"Ra," I heard myself pleading with the enigmatic figure. "Ra, please help. Please save us. Ra, where are you? Please. We need you." Silence. "Dear God…" A wall of glowing, turbulent air approached incredibly fast, and then the shockwave hit me. I went down, down, into the fiery pit of hell below.
Chapter 37
I tumbled, carried along by a five-hundred-miles-per-hour wind that shattered everything in its path and smothered most of the radiation-ignited fires of the initial burst. With my strength significantly depleted, I could not fight it. I clawed at the ground, hoping to find a handhold, while debris swirled in confusion, often slamming me with disorientating force. I felt helpless and hopeless. I relaxed, deciding to let the roaring air take me to wherever it wanted. Like an old plastic bag blown out of a shopping cart, I sailed across the countryside.
As I looked up, marveling over a small car soaring above me, a sudden downdraft pushed me towards the ground. I hit the dirt hard and plowed through it for what seemed like hundreds of feet. Just as I lifted into the air again, I suffered a jarring thud against my head that would have shattered an ordinary man's skull into slivers of bone and mush. The wind continued to rush past, sandblasting my face with stones and bricks, but whatever I had hit, held me firmly in place. I closed my eyes and waited.
The nuclear powered hurricane slowly subsided and I opened my eyes. At first I panicked because all I saw was blackness, but then I realized that I was under a pile of debris. I pushed my way forward, plowing through charred wood, blackened sheet metal, melted children's toys, and burnt bones. I fell into the early morning light, landing roughly on my stomach. I rolled onto my back and saw the place I had escaped. There was a pile of debris stacked twenty-feet high, stretching out in both directions for at least a half-mile. The debris rested against a solid looking wall that I mistook for a cliff at first, but then saw near the top that it was composed of ancient looking bricks. Recognition hit me and I remembered that I had visited this area in the 1930s with Elizabeth. I sat at the base of the Gallo-Roman walls near Le Mans, built during the Roman Empire's reign to protect the city. These ancient ruins were the only thing left standing, as every creation of the modern world was shattered.
Recognition of the landmark helped me determine my proximity to Chateau de Moreau, but I was still a good ten miles away and running on empty. Slowly I stood, a lone survivor in an otherwise sea of destruction, my clothes burnt and tattered.
Samael had effectively destroyed everything with his brazen attack—cities, lives, and loves all lay in ruin. With his callous demonstration of power, those countries that had not already joined him would assuredly cave to his demands now. I took a step forward and then another with only one thing on my mind—walking. As long as I walked, I wouldn't have to think. I wouldn't have to mourn.
I considered flying, so awful was the destruction I had to witness, but people were nonexistent, and therefore my fuel supply was equally nonexistent. I remembered a calculation that stated every five miles of flying was equal to a human walking twenty times around the Earth. I could walk just fine for years without feeding; it's how I survived my time on the potion. I took another step, wanting desperately to shut my eyes from the horrors around me.
Something crunched underfoot. I stopped and lifted what was left of my shoe. The skeleton of a small animal, probably a cat, lay broken on the ground. Under the skeleton, I saw some color, which was unusual as everything around me was either stark black or drab gray. I reached down and pulled a photograph out from under the ribcage of the creature. The edges were burnt, but in the middle, two smiling faces still existed. It was a young man and woman, her kissing his cheek, him smiling, the Eiffel Tower standing majestically behind them. Love forever lost, obliterated by the desires of a maniac. At least the couple had found mercy in death, which was a reprieve denied to me. I pocketed the picture and continued walking.
I came upon a burning area, where fires shot out of ruptured gas lines, igniting what little was left of civilization. I skirted this place, wanting to save my tattered clothes from further abuse. Soon the fire would spread and everything would burn. Fire is the great sterilizer of all that ails humans, including their dirty deeds, but Samael's treachery would burn forever in my mind. His purple, bloated excuse for a heart would be crushed in my fist. This I swore as the fires raged on.
Once clear of the burning section of town, a dark area on a sliver of cement wall that still stood caught my attention. It stretched from the ground to about four feet tall, and I could clearly see that it was the image of a child in the process of running. The bomb left the child's memory on the wall in the form of a burnt-in shadow, but the body itself had vaporized almost instantly.
A few steps beyond the shadow child, I stopped and stared. On the ground at my feet was a woman in the fetal position who seemed composed entirely of a grayish stone-like substance. Her arms were wrapped around a large bundle, and wanting a closer look, I kneeled down. To my horror, a baby's face peaked out of her desperate hold, its lifeless gray eyes still portraying confusion and fear. They screamed at me—Why? Why! You brought this on! You and your kind! Why! There, down on one knee, for the first time in my existence, I shed a single tear. I reached out to touch the child, as if to console it, but to my grief, the face disintegrated and blew away in the wind. I broke down crying, unable to stop, as the clouds opened up and cried with me their filthy black rain. Every drop of moisture that landed on the mother and child further dissolved them into nothingness, their time on Earth completely vanishing before my eyes.
"No, no," I begged, somehow hoping they could be restored. Such glorious people gone, just like that, unceremoniously washed down the drain like dinner leftovers. The mother's love, the baby's smiles, the hopes and dreams, joys shared, pain comforted—all of it gone in the blink of an eye.
"No!" I cried. The rain fell harder, washing every remnant of them away.
How long I sat there, I do not recall. The rain stopped after coating me with its toxic payload of fallout, and the sun edged closer to the horizon, the polluted air giving it the appearance of a massive red fireball colliding into Earth. I desperately wished for death, or at least an injection of Ra's memory-wiping venom. I hated myself for these thoughts because if I gave up, all of humanity would be lost. The true strength behind having superpowers comes from the mind, but they never show that aspect in comic books. If superheroes were real, they would go mad with what they've seen and what they've lost. I don't want to be a superhero anymore.
"Monsieur?" Startled at the voice behind me, I jumped up, whirled around, and grabbed the yellow-clad person by his throat. Behind the transparent faceplate of his hood, above a black respirator, his eyes filled with wild fear as I forced him back a few steps. Looking over his shoulder, I saw an armored military transport in the distance. In my reverie, I had failed to hear its approach. I loosened my grip and the man began to babble in French for mercy.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You startled me."
"We are from the city Tours, searching for survivors. I recognize you. You are that…" He paused as if searching for the right words. "You are the angel president?"
"Yes," I replied flatly, not feeling very angelic.
"Please, come with me. We must decontaminate you and get back to Tours before nightfall."
"I need to go to Chateau de Moreau. Are you familiar with it?"
"Yes. Search parties went there, too. Survivors will be brought to Tours. Please, come." Not waiting for a reply, he turned and started walking to the transport. Reluctantly, I followed.
There were four rescuers in all, and I was the only survivor they had found. Before they would let me in the vehicle, they erected a portable decontamination shower. After scrubbing down, I donned the clean clothes they provided and took a seat in the transport. To their disconcertion, I refused the iodine pills and radiation suit they offered, knowing I was in no danger of losing my thyroid or hair. Two of my rescuers sat in the back with me, while the other tw
o manned the vehicle controls in the front. Vibration filled the cabin and the large wheels started to turn, carrying us to Tours.
"What is the state of the country?" I asked.
"Chaos," the man sitting next to me replied. "Before the Americans attacked, all communications went down. It's now impossible to bring them back up, so we do not know how other cities faired." I bit my bottom lip, realizing that my order to shut the nation's communications off had made things much worse.
"No counterstrike?" I said.
"Who would give the order, and how would they give it? Besides, they say a U.S. armada sits off the coast; their jets have been flying overhead. I suspect if we respond militarily, France will cease to exist even more than now, if that is possible."
The men were grim, rightfully so, and I had a strong feeling that they held little respect for me. I couldn't blame them.
We arrived at a school just as the angry sun vanished into some far-off sea. Portable lights brightly lit the parking lot, where a larger version of the decontamination station my rescuers had used earlier stood. A line of refuges, filthy and haggard, entered one end and exited cleansed at the other. Soldiers gave the survivors navy-blue jumpsuits and white-canvas sneakers to wear, and then escorted them into the school.
"We must decontaminate you again before going into the shelter," one of the men said as we dismounted from the back of the vehicle.
For the safety of the humans around me, I allowed him to lead me to the station and dutifully stripped off my recently acquired clothes. The large tent was basically a car wash for people. I funneled through with others who were silent from shock and mourning. We shuffled from one station to the next, until a Geiger counter at the end confirmed that we posed no risk. After putting on a jumpsuit—feeling as if I were going into prison again—a young woman escorted me into the school.
"I am looking for survivors from Chateau de Moreau," I said to her as we entered.
"Sorry, but in the chaos very few identifications have been made. They are working on it though. Come, I will show you where."
She led me into the gymnasium, where several hundred people mulled about looking lost and pitiful. A desk was set up next to a wall and a long line stretched away from it. Two men sitting at the desk took their time interviewing each refugee, many of whom seemed disorientated, and some suffered outright hysteria with their anguished wails echoing off the walls.
"Stand in this line," my escort said. "Tell them who you are and you can also inquire about friends and family." The line meandered through a throng of people, often losing its structure completely.
"This could take hours, and I don't have hours," I said.
"I am sorry, but it's all we have right now. This situation is unprecedented. Please, be patient."
"But I am the president…" Before I could finish, she turned and walked away. Angry, I stormed after her, grabbed her by the arm, and twirled her around. Her eyes were wide with shock. "I am Michael Moreau, interim-president of the goddamn country! Who is in charge here?"
"Take your hand off me! Security! Help! Security!" she yelled, trying to yank out of my grasp.
"Let her go!" a nearby man shouted. Others in the crowd backed away, fearful of confrontation.
"I'm not going to hurt you!" I said. "Who is in charge?"
"Security!" she yelled again, ignoring my question.
"Release her!" an armed guard yelled, coming up beside me. He and a companion leveled their pistols on me.
"Don't shoot!" I let go of the woman, and she scrambled away. I turned to face the security detail. "The bullets will hurt others in here."
"Put your hands behind your back!" he shouted, as his companion holstered his weapon and withdrew handcuffs.
"For God's sake, I'm the president."
"The president was in the blast zone. No one survived there."
"That's where I was when they found me. Ask the guys that brought me in," I said.
"Whatever game you're playing, now is not the time. Put your hands behind…"
"Michael?" a familiar voice said. "Michael!" Monique busted through the wall of people that encircled my drama.
"Monique?" She set a hefty metal suitcase down hard, rushed to me, and jumped into my arms.
"Oh thank God," she cried into my neck.
"Madam, please step away," the persistent soldier ordered. Monique released me and turned to him.
"You don't understand," she said. "What he is saying is true. He is the president." Confronted with this new claim, the man looked momentarily confused.
"Fine," he said, attempting to exert authority once again. "Follow me and we'll get to the bottom of this." I picked up Monique's suitcase and together we followed the man to a small office just outside the gym.
"Wait here," he said, leaving us locked inside the cluttered room. I didn't care where we were, as all my focus was on the woman I had feared lost.
"Did everyone get to the shelter?" I asked. She wore the same blue jumpsuit and white sneakers as I, and while her hair was disheveled, she didn't appear to have suffered the brunt of the blast.
"George made me promise to stay in the shelter, and he did a great job getting others there, but…" Her eyes went to the ground.
"What is it? Where is he?"
"He didn't make it," she said quietly.
"What?" I asked in disbelief.
"He was herding people to the shelter, and then on the walkie-talkie he said it looked like you took all the bombers out. For a moment we celebrated, but then he went quiet. Suddenly he started yelling for us to close the shelter doors fast." She fought back a sniffle. "Then he said…he said he loved me, but that you're a good man, and then the bomb hit."
We sat in silence, drowning in deep pain. While we had gotten off to a rough start, George and I had formed a strong bond in battle. He was one of those rare men that would be an honor to have as a friend for life. I was heartbroken.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered.
"He died saving others. That's what he would have wanted," she said.
"How many made it?"
"About forty, including the secretary of state and several French politicians."
"At least there's some good. Where are they?"
"Stuck in the gymnasium here. No one cares who was in charge before the bombs hit, and I honestly doubt anyone is coming here to confirm you are the president. He just wanted to get you locked up the easiest way possible."
"What? Why? Surely they want to reestablish the government."
"Michael, they don't. During the vacuum of power, the military seized control of the country and they have pledged support to Samael."
"No." I felt stunned, betrayed.
"The rumor is that American troops will be here by morning to take control. They're coming from Britain."
"Shit!" My eye caught the silver briefcase Monique had been lugging with her. "That's one of George's cases. What's in it?"
"It's that blood powder. George had me take it, thinking you may need it."
I considered my options. "Okay, let's start mixing the water and powder," I said, sweeping aside the clutter on a desk, and setting the case on it.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to take the war to them." I swung the lid open, happy to see that nothing had spilled inside during the chaos.
"How?" she asked. I handed her a bottle of water and a bag of powdered blood to start mixing, and then took some for myself.
"Their armada is off the coast…it's about a hundred miles away. If I regulate my blood intake, I can make it there. I'll send a strong message and then use one of their planes to get to the U.S."
"Michael, what do you mean by send a strong message?"
"Simple. I'm going to disable the American fleet, which should put a wrinkle in their invasion plans. It will at least slow them down."
"There's no way."
"Yes, there is. I'm done being civilized. It's time to shock them back to reality, and let them k
now Samael isn't the only game in town. Let's hurry. I want to be out of here before anyone comes to check on us."
She looked at me with disbelief, but continued to shake the bottle of blood vigorously. With twenty liters of blood, I counted on having just enough to make it to the fleet. Once there, I knew a lot more blood would be available to me. War knows no mercy.
Chapter 38
"Okay, you have about sixteen liters left," Monique said, placing the remaining mixed bottles back in their pockets and locking up the case. I sat an empty bottle next to the other three, wiped my lips, and looked at her.
"I'm going to bust the door open for you, and then leave through the roof," I said. "Tell them I was distraught and went back to the castle to search for George. I don't want anyone alerting the Americans that I'm coming."
"Okay." She stepped close to me. "Are you sure about this?"
"I have to do what it takes. When this is over, I'll come and find you."
"If you defeat Samael, I'll find my way back to Andre's house on the island, and send one of the boats to pick up Lori and Julia. If you can't defeat him, well…" Her voice trailed off.
"I will. As they say, failure is not an option." She leaned in and kissed me, which I wished she had not done. It made it that much harder to go.
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