Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  “How bad?” Todd asked.

  “Walk in the park old man. Need some help with your luggage?”

  Todd gave a good-natured growl. “Nah, just give them a hand with the patient. He isn’t looking too good.” He motioned to the man in the bio-suit, who was getting unsteadily to his feet.

  “Will do. You guys watch your step out there, it's slippery and dangerous as hell. The railing is missing on the south side as well.” He walked past them, punching Todd lightly as he went by.

  Gia slowed briefly and said, “Take good care of that man, Scott, he’s the cure.” She then kissed his cheek lightly and disappeared out the door.

  Scott was somewhat euphoric as he slipped his pack back on and reached out to help the man in the orange bubble suit. He idly wondered if he should have his suit back on as well. The last of the lab techs carried the remainder of the crates behind Todd and Gia.

  Scott put out a hand to the man, and slowly they, too, walked towards the door. Reaching the stairs, Scott could see the second boat attempting to tie off with increasing difficulty. The man in the suit stiffened when he saw the storm, and Scott realized he was not quite as weak as he expected. He tugged on the patient’s arm and motioned for him that it was okay. Neither could hear anything the other was saying.

  Scott saw a line of dark, ominous clouds approaching fast. The whitecaps of the distant waves indicated that the eye wall was closing in quickly. The storm was gearing back up and the southern edge looked even worse than what they had been through so far. Todd and Gia had reached the landing, but Scott was slowed by the patient’s awkward and reluctant gait. As Scott tried to coax the man down the slick metal stairs to the landing, it seemed that the gusting wind might blow them both over the edge.

  Scott turned to make sure the man was okay and froze. The eyes looking back at him were not those of a helpless man. They were the eyes of a killer. It registered somewhere deep in Scott’s primal self that the man had been trying hard to appear small before, because now, standing fully erect, he towered over Scott. The man’s fist knocked Scott nearly off his feet. He landed with a gasp on the hard steel mesh grating of the upper deck. The ferocity of the attack was intense and unexpected: a flurry of sharp blows that Scott tried to move into, but he could not help but feel the incredible impact behind each hit. The man was in a fucking bio-suit; how could he do any of this?

  Scott realized the guy was trying to get the weapon off his shoulder. The only advantage Scott had was that the bubble suit helmet prevented the patient from seeing anything except what was right in front of him. Scott struggled to shift his weight back, then brought a knee up into the side of the man’s head in a Keysi move that would have made Jack proud. But what should have been a knockout blow had only a negligible impact; the man moved preternaturally fast to close the distance and neutralize the blow’s impact. Scott could now hear shouts from below. He just caught sight of Todd pushing Gia into the cabin of the boat.

  “Scott, what’s going on?” came Todd’s voice through the dangling earpiece. “Perez! Take him out! Shoot.”

  Scott could not let that happen. “Don’t shoot! We need him alive.” He struggled to say it, as his breaths were coming in ragged jerks between blows. He had no idea if they had heard him.

  The fight had come to a brief lull, and both men stared at each other. Scott saw no menace in the man now, simply confidence. The patient, realizing his primary disadvantage, began unzipping his bio-suit from the inside. Without the suit, his movements would be unrestricted—and if he was contagious, they would all be exposed. Scott lunged at the man and was deflected with a hip throw into a metal support beam. Pain lanced throughout his body.

  “Skybox, no!” came a woman’s shout from below. “He’s not your enemy!”

  Todd and Perez were racing up the steps now. The fight had taken Scott and Skybox perilously close to the edge of the south platform, which had suffered the explosion. Waves were once again beginning to top the lower sections of the structure. The pilot of the Barracudas had no choice but to cut the line to the mooring post. As soon as he moved into open water, he gunned the massive engine just to stay ahead of a mountainous wave. Scott leaned against the post and saw Gia looking at him desperately through a cabin window. A huge swell obscured the boat from view. The departing sounds of the engine let him know that the boat had been recalled to the Bataan. They were on their own.

  The patient was ready when Perez came down the narrow access walk. Skybox lashed out a surprise kick with unbelievable speed and precision. The Navy SEAL’s knee buckled sideways, and he went down. Perez was in agony but brought his .45 up to fire at the man. Skybox had already closed the distance and brought a fist down into the inside of Perez’s forearm, shattering bones and ripping tendons. Scott charged at the same time Todd came within reach. This was quickly turning into a fight to the death and to hell with the damn pathogen—this fuck had to die. It was clear that the man had been feigning weakness the entirety of the time; just biding his time and waiting for an opportunity to attack and escape.

  The hood of the man’s suit prevented him from seeing Todd come up behind him. Todd was leveling a pistol and preparing to fire when Skybox bent sideways and unleashed a powerful high kick backward. The covered boot met Todd’s jaw and he went down hard.

  Scott prayed the blow had not broken his neck. Scott’s own pistol was also out now and Skybox, allowing no time for reaction, charged headlong into him, sending both men crashing into the rail—except there was no rail. There was nothing. Just empty space.

  Then, they were gone: swept away in the snarling tumult of the ocean.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Todd had regained just enough of his vision to see his friend being propelled over the edge of the platform by the man in the bio-suit.

  “Scott!” He tried to pick himself up and went down again, a wave crashing over the walkway and pummeling him into the steel grating. “Man overboard!” he croaked into his headset. “Montgomery and the subject are overboard, repeat, Montgomery and subject are in the water.” He stumbled to the edge of the platform looking desperately for his friend.

  “Sorry, Cap, no vessels in your vicinity. Can you affect a rescue?” came the concerned response.

  “No eyes on the targets,” he called over the storm, trying desperately to get his breath back. “They went over the southwest edge.” Todd scanned the sea frantically. The driving rain limited visibility to only a few yards, the churning water effectively hiding everything.

  The waves were over thirty feet now and continuing to increase. He recalled when Hurricane Ivan had come through in 2004; the waves had reached over 100 feet in this same region. That was a Category 4 storm—far larger than this one—but it was still an unbelievable scene. No, no, no, Todd tried not to panic. Scott, please, no. He had brought his friend out here; he had been the one to ask him to bring the subject to the boat. He had just been the cause of his best friend’s death.

  Returning to his senses, Todd considered his options. He went back to quickly check on Perez. The man was in bad shape, but it was nothing that wouldn’t eventually heal. Sitting him up against a far, dry corner, Todd rushed to the other sections of the platform to continue his search for Scott in the water below.

  Nothing. Nothing but churning waves and the tempest’s black-gray water. Scott's black battle uniform would be hard to spot, though the orange bio-suit on the other man should be easier to see and would probably keep the bastard afloat. Todd briefly considered going up to the helicopter pad on top to get a better view, but the driving wind and rain combined with the memory of their earlier adventure there, drove his decisions in other directions. He caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.

  “Perez, come in. Shit . . . Apex Two-two, come in.”

  “Go for Two-two,” came the man’s pained response.

  “Did your men leave the other Barracuda boat?” Todd asked.

  Perez was slow to answer him. “I don’t
know man, that wouldn’t be SOP, but I don’t recall anyone taking it. It would be suicide for you though, even if you could get it out there. You can’t find them on your own.”

  “Listen, check with control. We don’t have a choice. Something—a lot of somethings just came up out of the water, and they’re heading our way. You and I have to get the fuck off this rig.”

  Perez stood weakly on one leg. Todd stopped long enough to help him fashion a metal rod as a splint around the man’s knee. They wrapped duct tape and an elastic bandage tightly about it in a thick layer. Seeing that his hand was also dangling loosely from his shattered wrist, Todd bound it tight, using another piece of broken metal for support.

  “Let’s move.” He raced down the steps nearly dragging Perez along. Over the comm he heard the injured SEAL call control: “Roger, Apex Actual. Two-two attempting exfil now.”

  The Barracuda Interceptor was thankfully still moored to an out-of-the way blind spot on the oil platform. The Navy had tied it off to multiple posts so that it would rise and fall with the ocean swells. Todd could see no easy way of reaching it and knew Perez couldn’t swim. Behind them, the flare of several missile launches brightened the dark sky. The impacts overhead caused the entire rig to shudder violently. The sounds surpassed even the raging storm in volume. The rain, now mixed with shards of molten glass and steel, fell hard as the entire structure gave an ominous groan: metal tearing from metal.

  “Ideas?” Todd looked desperately at Perez.

  “Grappling hook to the mooring rope. Once you’re inside use the code we gave you in training to start the engine. Leave me. Just get away from here.”

  It was a good idea. Todd reached into his pack for the coil of rope and quickly attached the hook. It took several tries to snag a mooring line; the shifting winds kept carrying the hook off target. Finally, it hit home. Feeling only slightly secure, Todd leapt into the sea and was immediately pulled violently from the surface and away from the oil rig. Keeping the rope tight in his grasp, he began to work hand over hand to travel the twenty feet between the rig and the sleek boat. The surging water felt as though it wanted to tear his limbs from his torso. Never had he felt power like this from the ocean.

  After what seemed an eternity, he reached the boat and climbed into the tiny enclosed cabin. He was exhausted from the effort but keyed the start sequence and leaned out to cut the mooring lines just as another round of rockets hit the upper decks.

  Gunning the craft, he fought to maneuver over to the platform where Perez stood. The SEAL was shaking his head and waving him off with his good arm. Todd nosed the boat near enough for Perez to simply fall in, just before another wave rocketed the craft backward several hundred yards. He could see Perez had landed badly, but he was onboard and managed to pull himself through the cabin door.

  Todd briefly released the controls to reach back and slam the watertight cabin door shut on the injured man. It was going to be a bumpy ride. He accelerated in the direction Scott and the patient had been carried. The wind and waves would have had to push them this way . . . He was forced to learn the nuances of the small craft quickly and had managed to put more distance between him and the oil platform when a massive fireball erupted from it.

  “Apex Actual for Apex Two-two, come in.”

  He keyed the mic. “This is Cap, Two-two is passed out.”

  There was a slight pause, “Roger, Cap, we have you on scope. Be advised: hostile force is believed to be autonomous drone ships, and some are in pursuit of your vessel. Use evasive maneuvers and return to base.”

  Todd was at his mental breaking point. Steering the unfamiliar vessel in these conditions was proving to be a tremendous challenge, and he was desperate to find his friend. The craft’s unique hull profile, which made it hard to see on radar, also made it a bitch to control. He had to keep searching for Scott, but he also knew the boat didn’t carry much fuel, and that he’d be in a lot more trouble if he hung around much longer. He accelerated north several more seconds in a zig-zag pattern before responding.

  “Acknowledged, returning to base.” He would get the Navy to start a proper search for Scott once he was back on the Bataan. He noticed a bundle lashed to the sidewall of the cabin labeled ‘rescue’. He idled the craft, and between the massive waves, he made his way over to unlatch the large yellow bag. He opened the door and tossed it out, letting the wind carry it over a hundred yards before settling it into the maelstrom. Perhaps it would find its way to Scott. It was an admittedly weak effort, but perhaps it might reach him.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Central Mississippi

  Hawley watched with rapt attention as Michael spoke. He still had it. He fed off the crowd, steadily transforming himself back into the Prophet.

  The last couple of weeks had been challenging, but the Message still had to be delivered. Yes, Michael conceded, Satan would put obstacles in their path. Still, while they were unsure who they had been attacked by in Memphis, the Prophet would find a solution. He always did.

  “Brothers and sisters, hear me. We have all suffered this past year. Why? Because we all were being judged. The Lord used His white-hot, purifying fire to cleanse this planet. The last time He walked among us, He sent His son to give us the chance for everlasting life. And what did the world do? It attacked Him! The people rejected Him, they crucified Him. Since then, Christians have been under attack: the media attacked us, the liberals and homosexuals attacked us, our own government tried to silence us,” Hawley frowned at the logic of his Prophet’s message . . . Where was he going with this? “Is it any wonder that the Lord has used another son—the Earth’s sun—to deliver His new message?” Ahhh, very clever. The Messengers loved a bit of word play in their oratory. “We all have suffered because of His judgment upon the non-Christians of this world. Now those who have survived must pay the price.”

  Michael watched with fascination as the crowd got worked into a frenzy. He loved this part. His heart raced and his breath came hard with excitement and the rush of some of the drugs. Subtly, he gave the signal to Hawley that, yes indeed, he would be needing another young playmate for the night. He brought the microphone closer to his lips. The next lines had to be delivered with just the right tone.

  “Evil has not yet been banished. We saw that in Memphis. Satan is fighting back, like a wild beast that is backed into a corner. Our crusade is sweeping the country clean of the devil’s minions,” his arms swept wide and his lips curled in reference to the enemy. “Those who have worshiped false gods, those who have craved riches, those who have slaughtered their unborn children . . . They will be judged. We will find them and wreak vengeance in their evil souls. I may be your leader, but alas, I am but a humble servant—a simple vessel for the Lord’s message to find strength among you.”

  Damn, he could sell flashlights to a blind man, Hawley thought as he smiled widely in the direction of his Prophet.

  “We are on the verge of a great victory! Once that victory is ours, we will have a holy fire with which to complete the purification of this planet! We will use it to propel God’s message across the globe! Brothers, we let godliness slip away here in America. Not all at once, but bit by tiny bit. We stepped away from the Ten Commandments. We found excuses to not go to church. We looked at things on TV and the Internet that took root in our heart and, bit by bit, took our goodness away!

  We have paid the price for that! We have lost our homes, our lifestyles, our simplicity,” he paused momentarily for added effect. “We have lost loved ones who were precious to us. Don’t let that be in vain. We may have lost much, but we will reclaim with conviction, and in one clear voice!

  “We repent, oh Lord! We are your children, and we will do your work and loudly carry your message to the lost! We will vanquish evil in all the vile forms we find it, for you are a loving God and we are your hand here on Earth. We will minister to the ignorant and judge those that stand against us, for ours is a righteous movement!”

  Holding up a weathe
red Bible, he went on. “Ezekiel 9:6 . . . ‘Slay utterly old and young, both maids, and little children, and women: but come not near any man upon whom is the mark; and begin at my sanctuary.’ Touch no one that has the mark! No one. Except for the one.” The crowd fell wholly silent at this declaration.

  “There is one out there—one who has murdered our own, attacked our Judges and defiled our women—one man who has injected his demonic venom into our group again and again. This man tried to lead us to our destruction in Memphis. He was a wolf, hiding amongst us lambs. While he falsely bears the mark, our beloved battle cross, he—must—be—vanquished. He must atone for what he has done to God’s people!

  “Brother Hawley, please pass around the picture.” They had one image of Bobby Montgomery someone had taken on one of the few still working iPhones. The men studied it and frowned before passing it along to the next. “This animal is around here and must be found! He must be brought before me for judgment.” He paused again and then, in a quieter voice, added, “The Messenger who does so will get his choice of women and first choice on rations for the duration of our crusade. He will also enjoy my full protection from harm.”

  The audience erupted into thunderous applause. With rewards like that, Hawley knew these idiots would do just about anything to bring Montgomery in. The number of Messengers was increasing daily as those who had been on the Arkansas side finally crossed the river at Vicksburg and joined up at the camp near Jackson, Mississippi. Most of them were in bad shape. Even the Prophet knew they were in no shape to launch a full assault against an enemy. The Judges were making forays into smaller towns and even the edges of Jackson to secure buses, trucks and other modes of mass transportation. But these were being done with caution.

  Several school systems had donated big yellow buses to the effort—without realizing it, of course. Fuel had been harder to come by, but if you asked the right questions, even that could be acquired. The willingness of the Judges to do whatever was required when it came to questioning people always did wonders for the group’s supplies. Under their intimidating influence, those interrogated would always crack eventually. It rarely took long.