by Bob Williams
“I can’t. I can’t! What were we thinking? Driving here like what? The fuckin’ A-Team? Three people against two hundred. What the fuck were we thinking, Laura?”
“We were thinking we could help. We were thinking we ... we’re going to ‘Take It Back.’”
“There’s no fucking way, Shields.”
She makes sure Cole is stable on the couch, then walks over and slaps the shit out me. I never saw it coming.
“Shut the fuck up, Prescott. Just shut up. Seriously. I’d say take a walk or something, but that’s not possible. So either shut up and take a few breaths, or go upstairs and bitch all you want. But frankly, right now, I’m just as scared as you, but you’re usually the one who pumps us up! So if you’re gonna sit here and shit your pants, well, I can’t take that right now.”
I hang my head low. I feel like a whipped puppy. I can’t bear to make eye contact with her. I stand up from the chair I’d fallen into after depositing Cole on the sofa. I run both hands through my hair and take two deep breaths. I then lock my hands behind my head and walk back across to the window. I just stare out into the night. Like a broken record, I keep saying to myself I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do…
“Curt,” says Shields as she uses her shirt to wipe the sweat from Cole’s forehead, “do you have any first-aid supplies that we could go through to see if there’s anything we can give Cole for pain?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll go get it.”
“Thank you. And Prescott, what about getting that cool, damp rag from the kitchen?”
I walk across the room and into the kitchen. My mind is in a million different places, and I’m honestly not sure how I am able to make one foot step in front of the other. I pull open several drawers before I find one about half full of kitchen rags. I turn the faucet on cool and let it run briefly before soaking the rag. As I turn to head back, a brilliant white flash comes from the living room, spilling over into the kitchen and bathing me in light.
It’s gone just as quickly, and I break for the living room while purple squiggles still dance in front of my eyes. The first thing I see when I enter the room is Malcolm standing over Cole. His wings are spread out in their full, immaculate beauty. He places his hand on Cole’s chest and says, “Michael Cole, you are a soldier on the front lines in the new battle of good versus evil. Your heart is pure. Your will is strong. You are needed for the upcoming battle against a most heinous adversary. As such, your injury will be healed. Arise and join your friends.”
Cole sits up, rejuvenated, yet still apparently sore. He extends his hand to Malcolm. “Thank you. Sincerely. I heard what you said and coming from you, it means a great deal.”
“I know you, Michael Cole. In many ways, I know you better than you know yourself. I admire you. I admire that you continue to stand and fight despite all that you have suffered. Your team needs that kind of soldier.”
“Thank you, Malcolm,” says Shields. “And ... it’s wonderful to see you again.”
“Likewise, Laura Shields.”
I stand there watching as the wet rag I am holding drips in time with my heart. I walk over to him and we embrace. The situation is dire. In more ways than one. I am furious with him. This whole thing felt like a setup. The only reason it might not have been was because Malcolm didn’t ask us to come here. Midnite did. Could Malcolm have influenced Midnite to make the broadcast in order to find someone to clean up his mess? Possibly, but I don’t think so. The point is he’s here. In the flesh. And apparently he is here to help.
“Two days ago I’m not sure how happy I would’ve been to see you,” I say, “but none of that matters now. Malcolm, how are we supposed to defeat him?”
“Prescott. It’s good to see you as well. To speak with you in person. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to join you on this mission. It was personal. I cared for Shentaka. I still do. Most of all, I was ashamed of everything I’d done to him. I made him this way, and now we must end him. And afterwards I will return to the Higher Grounds and face my punishment. This is not the way the Protectorate operates.”
“Oh ... my ... gawd!”
We all turn our heads in unison to see Curt Woolever standing near the top of the stairs, holding a small white plastic bottle.
“Curt! It’s okay.” I turn to Malcolm, who suddenly has a frown on his face. “Malcolm, this is our ... uh ... host, Dr. Curtis Woolever. This is his place.” I can’t figure out why Malcolm’s demeanor has changed so rapidly.
“It ... is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Malcolm says stiffly.
“You’re ... you’re ... ” Woolever stands there pointing. Pointing and not making sentences.
“He’s an angel, right. We talked about this. Come on, buddy. We need to move on. Can you keep up?”
“Yes. It’s just ... wow!”
“Okay. Great. Malcolm, I’m sorry for the interruption. Please continue.”
“Yes, as I was saying, the Descent caught us off guard. It still pains me to say it. To have no knowledge—or even the slightest hint—that such a massive plot to destroy the Low Lying Lands was underway. And to have it executed right in front of us was devastating. The Council may never admit it, but we honestly had no plan for this. To use a low lyer term, it was the blind leading the blind.
“They are still trying to formulate a true strategy for the Low Lying Lands for the future. Meanwhile, there are pockets of soldiers fighting to retrieve humanity from the edge of extinction. And you, Prescott. You and your team are leading the way.”
“I think right now, Mal, we could use your leadership. Help us.”
“I must apologize. I don’t feel I prepared you enough for Shentaka in our conversation before.”
“Yeah. It might’ve helped if we’d all been there. Maybe like a question and answer period,” says Cole.
“Agreed, Michael. I could have handled that much better. I made mistakes in Nashville as well. I’m still learning how to participate in this battle. The old rules simply do not apply anymore.”
“Okay, Shen is expecting a battle with us tomorrow. If it was just the three of us against Shen and Tank Girl, we might have a chance. How are we supposed to take on two hundred Freaks?”
“It is why I am here now. We must formulate a plan tonight. We must be cunning, intelligent, and ruthless. Shentaka must not be allowed to live after we do battle tomorrow.”
“Is there anything more you can tell us about that knife?” Shields asks. “Prescott says it kills angels. Can he hold it because he is an angel?”
“He is a fallen angel. There is a difference, but yes. To answer your question, he is able to wield the Rohan Dagger because he is of the Higher Grounds. As I told Prescott, when an angel chooses to fall to the Low Lying Lands, they are still angelic.”
“And what about a low lyer? Could one of us hold it? Use it against him?”
Malcolm is silent a moment. “It is possible, but it would be at a terrible cost. The dagger was never meant to be upon the Low Lying Lands. Simply put, the dagger must be recovered and returned to the Higher Grounds before any more atrocities can be committed with it.”
“I think we can all get on board with that. Now let’s get down to formulating a plan. We don’t have much time.”
“Prescott, before we begin, could I speak with you alone for a moment?”
SHEN DASHES THE PLAN
The idea occurred to Shen almost immediately after he’d used the Freak army to slaughter the ultimately disappointing contingency from Toledo. Pops, for all the anticipation of his arrival, had actually been a complete letdown. As Rebecca had said, “It was like I spread my legs to get fucked and the guy came in his pants.” Classy as always, Rebecca. But accurate.
He had the Rohan Dagger. But the dagger was under no circumstances to be used on low lyers. No, the Rohan Dagger was special, to be used only in accomplishing his ultimate goal of executing Malcolm.
The one who used his Protectorate status to rob me of defending my f
amily’s honor on these very grounds.
Shen’s original plan revolved around returning to Columbus, to his family’s business, and eliminating angels until he was able to draw Malcolm out of hiding. Then he would finally see the light of his finest hour. The execution of his former master.
He desperately did not want a repeat of the Pops letdown. He needed something that would prolong the experience. So he could really feel the moment. He wanted to see the faces of those who would attempt to harm him. Those who would attempt to murder him. Shen wanted to be there in the moment when it “clicked” that they were not only going to die, but die painfully. Struggling. Fighting. And ultimately failing. He had to have that moment when the last breath was taken. When the eyes rolled back into the head. When the foot twitched that very last time. Shen wanted that experience for every single enemy combatant that entered the hallowed ground of the Seventh Son.
Shen and Rebecca had discussed the many options he could partake in when it came to accomplishing his goal. Rebecca had suggested a guillotine. Shen liked the idea but quickly dismissed it as too quick. The admiral then suggested an electric chair. Rebecca loved the idea. They began discussing the details and eventually decided, while it would be easy to accomplish, it still wasn’t right.
“What about torture?” asked Rebecca. Shen was caught off guard by his young apprentice’s suggestion. It was beautiful in its simplicity. All of the many ways he could institute a schoolhouse of horrors on his foes.
“Rebecca! It’s brilliant. You have done well. Let’s go now and configure our new funhouse.” He threw his arm around Rebecca, which was way out of character, and they turned to the barroom from the roof where they had been standing.
As they walked, Shen spotted a massive oak that towered over the other trees in its company. An idea hit him as hard as the right hand of his father when it crossed his face as a young boy during his lessons. The sting he felt was shame in not thinking of the right answer first. As it was in this very situation right now.
It wasn’t my first thought—but it is the correct one. A gallows!
What better way to make an example of these pathetic low lyers than to hang them and watch them twitch and wiggle and kick while their faces turned purple and their tongues hung out. He hoped upon hope that, when he dropped Prescott in front of his army, his neck wouldn’t break. He wanted him to suffer badly and for an extended period of time before his life force was finally snuffed out.
Shen had received exceptionally reliable intelligence from his asset Curtis Woolever on numerous occasions, and now was the perfect time to collect more. One of the very first questions Shen had asked when he first touched Woolever was: Where are the places that still stand that have materials that could be useful?
Of the number of places Woolever had mentioned, first was Gherig’s Hardware and Lumber. It was a mile north of the Seventh Son. Shen sent his Freak Army to raid the hardware store for lumber, tools, and supplies. Construction was to begin immediately. It was not completed prior to Prescott’s arrival the other night but, oh, it would be there—front and center—for the battle tomorrow.
You will suffer, Prescott. I will hang each of your friends in front of you until they are dead. Then I will lynch your fucking dog. And when it’s dead, I’ll gut it and feed it to the Freaks. Then it will be only you. And then ... the fun will truly begin.
***
“I don’t fuckin’ believe it.”
“Please keep your voice down, Mr. Prescott.” This is now the second time I’ve been awoken from a sound sleep by Dr. Curtis Woolever pointing a gun at me. Lexi snaps to, jumps to all fours, and growls, her ears flat as a deadline read on an EKG.
Woolever holds a pistol. Who knows where it came from. I hadn’t seen it on him before. Regardless, he pulls back the hammer and points it at Lexi.
“It is of the utmost importance to your dog’s life—and yours, to be quite honest—that the you be extremely quiet and come with me. Head for the back door. We have an appointment.”
“With who?”
“I’d imagine even a simple-minded buffoon like you could guess. Now let’s go.”
The tail end of the plan last night involved breaking up into all areas of the house in an attempt to get the most undisturbed night of sleep possible. Malcolm had helped in a very small fashion in aiding each of us to a sound sleep. It is for this reason, and the fact that neither Shields or Cole is anywhere near me at the current moment, that our no-longer-good friend Dr. Curtis Woolever has gotten the motherfuckin’ drop on me.
“You’re a real shitbag, you cocksucker,” I say in my angriest, quietest whisper.
“It would be prudent for you to just do as you’re instructed. The percentages are not in your favor, Prescott.”
I feel pretty sure I can turn, take that gun from him, shove it up his fuckin’ ass, and fire, but I don’t quite see the upside to that just yet.
Of course, Malcolm tried to tell me in our private meeting that something was off about Woolever, but I didn’t listen. Now I’m hoping that being stubborn isn’t going to cost me my life. In that moment, it doesn’t seem right that I would discount a Protectorate angel’s gut feeling when I’ve operated practically my entire life on gut feelings.
Malcolm had asked me if there had been anything off about Woolever.
“You mean besides teaching college physics?” I laughed out loud at my own joke. It wasn’t very funny now. In fact, now that I’m doing a lot of thinking, how the fuck did Shen even know we were here? He is a fallen angel, I suppose, but that doesn’t make him an all-seeing god. No, it was Woolever.
“You son of a bitch. You told Shen we were here. How did you do it?”
“I don’t know exactly. I have superior intelligence for a human being, Mr. Prescott—”
“Call me that again and I’ll kill you.”
“Whatever. As I was saying. I have exemplary intelligence, but there are things even I don’t understand. Admiral Shen, with the touch of his hand, helped me to understand that my following him was indeed the truest path to enlightenment in the post-Descent world.
“He assigned me the very important responsibility of, in essence, being myself. He asked me to go out scavenging each night, and if I came across any “low lyers,” as he called them, meaning you and your friends, to send them his way.
“The kicker? I didn’t even know about it until tonight. Shen has a mental element to his communication skills. It’s how he knew you were in my house. And it’s how he knows your plan for tomorrow. And let’s be quite honest, shall we? That plan was very wanting. I crunched the numbers in my head right there in the meeting, and you were going to fail ninety-one percent of the time.”
“That leaves nine percent, Professor Fuck-Knuckles.”
“I feel like I’ve been very polite to you, Prescott. You are captured. You will do well to show your significantly more intelligent captor some respect.”
“Fuck you.”
“It really is a pity. I don’t understand why Admiral Shen doesn’t touch you and make you his puppet. He seems rather hell-bent on killing you. You’ve certainly angered him.”
“Lexi. Stay. Help Cole and Shields.” She whimpers and takes another step to follow. “Lexi. Stay!”
“Probably for the best. Your dog can die later.”
“That dog is named Lexi. And she’ll probably outlive us all.”
“Keep moving.”
Our little whisperfest has lasted us from the living room, through the kitchen, out the back door, through the old gravel parking lot, and onto North Fourth. Down the street I can see that some powerful work lights have been set up and I suppose a great number of Freaks are hard at work. I can’t see what it is due to the bright lights aimed up the street toward us. But as I get closer ... holy fucking shit. It’s some gallows. And right before I feel the butt of the gun hit my skull, I see a Freak pull a lever. A wooden trapdoor drops and thuds loudly against the gallows frame.
Our plan is fu
cked.
Then it all goes dark.
ENDGAME: PART ONE
Malcolm was taking an exorbitant risk, and he knew it. Protectorate Security would sense him any minute and he would be taken into custody. He actually wanted this happen. He had been running roughshod over the Protectorate for too long. It was time to atone for his actions. And he deserved whatever punishment they saw fit to give him.
He would make only one request. And he would hope upon hope they would not laugh him out of the council room and straight into a cell. He would ask that they allow him to fight. The entirety of this unmitigated disaster known as Admiral Shen was entirely his fault. He had no right to ask. Thousands of years of exemplary service to the Protectorate had been wiped out the moment he’d taken Shen both prior to his death and, most egregiously, without his permission. His actions in Murfreesboro had only compounded the issue. Crossing over and actually participating in conjunction with the low lyers. Well, as Prescott would say, he was “fucked.”
Why had he taken to Shen with such passion? It was irrelevant now. But why? Malcolm asked himself. He’d watched hundreds of low lyers live out their Point of Light designations without even remotely considering what he did to Shen. He literally had no excuse.
Malcolm crossed back into the Higher Grounds and progressed as quickly as possible toward the Protectorate Council chamber. He knew his time was limited on multiple fronts. He had to speak with the council in a timely manner and present the case for assistance—and also to ask to be allowed to fight.
He also had to consider that he was potentially going to be immediately incarcerated and unable to speak to the council at all. He could possibly be hanging Prescott, Cole, Shields, and Lexi out to dry with no help whatsoever. He had to get in front of the council.
Malcolm came out of his thoughts just in time to see a three-member Protectorate Security detail converging on him. He pulled up, stopped his flight, and waited for the detail to reach him. His hands were clearly visible as his wings swayed. Otherwise he was in a completely surrendering position.