with God, my children, seek out the signs of atrocity and inhumanity. And bring them forth for our divine rectification.”

  Then he was striding away, disappearing through an unseen flap in the side of the tent, and the man who was so enamored of Ruslan strode after him, but not before casting Ruslan a look that could only be construed as both invitation and warning.

  “You’re always making new friends,” Ash told him. “I’m jealous.”

  Ruslan turned and looked at her, unsmiling. Then his gaze flickered to Bridger, and one of his black brows rose.

  “Did you enjoy the sermon?” the young man asked, as if on cue. He turned to her and smiled, and his eyes gleamed, and the hair at her nape suddenly prickled—because that cordial southern flirtation wa
s underscored by the faintest thread of mockery.

  Having grown up with a man who used derision and scorn as effectively as he used the blades with which he made his living, she recognized it instantly. And she wondered if it had been there the entire time, and she’d simply missed it.

  Bamboozled by that pretty face and those big golden eyes.

  By being lavished with a kind of blatant, bodily appreciation she rarely garnered. Goddamn it.

  “Not particularly,” she said and felt Ruslan’s pale gaze touch her. “I need to speak with the Reverend. Is that something you can do?”

  Bridger blinked at her brisk tone. “Maybe.” He leaned closer; his eyes caressed her. “Why do you need to see him?”

  “We are investigating the death of Dr. Kline’s former colleague,” Ruslan said.

  “Are you police?”

  “No.” Ash pulled a card from her coat pocket and handed it over. “Private investigators.”

  Bridger looked up from the card, his eyes sparking in the light. “Ashling Kyndal.”

  “We would like to see Kline immediately,” Ruslan said.

  Bridger ignored him, staring at her, and the small smile that suddenly touched his mouth bore no resemblance to the toothy version he’d flashed at her earlier.

  “Well, I can’t stand in the way of a murder investigation, now can I?” He stood and held out his hand to Ash, his eyes daring her to take it. “Shall we?”

  Beside her, Ruslan was utterly motionless.

  “After you,” she said, and Bridger laughed softly and nodded, as if in concession. Then he turned and walked past the chairs toward the opposite end of the tent. Ash stood and followed, Ruslan a silent shadow in her wake.

  “He appeared to recognize your name,” Ruslan said over her shoulder.

  She got the same impression, which did not bode well. Because she hadn’t run the Firm long enough for anyone to recognize her name—not unless they were privy to it for other reasons.

  Like if they were hunting one of her clients.

  But considering the sermon they’d just sat through...the men in black had to be part of this crazy sect. The brute, unflinching violence; the zealotry, the nutty apocalyptic prediction; the cyanide.