The Immortals Trilogy Books 1-3: Tales of Immortality, Resurrection and the Rapture (BOX SET)

by C. F. Waller

  “We travelled often by locomotive,” I sigh.

  Chapter Six

  Jennifer staggers up the spiral staircase clutching a steaming cup of coffee. She hits the top step revealing pink sweat pants and bare feet. When the sunlight cuts through the clear top of the sky car she pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up, as if acid was poured on her. I scoot over and pat the seat next to mine. Cream colored leather sofa’s run along both sides like a long bench. Above the back of the couch, the walls and roof are translucent, giving you a 360 view of the country side. You would imagine at this speed the motion would turn your stomach, but they have done something to the glass, as it’s more like a prism, than a window. Jenn drops down next to me and lays her hooded head on my shoulder.

  “How is it you’re not hungover?” she whispers.

  “While not a drunkard, I do have the occasional glass.”

  She nods silently, her hood brushing the shoulder of my jacket. We sit together as people come and go all around us. When she finishes her coffee, she hands me the cup and struggles to an upright position, pulling her hood down and squinting. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail on the top of her head, but wisps of loose hair stand up from the static caused when she pulled down the hood. The look is amusing, but she can’t see herself.

  “How we doing on time?”

  “It will be close. We should hit Berlin by noon on the 15th,” I predict. “What time are they coming to get him?”

  “Dinner time maybe, but who knows. They could come the day before for all I know.”

  “And you think he will go willingly?”

  She nods, pulling her feet up on the leather bench and hooking her arms over her knees. She glances over, and then cocks her head in my direction. A bemused smile crosses her face.

  “What?”

  “Did you even lie down?” she asks, surveying me. “There you sit all pressed and buttoned. Is that the same suit as yesterday or did you have a fresh one stuffed in your briefcase?”

  “Looking your best is always in fashion,” I suggest to her for a second time, pulling down my suit jacket and straitening my vest.

  “Your fashion needs an upgrade to this century.”

  “I am going to let that pass as clearly you have not enjoyed the benefit of a mirror this morning.” I remark.

  “Touché.”

  Jenn pretends to fall over as she pulls the hood back over her head. Announcing that she requires nourishment, I try to take her by the hand to lead her to the dining car, but she pulls back and scowls at me. I hold up both hands to apologize, but she huffs and storms down the stairs ahead of me. I do not understand young women.

  Once she gets some toast and eggs in her system, she cheers up remarkably. People sit at the tables around us and chat, but I simply wait for her to finish eating while sipping my tea. I was up hours ago and dined alone here before anyone was up. Without peeking up, she comments on this.

  “The condemned man isn’t hungry?”

  “I wasn’t aware my prospects were so bleak.”

  “That’s because you didn’t grow up with the same bedtime stories I did,” she assures me, folding up her napkin and setting it on her plate.

  “Enlighten me?”

  “If I must,” she shrugs, putting her elbows on the table and leaning her chin on her hands. “My mother’s first experience with the Primitus came at a small airstrip. After being tailed all day, she made a run for her plane, driving right out on the tarmac. The man following her—.”

  “Man?” I interrupt.

  “Looked like a man,” she clarifies. “He follows her to the plane in an SUV. She hops out and empties a clip into the windshield supposedly killing the driver. The SUV hooks right and flips over.”

  “She sounds like a crack shot.”

  “She was,” Jenn agrees, “but it’s not over. Before she can get on the plane, the driver crawls out the side window and staggers to his feet. At first, he’s confused, but then shakes it off. Before he can rush her, she reloads and fires. One of the shots strikes him in the forehead and he goes down like a ton of bricks.”

  "Right, shoot for the head.”

  “Funny, but it’s not a zombie movie,” she groans. “It’s not that easy.”

  “So it’s not over?”

  “Behind her the man, or whatever it was, got up began staggering towards her. She’s shocked, but before he can attack, one of her guys backs over him with a rental car.”

  “She told you this?”

  “She told my father,” she reminds me. “I was like a minute old when she died.”

  “Sorry.”

  “She said the weirdest part was watching his feet wiggle from under the back end.”

  “That’s a fairly grotesque visual.”

  “Really, that story always reminded me of the Wizard of Oz.”

  “Given the information at hand how would you have us proceed?”

  “I’m still working on that part.”

  “Your parents survived. How did they handle them?”

  “They had a little help.”

  “Who or what might that have been?”

  “Is the name Shelly familiar?” she asks, cracking a smile and watching my reaction.

  I do know the name or at least it’s context to this situation. In the mythology of the Primitus, Shelly is the avenging immortal, or should I say minor-immortal. She’s described as a red-headed child wielding a bow and arrow.

  “She’s a fairytale,” I assert. “A somewhat darker version of a Walt Disney production.”

  “But you have heard of her?”

  “Anyone who attended a Gathering has heard of her,” I proclaim. “She’s a creation of too much wine and brandy. It doesn’t make her flesh and blood.”

  “That’s what Dorian said when he first saw her,” she nods, watching my reaction. “Beatrix rather enjoyed the show, but then she was just a wee bit bloodthirsty.”

  “What show?”

  “You ever see a magician put his assistant in a box, then, saw it in half?”

  “Of course, every illusionist in Europe were doing that trick centuries ago.”

  “My father claims you haven’t seen that trick preformed at its highest level until you’ve seen Shelly do it.”

  “I have to say you’ve piqued my curiosity, but you should be aware that in the myth, Shelly isn’t good or evil. She a bit of a fence sitter really, fighting against the Primitus, but not really for anyone.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t met her because you just described her to a tee.”

  “Possibly I will have the honor of meeting her?”

  “There’s a fair to middling chance of that,” she grins. “In the afterlife.”

  “She’s dead?”

  Jenn nods.

  “Are they both dead?

  “Both who?”

  “Shelly and Sindri,” I explain. “In the myth Shelly has a twin sister.”

  “You don’t say,” Jenn whispers, one eye squinting at me. “That’s an interesting twist.”

  …

  Jennifer spends most of the day with her headphones on and her eyes closed. She’s clearly counting the ticks of some internal clock hoping to arrive in time. She passes on dinner, preferring to lie on a sofa in the second floor watching the stars through the translucent roof. As I lay on my bunk alone, it feels as if we are in over our heads. Are we trying to get there first so we can all run, or is she planning some offensive maneuver? Unless the information available changes in our favor, I may choose running, once we get to Berlin. I have no desire to get killed fighting what appears to be an unstoppable force. If this is the case, persuading Jenn to divulge as much about Bee in the next few days would seem urgent.

  The morning comes and the second bunk is unslept in. I find her in the dining car blowing on a hot cup of coffee. I feel the thump of her headphones when I slide into the booth. She pulls them down around her neck with a wide mouthed yawn. There are two empty cups on the table besides the one
she’s blowing on. Given the available evidence, I deduce she was awake all night.

  “Sleep well,” she yawns.

  “Apparently better than you.”

  “I didn’t,” she remarks, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. “Schedule puts us in Berlin by 3PM.”

  “Will that get you to your father’s before six?”

  “We will have to rent a car. No way we make it waiting on a train.”

  “I’d be happy to rent you a car.”

  “Rent me a car? Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m certainly not rushing headlong into a confrontation with Lord knows what,” I declare. “Perhaps I am better off sitting this one out.”

  I’m not sure what I expect when this comes out of my mouth. Part of me thinks she will argue for me to come along, but I am probably overstating my appeal. I venture a good chance she accepts my pulling out without comment. Neither of these outcomes happens. Instead, I get tears. Great big waterfall tears along with a whine that starts out quiet and then builds into a glass shattering note. When I put my hand across the table and brush my fingers over her forearm she jerks it back and slips out of the booth. Her sobs can be heard until the sliding door between cars whooshes shut behind her. A couple down the aisle from me scowls and turns away, clearly under the assumption I did something wrong. I must look like a loathsome cradle robber.

  Rather than chase after her, I get a cup of coffee and sit alone. Dorian’s words on the postcard echo in my brain, but he only asked me to look in on Arron, not babysit his emotional granddaughter. He didn’t even know her. Rather than change my mind, I remain firm in my decision to run and hide. I am certainly no hero. Behind me, the whoosh of the door precedes Jennifer’s aggressive voice.

  “You’re coming at least as far as the house,” she barks. “When you showed up, I didn’t put any strings on your participation. I didn’t know you, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. You’re coming at least as far as my father’s house and then if you want to run away and hide, be my guest.”

  She slides in the booth and brushes the back of her hand over her cheek to wipe away the last of her tears. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she’s looking serious just the same.

  “You do understand that you can’t actually force me to participate,” I point out. “You’re not the proverbial boss of me.”

  “That’s true,” she admits, nodding her head up and down. “So you don’t want to know what happened to your precious Beatrix at the end. Here and I thought you wanted some closure on that.”

  This had not occurred to me. Did she drag her feet on telling me just in case she needed the leverage? I’m unsure if Jenn’s that sneaky, but she does have me over a barrel. Being this near to the answers I seek it would seem my abandonment plan will have to wait. She’s watching me carefully so I stall, stretching my arms over my head, then putting an arm over the back of the booth.

  “Fine, but you have to give me something now.”

  “Like what?”

  “You used the term Long Beach Bonfire?”

  “She didn’t burn to death if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I exhale, nodding at her answer. My Bee wasn’t afraid to die, but lord knows she feared the flames. Jenn watches me, her head tilted to one side. I shrug and turn my palms up to indicate I am ready.

  “Gun shot,” she explains softly. “My dad didn’t think she suffered.”

  “But he saw it happen?”

  She nods.

  “This is horrible, but I just have to ask,” I wince, and then pause.

  “It wasn’t my mother holding the gun,” she jumps into the silent void, apparently understanding my concern. “But, I do not want to mislead you. My mother was trying to kill both Dorian and Beatrix. A deal had been struck to eliminate all the minor-immortals present and my mother was actively involved.”

  “Understood, but might I inquire what stopped your mother from completing the bargain?”

  “You will more than likely find some humor in the answer,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Dorian was handing out bribes.”

  “That does sound like Dorian.”

  A silent moment passes as her mouth opens two or three times as if to begin speaking. Each time it closes without uttering any audible words. Is this pause significant? Just as I have decided to jump in, she speaks.

  “Anyway, it was a gunshot.”

  “It feels like your leaving something out. Possibly you could add some context?”

  “Later,” she mutters sliding out of the booth. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Why don’t you use our remaining time aboard the train to book us a rental car?”

  “We will circle back to this conversation at some point?” I ask, twirling my finger over the table.

  “Of course,” she promises, evading the question as she slips out the doors with a whoosh.

  Sipping my coffee in thought, I decide the flow of information will need to be accelerated if an early exit is to be achieved. Whatever the depth of her knowledge on the subject, I need to get her talking as soon as possible. Then I can exit this runaway boxcar and disappear.

  Chapter Seven

  The train station sits on five square miles of land. Four beefy lines of track exit the main terminal, but a dozen smaller gates litter the grounds. In total, at least two dozen sets of tracks exit the property. The transportation hub’s orange roof is like a dome hanging three stories overhead. An interior monorail shuttles travelers to connecting gates. The side of the train next to ours is emblazoned with an advertisement for Death Camp Tours, a tourist attraction that would have been considered in poor taste sixty years ago. Mankind re-writes history for the almighty dollar once again. A sign posted beside a food court we pass by claims two million people pass through its doors a week.

  The rental car desk has my reservation, but no cars to rent. Jennifer is thrown into a tizzy, yelling and pounding the counter top. I have to step between her and the attendant just to keep the police from being called. Afterward, she releases a stream of foul language that would embarrass a sailor. With great effort, I manage to herd her away from the counter. As is her custom, the moment I lay hands on her she flinches away.

  “Hands off,” she barks, still red-faced from her tantrum.

  “Were we arrested, you would certainly never reach your father in time,” I point out.

  “Yeah, yeah, we need to try the other rental places.”

  “Agreed, why don’t you take a moment to collect yourself while I get in line over there,” I suggest, pointing to the next counter.

  “I don’t need a minute,” she huffs, pushing past me.

  As she passes, a man in a long brown jacket holds out an arm to stop her. She pulls up wearing a scowl, but before she un-leashes another tirade, the man speaks.

  “I have a car,” he offers in a hushed, yet serious way. “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m sorry Sir, but we don’t ride with strangers,” I interrupt, stepping between them. “I wouldn’t care to wind up dead on the side of the road wrapped in a sheet of plastic.

  “No, wait,” Jenn shoulder butts past me. “Swartenpohl.”

  “I can do that,” he confirms displaying no German accent. “Cost you three hundred a piece.”

  “Outrageous,” I blurt out.

  “Plastic can be expensive,” he remarks wryly, shrugging at me.

  I frown, but nod, acknowledging his quick witted sarcasm.

  “It’s fine,” Jenn answers, pulling out her swipe card. “It’s on me.”

  He reaches for it, but I snatch it out of her hand, then, hold it over my head. Jenn jumps twice before realizing I’m too tall for her to attain the card.

  “Jerk,” she grunts.

  “Not your card,” I remind her. “They will be monitoring yours.”

  “You folks in some sort of trouble?” the man asks, a hand on the side of his mouth.

  “Would it negate your participation in this endeavor?” I snap,
weary of the drama associated with my companion.

  “No.”

  “Excellent,” I roll my eyes, handing him my card.

  He swipes it through the end of his phone and waits for the confirmation. Jenn points at a huge clock hanging overhead. It’s as big as a car and not digital, like everything else here. The style is late eighteen-hundreds, but it’s clearly designed to look old, not an actual surviving time-piece. The long arm points to the eleven, while the short pointer is nearly on the four. We have a little over and hour.

  “Looks good,” the driver mumbles, holding out the card.

  “Great, we are in a hurry,” Jenn demands. “Let’s go.”

  As we speed walk around travelers pulling suitcases on wheels, I whisper in her ear.

  “You need to steel yourself for the reality he may not be there.”

  “Wouldn’t you love that,” she snarls without looking at me. “If that’s the case you can run away and hide.”

  Before I can muster a reply, she speeds up her pace.

  “Ostrich.”

  …

  His vehicle is a newer model electric mini-bus. I am actually surprised how professional it looks. There is a regulating body for transit cabbies, but he’s clearly unlicensed. At least we seem to have avoided being murdered by a stranger. We make good time, but Jenn keeps her forehead pressed to the window. Having no idea what’s waiting for us at the end of this joy ride, I tap her on the shoulder. I’m quick so she won’t slap my hand away. She turns to me wearing an intense expression of anticipation. She’s mentally dialed in and ready for anything. I am somewhat less prepared.

  “As I recall you dropped the gun in a trash can before the security checkpoint in Berlin?”