Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)

by Bob Williams

  My father is nowhere to be seen. I limp hastily out the front door and into the freezing night. The cold hits me in every one of the individual injuries from the last several hours. Turning 360 degrees, I don’t see him anywhere. Panic and anger attempt to make their way towards my heart but I won’t let them. Not this time. Not ever again.

  I walk back inside and retrieve my overcoat and tie. I slip on the coat and gingerly tie the tie around the cut on my leg. In the aftermath of all this violence, every bone in my body hurts. I flip up my collar, wincing in pain, and button the coat to the top. I don’t care what the old man says.

  I make the rules now. I have a new destiny, and it starts with The Black Hand. Then I’ll talk to Chaos. I will not rest until all points are checked and the final connection is made. The end of this begins with my father. No matter how long it takes. And when I do find him I will take his most prized possession.

  For Emily, I will take his life.

  I push the heavy oak door open and walk once again out into the bitter cold. I plunge both hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat and I swear as the first tears begin freezing to my face. I hustle to the Comanche, pull the door open, and climb in. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and breathe in deeply through my nose. I take a moment to try and collect my thoughts about everything that went down inside The 88. Fuck them. Maybe tomorrow.

  I reach up and pull down the sun visor. There in the plastic sleeve is a picture of me with Emily.

  I’ve looked at this picture thousands of times over the last two plus years. In the picture, we’re standing next to each other with wide, happy smiles. No idea what’s coming. Every time I looked at it I told her I would not fail her, that I would find her. That we would be the family we were meant to be.

  Just the two of us.

  I did fail her, though. I will have to live with that. Holding the picture in my bloodstained hand, I close my eyes and let the emotion overtake me.

  AFTERMATH

  I wake up stiff and in a God-awful amount of pain. Looking down and wincing, I see the picture of Emily is still in my bloody, bandaged hand. As I pull down the visor to return the picture, I see all the reminders of the war I just survived.

  God damn it! I climb back down the rabbit hole of grief.

  I open the door, step out into the bitter cold. Jesus Christ! I stumble around painfully and lean against the grille of the Jeep. What the fuck am I doing? The temperature does nothing to help my injured and aching body, but it does shock my system, and I’m rewarded with focus. I need to process what’s happened. Somehow I have to accept that Emily is dead. The only family I have left is gone.

  My hands take up residence in my pockets and the frigid wind mercilessly attacks my face. My bandaged hand is seriously hurting. Not to mention the stab wounds to my chest and leg. I start to walk, slowly at first. I’ve got to reboot my body to catch up with my head. No way I can sort this out if my body and mind are not on the same page.

  I start to break it down as I stumble down the street. Emily was, in effect, murdered by my adoptive father, who is a high-ranking official in an organization called The Black Hand. The Black Hand are the human servants of The Eighty-Eight. The Eighty-Eight is a collection of demons and otherworldly creatures hell-bent on the destruction of mankind.

  Among The Eighty-Eight is a particularly nasty buck named Chaos. Chaos resides on another plane of existence and made his presence known by possessing my father and speaking through him. I’m not sure he does this with other Black Hand agents, but it’s probably a good bet. I still can’t believe I saw it myself. Chaos used his essence to bring about the Descent.

  Last and most egregious on my checklist is that both Chaos and my father escaped while I was involved in the gunfight that left dead Freaks strewn about like clothes after a one-night stand.

  I’m a Finder. I follow the points. Following the points leads to connections. There’s only one problem: I’ve got nothing to go on. I have no first point to begin with because I haven’t the faintest idea where they might be. Before the Descent, when I worked with clients to find any number of things, there was always a wealth of information—a history of the item or a person identified on the front end so that points could be plotted and a strategy devised. That’s just not available here.

  My emotional state is so fucked up right now. I’m not sure how to proceed in any direction. Just hours before, the best friend I thought I ever had turned out to be a Black Hand agent and tried to kill me…at the order of my father! I killed Pollock with my bare hands. My reward for that? For actually receiving the answers to the questions I sought? I learned Emily was dead. The two years I spent looking for her after the Descent was for nothing. I am alone.

  Standing here in the cold, it would seem I should be freezing, but in actuality I’m seething. My anger is slowly blossoming into rage. I can feel the emotion beginning to overtake me again, but I stave it off. What’s next? I’ve already asked myself that question more than once, and I couldn’t answer it before, either. I’ve never felt this confused, hurt, and without direction before.

  Maybe there isn’t a next act. Pack it in, Prescott, you spineless fuckin’ prick! What’s left for me? Revenge? Is it worth it? Will it bring Emily back? No. Then why bother? Cause it feels good? Maybe so. But Em’s already been dead two years. Sure, I just found out, but I don’t feel like tearing off with no plan of where I’m going or what I’m doing. I’m just not emotionally prepared for a needle-in-a-haystack situation right now. I may hate the son of a bitch, but he always taught me to have a plan.

  In my heart I want to zero out into emptiness. I take a deep breath and exhale into the piercing night air. Right now, in this very moment… I want to hurt somebody.

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  With my senses somewhat returned, I decide it’s time to get moving. Where? I can’t possibly say. I think it’s safe to say Chicago has nothing left for me. As I reach for the door there is a massive explosion from a block over. Screams follow shortly after, so I run the block or so in a relatively short time. God, I hurt. I see a building ablaze with flames that must be touching the sky.

  The heat coming off the fire is unbelievable. It’s nice, actually. Before the Descent this baby would’ve called for four or five trucks. Wait… I remember this fire. I’d seen the smoke heading skyward before I went into The 88. The building is an old grocery store and as I get closer, I can see the whole damn thing is on fire.

  Why couldn’t it have been an office complex? Fuckin’ Freaks are too stupid for their own good. Then again, they don’t eat food, so fuck them. I take it personally because I’m hungry, and there might have been something in there. Cans of beans for all I know.

  I hear the screams again but can’t tell anything about their origin. I need to be careful. There are a couple of possibilities here. Freaks probably set this fire out of desperation to stave off freezing to death, or they set the fire as a trap and whoever shows up—schmucks like me—are their next meal. Either way, Freaks will undoubtedly be in the vicinity.

  “Help me! Help!”

  With my arm up to protect my face I cautiously enter the danger zone, straining to see whoever is in need. The smoke is getting thick and I know that before too long I’m gonna have to bail on this.

  “I’m trapped! Help! Please, somebody!”

  “Where are you? What section?” I shout with desperation.

  The old automated sliding doors are long since destroyed and smoke is billowing out at a good clip. Still, I enter the building. Maybe saving somebody will help me feel better.

  “Frozen Foods! I’m hurt, man!”

  He’s only a couple aisles over. I make my way closer and come up to the row. I peer around the corner so I can put my eyes on him. Through the smoke and flames it looks like the guy is trapped.

  “We don’t have a lot of time here,” I say. “So what’s the deal? Are you a Freak? Are you bitten? You gonna shoot me or try and fuck with me in some way? Because if you are
I will leave your ass here to get crispy. Are we clear?”

  “YES! Please, God! The flames are getting closer!”

  “Are… you… bitten?” I demand.

  “I don’t know!” he says. “I don’t think so. I was in here scavenging when the fire started. It spread from the back and I took shelter. Then a couple of the Freaks came in. They were broken, man. We fought. I shot one of them and then the other one knocked this over on me. I can’t feel my arm.”

  He drops off for a few moments. Maybe he’s in shock. I quickly and rather recklessly decide to trust him and come around from the endcap with my Glock pointed straight at him. The grocery store had been stripped of nearly everything of value. The freezers had been torn to pieces; broken glass from the doors as well as the rest of the lifeless units were strewn about haphazardly.

  I approach quickly and cautiously and roll him over. Marine training never fades away. Aside from his arm being crushed up to his shoulder underneath a freezer unit, he appears mostly okay. Shock is in effect. The fight must have happened very recently, within the last half hour.

  Okay, Prescott, be ready for anything.

  “What’s your name, dude?” I ask, just trying to keep him talking.

  “Matt. Matt Whitford. I only came in this place because I’m starving, man.”

  “Okay, Matt, my name is Prescott. I’m gonna do what I can to help you, but I won’t bullshit you. If these flames start to overtake us and I can’t get you out, I’m leaving. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, man,” he says. “That’s more honesty than I’ve gotten from anyone since the Collapse. Go for it.”

  “I’ll be right back. I need to find a lever to lift this unit off of you. I’ll be right back.”

  The flames were on the move and Matt didn’t have much time. I was scanning as fast as I could to find something, anything. There! A heavy-duty metal snow shovel in the seafood department. The smoke was making it tough. I was gonna have one shot at this, maybe two.

  I run back and find Matt lying still, eyes closed.

  “Matt!” I yell. “Get your ass ready! We got a couple of chances and we both go or I go. You gotta be ready. I see a little daylight between your arm and the freezer. When I stick the shovel into that spot, I’m gonna lift and you gotta get your arm out of there. That’s your job! Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, my job,” he mutters. “Do it! Come on, man!”

  I jam the shovel under the freezer the couple inches I can and lift with everything I have.

  “Go, Matt! Get out of there!” I boom.

  His eyes finally seem to register what I’m saying and he starts rocking his body to the left and right. A couple more times and he’s able to roll his entire body over and bring the totally fucked arm with him. He’s never going use that arm again. He’s going to have to find somebody half-decent in post-Descent to cut it off. Uphill battle for Matt, but not my problem.

  I help him to his feet and put his good arm around my neck and we start to run as fast as possible towards the front. As I drag Matt, I continue scanning the inside of the store for Freaks, causing our feet to tangle. We go down and I land on top of Matt, seeing clear as day that he has a vicious bite on his dead arm.

  “God damn it!” I get him to his feet again and drag him out into the cold. Fuck Matt! This is not my responsibility! The bite is fresh. There’s nothing I can do for him. Dead arm or not, the Essence of Chaos has been delivered. He’ll be a Freak before he gets home.

  He’s lying on the ground again but looks to be coming around. The cold is kicking his ass awake. This sucks. I kneel down and take a few sharp breaths. There’s no way I’m dragging him back to the Jeep.

  “Matt!” I say a little too harshly. This isn’t his fault.

  “Yes?” He clears his throat; he’s really feeling the cold. “Thank you, Prescott. My arm, it should hurt, right? I should be screaming my ass off, right?” He’s getting his voice back. He is changing already.

  “Listen, Matt, I have a place close by,” I say. “Let’s go get you cleaned up and find you some warm clothes. Then we got to figure out what we’re gonna do about that arm. C’mon.” I gesture with my arm for him to walk.

  He takes two steps in front of me while I stand still, then says, “Thanks again…”

  I draw my Glock and shoot him dead. Nobody deserves to be a Freak. Nobody. I turn in the other direction and head for the Jeep.

  When I get back, I start the engine and crank the heat. Old Faithful. I’m still not sure what lies ahead. Should I stay in Chicago or burn out after my old man? Funny. Four hours ago I never would’ve called Mr. Prescott my old man. Fuck him.

  I turn the Jeep around with the intention of heading to my pit-stop place outside of Chicago, in Arlington Heights. I call it a pit stop for obvious reasons. When I was working and needed to grab a shower and change of clothes, more often than not after dealing with Freaks, I could hit the small apartment. Anyway, not too many other people are using the building, and those that are certainly don’t make a habit of being social.

  I get on 41 at Lincoln Park, and before I know it, Matt Whitford has clawed his way out of my subconscious and into my head. There wasn’t another option! What was I supposed to do? Cut off his arm? It was too late! The Essence of Chaos is not blood. It comes from another plane of existence. It doesn’t flow through veins. It didn’t matter that his arm was crushed and useless.

  I don’t believe Matt lied to me, at least, I don’t think he did intentionally. The bite could’ve occurred during his battle with the Freaks. You would think he’d notice something like that, though. Then again, he did have a giant freezer knocked over him. Pain and/or shock could’ve caused temporary memory loss.

  Where am I going with this? I suppose it’s to say I’m sorry, Matt. No, I didn’t know you. But you were someone to somebody. I didn’t want you to go through that. I didn’t want you to become a flesh-eating, murderous, half-breed asshole. But that wasn’t my choice to make. I took my shit out on you. I should’ve asked what you wanted. I should’ve asked.

  Yeah, I should’ve asked.

  I pull over, close my eyes, and grip the steering wheel with enough anger to rip it out of the damn dash. No! I can’t lose it now. I sit in silence on the side of the highway. I think about what my options are and if they’re even doable. After a brief moment of deciding whether I’ve made a smart decision or not, I drive up to the next exit and get off, hitting 90 North.

  I have a plan.

  SAFE ZONE: NORMAL, IL

  The drive to Normal, Illinois from Chicago before the Descent was about two and half hours. Post-Descent it takes me close to seven. There’s just so much rubble and detritus on the interstates it makes travel extremely difficult. When I say interstates I mean the entire Interstate system of the United States of America. Semi-truck skeletons, long-dead cars and campers, anything you can imagine can be found lying on the country’s highways. There isn’t a clear route from point A to point B anywhere anymore.

  I’m heading to the safe zone in Normal to check in with a contact. Well, a friend, maybe. He goes by the name of Jay. Jay had been known to help the cause from time to time if a client, or for lack of a better term, a case, took us that far away from Chicago.

  Unfortunately, as these things go, a close associate of Jay’s, his second in command, a stand-up guy by the name of Jonathan Prejean, was killed when he joined me and Coop on a rescue in Bloomington. It went south for all of us. We lost both of them, a father and the daughter, to the Freaks, and Prejean was overwhelmed laying cover fire for us as we ran like hell for the escape route. Not one of my proudest moments, to say the least. And informing Jay of the loss fucked us up. I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. He doesn’t know about Coop. In some messed-up way, telling him might soften the blow of seeing me again. All told, I have nothing but respect for Jay. I hope he feels the same about me.

  Pulling up to the gate of the safe zone, I’m greeted by two heavily armed kids who wear militar
y fatigues that don’t actually fit. Organized military post-Descent is a fucking joke. As a Marine who served in wartime back in the real world, I would never insult these boys for trying—the problem is that the leadership isn’t there.

  Sure, there are some guys that yell at them and tell them to do this and that, and there’s probably some structure that enables the high ‘ranking officer’ to convince these young men to do as they’re told. However, the United States military is dead. Cue Taps, motherfuckers.

  “Help you, sir?” said one of the boys.

  “I’m here to see Commander Rives.”

  The soldier who greeted me whips around, goes back and meets up with the other soldier at the guard booth, and they have a brief conversation. I don’t bother paying attention to rank, but one of them clearly outranks the other. After a brief conversation I see the greeter pick up a phone off its cradle and place a call.

  The son of a bitch makes me wait for over an hour before he finally pulls around the corner. He gets out, puts his foot on the instep of the Humvee, and rests his arm on the door. He’s every military toolbag you’ve ever seen in a movie. Aviator sunglasses, and he’s actually smoking a cigar. A fucking cigar! I’d kill for one of those. We lock eyes for longer than any two men should. I mean I can’t actually see his eyes, but I know he’s deciding what’s going to happen. He blows a thick stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth while the cigar stays firmly home. He then raises his sunglasses so our eyes can meet, then he waves me through.

  With the arm raised, I drive the short distance and pull the Jeep up next to his Humvee. I get out, cover the few steps that separate us, and extend my hand.

  “Jay,” I say.

  He takes my hand, jerks me in close, and drills me right in the solar plexus. I go down like a sack of potatoes. Jesus Christ, I can’t breathe! Then Jay extends his hand and helps me to my feet with another mildly aggressive tug on my arm. I hope this is his way of saying we’re square.