God Of The Dead

by M. C. Norris

  “He’s a specialist in desert warfare. Served four tours in Afghanistan. Did some time in Iraq. Following Z-Day, the SAS was reorganized for deployment against the new threat, and Captain Gann was transferred from Afghanistan to Germany, where he received extensive schooling in dragon anatomy, physiology and toxicology, in an international effort to determine their weaknesses. His squadron then played an instrumental role in the liberation of the United Kingdom. Since his transfer to the States, he took part in the liberation of Staten Island, and went on to serve as a key military advisor to our eastern militias, helping place hundreds of Hunters into IDC custody. Much of what the Coalition has learned about the network is a direct result of Captain Gann’s efforts. In short, we’ve brought you one of the very best. By my estimation, he’s the most qualified candidate for this mission.”

  “How do you do?” the woman said, even-toned.

  “Captain Gann, this is the asset, Ms. Cecile Raquet. Your squad’s mission is to insure Cecile’s safe passage across the state of Kansas to the small town of Zurich. There, you will protect her while she gathers some critical intelligence, and then escort her safely back to St. Louis. You’ll be travelling upriver this morning on the steamboat Tom Sawyer. By this evening, you’ll rendezvous with one General Cobb of the Midwest Militia, who will put the two of you aboard a steam locomotive that is currently stationed in Kansas City. That will be your transportation out west. The Midwest Militia has scheduled a baiting exercise for tonight, in Kansas City. Obviously, that’s going to be no place for Cecile, so you’ll need to leave town immediately, keep her out of harm’s way.” The agent placed his palm against the surface of the table. “Cecile’s work with the IDC is highly classified. Her importance, and the importance of this mission, cannot be overstated.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “No.” The agent slowly shook his head. His glare seemed to burn through the wavering phosphorescence of the dim gaslights. “No, if I’ve made myself perfectly clear, then you won’t be able to reply ‘Yes, Sir’ quite so easily.” His gaze swept across the table toward the woman to his left, where it seemed to implore her, or rather, to implore God on her behalf. “This mission that I’ve just given you may seem pretty basic. Maybe less glorious than whatever battlefield heroics you may be accustomed to, but let me be clear—this mission may be the most important assignment that has ever been given to a soldier, in the whole of military history.” His gaze left the woman, and returned back to Malcolm, in a glare so seething that it could only have been summoned by one who’d already lost everyone he’d ever been foolish enough to love. “If you fail, Captain Gann, if anything should happen to Cecile, if she does not collect the intelligence that we need, if she fails to return safely back to St. Louis, then it is no exaggeration to say that you’ve failed not only your mission, but all of humanity, as well.” The agent tilted his hand, palm up. “Either you succeed, Captain Gann,” the agent said, lifting the other gnarled stump of an absent appendage, “or you ensure the extinction of our species. Have I made myself perfectly clear to you?”

  Malcolm rose from his seat. He pulled the covering back over his head, sealed the mask against his cheeks with a deep breath of bubbling air, and snapped the strap beneath his chin. He regretted ever taking the fucking thing off. He might never take it off again. “Get her fitted with a mask,” he said. “Gear her up with a radio, vac tubes, KMnO4, and a cy kit. If this mission was so fucking critical, you should have deployed us six hours ago.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, asshole. Where’s my team? Have they been briefed? We’ll barely make it to KC by sundown as it is. Two weeks! Two weeks, I’ve been down there rotting down there in that fucking hole!” Malcolm smacked the toggle on his ham radio, mounted to the right side of his helmet, bringing the vacuum tube aglow. He turned for the door, seeing the agent and the woman glance uncertainly at one another, but he didn’t care.

  There was no regular army. Pecking orders, chains-of-command, they were dusty artifacts of a lost world where not all things were so fondly remembered. No matter how far departed those worlds became, no matter how wide the differential grew, from one side of Z-Day to the next, there would always be some ex-military pricks and former bureaucrats who still fancied themselves officers, scheming in the bowels of gas-lit bunkers, while troops of guerillas were out there risking their lives, trekking through Hell. There were no orders, no missions. There would be no court martial, because there were no courts. There was no record. There was no fucking grid. Only agreements between men counted, bound by handshake and mutual respect, and he’d just been fucking disrespected.

  “What she was about to say, before she was so rudely interrupted, was that she was sorry, Captain Gann.”

  Malcolm turned in the direction of the female voice. The woman, the so-called asset, was still seated at the table, straight-backed, her dark hands folded before her. Although her expression was a serious one, there was a gambler’s twinkle in her eyes. Something about the way she was looking at him, as if she had some cards up her sleeve, made him furious, while at the same time, inexplicably uneasy.

  “She was sorry. That’s all. Sorry she didn’t take little Jacob on over to Resthaven to put down them flowers, liked you’d asked. Sorry as hell she’d ever argued, when that obviously meant so much, when you hardly ever asked her for anything, and had so little damned control over what she did with your boy. She was feeling mighty bad about all that. It was a small thing, you’d asked. A small request and she was sorry for denying you that wish, on account of a damned dentist appointment, which could have easily been rescheduled. That’s how you felt, and you were right to feel that way. What’s done is done now, Honey, because you can’t go back and reschedule the thirteenth of August, can you?”

  Malcom was glad to be wearing the mask, now more than ever before. The asset didn’t break her poise. She seemed to be staring right into the unlit corners of his soul. No one could have known about any of that. No one alive. He could feel himself shaking, suddenly cold, yet perspiring. “What the fuck are you?” he whispered.

  “I’m Cecile,” she said, with a wink.

  Chapter Five

  The rhythmic surge and hiss of escaping steam from Tom Sawyer’s twin stacks chugged along with an industrial cadence to the grinding sluice of the great paddlewheel, as it churned the stained water of the Missouri River into foam. It was a heritage boat, a double-decker steamer built to the specifications of the original series of nineteenth century riverboats that once plied the American waterways, announcing their presence with cheerful toots. Prior to Z-Day, the Tom Sawyer was one of a couple of paddlewheel cruisers that had provided nostalgic tours up and down the Big Muddy. It had always earned its keep, but following the first dragon attack on St. Louis, it was the only motorized vehicle in the city that remained operational, being entirely steam-powered, so the Sawyer received something of a promotion, with respect to the nature of its service to the country.

  Malcolm leaned against one of the aft-mounted .50 caliber machine guns, imagining throngs of bygone passengers swaying to the sound of live music, sipping vintage wines along the taffrail, and enjoying hours of southern hospitality. Dancing, laughing, eating, drinking … unmasked and smiling in the summer sunshine. Mostly older couples, he guessed, boarding the fancy old steamer to celebrate their big anniversaries, to reunite with longtime friends, or just to enjoy a weekend of retirement with their spouses. The boat must have looked considerably different, a year ago, before the Sawyer was commandeered, slathered with a coat of olive drab paint, and armed with three-hundred-sixty degrees of deadly firepower. Atop the double-deck, the six-barreled miniguns and grenade launchers snooped between the raised sheets of armor plating. Anyone foolish enough to pop a shot at this vessel would quickly regret it. The scenery, as well, was probably more enjoyable back in those days. Malcolm imagined the darkly verdant boughs of river trees, jumping fish, and herds of lowing cattle scattered over a rolling bucolic landsca
pe. It must have been beautiful at sunset, he reckoned, as his gaze swept over endless miles of smoldering wasteland that scrolled beneath the green reefs of electromagnetic clouds. The thought of rolling hinterlands made him homesick.

  Great Britain was first to shut down their power plants. As a result, the United Kingdom was mostly spared the wave of hellfire that rolled over the civilized world. Millions died from the drifting clouds of hydrocyanic gas, but England’s infrastructure had survived. Malcolm often thought of his grandfather, who’d also served his country as an anti-aircraft gunner stationed near St. Paul’s Cathedral, when the bombs of the Nazi Luftwaffe pummeled London for seventy-one nights, and the darkened city was stabbed with fire. Similarly, all lights throughout England had been snuffed during that era as well to better conceal the targets from their enemies in the sky. On the night of Z-Day, when the dragon swarm descended, the decision to shut down the power plants seemed almost reactive of those old lessons learned, but the decision had been the right one. The swarm veered north, and within an hour, Norway was annihilated. The Brits’ stroke of luck afforded them precious time that no other nation in the world was granted to wrap their minds around what was happening, and why, to debate what strategies could be employed to delay what was consuming the rest of the planet.

  “So, who is she, our VIP?”

  “Don’t ask.” Malcolm shook his head at the militiaman, whose name was Wesley. “It’s classified.” His eyes darted around the boat. “Where’d she go?”

  “Up at the bow.” Wesley looked off to the western horizon for a moment, then back again. “I didn’t think that classified missions existed anymore. Figured, at this point, might as well be out in the open about things. Who the hell are we hiding information from, anyway? The dragons?” He snorted. “Just kind of irritates me. Got no patience for that Big Brother bullshit anymore.”

  “I hear you, mate,” Malcolm replied. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know any more than you do.”

  “Yeah, right. You’ve got IDC written all over you.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “You can believe that if you want to, but you’d be wrong. I’m not IDC, and I don’t know shit about this mission. If anything, you know more than I do, because you’re from western Kansas, right out there by Zurich. Plainville, right?”

  “Yep. Plainville,” Wesley nodded, “and don’t I feel lucky for that, right about now?”

  “Tell me about Zurich. Why do you figure we’d be headed there?”

  “Are you serious? There’s nothing in Zurich. It’s just a little town out there in the middle of nowhere, about forty miles north of the train depot, in Hays, partly Volga-German population.”

  “What-German?”

  “Volga-German.”

  “Fuck is that?”

  “Me, along with a lot of other folks from my neck of the woods. Descendants of German settlers who immigrated to the Russian Volga River steppes, under Kate the Great. Later, they responded to a call from the American railroad companies who needed them to come on over here and do what they’d done over in Russia, settle a wild part of the world, where nobody else could seem to hack it. Good folks. Beer-brewing, cabbage-eating, polka dancing freaks, but hardworking and tough as hell. Thanks to us, Kansas and the Russian steppes are now the world’s breadbaskets.”

  “Were.”

  Wesley nodded. “Right.” Chuckling bubbles percolated through his permanganate vials. “Were.” The first two cartridges in the series were already going green. “Why Zurich? Beats the hell out of me. I couldn’t believe it when I heard those orders. Never thought I’d be going home again. Can’t figure for the life of me what intelligence the IDC could be after in a town like that. I mean, there ain’t nothing to it. Post office, gas station, a diner … you know? A one-stoplight kind of town.”

  “So, I guess it’s probably not possible that the whole town is just a quaint front for some top secret military facility, buried a mile underground?”

  “Shit—if it is, they’ve done a damned good job of hiding it! No, a high school buddy of mine grew up in Zurich. Came from kind of a rough family. Spent a lot of time with me and my family in Plainville, just to get away from home. It was partly his home life, and partly just the town. Zurich’s a lonely sort of place. Doesn’t really have—what’s the word I’m looking for—an identity?”

  “Doubt it’s gained a whole lot more identity since the last time you saw it.”

  “You got that fucking right, but honestly, I’m happy as a pig in shit right now. I’m going home! Plainville Cardinals, baby!”

  Malcolm tapped the cheek of Wesley’s mask. “You’re getting down to one on each side. Better swap those things out, or you might not make it back home to Plainville.”

  “I’ll swap out later this afternoon, once we pull in closer to Kansas City.”

  “You’ll burn through those pretty fast if we hit a gas pocket.”

  “One thing you’ll learn about Kansas, buddy, is that you don’t have to worry about gas pockets. Fucking wind is always blowing. Nothing but barbed wire fences to slow it down, from Mexico all the way to Canada. Truth is, you could probably take your mask off out there and be alright.”

  “You’d be insane, if you did.”

  “Fucking hate wearing these things. Makes me claustrophobic, if I let myself start to think about it.”

  “You know what we do in other parts of the world when we see someone walking around without a mask?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em on sight. No trial, no judge, no jury. Straight to executioner. If you look like a Hunter, you’re treated like one.” Malcolm pantomimed a pistol with his fingers, and poked the side of Wesley’s head.

  “How many innocent people you think you’ve killed?” Wesley pushed his hand away.

  “How many do you think I’ve saved? I guarantee the second number is bigger than the first. When some fool packing a rifle comes wandering out of the dunes without a mask, or a mask with six spent cartridges, you can’t take any chances. They’ve learned how to blend in with the rest of us. You’ve got to be vigilant, look for those telltale signs and make your decision before they ever have a chance to raise a weapon.”

  “The place we’re going, people don’t even have access to equipment like this. Supply lines don’t run anywhere close to that area. They’re running around out there with fucking rags tied over their mouths. They’re not Hunters, just refugees. You might want to rethink your foreign policy before we roll into my home town, because if you start popping off rounds at people, then you and I are going to have a big problem.” Wesley gestured with a wavy hand toward the western wastelands. “Out there in my neck of the woods, it ain’t—whatever the fuck you’re used to, so get over it.”

  “I hope you don’t ever have to see what it is that I’m used to.”

  Malcolm liked soldiers. He got along with them. They were his people, but militiamen were different, cockier, when they had no grounds to be. Few of these kids had ever been overseas, or fought in a real war. Many of them had never even left their home states. They were good kids, and he enjoyed the constant banter of bumping around with them, but he worried about them. He worried how they would react when faced with an attack. He’d seen better men, soldiers proven in battle, come apart at the seams under duress, and Malcolm was one of them, over in Afghanistan. He’d lost everyone he’d ever known and loved. Not once, like the rest of them, but several times over and he wasn’t proud of himself, proud of the way he’d reacted to tragedy, on more than one occasion. In Afghanistan, they called him a hero. Nothing burned worse than being called a hero by people who didn’t know the truth, by people who somehow couldn’t see that that beneath all of your armor, you were nothing but a cowardly stinking worm, hiding inside your shell.

  “Eyes up top, partner. We’re being watched.”

  Malcolm turned, craned his neck. Up atop the double-deck, a slim figure appeared. Masked, wearing the usual hazmat fatigues, but
unarmed. The individual edged clumsily along the ranks of guns, peering curiously between the armored panels.

  “That her?” Wesley asked.

  “I’d reckon so.”

  “How come you’re not up there holding her hand? Isn’t that your job, tough guy?”

  Malcolm looked away, turned a shoulder, and cast a sideways glance in the asset’s direction. “To be honest, she gives me the fucking creeps.”

  “Why’s that?” Bubbling streams of amusement surged through Wesley’s cartridges.

  Malcolm shook his head. “She’s a witchy woman.”

  “Well, she’s a fine looking witch, if I ever saw one. I can tell. I can read the folds of that hazmat suit. I’ll give that witch a broomstick ride she’ll never forget.”

  “Trust me, mate. You’ll want to pass on this one,” Malcolm said. He was still more than a little unnerved by the way that she’d ripped open his mind, reached right in, and pulled something out that only he could know. If she’d read his file, and he supposed that she had, she might’ve learned that he’d once been married, divorced, and had one child born of that union. She might’ve learned Jacob’s name, and learned that both he and his mother were now gone. That last conversation he’d had with Brenda, a conversation terminated by a blinding flash of light across the laptop screen … no one else could have known about that argument, or about what they’d been fighting about at T-minus one-second to Zero Day.

  “She’s got her eyes on you.”

  “I know she does. I can feel them burning the back of my bloody neck.”

  “Get up there and talk to her. Make friends. See if she’ll tell you why in the hell we’re all headed to Zurich. She’s a woman, bro. Not talking to anyone for the last three hours is probably killing her.”

  Malcolm tilted his head, peering uneasily up at the asset. She was just another black mask, staring back. Unlike the other masks aboard this vessel, it was that which lied beneath that he found most intimidating. In a world inhabited by monsters, she posed a unique sort of threat; less visceral, but no less dangerous. “She’s more than just a woman, believe me. Don’t even ask me what I mean by that, because I’m not even sure myself, but she’s something special, and not in a good fucking way.”