“Torvanians,” Jamie-Lyn finished for him.
“Right, Torvanians.”
“But I’ve never said for definite that is what we are dealing with. It is just a theory,” CJ said tiredly from his hangover.
“Exactly,” Crimson continued. “Now Doc always said that she couldn’t read CJ, right?” Again, the others nodded.
“What’s your point?” Jesus demanded.
“Well if she couldn’t read him, why would she be able to get a read on something else from his planet? I mean, she had to, right? She had to get a read on the beast in order to pull him into the base. She had to find him and then send him a signal.”
“I don’t understand what your point is?” Jamie-Lyn asked with a shake of her head.
“My point is this: if that thing isn’t what CJ thought, if it’s not a Torvanian tracking him down from his home planet, then what the hell is it?”
“I’ll go you one better,” Link offered. “Who the hell made it?”
“That’s why you’re thinking the scientist?” Jamie-Lyn asked towards Crimson.
“Olaf Gustafson,” Jesus informed them.
“Right,” Crimson said excitedly as his mouth started to catch up with his brain. “You said that he was a leading light in human gene research, metagenes specifically, right?”
Jesus nodded.
“So if someone made this beast thing…” Link thought aloud.
“…There’s a good chance that Gustafson might be involved, or at least be able to put us on the right track to finding the people who were,” Jamie-Lyn finished for him.
“I’m not sure what that would gain us,” CJ said. “Surely dealing with Cynthia Arrow and her cohorts should be our top priority?”
“Cynthia Arrow we can deal with,” Crimson replied. “She’s flesh, blood and bone. So are the bastards she’s sending after us, but the beast? Well, we need to able to fight that son of a bitch, and to do that we need to know what the hell it is because we’ve all seen its handiwork, right? It ripped Bull apart at the home, it took down Marshall, and we just saw it tear through a bunch of soldiers and Mercs like they were nothing.”
“I do not see how that will help us in our current plight,” CJ responded. “Whatever it is, it would appear to be too powerful for any of you to deal with.”
“Let me tell you something,” Crimson snarled, “and I’ll make it real simple. I’ve only ever been able to do one thing well in my whole entire stinking life. If something feels pain, then I can hurt it, and if it bleeds, then you’d better believe I can kill it. This thing took Marshall, Bull and now Doc, and I’m going to kill the fucker with or without any of your help.”
“Why you?” Link asked.
“Because I made a promise,” Crimson answered softly.
The moment landed hard on the others while they thought.
“Okay then.” Jesus finally spoke up. “I guess we’re going to find us a Scandinavian scientist, one who disappeared about 35 years ago.”
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Summer Sloan finally crashed home in the early hours of the morning just as the sun was about to start its rise for a new day.
The on-air shift had been a marathon one, but she had been unwilling to take any kind of meaningful break for fear of her face not being the sole one associated with all of the breaking news.
She knew that the whole country would be glued to the channel, and she just had to be the face that launched this historic moment in time. This was a major moment in the archives of the country, and she would not allow anyone to share her spotlight.
The company car and driver had finally dropped her at home a few minutes ago, and while she had thought that she might never sleep again due to the sheer pure energy that was coursing through her veins, in the 15-minutes or so journey home, the power had slowly ebbed away until she was devoid of its fuel and now she felt psychically and mentally spent.
The driver had been blabbing on the whole drive home but she hadn’t been listening to his words, simply using the constant tone of his voice as white noise to come down from the ultimate high. She did, of course, make a mental note to have the man fired. Drivers were like children – the best should be seen and not heard.
Her apartment building was in a nice professional area, a far cry from her humble beginnings in a council house on a sink estate where broken down car carcasses littered the road and dog shit littered the pavements. But nice now was not going to be good enough, not anymore.
She knew what people thought of her, people like Jamie-Lyn Anderson, those journalists with their degrees ever so slightly poking out of their shirts just enough to be noticed. People like that had their lofty ideals of what journalism was supposed to be, what it was supposed to look like, and none of them thought that it looked like Summer Sloan.
She had always been beautiful, a natural beauty her mother had called it, but they didn’t see the work that it required, the cost of the maintenance. They certainly didn’t respect it.
She worked hard at looking good. Her beauty was a part of her uniform whether the Jamie-Lyns of this world accepted it or not. The men on the station could all grow old and grey, fat and jowly, but the women could not. The women had to be lineless perfection with bodies as tight as their foreheads in order to keep on the screen and relevant. The moment she lost the anchor desk, she was done in this business.
Her whole life had been spent under the envious gaze of those who were either not born with her natural beauty or else who had squandered their own advantages. She knew that people instantly dismissed her intelligence as soon as they saw her face. How could anyone who looked like her actually have a brain as well? What kind of a god would double down on his gifts like that?
In her industry, men ruled the roost, men with Roman hands and Russian fingers, as her mother had liked to say. She had also told her from a young age that was how the world worked until women could get a foothold and affect change from the inside. It was a dirty business and you had to fight dirty to win.
Kicking her shoes off across the room, she grabbed a bottle of chilled wine from the fridge and took a slug while she leaned against the door for support. She honestly couldn’t ever remember feeling this tired in her life, but it was a good ache. She had set her name and career in stone tonight, carved her face into the public consciousness, and just let the likes of Jamie-Lyn Anderson try and take that from her now.
“Long day?”
The voice came from across the open lounge, and Summer dropped the wine bottle in shock. It shattered on the floor, flooding her bare feet with its sticky juice.
Through the gloom, she could see a female form sitting on the sofa watching her, seemingly without a care in the world at the illegal presence.
“Who are…?” Summer started, but as she moved, she stood on a piece of broken glass from the wine bottle and yelped out in pain.
“Careful,” the woman said. “We don’t want any visible scarring now, do we?”
Summer hopped on one leg as she grabbed some kitchen roll and dabbed at the small cut, soaking up the blood. She lifted the injured foot up and plucked the shard of glass from her skin.
“Good to see that you’re not squeamish,” the woman said.
“Can’t afford to be, not in my business,” Summer answered as she snatched up the phone handset that hung on the kitchen wall. “Now would you like to give me your name so that I can give it to the police?”
“Oh, what’s in a name?” the woman asked with a light laugh.
“Well they’ll certainly need it for the arrest report.”
“Well as much as I don’t like the formality, given our current particular positions, you should probably call me Mrs Fontaine. Mrs Wilson Fontaine.”
“Fontaine?”
“Yes.”
“Wilson Fontaine?”
“As in…?”
“As in the man who signs your paycheques. Yes, Wilson Fontaine, owner of your little news station.”
“I�
� I didn’t know that he was married,” Summer said, trying to think fast.
“Well given the… intimate… nature of your relationship, I would certainly hope not, but it was a last-minute affair. Very last minute, to be exact.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Summer instinctively lied.
“Of course you do, my dear, but fret not, the world is run by men and we have to use the weaponry that we have available in order to level the battlefield.”
“Did… did Wilson, I mean Mr Fontaine, did he send you?”
“I’m afraid that my dear husband is no longer with us. A terrible business. Quite the tragedy.”
“He’s…?”
“Oh yes, quite so.”
“You don’t quite exactly sound broken-hearted,” Summer scoffed.
“No matter the event, the clock hands will keep on ticking, my dear. The world turns, and someone has to crank the handle whether we like it or not.”
The woman hadn’t moved from the sofa. She had clearly broken into her apartment but was acting like she owned the place. She also clearly knew about Summer’s sleeping arrangement with Wilson Fontaine and yet she didn’t seem at all bothered. She was trying to get a read on the woman, but she wasn’t giving anything away. Summer couldn’t help but admire that.
She hobbled into the lounge and took a seat opposite the woman who was apparently her new boss.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded in the most strident tone she could muster.
Up close, Mrs Fontaine exuded confidence. A radiant glow emanated from the woman, and she appeared to be totally at ease and in control. Summer found herself admiring the woman.
She was clearly very attractive with a figure that demanded both attention and appreciation for the amount of work it took to maintain as Summer herself knew only too well.
The woman’s clothes were exquisitely tailored and showed a level of quality and detail that told a tale of an expert’s eye. In short, she looked exactly like Summer had always envisaged herself to look, but now, staring into the mirror, she found herself only a pale imitation of the real thing, a back alley knockoff of a designer label.
“I came to tell you what a fine job you did during our coverage yesterday, an excellent job,” Mrs Fontaine said warmly.
“You could have just rung,” Summer said glibly, but her voice sounded childish in her ears and she regretted the remark.
The woman opposite merely smiled pleasantly, and Summer made a mental note to replicate the woman’s demeanour. She started making a lot of mental notes from the woman’s appearance and dress sense, to her attitude.
“I wanted to meet you in person, in a more… private setting.” Mrs Fontaine smiled. “We have much work to do, you and I. There is a new world dawning out there, Miss Sloan. May I call you Summer?”
Summer nodded. “Of course.”
“Excellent and you shall, I’m afraid, have to call me Mrs Fontaine. We must maintain our standards, even here.”
Summer nodded again as she continued to study the woman.
“For far too long this country, heck this world, has been continually dragged down into the gutter, Summer. I see my job to raise us all up from the depths and to set us on a better course, a righteous one. This is our calling, Summer, and it can be yours as well.”
“Mine?”
“Oh yes, my dear. We have great plans for you. The new world requires an oracle, a messenger, a face for the message, a face for the people, one that they can trust, one that they can believe in, one that they can follow.”
“And what exactly would my message be?”
“Does it matter?”
“Matter? Of course it does!”
“But does it? Does it really? I see you, Summer. I see you completely. I see your essence, your being, your soul. I know what you want, Summer. I know what you truly desire. I know that they do not respect you, their sneers, their judgement, their derisory comments behind your back. They look down on you, don’t they, Summer, your intelligence, your ability, your talent, none of which mean a thing in the face of your beauty?”
Summer felt a sting of tears at the woman’s words, mainly because she was giving a voice to every secret thought in her own head.
“They don’t see me, not beyond this,” she said, motioning towards her own face.
“But we do, Summer. I do, and I can make the whole world see it too. I can help you to show them. Be my messenger, be the face of our message but the beacon of hope for the world. Be the woman that you were always destined to be.”
“I want that,” Summer replied firmly through her tears. “I want to be respected. I want them to respect me, maybe even to…”
“Fear you a little?”
Again, Summer nodded in agreement.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little fear, Summer, nothing wrong at all. They should fear you: you are special, you are chosen for far greater things, my dear. Yours is a path of destiny and they owe you awe for that.”
“What do I do?”
“Join me. Join us, Summer. Your work to date has been exemplary, but there is still so much more to do, so many more stories to tell and truths to show, for ours is the kingdom and the glory, child. Ours is the light and the way. Ours is the future of the world and you shall be our herald, leading the way to a better tomorrow.”
Summer found herself ignoring the pain in her foot and the dripping blood that fell onto her white carpet. She slipped from the chair and knelt at the woman’s feet. She reached up and placed a hand on the woman’s knee and prayed before her. Never before had she felt so alive, so real, so seen; this was what she had been waiting her whole life for, and it was finally here.
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chapter 26
BEST LAID PLANS
Cynthia Arrow stood fuming back at the small decrepit chapel in the once flooded village of Wolfbane. The aged rotted wood around provided an apt aroma to her failure.
Her hands were gripping the edge of the antique desk and threatening to claw chunks out of the ornate wood.
She had spent so long wandering in the wilderness, drifting through the years, planning for this very day, the day when she would assume control over God’s plan and smite their enemies, and yet here she stood with defeat emanating from every pore.
Her breathing slowed down as she forced control onto her spiralling soul before she spun out completely and they won. She might have lost the day’s battle but the war was still on track to be won. Before this was over, she would grind the devil’s bones beneath her boot heel and dance on his grave.
Once she felt the strong will of control again, she finally loosened her grip and her now white knuckles slowly began to fill with colour again. A man was standing in the decrepit chapel behind her, standing silent and patient, waiting for her to speak to him and going nowhere until she did, regardless of how long it might take.
Number Two was a former senior detective within the Metropolitan Police.
Mason Thomas had retired from the force when he had realised that his colleagues and, more importantly, his superiors lacked the conviction to do what was necessary to save the country from the enemy within.
He was a fiercely devoted man who believed in God’s word above all others, including the laws of the land.
Mason had once been married but even his own wife had proven to be lacking in true faith, and when she had threatened to leave him as his devotion grew to a fanatical level, he had drowned her in the bath. He saw this as a just punishment for her sins and had never lost a moment’s sleep over the incident.
No one had ever discovered his secret, and he had gone right back to work and had even instigated the investigation into his own wife’s disappearance. While his fellow officers had been searching his home, they had never found a trace of wrongdoing, his own expert knowledge of forensics offering him a paint-by-numbers perfect disposal.
He had marched on at his job as a detective chief inspector for almost two years after that, b
ut his mind had started to slip.
He was starting to see and hear things that weren’t there, voices in the dark that called out his guilt, leaving him ashen-faced and sweating profusely when holding conversations with colleagues.
At some point, when his behaviour became too erratic to ignore anymore, he was sent on medical leave and ordered to attend a psychiatric evaluation. It was while he was there that Cynthia had found him or, more accurately, she had been guided to find him.
Her network of followers had grown exponentially over the years since Havencrest, and she had the selection process down to a fine art, knowing who to target and why.
One such resource was an eminent psychiatrist who had access to such databases detailing those people in prominent positions who were currently seeking treatment at her doctor’s private and very discreet practice.
Mason brought with him a keen investigative sense and an intimate knowledge of the law. He was a sleuth at heart and had left the force at her behest while he still held enough contacts to be useful.
He was a devoted man, and with her pet psychiatrist in tow, it had been easy to become the leadership figure that Mason had sought. She had offered him answers, answers to the voices in his head and their true evil source. She had promised him a place at her side in the upcoming battle against the forces of darkness, and once he had taken her vows, the voices had receded; of course, it didn’t hurt that she fed him a diet of anti-psychotic drugs to keep him balanced.
Now he was her number two, answerable only to herself and her daughter, and it was a position that suited a man of his talents.
“Status report,” she said to him eventually as she took a deep cleansing breath.
“Details are rather sketchy at the moment, but information is coming in, albeit slowly,” he answered formally.
“The facility?”
He paused slightly before answering and she knew in that moment that it wasn’t going to be the news she craved.
“Multiple casualties,” he began slowly, “but mainly on our side, I’m afraid to say. The initial incursion team were a total loss.”
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