CHAPTER TWO
Mont St. Michel, three weeks after the closure of the Hell Gate in Paris
Jason McCreary stood on the terrace outside of the main doors of the Abbey. He leaned forward with his arms resting on the wall, staring out over the bay. Lucifer, one of his two werehounds, lay curled up at his feet, snoring peacefully. The werehound still had scabs across his back from where a soul vampire had vomited acid on him during the battle inside Notre Dame Cathedral. Although the wounds had hurt for several days, with Lucifer whimpering for much of the journey home, they eventually healed. Lilith stood to Jason’s right, her front paws perched on the wall and her tail wagging. She blinked from the wind gusting in from the bay, the same wind that ruffled her shiny black fur. Jason reached out and scratched Lilith behind the ears. She responded by twisting her head to the side and licking his wrist.
The view from the terrace was spectacular. From here, Jason could see most of the surrounding mainland. Off in the distance, across the other side of the bay and past the sandbars and the island outcrop of Tombelaine, sat the coastline of the Cherbourg Peninsula. In the old days, Jason used to stand here for hours watching for any Hell Spawn that approached Mont St. Michel, knowing their arrival would mean the end of the remnants of the civilization they had created. The closure of the Hell Gate in Paris had destroyed all the demons that had emerged from it, ending the threat to the island city. It had been months since Jason could appreciate the beauty of the view rather than merely its strategic significance.
Jason was learning to embrace the good things in his life. Since returning to Mont St. Michel two weeks ago with the surviving Hell Gaters—the honorific the locals had given them for closing the portal—he had graciously endured the accolades heaped on him and his team by the island residents and the refugees camped along the coast. Everywhere in town the Hell Gaters went they were greeted with handshakes and back slaps. Jacques, the leader of the community, had declared his team heroes and the saviors of mankind. In a celebratory mass a few days ago, Bishop Fiorello referred to them as “God’s warriors in the battle against Satan.” Jason could not agree more. His team deserved the praise they received. They had faced and overcome insurmountable odds to complete what everyone, including himself, had considered a suicide mission. For his part, though, Jason found it hard to accept the tribute. While everyone now treated him as a returning hero, they all seemed to forget that when he left for Paris he had been viewed as the city pariah.
In the months following the opening of the portals, everyone at Mont St. Michel had held Jason responsible for the apocalypse. To be fair, no one had blamed him for the incident at the European Organization for Nuclear Research, or CERN, in Geneva. They realized Jason’s mother, Dr. Lisa McCreary, had pushed the scientific community to engage in a risky experiment to use five supercolliders around the world to simultaneously generate separate caches of anti-matter, and that the consequences of this experiment had created five interdimensional portals between Earth and Hell. However, the locals ensured that Jason wore the stigma of his mother’s infamy. He had endured the staring eyes, the pointed fingers, and the whispers behind his back that he was Dr. Lisa McCreary’s son. At the time too immature to know better, Jason had accepted the full burden of responsibility for his mother’s failure, even though it ate away at him. He joined the search and destroy team that roamed the countryside seeking out approaching Hell Spawn hoping, as Doc had once phrased it, for “suicide by demons.” That was until the mission to Paris when Jason had learned that his mother had been warned about the dangers of her plan and had proceeded anyway. The Hell Gates were not an accident of scientific curiosity. His mother’s intellectual arrogance and refusal to heed warnings were the reason the world now lived in a new Dark Age. That cross he refused to bear. Separating himself from his mother’s guilt was the most liberating thing he had done.
Jason still found it difficult to comprehend how events had played themselves out in Paris. He had been allowed to accompany the group, despite almost every member of the search and destroy team making it clear they did not want him along, because Andre, the group leader, had insisted. He saw past Jason’s weaknesses and relied on his sixth sense to perceive the Hell Spawn’s aura to provide the group with an early warning of approaching danger. At first, their confidence in him had seemed misguided. A few days into the trip, Jason’s arrogance had led the group into a field of pus zombies where Christophe was infected by spores that turned him into a Nachzehrer. The entire dynamic had changed when Hell Spawn killed Andre the next day, and the rest of the group turned to Jason for leadership. He still could not ascertain why. Maybe it had been his sixth sense, which gave the group a slight advantage over the demons. Or maybe it was his determination to complete what the team had started that inspired them. It may have been as simple as no one else wanting the burden of command. In any case, Jason took the remainder of the team to Paris and closed the Hell Gate. He may have left Mont St. Michel a pariah, but he had returned a hero.
None of this changed the fact that their mission, while successful, had been achieved at a terrible cost. When the Hell Gaters had left Mont St. Michel they had numbered twenty. Only seven of the original group survived. Two deaths, in particular, bothered him because they were the only people with whom Jason had been close. Eric Fisher, whom he called Doc, had been his mother’s colleague. Doc had been at CERN the day the gate opened, had witnessed Jason’s mother being sucked into Hell, and had gotten Jason to safety. Doc had devised the anti-matter device, so he had accompanied the group to Paris to deploy it, only to be crushed by a Golem moments before seeing his concept put into reality.
Jason had also lost Sasha, who had commanded one of the minigun teams. Her death had hit him harder than the others. Even though she was several years his senior, he had a huge crush on her. Sasha had kept him at arm’s length and had treated him more like a little brother than a boyfriend. Jason had not known how much she truly cared until she admitted her affections for him moments before they engaged the Hell Spawn inside Notre Dame Cathedral. Sasha died a few minutes later while distracting a horde of Nachzehrer long enough for Jason to use the device. He had been denied the opportunity to say goodbye and, after the battle, could not summon the courage to find Sasha’s body and pay last respects, wanting to remember her the way she had been in life. Even worse, he had never gotten the chance to tell Sasha how he really felt about her. By then, Jason had fallen in love with Jeanette. He still possessed strong emotions for Sasha, although he found it difficult to define them. She had filled a space in his life much greater than that of a friend, yet without the shared emotional intimacy of lovers. Sasha had understood him more deeply than anyone else. She had known when to offer him encouragement and when to put him in his place. A bond had existed between the two of them that he could not describe. Jason had once heard Doc use the term soulmate to describe a woman he had been close to in college. Jason had never asked Doc to explain what he meant by soulmate but, from the sound of it, the term accurately described the relationship he had with Sasha.
Lilith barked once, her stubby tail wagging. Jeanette sidled up beside Lilith and petted her. The werehound shook in excitement, especially when Jeanette placed her hand behind Lilith’s ears and scratched.
“Who’s a good girl?” Jeanette asked.
She received three licks on the face as her answer.
Jason had never met anyone like Jeanette. They were both sixteen, although she retained the soft, gentle facial features of a teenager despite having the poise and bearing of a warrior. Usually, she wore her long brunette hair in a ponytail. Today, it hung down her back and draped over her shoulders, the strands blowing in the wind. Jeanette was as beautiful now as when he had first met her in the town of Le Goulet when the Enclavers had rescued his group from a magma monster. Claude Reno, the head of the Enclavers who had converted an underground World War II bunker into a survivalist camp, had provided Jason’s group a safe place to rest for a few days.
Jeanette, Reno’s niece, led them into Paris and guided them to the portal. Afterwards, she left the Enclave and followed Jason back to Mont St. Michel. Jeanette was the only person who cared for him because of who he was and never judged him for what his mother had done.
When she smiled at him, his heart soared. For a moment, he forgot about everything else except her.
“Why didn’t you knock on my door this morning so we could have breakfast together?” she asked.
“I skipped breakfast. I came up here to go over what I plan to say to the town council this morning.”
“Do you think they’ll agree with your suggestion?”
“They’d be foolish not to.”
That didn’t mean they would go along with his recommendation. Ever since the closing of the Hell Gate, Jason had noticed that Jacques and the others were more concerned with maintaining power than rebuilding society and ensuring their future safety. It left him in awe how those who ordered troops into battle without ever having led from the front possessed such a distorted view of the reality of war.
“What if they say no?”
“I’ll convince them.”
“I know you will.” Jeanette hesitated. “Is there any other way to do this?”
Jason leaned against the wall and faced her. “Are you having doubts?”
“No. It has to be done. But is what you’re about to propose the best way to carry it out?”
“There is no good way. I thought about this for a long time, and every scenario has more cons than pros. This is the one I think we can pull off and, hopefully, the one the council will buy into.”
Jeanette maneuvered around Lilith. Stepping up to Jason, she straightened the collar of his jacket and used her right hand to flatten down his shirt. “If I was on the council, I’d vote for you.”
Jason chuckled. “You’re biased.”
“You’re right. I am.” Jeanette leaned in and kissed him. “Good luck. I’ll be waiting for you back at the hotel.”
Jason crossed the terrace, leaving Lilith and Lucifer with Jeanette. As he approached the double doors leading into the Abbey he paused, took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and exhaled. Pushing the door aside, Jason entered.
CHAPTER THREE
Jacques’ office was in the abbot’s lodging atop the southern Romanesque wall surrounding the Abbey, giving it a commanding view of the island city below. A walkway spanned the stone stairs that wound up the southeastern façade between the exterior fortress wall and the Abbey, providing the only access to his quarters. Jacques kept Jason waiting in the outer foyer for ten minutes, which irritated him. Not because of the delay. The inconvenience didn’t bother him. Despite all the accolades heaped upon him, Jason refused to view himself as privileged or more deserving than anyone else at Mont St. Michel. While Jason and the others appreciated the gratitude they received from the local citizens, they did not feel that their service should place them in an exalted position. Jacques did this to everyone to remind people that he was in charge. Such arrogance might have been acceptable if Jacques had led the mission to Paris or commanded even one of the search and destroy missions that used to patrol the area keeping the city safe.
After another five minutes, the door to Jacques’ office opened and a young woman emerged. Jason estimated her to be his own age, maybe a year older. She stood a few inches short of six feet. She had a firm body and was exceptionally pretty, with brunette hair cut into a bob and brown eyes that were dark and beautiful, yet sad. The woman benefitted from better grooming and cleaner clothes than the others in town had access to. Her privileged position must have embarrassed her because she averted her gaze.
“Jacques will see you now,” she whispered.
“Thanks.” Jason approached the door. He slowed as he entered the room, pausing long enough to place a hand on the woman’s wrist. “Is everything okay?”
The woman’s demeanor brightened. “Thank you for asking.”
“But you didn’t answer me.”
“Everything’s fine.” Her pleasantness faded and she glanced over at Jacques. “Considering.”
Jason squeezed her wrist reassuringly and entered. A small fireplace opposite the door provided heat. To the left, three windows with wooden frames overlooked the city, and to the right hung a painting of the Crucifixion taking place in Hell. The furnishings were antique yet basic. A large wooden dining table now used as a map display dominated the center of the office, with the eight chairs that belonged to it placed in empty spaces against the walls. Jacques and Bishop Fiorello stood on one side of the table with their backs to the window and the leaders of the protective force across from them. Jason recognized the symbolism even if no one else did. Jacques wanted to reinforce that the political/religious leaders and the protective force were separate entities, and only one of them watched over the people of Mont St. Michel. It was political showmanship at its worst because each of the men who stood opposite Jacques and the Bishop had given far more to defend this city than the other two ever would.
Haneef had led one of the two minigun teams into Paris and was the only team leader besides Jason to come back alive. His five-feet-seven-inch stature, muscular body, and battle-weary face belied the man’s calm and personable demeanor. A devout Muslim from Sudan, Haneef had never adopted the extremist views that so many of his religious counterparts had, opting instead to study international law in Paris. He had been in his third semester of college when the Hell Gate opened, and barely escaped the city with his life before making his way to Mont St. Michel. Haneef had lost more than half his team in Paris. Upon arriving back at the island city, Jason absorbed the rest of Haneef’s people under his own command and Haneef took on the responsibility of training new personnel. Despite everything, Haneef remained devout in his faith. He prayed to Mecca whenever possible, yet shaved his head and forewent facial hair to show his disdain for Islamic fundamentalism. He viewed the Hell Gate as Allah’s punishment for the extremism that had taken hold of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, and believed he would survive the apocalypse if he could follow the Koran the way Allah had originally intended.
Gruber stood to Haneef’s right. He was six feet in height with blonde hair, blue eyes, and an angular face. No one knew Gruber’s story other than he had graduated from college in Bonn and had been vacationing in southern France when the world came to an end. Jacques had given Gruber’s team responsibility for defending Mont St. Michel while the others went on search and destroy missions. The only time Gruber’s team had seen action was when Jacques had sent them to Geneva to report on the original portal generated at CERN. Half of them died, and Gruber never recovered from the loss. When Jacques sent a second team to check on CERN following the closure of the Paris portal, he had selected Ryan, another member of the protective force, to lead the mission. Jacques had retained Gruber as the leader of a reconstituted city defense team which, now that Hell Spawn no longer roamed the countryside, made him little more than the town constabulary.
Neal Branagan stood at the other end of the table. Although in his early twenties, he still had a boyish face and wavy blonde hair in desperate need of a trim. His eyes seemed older, blue, and narrow, mirrors to a soul that had seen and experienced more horrors than someone his age should. Neal was the shortest of the group at five-feet-six inches and had a lean, non-muscular physique. A student at Johns Hopkins University, he had been interning in Paris when the Hell Gate opened. Upon arriving at Mont St. Michel, Jacques had assigned him to work with Doc in the infirmary because of his medical background. In time, Neal assisted Doc in developing the antimatter devices. When Doc died, by default Neal assumed the post of chief physician and antimatter expert. Jacques kept Neal on the other side of the table along with the protective force leaders so the young man would remember his place in the town’s hierarchical structure.
Jacques looked up at Jason as he approached. Jason assumed him to be in his early to mid-sixties, although the burdens of trying to keep Mont St. Michel sa
fe had prematurely aged him. Long, scraggly white hair framed a face creased by wrinkles and highlighted by dark circles under the eyes, although, since Paris, Jacques seemed happier and more at ease. Bishop Fiorello stepped back from the table to observe Jason. No one in the city liked the Bishop, least of all the protective force personnel, and not because of the cleric’s perpetually stern visage or his “God is punishing us for our sins” attitude. The disdain came from the fact that, in a city where the food supply hovered near starvation levels, his paunch strained against the fabric of his black cassock.
“My boy, it’s good to see you again. Come join us.” Jacques extended his right hand. As Jason shook it, Jacques said, “I have some excellent news for you. Ryan’s group got back from Geneva this morning.”
“What did they find?”
“As you expected, the CERN portal was no longer open. When you detonated the device that shut down the exit portal, you must have closed the entry one as well.”
“That is excellent news.”
“I thought you’d be pleased. That makes the other news I have even more relevant.” Jacques placed his left hand on the boy’s shoulders and steered him toward the table. “I want you to see this.”
A map of Mont St. Michel and the surrounding area was spread out across the table, held down in the corners by stones. Jacques always had displayed a map similar to this, only in the past, it had been used to plot the locations of approaching Hell Spawn to determine when the city would be overwhelmed. They had called it the Death Map. The closing of the Hell Gate killed off every demon that had spilled forth from the portal, making the Death Map unnecessary. This one marked the towns nearest to Mont St. Michel and delineated large swaths of land, both marked in yellow.
“Now that we’re no longer in danger, I plan on rebuilding civilization,” Jacques explained. “We’re going to move all the survivors camped outside the walls into abandoned towns along the coast. Gruber’s team has been surveying the countryside and says there is plenty of fallow land that can be farmed. Those with special skills can work here in Mont St. Michel and produce the items we need to survive. The rest will each be given five acres of land and will provide food for themselves and for those of us in town.”
Wasteland in Red Square (Hell Gate Book 2) Page 2