A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga

by C. Chase Harwood

  “Madness!” he said while pacing the room, furiously pulling on an end of his mustache. He dropped any pretense at forcing his tongue to use the cadence of The Shore. “Even gutted, their military far outweighs ours. Even shiftless and lazy and lost in virtual reality, they are just like us, a nation of warriors. A hive of bees remains docile as you pass under it. Hit it with a stick and you have an altogether different situation.” He stopped and turned to the colonels. “We are just barely on our feet, gentlemen. We still scrounge for resources. By what arrogant pomposity do you suppose we are ready for a war!”

  Quale’s lizard-slit-eyes took on the appearance of an appraising butcher. “Are you finished, Dietrich?”

  “I am not!” Pelham looked at the others in the room, letting his eyes settle on Paula Brown. “Surely you don’t sanction this, Paula?”

  Paula kept herself sitting rigidly upright while saying softly, and without looking at him, “Sit down, Dietrich.” Her voice held a curious combination of resolve laid over a foundation of fear.

  Dietrich slowly sat back down.

  Colonel Quale smiled and said, “Duly considered, Dietrich — the wisdom of your folksy metaphors.” He chuckled, “Bee hives.” He placed his focus back on the council as a whole. “Everything we have learned while we have spied on the North informs our decisions greatly. No fight they have these twelve years on. What little there is will be focused on the Fiends from the leper island of Nantucket.” He wiped his hands together as if ridding himself of something sticky. “Now, a speech I must make to our nation.”

  Dietrich Pelham had always been a bit of a paranoid. In his heyday on Wall Street, he had kept a bodyguard 24/7. Whether he was walking the very safe streets of Manhattan or traveling abroad, as a man of vast wealth, he felt compelled to protect his person from what he was certain was a high probability of kidnapping. Never mind that as a secretive hedge fund manager, he was basically anonymous, even when moving among the rich.

  He’d kept two men — whom he had referred to as Smith and Jones — on his payroll full-time, each working a twelve hour shift. In the end, both men had been bitten during the Exodus. He could only assume that they had succumbed to Cain’s.

  Just as he had during a lifetime of investing, when the pandemic threatened Manhattan, Pelham ran against the grain. Rather than go north with the rest of the herd, he headed toward Delaware, following the footsteps of an old Carnegie Mellon chum, Niles Plimpton. His bodyguards, Smith and Jones, had managed to get him all the way to Wilmington before they both fell into the temporary coma that preceded the full takeover of the mind. He missed the bodyguards now. As he stepped out of the Bank of Dover building and hailed his driver and man-servant Mason, he couldn’t help but compare the slight fellow to the two hulking men who had gotten him out of New York. Bodyguards on The Shore were considered unseemly; in effect, an admission by the government of its failure to protect its citizenry. A personal valet or driver was a given among the ruling class, but that person was meant for that alone. Pelham found little comfort in his man Mason’s abilities as a protector of his person.

  Though perfectly suited to the roll of servant, Mason was, as was considered appropriate, non-threatening. Carrying a gun was a natural right among Shoreman, but that offered little comfort to Pelham; firstly, due to his limited abilities with the tool. He’d never had reason to think beyond the killing skills of his bodyguards. Second, it was considered in poor taste for the ruling classes to be seen practicing the firing of weapons. The 35-caliber snub-nosed revolver that he carried in a thin holster under his left arm was — as far as he was concerned — just a lump of inconvenient metal rubbing against his ribs. He seriously doubted he could hit a building if he tried. All to say that his paranoia had never left him — even while safely ensconced on The Shore. Now once again, he had gone against the grain, voicing his deep concerns over invading and taking over a piece of the North.

  The vast crowd in the commons took no notice of him as he walked. Their focus was completely captured by Colonel Quale. The self-appointed leader had come out on a balcony of the bank building. His voice boomed across the commons, offering an impassioned explanation to the people as to how they would be moving forward as a nation.

  Paranoid or not, when Pelham had made his objection, there was no mistaking the look on Quale’s face. Dietrich recalled a nature program he had seen as a boy: In an East Indian jungle, an almost perfectly concealed tiger narrowed its eyes just before bursting through the foliage and pulling down a small horned animal. The animal had let out a short bleep as its neck was broken, it’s legs kicking spasmodically before it was suddenly still. Quale’s eyes had very much been the tiger’s eyes. It took all of Dietrich’s will not to look over his shoulder when his man Mason, pulled up with the coach.

  As he rode in the carriage, Pelham considered his situation. He had lost his first wife during the Exodus; the window for his escape being very sudden and impossibly short. When phone communication had broken down completely, he had been in his office on Cedar Street, behaving like most of his colleagues, with profound self-deception. The New York governor’s order to evacuate had come two days prior, but he had rightly stayed behind while the first wave of panicked got bogged down at the island’s exits. He had kissed Beverly after breakfast that morning and left her to pack “lightly” while he walked to the office to organize the fund’s affairs. Before the various news broadcasts started to go silent, they had been hysterically conveying a growing consensus: As far as the world’s leading scientists were concerned, this was an extinction level event. FNDz would be to Man what a massive meteor was to the dinosaurs. Pelham, and others of his ilk, had scoffed at this. Man was adaptable to anything. America was the most powerful nation on Earth for a reason. If we could beat the Nazis and the Japanese Empire and rebuild the world, we could handle a frightening but straightforward pandemic. He was quite certain that he would be back when the disaster was gotten under control, and he had every intention of being on the leading edge of whatever investment opportunities arose once normalcy was restored. Smith and Jones stayed at his heels as he walked downtown, noting with comfort that he was among a mix of men and women in business attire doing the same. Pelham wasn’t surprised to see many of his fellow titans. As he and his men passed panicked people dragging overloaded suitcases to the New Jersey bound tunnels, his choice to take his time seemed prescient. Even with the ferry systems running 24/7, the lines were backed up from Westside Drive to the mid-fifties.

  The governor’s orders aside, the city leaders had debated until the end as to when, or if, to abandon the island. Islands were a refuge in this pandemic, where the disease was carried by infected persons who could not swim — FNDz devolving the brain so that such learned skills were wiped away. The local consensus was that food could be shipped to the island. Manhattan could become a citadel. Despite the call from Albany that was backed by the federal government, the mayor, the councilmen and aldermen of the financial center of the world, concluded by a margin of 59 to 39 (with 2 abstentions), that they would ignore such orders. It wasn’t until the Fiend population had spread to Southern New Jersey that panic overwhelmed questionable prudence.

  Despite the assurances of their leaders, New Yorkers suddenly wanted out. Very rapidly, they all wanted out at once.

  Pelham had almost reached the entrance to his building when the murmurs that were a constant hum through the crowds, became more urgent. Smith was faster than Jones to sort it out. He grabbed Dietrich’s sleeve and pulled him through the line toward the Hudson. The crowd was breaking into chaotic shouts and people began to get trampled as the mass of it suddenly surged and turned north. As his men pulled out their guns and guided him to the river, Pelham heard snippets of horrible information; the Fiends were in the tunnels. His men were pulling him toward the tunnels, toward the water.

  They instinctively dove flat to the ground as the Earth shook and a huge geyser of water and debris exploded upstream. The Army had pre-rigged
the tunnels to blow. The Holland was the first. Thousands of refugees were instantly blown apart or drowned.

  As Pelham and his men stood up in shock, further up river, the George Washington Bridge was dropped with a wave of concussions. The orderliness of the abandonment was replaced with bedlam.

  By angling toward the water rather than the tunnel entrances, Smith and Jones took their charge away from the bulk of the fleeing chaos. Nevertheless, thousands were abandoning their baggage and jumping into the river. Most would drown, some would be resilient enough to get to the New Jersey side — only to be slaughtered or infected. Some would be incredibly fortunate to be picked up by one of hundreds of overloaded boats and ferries, many of them small personal craft driven by patriotic volunteers. Jones pushed his boss into the water, and between he and Smith, they kept the weak swimmer that was the pampered hedge fund manager from drowning.

  The Kelleys lived up-river at Ossining On The Hudson. They were just one family of so many who had brought their power cruiser down-river to assist with the evacuation. Flags on the lawn and candlelight vigils were symbolic and nice, but with two teenage sons ready and able, the family of four felt it was their duty to go down and save as many of their fellow New Yorkers as they could. They had just pulled a couple of NYU students out of the water when John Kelley spotted three businessmen swimming toward his boat, one of them struggling. The forty-foot Dreamliner was packed nearly beyond its ability to stay afloat. John’s son Rick, tugged at his father’s shirtsleeve. “Enough,” said the son. “We’ll sink. Someone else will get them.” The father looked around. There were lots of people in the water and more pouring in. Most boats were full and no more were coming down river. Many were heading back north. His rapid and instinctive decision was to hit the gas, flee now. No matter that thousands would drown. John glanced back at the three men who were almost to his stern ladder, then smiled grimly at his son. “Three more.”

  As he did from time to time, while Pelham rode alone in his horse drawn carriage, he considered his wife. His imagination had made up so many scenarios over the years for what might have become of her. He mostly settled on two. Beverly had a pill for everything. He liked to think that she just swallowed a bottle full, but that was likely wishful thinking. Her issues with anxiety were grave. Xanax only took the edge off. Unable to make big decisions without help, it was more likely that she simply waited for him with growing terror until it was too late to leave. The pills would have been the best option. But then again, such a choice would have been one that Beverly was unlikely to make on her own.

  Several years after he’d established himself on The Shore, and the scourge of Fiends had burned itself out, he had given private instructions to one of The Shore’s northbound spies to try to track her down. Nothing came of it. To help broken families and friends to reunite, a census was taken of who remained in the surviving nation. The US Government had done a thorough job of counting its people. Survivors were easily accessed through public databases. Beverly wasn’t up there. He hated to think of her being eaten alive, but that’s what probably happened. They had agreed that if they got separated for more than two days that they would meet at their summer home in Rhode Island. She would have waited for three, maybe even four days, but she would have finally gone out. Pelham didn’t even consider that she might have become infected. The infection never had time to establish itself in Manhattan. The word was that the explosives for the Lincoln Tunnel failed. More likely they had been sabotaged by those trying to buy more time to get out. A million Fiends poured onto the island over a period of days. For those who didn’t get across the Eastern bridges and tunnels before they were blown, there was just the waiting to starve in a self-made apartment prison or getting eaten alive. Dietrich knew in his heart that Beverly had likely been eaten. The Fiends could be quite cunning. Most carried some type of sharp tool. There had been plenty of reports, or, for that matter, live video, of people being hacked and stabbed as they were pulled apart by a hungry mob. The icing on the cake, radioactive clouds crossing over from New Jersey.

  The carriage jolted over a pothole and shook him from his looped imaginings of what it must have been like for her. For the thousandth-plus-time, he forced the images from his mind, stomping the thoughts back into the hole that they constantly escaped from. He needed to stay focused on the here and now. He had pissed Quale off for perhaps the last time. He felt the weight of the gun against his ribs and resolved to learn how to shoot.

  The people with whom he ruled, had started a war. A war that would likely ruin everything they had built.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Cold Sea

  Jon marveled at the dexterity of the sentinel. Not only did the machine board the Viento with ease, but the huge spider-like drone was able to quickly zip tie all of their hands behind their backs, then carry them one by one to the deck of the Hagel without so much as a scratch on the victim. Dean made it clear to his fellow escapees that protest was futile. He was frankly surprised that they were still alive. It would have been so much easier for the Shoremen to send them all to the bottom. For the moment, it meant sitting on the foredeck and watching the sentinel use its auto-shotgun to blow a terminal hole in the Viento’s hull.

  They were made to face forward and sit in silence as the Shoremen’s huge yacht headed south. Even with heavy outerwear on, the exposed position left them shivering. Dean had Billy sit on his lap and lean against his chest while snugging up next to Eliza. Jon and Nikki observed this and without saying a word, snugged in tight with the others. Hansel and Gretel did their best to use their denser bodies as blankets around the humans.

  With his face nuzzled close to Nikki’s neck, breathing in her scent, a rush of fond memories poured through his head and he felt his heart swell, only to be interrupted when Gretel reached out to all of them.

  We can help make the pain of the cold go away if you wish.

  Dean spoke back with his mind, Thank you, Gretel, but it might be dangerous. We need to feel the cold to know how cold we are. Otherwise we might freeze and not even know it.

  Gretel left their minds as abruptly as she entered. Jon whispered into Nikki’s ear, “I’ll never get used to that. Talk about dredging up old nightmares.”

  “I know what you mean, but what a kind gesture. These creatures have empathy. I never expected that.”

  “The girl, yes. Not so sure about the boy.”

  “SILENCE,” came a disembodied voice from the sentinel.

  Hansel’s thoughts entered all of their heads. We can all just think with Gretel and me… And I heard you, Mr. Washington.

  That’s a very clever solution, thought Eliza. Thank you, Hansel.

  Jon thought, It’s Hansel and Gretel they want. They’d have scuttled us otherwise. They understand the power of the children. It’s why it’s just us and this drone up here.

  Yes, thought Dean. That or they figure we are going to succumb to Cain’s at any moment. They can only assume we’re Halflies on bad meds.

  Commander Ragnar paced back and forth in the Hagel’s main salon, his steps at a slight angle to compensate for the yacht’s list. The battle they’d fought to take the boat was still in evidence — bullet holes in the fine woodwork, ruined upholstery. The salon had been converted by the US Navy to be the yacht’s control room. The thing more or less sailed itself, leaving the Shore sailors with little to do. They nevertheless tried to look busy in the presence of the captain.

  A freckle faced radio operator stuck his head out of the mostly repaired communications room. “Captain, Sir. Colonel Quale on the scrambler as requested.”

  Ragnar had a habit of rubbing his fingers together next to his ear in an unconscious tick. He stepped down the hall and nodded for the operator to leave, shutting the door. He breathed on his hands and rubbed them together before picking up the mic. “Ragnar here.”

  “Status, Commander,” asked Quale.

  “Successfully inserted the package. The horizon glows orange in the night
.”

  Quale paused, then, “Very poetic. Congratulations. Why the break in radio silence?”

  “Taken some Demon Children on board we have. Strays out of Nantucket. Thought it best that we let you know.”

  The pause was longer this time. “How many Children?”

  “Two, Colonel. Plus five humans with yet no sign of disease.”

  “And why the assumption that we want the humans?”

  Ragnar rubbed his fingers near his ear. “Never have we captured Demon Children that I know of, sir. A fine prize on top of our successes. I believe the humans are their handlers.”

  An interminable pause passed. Ragnar worried that he’d lost the connection. Closing his eyes and willing himself patience, he pulled his fingertips away from his ear and gripped them behind his back instead. The tick filtered to his feet where he rested his weight back and forth.

  The radio crackled, then Quale came back on. “Kill the humans. Be sure to bag the heads on the demons. They mustn’t be allowed to see where they are going. Arrange I will, a team to neutralize them upon your arrival. Your ETA?”

  Ragnar had just helped commit one of the most heinous crimes against humanity in America’s history, yet the notion of slaughtering the human captives up on his deck caused his face to turn pale. He cleared his throat and pushed the transmit button on the mic. “Roughly thirty-six hours.”

  “The dock at Primehook you will use. Can’t have the general public welcoming you back with that cargo.”