The Apostates Book Two: Remnants

by Lars Teeney

  More enemy soldiers poured out of the snow mounds and were shocked to see the bloodbath that was splayed out in front of their camp. At that moment, the concealed ‘Herpes’ struck from behind the camp. They rushed forward with shocking speed, laying down a lethal fire that claimed victims and left no room for retaliation. Half the enemy soldiers were struck down in less than a minute. Seeing this decimation the remaining enemy soldiers dropped their weapons and threw their hands in the air. The ‘Herpes’ closed the distance formed a cordon around the surrendered soldiers. They proceeded to herd them into one of the buried shelters to sort them out protected from the storm.

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  After quite a bit of miscommunication and a few executions of Chinese soldiers who had tried to flee after surrendering, the ‘Herpes’ had finally succeeded in corraling the soldiers into a shelter. The seven of them stood with their ‘Zealot’ model weapons drawn. There were twenty enemy soldiers to Sergeant Craig a Briuis’s seven. Immediately, he realized the logistical problem that prisoners presented. So, he ordered Private Jones to blindfold all the soldiers with what was on hand; underwear in some cases. With all the Chinese soldiers blindfolded, Sergeant a Briuis unsheathed his signature Claymore sword and without a second thought proceeded to hack through several of the Chinese prisoners. The cries of the dying filled the tent in confusion and terror.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Corporal O’Leary yelled, being horrified with what he witnessed, ignited his plasma bayonet and blocked Craig a Briuis’s next strike.

  “Stand down, Corporal! That’s an order!” Sergeant a Briuis shouted in fury.

  “Sir! I must protest your actions! We don’t murder prisoners!” Corporal O’Leary shot back. Sergeant a Briuis was incensed.

  “Are you daft, Corporal? We’re in the middle of a fucking blizzard! There are only seven of us—we have no provisions! Desist now and I will forget this!” a Briuis snapped. The other ‘Herpes’ attempted to come closer to disarm Corporal O’Leary.

  “Stay back! All of you! This isn’t how we operate!” Corporal O’Leary shouted. The Chinese prisoners who had been blindfolded but not bound were disturbed by the tension among their captors and began to stir.

  “Goddammit! O’Leary! Stand down! We’re literally in a Holy War! A fucking Crusade against the Chinese! This is our purpose—” a Briuis yelled, but before he could finish several Chinese soldiers removed their blindfolds and rushed ‘Herpes’ Four, whom, being armed with an M82 anti-material rifle was not equipped for close-quarters fighting, and was thus overtaken by the attacking Chinese soldiers. They stabbed at the joints of his armor with trench daggers, and he died after numerous wounds. Upon witnessing the murder of their comrade, ‘Herpes’ Two, Three, Five and Six opened fire on the marauding captives, plugging their bodies full of lead.

  Meanwhile, Sergeant Craig a Briuis took the distraction as an opportunity to beat-parry Corporal O’Leary’s weapon to one side, and without a second thought, ran him clean through with his ancient, ‘a Briuis’ family, Claymore sword, that had been handed down to him through countless generations, from humble Highland Clan beginnings in Scotland, to this treacherous, murderous moment. Corporal O’Leary expired shortly thereafter. The rest of the Chinese prisoners removed their blindfolds in panic, and attempted to flee, but it was too late. By that moment, the remaining ‘Herpes’ members laid down an efficiently murderous fire, which cut down the remaining prisoners.

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  Craig a Briuis had awoken in a cold sweat from the reoccurring nightmare. The nightmare had always been the same for the last several decades, and it had never subsided. However, the time of his waking was fortuitous as the magnetic levitation train he was a passenger on was slowing and pulling into Gare du Nord station located in Central Paris. His head still felt fuzzy, and he shook his head rapidly back and forth in an attempt to shock himself back to focus. He thought to himself that he could not believe the amount of time that had elapsed since he had served as a ‘L.O.V.E. S.O.R.E.’ agent in the Alaskan Theater during the ‘Holy War’ against China. His youth had escaped him, but Craig had managed to stay active and sharp throughout the years. The train glided seamlessly to a halt. Craig a Briuis was still impressed at the dichotomy of the technology divide between what was New Megiddo and West Europa. Climate Change and the Great Collapse had not affected West Europa to the severity that it had ravaged New Megiddo. Or, maybe it had, but the Europeans had adapted to it more swiftly and pragmatically, not crippled with political gridlock and later, dictatorship. Of course West Europa had been virtually leveled during the ‘Holy War’, then rebuilt anew.

  But, now, New Megiddo was gone, and that is what had brought Craig a Briuis to Paris, France. He had received word that the Apostates who helped bring down the John W. Schrubb Administration had been staying in Paris. In particular, he was in search of the one named Greta Sanchez. Craig a Briuis grabbed his knapsack and exited the train car, and walked down the platform toward the station hub. Craig hit the bathroom before leaving the station. He washed his hands and splashed water onto his face. He inspected his refection in the mirror, the years of bourbon drinking had manifested itself int the bags under his eyes. All the red was nearly washed out of his long hair and beard by the detergent of life. And still the man was stout and strong of body and mind. The years had taken away some of his stamina, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. He dried his face and exited the bathroom.

  Walking out into the organized chaos of the Parisian metropolis was unpleasant to Craig. He had made pains to avoid what he considered a “shite hole”, London. He had boarded a ferry from Britain and crossed the Channel into France, then caught a ‘mag-lev’ train to Paris. But, there was no avoiding the urban bustle here if he was to find his query. So, he hailed a taxi and gave the driver his destination.

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  Greta held her infant son to her bosom and gently rocked him as she stood looking out the window overlooking the Rue Boissy d'Anglas. She had been living at the empty American Embassy as they had no ties with New Megiddo during its time. The French Government had used the building to house numerous refugees, and the accommodations were fairly stately compared to what they had been used to. She felt a strange loneliness here, like being a stranger in a strange land. Even living here with her infant son, and getting visitors from among the refugee population from time to time, she still felt something was missing. Before settling in Paris, Greta had grown accustomed to a life of adventure and sailing on the high seas. She missed the connection that she once had when she was wired into the Battleship Iowa. The empowerment she felt could never be outdone by any religion or drug.

  She wondered if her decision to return to America would be a bad idea, considering she would be bringing her son. The journey would put him at risk, and she would be returning to a war zone most likely. She didn’t have long to contemplate the possibilities before there was a knock at her dignitary apartment door. Greta opened the door to a porter standing in the hall.

  “Pardon Mademoiselle. There is a man in the lobby who says he is looking for you,” the porter stated.

  “Really? Did he give his name?” Greta asked with concern.

  “No name. Would you like me to send him away?” the porter asked.

  “No that won’t be necessary. I will be right down,” she concluded and tipped the porter. She closed the door and decided she would bring her son with her as it was a nice day for a stroll. Greta laid her son within the M.I.D.W.I.F.E., which cradled him while hovering at a stable rate, and then it followed her movement being tethered to her neural implant. She descended the stairs to the lobby of the building. She scanned the lobby for her query. At the far side of the lobby near a grand, stone fireplace stood a man, clad in a long duster, with long, greyish-red hair, drawn back into a ponytail. Slung around his shoulder was a sheath carrying a sword, similar to the one she had seen Hades-Perdition, or how he might be called now, Evan, once carry. Her interest was
piqued. She approached the man. He heard her footsteps and turned to face her.

  “Hello, lass. You must be Greta Sanchez. I have heard much about your exploits,” Craig a Briuis stated.Greta paused in her steps.

  “Do I know you? How is it that you know about me?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Well, we do have acquaintances in common. Graham Wynham once helped me out,” he confessed.

  “You knew Graham? So were you part of the Apostate uprising?” she probed further.

  “In a manner, yes. But, not directly,” the man said.

  “Can you at least give me your name?” she asked impatiently.

  “Yes. Craig a Briuis. Pleased to meet you,” he said plainly.

  “Wait. I have heard of you from somewhere!” she recounted, but she couldn’t place from where.

  “Yeah, that is because you probably worked with Evan,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, that’s it. Craig. You were his mentor,” she said, it was coming back to her now.

  “Also, yes, in a manner of speaking,” he said without emotion.

  “You gave him that sword,” she remembered.

  “Yes! Do you know what happened to it?” Craig asked excitedly like some boyhood passion had been reawakened within him.

  “No, can’t say I do,” she confessed.

  “Oh,” he said, his interest deflated, “Who is this young one?” he asked, hovering over the sleeping child. He stared at Greta’s son intently for a moment, like he had seen something familiar to him.

  “This would be Amerigo. I’d have him meet you, but I wouldn’t want to wake him,” Greta said. He took one last look then turned his attention back to Greta.

  “You are probably wondering why I sought you out. I am here because I need to go back to New Me—America,” Craig informed her.

  “It just so happens that I am awaiting the arrival of Elsa Wynham’s fleet which is sailing back from America. Not sure if you ever met any of the other Wynhams? It was a bit of a shock to meet Graham’s family. I wasn’t exactly on good terms with the man, but I appreciate what they had accomplished,” Greta divulged.

  “No, never met his family. He was a bit of an enigma. Kept a low profile,” he said.

  “Why would you want to go back to America, anyway? West Europa is fairly prosperous,” Greta asked in confusion.

  “I have reason to believe that the Chinese are invading the West Coast, and I have some personal business to attend to,” he said coldly.

  “I see,” she replied.

  “Okay, well, let’s create a sub-neural-network. Just ping me when it is time to depart. I’ll be in town,” Craig offered, he began to stroll away.

  “Bye.” Greta waved.

  “Oh, by the way, where is the boy’s father?” he asked with an interested tone.

  “Oh—I—he passed away last year,” she solemnly said.

  “My condolences.” With that, Craig departed the embassy.

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  Simon Schrubb’s entourage had elected to take a ship across the Black Sea due to reports of sectarian wars between city-states that had broken away from the Second Russian Empire. The area just north of the Black Sea around the Crimea was seeing brutal warfare and atrocities committed, so the decision was made to bypass the Russians on his mission. He did vow to return when the situation stabilized. The waves had been choppy and stormy, which had caused Simon to become seasick. He had required his aides to keep watch over him, and the voyage had been conducive to his equation solving and code development because the cascading characters on his retinal H.U.D. would make him nauseous. As a result, he’d been in a foul mood the entire crossing. Once the procession had hit dry land in the Caucuses, his spirits rose. They had come ashore at a place called ‘Kobuleti’. The only information he could find was that the town had once been a part of a country called Georgia, but now it was an independent town, run by a strong man. Simon and his delegation at first had been ill-received but after some shrewd tactics, and demonstration of what neural implants were capable of, and the dictator of town agreed to have his people undergo the operation to receive the neural implants. It had been Simon’s first success outside of the West Europa borders.

  After a day of travel over land, they were ready to board another ship that had been hired to ferry them across the Caspian Sea. This crossing was much calmer than the last and so Simon was able to settle in and get some work done. However, after an hour of crunching numbers he found himself dozing off. He decided he would take a nap, so he willed his D.A.D. to assume a reclining position suitable for sleep. Soon, Simon drifted soundly to sleep.

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  He found himself laying on a conductive track of copper when he came to. The track expanded out into space, where a printed circuit board-like linear plane materialized from nothingness. The conductive track traveled on and then ran parallel to others, terminating into a vias. The substrate of the universe shone a deep green in the infinite space between the tracks. He picked himself up and began to walk; where to—he did not know.

  “Come, find me! Hurry!” a whisper emanated from nothingness, which sounded modulated but also organic all at once. He caught sight of electrical currents coursing through certain conductive tracks which seemed to all be traveling toward one point on the horizon. He had to take running jump to span the gap between tracks, as to not fall into the green abyss, which resembled a solid substrate but upon closer inspection was swallowing up particles like a weak black hole. Finally, on the right track, he followed the pulses of electricity which were his only lead on where to go.

  “My boy! You are gifted—use your gift for the glory of New Megiddo!” another voice sounded out, both mechanical and human, the voice sounded familiar to him, but he couldn‘t place it. Faster, he ran, wanting to find the source of these ethereal voices. As he ran with increasing speed and a massive structure soon came into view from out of the aether. As he got a better look it resembled an oversized heat sink, like that of ancient computers that he had seen. The electrical pulses flashed by and converged at a point below the ominous spinning rotors of the fan, and as each electrical pulse added its energy to the arcing vortex of light, it grew brighter.

  “Continue your mission of righteousness! Let humanity receive its due!” a third, voice rang out. This one sounded like it was exhausted, like that of someone who was coming down from a drug binge. Soon, he followed the last of the conductive track to the bright anomaly below the cosmic heat sink. The crackling energy resembled the fury of a Tesla Coil. The brightness began to fade and he was able to discern a face within the static. It was that of his mother.

  “Simon! Please come! You are so close! I need you!” the modulated voice cried. Kate Schrubb’s facial form slowly dissipated and the bits that had encompassed the form reconfigured themselves. Next, he gazed upon another familiar face, that of the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright. The white cowboy hat-clad face struggled to retain its form.

  “Boy! Remember where you came from! You’re a Schrubb, do your duty!” the Reverend yelled, red-faced. Then, his face was shredded like so many pieces of meat through a grinder. The bits and pixels reformed yet again. This time, they arranged and formed a face he had never seen. It was the face of a young man, with shoulder-length black hair, with a scar over his right eye.

  “Finish what you have begun. Give Man what it deserves. Remember the suffering!” The young man's face discorporated and soon a body was formed from the chaotic morass of charged particles. It was a twisted, amalgamation of three bodies, one female and two male. They were all contorted like the trunk of a tree, and the body had three heads, all screaming unintelligible words in unison. It was too much to bear. He screamed, and looked up, after hearing the buzzing of the heat sink fan draw closer. The fan descended and bit into the deformed creature, chopping it into pieces like a woodchipper through branches. Then the blades dismembered Simon.

  “Sir! Sir! Simon Schrubb! We have finished the crossing of the
Caspian,” an aide called out, lightly shaking Simon. He came to, groggy and unrested.

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  SHADE FROM THE HEAT

  Birdie Nubia was petrified with fear. A terrifying sound emanated from the upper floors of the townhouse. It sounded like a roar to Birdie. Also, he could discern screaming, and crying from the top floors. He had no idea what was happening and he did not want to know. He only wanted his mom, Kesha Nubia, to pick him up and take him somewhere else. Still taking refuge under the wet blankets, the carnage was made that much more horrifying. Birdie peeked out from under the wet blanket and noticed that black smoke was slowly drifting into the basement from beneath the door.

  “Fire!” he thought to himself. The other children under the blanket started to cough intermittently.

  “Momma! It’s fire!” Birdie shook his mother’s arm. She seemed to be in a state of shock ever since the large explosion had rocked the house.

  “I know honey, everything’s gonna be okay. Don’t worry,” she said calmly to him. Even Birdie understood that her reaction did not match the gravity of their plight.

  “Please, momma! Let’s go!” he shook her more violently but she did break from her trance. Suddenly the basement door was flung open and Jamal Nubia rushed to the blanket to find Kesha Nubia. She nearly unresponsive and he tried to rouse her. Finally, after several slaps to the face she shot him a look of anger. He had accidently left the door open behind him and thus more smoke poured into the basement.