by Adam Ingle
Any suspicion or hesitation disappeared from the priest’s expression, which in turn made Mestoph relax—though only a little. Father Mike, who explained that his name was actually Makena, told them that he seen something strange right before the plane went down. “I was one row behind you,” he said, nodding at Mestoph. “I wondered if you had seen the same thing. It was a rocket-propelled grenade, I’m sure of it.”
Leviticus and Mestoph gave each other a meaningful look, as much to be sure they were both on the same page as for the theatrical effect it would have.
“You have a lot of experience with RPGs?” asked Mestoph.
The priest shrugged. “I’ve seen my share of fighting. I wasn’t always a priest.”
And with that, Leviticus nodded to Mestoph and they let Father Mike into the inner circle.
Less than an hour later, Mestoph, Leviticus, Marcus, Stephanie, Sir Regi, and now Father Mike stood before the assembled survivors, who were huddled together in the remains of the cabin. They told everyone what they had seen and that they didn't think they were safe staying at the crash site. The survivors were skeptical. Several voiced the opinion that it would be better to wait there for a rescue. Leviticus squirmed uncomfortably as he felt the crowd beginning to turn; it was at least partially his fault that they were in this mess, and he’d be damned—pardon his language—if he’d let more innocents suffer. Not even Mestoph could leave them to fend for themselves. Not to mention that they would likely lose Marcus and Stephanie's faith if they did.
Mestoph revealed that he had been to the cockpit and hadn’t found any sign of the black box. That swayed more than a few people. One man had the reasonable point that Mestoph wasn't an aviator so he might have missed it. Mestoph conceded this but offered to go along with anyone who wanted to look again. This quieted a few of the non-believers. The single point that held the most sway, however, was Father Mike's story about having seen what he thought was an RPG. Several of the survivors admitted to having seen something come at them from the ground. When Leviticus planted the fear that whoever had shot them down would come and finish them off, there were only one or two vocal critics of the plan, and even they seemed uncertain of their own argument. In the end it was a unanimous vote.
The biggest logistical problem was the injured. Of the twenty-three survivors, six of them weren't fully mobile. For those who couldn't move at all, they would have to fashion together some sort of litter and then work out shifts for everyone to carry or pull them along. Those who were hobbling and limping would be splinted as best as possible and would just have to try not to further injure themselves during the march.
The march itself was the next problem that had to be solved. Most of the survivors weren't Icelandic, so there was a serious lack of geographical knowledge. Father Mike again proved to be invaluable since he was in Iceland to do mission work in the rural and farm areas of the island country. He easily had the best practical knowledge of the lay of the land.
Father Mike worked with Mestoph and Leviticus to draw up a map of the coast. As best as they could figure, they were somewhere between Klaustur and Skaftafell National Park, which meant they could go twenty miles approximately west and maybe hit Klaustur, or walk ten or fifteen miles just about any direction but southeast and hit Route 1. Father Mike thought they were closest to the National Park, which meant they were farther from anything resembling civilization.
While Mestoph and Leviticus worked with Father Mike to plan their escape, Marcus and Stephanie—and, in his own way, Sir Regi—worked with the survivors to get everything in marching order. To make the litters, they had pried the emergency exit door off. The emergency slide burst out of the door and inflated as Marcus absentmindedly pulled the emergency lever. Sir Regi let out a startled bark and one of the other passengers, a young woman in her early twenties, let out a shriek followed by nervous laughter.
They slit the inflated sides of the slide to deflate it and then cut it into long strips that would make up the base of the litter. They then supported it with two long narrow struts from the insides of the plane. They wrapped the jagged ends of metal in strips of cloth from the clothes found in the salvaged luggage. The supports and vinyl from the slide were lashed together with some climbing rope from the suitcase with the ice axes, and when they ran out of that some electrical wiring from inside the plane. Sir Regi brought most of the wire, rooting through the small crawlspaces and digging through the debris to find as much as possible. The result was a crude but serviceable way to pull or carry those who couldn't walk.
As they searched through the suitcases, Marcus and Stephanie learned more than they ever wanted to know about their fellow passengers. In an age of internet porn there was a surprising number of nudie mags tucked underneath clothes. More alarming was the sheer volume of dildos, vibrators, and – not to leave the men out - pocket pussies. It seemed that good old one-handed masturbation, good for guys and girls, wasn't enough these days. There were rubber, silicon, and uncannily skin-like genitalia of a startling degree of accuracy, or inaccuracy in the case of large foot and a half long jiggly cocks with variable speed vibrators.
To a man like Marcus, who had never set foot in a sex shop, the sheer variety of fake phalluses was astounding. There were ones shaped like animals, dolphins and rabbits in particular. There were ones with a complicated array of rotating “pleasure beads” inside. There were ones where the head, and only the head, rotated and squirmed like a flailing fish. The other startling thing was that no one seemed to travel with only one dildo, but almost always a pair, and in some cases there were small travel boxes dedicated solely to their owner’s toys. One box had half a dozen dildos, French ticklers, condoms, lube, and a burned DVD he was fairly certain was full of porn. When he looked up at Stephanie, wanting to share his surprise with someone else, she just shrugged. Marcus suddenly imagined a similar black and chrome travel box tucked underneath her bed back at her house. As if reading his mind, she nodded. Marcus shook his head in dismay, and felt a sudden inadequacy in his boring, vanilla sexual habits. She put her hand on his shoulder and whispered to him, “Don't worry, nobody stays innocent forever.” Marcus felt a blossom of excitement and fear inside him.
It had taken the better part of the day to get everything together between scavenging for provisions, trying to prepare the injured for transport, and the back and forth debating about where they should go. In the end they decided to head in the general direction Father Mike believed Klaustur was, but agreed to follow Rt. 1 west toward Reykjavik if they hit it first. They also decided that they had burned enough of the day that it would be pointless to leave now. By the time everyone was assembled and motivated to move out in the miserable weather, they would be lucky to get an hour out before it started getting too dark to safely navigate the rocky and uneven terrain of the seemingly endless lava fields.
Leviticus and Mestoph were the only ones who thought an hour of travel was better than nothing. Resigned to another night at the crash site, they arranged to keep watch in pairs. Marcus and his dog would take first watch, Stephanie and Mestoph, who wasn't comfortable spending too much time with the priest, would take second watch, and Leviticus and Father Mike would keep watch until sunrise. Mestoph gave Marcus and Stephanie a private, impromptu weapons lesson, showing them the safety, what to do if it jammed, and the quickest way to change a clip. He gave Marcus the 9mm that he had found in the cockpit.
Sir Regi suggested that they at least try to arm some of the other passengers in the guise of utilitarianism by making rough hatchets and machetes from jagged metal and support beams, wrapped together with the leftover wires that weren't used for the makeshift stretchers. Now they passed them out under the pretense that the makeshift weapons could be used for gathering wood for fires and clearing brush as they traveled the next morning.
First watch with Marcus and Sir Regi was uneventful, and they gratefully returned to the dry spot Marcus called a bed and the pile of clothes he would be using
as a pillow. He tapped Stephanie on the shoulder and she sat up instantly; he was fairly certain she hadn't been asleep. Marcus handed her the gun and she awkwardly stuck it in the waistband of her pants. Marcus walked over to the small fire where Mestoph and Leviticus were huddled together, deep in conversation. They hushed as Marcus walked over; he didn't take it as an insult since he was sure there was plenty of things mortals like him weren't meant to know about. Mestoph nodded to Marcus and then got up to take his watch, leaving him with Leviticus. Marcus didn't stay to talk.
Mestoph found Stephanie sitting on a row of seats at the edge of the fuselage. The weather was starting to clear up a bit, the ominous storm moving further inland, and in the random gaps of clouds they could see stars peeking through. They sat there for close to half an hour before she spoke. “You're not really an Angel are you?”
Mestoph looked at her intently for a moment, a look that went briefly from amusement to a complete lack of surprise. He wasn't so much shocked that she had doubts; he couldn't hide his true nature forever. He was surprised that she was so sure and so unafraid. He smiled ruefully and nodded.
“So what are an Angel and...a Demon?” At Mestoph’s nod, she continued, “What are an Angel and a Demon doing running around together and trying to stop the end of the world? I mean, I can see why an Angel might, but not a Demon. And not an Angel and a Demon working together.”
Mestoph looked up at the clouds, which parted again briefly to show a sliver of moon. He hadn't planned on having this talk, at least not yet. He had hoped maybe it could be avoided completely. Stephanie was too smart to be blown off, so Mestoph decided to go as close to the truth as he dared.
“Me and Leviticus have been friends for a very long time. I'm not going to lie and say that I haven't done some things you'd flinch at; it comes with the territory. However, Leviticus and I meet in the middle when it comes to our views of our jobs. I'd be lying if I said either of us weren't both anxiously awaiting The End. Ultimately, that's what both sides are working toward. However, you—humans, that is—deserve a chance to do it your own way. That whole free will thing. It's a pretty amazing thing, but it's really all you have going for you. Without it you're just playthings for God and Satan to push around the chessboard in their unending cock-measuring contest. Someone is out to take that one and only thing of yours away by jumpstarting The End. Seeing Leviticus as good and me as evil is far more simplistic and inaccurate than the truth. It may surprise you to find out that some really good people end up in Hell while some really shitty people in up in Heaven. It has absolutely nothing to do with lack of faith or devotion respectively. There's not a lot in life that's fair, but if we can do something to keep free will alive as long as possible, it behooves us all to do our part.”
Mestoph was surprised to find that he actually believed what he was saying. Not all of it was true and some of the facts were omitted, but the sentiment was there. He actually did care about what happened to humans—at least to these humans.
“I won't tell Marcus,” was all Stephanie said in response.
Mestoph looked at her expectantly for several minutes, but she didn't look at him again. They continued their watch in silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence; it was just a lack of talking. He finally spoke up, the curiosity close to killing him.
“Are you OK with...you know...me being a Demon?”
Stephanie looked over at him and smiled slightly. “Yeah, I'm OK. It explains a lot. And to be honest, it makes me feel better knowing you’re...you know...a Demon.”
Mestoph cocked an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued instead of sated. “Better?”
“Yes, better. Because I know when the Nephilim, Seraphim, St. Peter, or who knows what else finally finds me...us...you won't hesitate to kill them.”
The bright beam of a pair of headlights broke over a distant hill, revealing the jagged outlines of lava rocks. Five more pairs of headlights followed. They all pulled up side-by-side on the crest of the hill, pointing toward the cockpit section of the wreck. Mestoph drew his gun and tapped Stephanie on the knee, motioning for her to wake up Leviticus and Marcus.
Whoever had shot them down had finally found them.
Chapter 12
The Taint of Taint
The second RPG hit the forward section of the wreckage squarely through one of the cockpit windows and exploded inside. What was left of the front half of the plane shattered in a ball of flame and debris that rained down on the survivors, startling those still sleeping upright and awake. Mestoph returned with a three round burst from his .40 and saw a silhouette fall down in front of the headlights. Moments later, it silhouette stood back up and began to reload the launcher.
Mestoph took aim again, knowing he wouldn't get another shot before yet another RPG was spiraling its way directly at him. This time he took a moment to breath in, hold it, and then let it back out. He squeezed the trigger, getting off a single round.
The shooter fell backwards as the grenade launched, sending it upward in an almost imperceptible arc. It shot up like a flare, and everyone stared up at it, entranced. Then it ran out of propulsion, and since it hadn't hit anything to trigger detonation, it began to fall. The second half of its trajectory was shrouded by darkness, but it became apparent what had happened when the vehicle furthest from the wreck exploded.
The second explosion jerked everyone out of their trance, and people began screaming and running. Survivors were grabbing their axes and machetes or running for cover behind wreckage and lava mounds. It made for a disorganized front, but would also make them harder to pick off all at once. On the other side, the attackers were screaming, too. There wasn't enough light to tell if it was because they were dying or injured or just startled at having their own vehicle blown up. Mestoph thought he could hear the cursing of a dying demon, its guttural language ringing out above the others, but in the chaos he wasn’t sure.
Leviticus, Marcus, and Stephanie soon joined Mestoph behind the row of seats. It wasn’t much in the way of protective cover, but it kept them out of sight. Mestoph was filling them in on the scant details of the events so far when gunfire finally broke out. They ducked instinctively, but the guns weren’t aimed at them. Again Mestoph heard the sound of a demon, muffled and gravelly but distinct, maybe even sounding slightly wet and raspy, and then one of the vehicles backed up and sped off away from the crash, leaving four sets of headlights and one mangled wreck of a burning truck.
It became apparent that all the gunfire was coming from one half of the group and aimed exclusively at the other half. The scene that played out solely through the silhouettes and shadows created by the headlights. It looked like the group taking fire was armed with nothing but swords, axes, and war hammers. Not the makeshift type the survivors had, nor the weird fantasy weapons that geeks with too much money bought, but large, chunky, utilitarian looking accoutrements of war—albeit war in the Dark Ages.
The barbarians seemed to be winning. A few of the anachronistic assailants fell to gunfire, but sparks of ricocheting bullets leaped off what could only be armor as they charged forward, laying the gunners to waste. The skirmish only lasted a few minutes, and then the gunfire ceased completely. Not sure how to take this awkward turn of events, Mestoph and the others stayed hunched behind the seats with their weapons at the ready.
“Aim for the head,” said Mestoph.
“You mean, like zombies?” asked Sir Regi.
“Yes,” said Mestoph with all seriousness.
There was absolute silence for what felt like an eternity, and then there was a loud, deep “Halooo?” from the trucks.
“Is anyone out there?” asked a deep voice in Germanic-tinged English.
Everyone looked to Mestoph with questions in their eyes. He shrugged, making a bewildered face in response. He had no idea if this was a trap to lure them out or some sort of mob remorse. He didn’t have to think too long about it, though, because a hulking figure of a man emerged in front of the tr
ucks waving what was most likely a white flag. In the dark the color was moot.
“I think they want to…what…parley?” said Sir Regi, making it as much a question as a statement. “Ask for terms,” said the dog.
“Name your terms,” shouted Mestoph. There was a brief moment of silence and then they heard some sort of discussion taking place in the distance. It was either too low to understand or they weren’t speaking English. Mestoph squinted and turned his ear, trying to make it out.
“It’s Icelandic or maybe Old Norse, I think,” said Sir Regi, his superior doggy hearing paying off. “Please God, don’t let them be Neo Vikings.”
It looked like everyone was about to ask what Neo Vikings were, but there was finally a response from the barbarians. “No terms. Unconditional surrender,” shouted the Nordic negotiator.
“Who’s surrendering? Us or you?” shouted Mestoph.
The barbarian looked as if he turned to those behind him and shrugged. “We surrender,” he shouted back.
“Why?” asked Mestoph. The others looked at him in surprise.
“Who cares!” said Stephanie.
“Well, mostly ’cause we’d rather not kill you. If that’s ok with you.”
“We accept!” shouted Stephanie, not willing to risk having Mestoph ruin everything with his inane questions. There was murmuring from the other survivors, some of whom had drawn near to where Mestoph and the others were taking cover.
The barbarian threw the flag down and walked toward the survivors with his hands up in the international “I come in peace” gesture. The light from various fires lit the barbarian’s features; what could only be described as a Neo Viking stood tall before them. The man stood just shy of seven feet with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail with a leather thong and a long mustache and beard braided and capped with copper beads. The Viking was wearing tactical cargo pants and a skin-tight endurance shirt, but he had armor made of iron plates the size of playing cards draped on top of it.