The Apostates Book Two: Remnants

by Lars Teeney

  “This is New Megiddo! Alaska, New Megiddo!” Craig blustered. His spittle dribbled from his lips and he dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the floor.

  “No sir! You now sit in the Alaska Autonomous Region of the Republic of China. The annexation of Alaska and Hawaii were terms of the armistice that was signed by our Premiere and your President Schrubb,” the Colonel reported. He seemed to enjoy watching the rage fill Craig with each passing second.

  “Fucking lies! I’ll kill you—you chink! Unlock me!” Craig ranted and struggled to no avail. The Colonel stood up, apparently tired of receiving spittle from Craig’s raging fit.

  “Okay. Our chat is over. I wish you a safe journey home. Maybe you’ll find humility in peace time. Cǐ rén bìxū bèi hùsòng dào biānjìng. (This man must be escorted to the border.)” With this order the Colonel’s guards knew the drill. They approached the raging Sergeant Craig with sedative applicators, striking Craig in his shoulder blade and neck. Soon his berserker rage faded, and he tried, but failed to fight on. His vision went fuzzy and sound echoed in his head.

  “Goodbye, Sergeant a Briuis. I can’t say it has been pleasant, but you were a worthy foe. Good fortune to you,” were the last words that Craig had heard before everything went dark.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  When Craig began to come around he could feel the chill in the air beginning to infiltrate his bones. As his vision came into focus he could see that he had been dumped into the middle of nowhere, by the roadside. There was barely any snow on the ground around the groves of trees that lined the highway, so he could tell that he had been brought south, but, how far he did not know. He assumed that it was the border with Canada, at the south end of the Panhandle of Alaska. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and the drool off his face. Craig peered around his immediate person and saw that his Claymore sword and a bundle of clothing had been left for him. There was also several Chinese Army freeze-dried rations left for him, which, he thought that he’d rather eat bark than eat bean paste and tofu. He would need to hunt for some meat, or find a trading post. Craig picked up the folded greatcoat that had been left for him and put it on. He grabbed the Claymore, which had been left in its sheath and strapped it across his back. Craig set out down the highway, leaving the Chinese rations where they sat. The last thing he remembered was being drugged by the Chinese soldiers and Colonel He mocking him. Somehow, he could no longer summon the rage he had felt at that moment, he found it somehow, cathartic, that he was going home and that the war was over. Unless, the story was Chinese disinformation, designed to take him out of the fight for a few months, but, he figured, that would be quite a bit of trouble when they could have just killed him. Except for his unit’s sub-neural-network, the L.O.V.E: S.O.R.E.s had maintained [Virtue-Net] silence, as was their orders during the war. But, if the war was indeed over he could break that silence, but he risked execution if he was wrong.

  He walked down the highway, kicking small piles of snow out of his way. The forests around him were thick and healthy, the droughts and die-offs that plagued the West Coast had been less severe this far north. The quiet and isolation were alien to him, having lived with his unit for two years and fighting all through the Alaska theater of the Holy War. He could hardly believe that it just might all be over. His first concern, however, was getting back to civilization. Walking the rest of the way to the lower portion of New Megiddo would take weeks. He walked onward. Finally, Craig decided to access the [Virtue-Net] and risk the consequences. He summoned a map of the immediate area and his exact position to be displayed on his retinal H.U.D. Craig was surprised to discover that the Chinese had ferried him all the way down to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, and they had even brought him inland to the nearest major artery. He wondered why they had been so accommodating, it couldn’t have been because he had been such a worthy foe?

  As the hours passed and the feet turned to miles traveled, he was passed by a cargo truck, making the journey south, and Craig waved it down. He arranged to transfer New Megiddo Tithes to the man’s account in exchange for a ride to the Nearest L.O.V.E outpost, located in Olympia, Washington. The details were ironed out and Craig hopped in the back of the cargo bay. The truck resumed its journey south.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  After a rough cross-country trek, that had taken him through the vast and nearly ungovernable regions of New Megiddo, Craig a Briuis had finally made it back to New Megiddo City.When the man appeared, at L.O.V.E. headquarters in the sub-basement levels of the Ministry of State Security building the guards almost turned him away as a transient, because he appeared so ragged and unshaven. His biometric signature broadcast to their neural implants, authenticating his identity. He was given quarters to make himself presentable again. After a shave, a shower and a change of clothes he had headed to the L.O.V.E mess hall for hot chow. During Craig’s supper, he received a message via his neural implant that he was scheduled for a private meeting with Inquisitor Dahmer, with no specified purpose. Craig wondered if he was to be imprisoned and put to the Question by the Inquisitor for his failure in Alaska. He had hardly touched his food so he pushed it away and walked toward a large lift to move to the Command floor, where the Inquisitor’s office was located.

  When he reached the floor, he was met by two L.O.V.E. Rangers, who escorted him to the entrance of the Inquisitor’s office. He gazed upon the seal of the Inquisitor, which featured the standard L.O.V.E. red heart and white cross overlaid, with the addition of the bottom of the heart dripping. He assumed that it meant the heart was bleeding. The seal was appropriate for the office which possessed the reputation for bloody efficiency. The automatic door slid open to reveal Inquisitor Dahmer seated behind a large stone and marble desk, with his feet kicked up on top. He stared on at a large flex-screen monitor. The footage revealed a first-person perspective of an interrogation that the Inquisitor had performed. The shaky and fuzzy video feed pictured a figure clad in a black robe and black cone-shaped hood, with slits where eyes did show. The black robed figure held an antique power drill in one hand, and he had applied the drill to something fleshy and moist. Judging by a man’s screaming and the sound the drill made, traveling through some malleable medium, Craig surmised that it was the victim’s face. The Inquisitor almost hadn’t noticed his company’s presence he was so engrossed in the footage.

  “Sergeant Craig a Briuis of L.O.V.E.: S.O.R.E., the last surviving member, come in, come in!” Inquisitor Dahmer stood and gestured for him to take a seat near his monumental desk.

  “Sir, I am honored to be in your presence. I want you to know that my unit had done as much as possible to damage the enemy of the Faith in Alaska, but in the end their forces had—” Craig recounted, but the Inquisitor interrupted him.

  “I am familiar with your official report. You needn’t offer any justifications for your actions or the outcome, and don’t worry, I didn’t call you here to put you to the Question, like that unfortunate chap on the screen!” Inquisitor Dahmer gestured to the footage behind Craig that had been left playing. The screaming threatened to drown out the Inquisitor’s speech. Craig looked behind him and watched as the black-hooded figure leaned into the drilling effort, he thought he saw an incisor fly over the hooded figure’s shoulder. He turned back to the Inquisitor, who watched with enthusiastic eyes and a wide smile.

  “Sir?” Craig asked, attempting to recapture the Inquisitor’s attention.

  “Oh—yes—I bet you are wondering why I invited you here!” Inquisitor Dahmer exclaimed.

  “Yes, but actually, sir, I have been gone quite a while and things have changed. Mind if I ask what happened to Inquisitor Manson?” Craig asked.

  “Oh, him. Yeah, he went mad and was retired early,” the Inquisitor recounted sternly. Craig thought that the key phrase was, “was retired”.

  “I see. Good enough. So, why am I here, sir?” Craig asked.

  “You are here to be commended and decorated for your gallant fighting in the Alas
ka theater of the war. I hereby awarding you the Crusader’s Wrath Medal, for your service to New Megiddo during the Holy War,” the Inquisitor stated. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a curious pendant, and then he tossed it across the desk to Craig, who promptly caught it. He looked the medal over. It featured a white kite, shield with red cross blazoned on it, and two crossed swords adorned the back of the shield. He pinned it upon the breast of his dress blues.

  “Thank you, sir! I am honored by this—” Craig was interrupted again.

  “There are conditions attached to this award. First off, please take it off your chest. Do not display it to anyone. Your service and decorations are classified, of course,” the Inquisitor instructed him.

  “Very well, I am used to keeping my life a secret,” he said, and he took the medal off his chest, placing it in his pocket.

  “Good. Thank you for your service, Sergeant. I was pleased to hear that you had wiped out an entire regiment of Chinese heathens. It is a shame that Corporal O’Leary met his end so soon,” the Inquisitor commented.

  “Yes, a true hero. Sir, I am curious. Why did New Megiddo capitulate to the Chinese? This has troubled me for a while now. At first, I thought it was enemy disinformation,” Craig confessed.

  “Yes, that. It was President Schrubb’s position that the nuclear annihilation of Chicago by the Chinese was an escalation of the war that he did not want to match. The purpose of the war was territorial expansion and the proliferation of the Faith, not a global nuclear holocaust, according to Schrubb,” the Inquisitor recited the story.

  “Chicago was nuked? I can’t believe the President did not retaliate!” Craig became red in the face, his long-lost rage returned with a vengeance.

  “Relax, Craig. Not all is lost. New Megiddo was spread too thin, and we barely had a presence in Alaska. New Megiddo is now free to consolidate its power over the mainland. Besides, the war was a cultural victory for the Church and Administration. War time powers have given the President an excuse to crack down on Apostates, and he instructed the Minister of State Security to increase L.O.V.E.’s budget by fifty percent,” the Inquisitor said excitedly.

  “This news is shameful. Why do you treat it like it is good news?” Craig practically spat when he said this. The Inquisitor’s smile melted away.

  “Easy, Sergeant. I am not above putting war heroes to the Question. Take your medal and keep your mouth shut about the war. The populace is to believe the war was won. Good day, Sergeant! I have some footage to review.” With that the Inquisitor dismissed Craig. He got up in a huff, amid audio of the victim’s screaming, and exited the Inquisitor’s office. Shortly thereafter he traveled to the Veteran’s Affairs office and applied for discharge and retirement from L.O.V.E.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  When Craig had finished his business at L.O.V.E. headquarters he had made a beeline to the slums. He planned to drink himself into a stupor. Craig had come to the ‘Handsome Cock’, an ancient speakeasy and ‘Database’ den. The establishment had a certain immunity to the ‘Law of Virtue’, mainly because it was a favorite haunt of Regime insiders and L.O.V.E. Rangers. So, the Church and Regime looked the other way, that was how the capital worked. When Craig had entered the bar he had been given extra scrutiny, by the large, bearded bouncer. Something about Craig telegraphed that he was a dangerous man. Craig walked into the main space. Ancient music from an era when music was produced commercially, specifically from the late Twentieth and early Twenty-first Centuries was en vogue among underground nightlife, all throughout New Megiddo. A transmitter drone pinged each customer with an invitation to accept the music that it streamed. Craig received such an invitation and he accepted it. Within a nanosecond, the music played in his head.

  “Show me love,

  You've got your hand on the button now...”

  The song played on. Craig found that the volume was too high for his taste so he lowered it with a thought. Craig looked over at the kids dressed in strange garb, dancing to the music in his head. He thought about how they would like clowns to a person who did not possess a neural implant and did not hear the music. Craig resigned himself to the fact that he had been gone a long time and that he was getting old. He ordered a beer and a bourbon shot from the bar, and promptly knocked back the shot glass, slamming it on the countertop. He chased it with his dark ale. He bought another round and finished it off relatively quickly. He started to bob his head to a lighthearted tune that played.

  “There is a wait so long (so long, so long)

  You'll never wait so long...”

  Craig ordered a third round of drinks, transferring New Megiddo Tithes to the Handsome Cock’s account. He downed another shot. Now Craig was really getting into the music, but he hadn’t danced since he was a child, having only learned jigs at Scottish festivals, it became his default dance. And so, the long, red haired and bearded, tree trunk of a man, danced with the ‘cool kids’ on the floor, like some ‘Lord of the River Dance’ of old. The young revelers took notice of Craig’s moves and a circle formed around him, hooting and clapping, they encouraged him on.

  “Wait, they don't love you like I love you

  Wait, they don't love you like I love you...”

  The music became an inescapable torrent of beats and riffs. The siren’s call gripped him and refused to let go. The music somehow soothed the savage beast that had too long ruled over Craig. But, after several more songs he soon felt the need to refuel with more drinks. When he left the floor the revelers seemed disappointed. Craig reached the bar with a smile on his face, and he downed another shot. A young man approached the bar at his side.

  “I couldn’t help notice those moves, you certainly know how to ‘cut a rug’. Where’d you learn to dance like that?” the Young Man asked. Craig gave the man a side glance. The man had a pretty face, too pretty to be a slum-dweller, and his hair was immaculate. Craig also noticed that the man couldn’t be a year over eighteen.

  “Piss off, boy. You’re too young to be in here,” Craig snarled.

  “This is true, technically I am too young to be here, but class does have its privileges,” the Young Man remarked.

  “Class! Class means nothing when the class that rules the regime bends over for its enemy. After the Chinese nuked Chicago...” Craig trailed off and took a swig of his beer.

  “No argument there. Schrubb should have never capitulated to those yellow monkeys, even if it would have resulted in the destruction of the World!” the Young Man retorted sarcastically.

  “Yes! Well, no—you know what I mean!” Craig barked out, making his annoyance known.

  “What is your name, sir? Where did you fight in the Holy War?” the Young Man asked. Craig glanced at him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Craig turned to face the Young Man, making the difference between their sizes apparent.

  “I just thought I’d ask where you fought in the war—since you’re wearing that medal on your chest,” the Young Man stated, pointing to the Crusader’s Wrath Medal pinned to Craig’s chest. Craig became slightly embarrassed as he realized in his drunkenness he had put on the medal. He promptly snatched it off his shirt and dropped in his pocket.

  “Oh that—nevermind—it’s classified. All I mean is that the Regime should have fought on!” Craig said while waving for the bartender to bring another round.

  “No, no! Let me get this round! I need to buy a war hero a drink for his service!” the Young Man exclaimed and gestured for the bartender to put it on his tab. The drinks were brought over to the men.

  “A toast! To you and your service my friend!” he said, and the two men tipped back their bourbon shots and slammed the shot glasses face down on the bar.

  “Aye!” Craig yelled.

  “My class, and all New Megiddo thanks you, Craig a Briuis for your service—” the Young Man proclaimed with a smirk.

  “How’d you—” Craig was cut off, his eyes wide with confusion.

  “—but, I have to say, for being such a high
ly-decorated war hero of the Alaska front, I was surprised to know that you would murder one of your own number and let the rest of your squad die without sacrificing yourself,” the Young Man said, while taking a step back, expecting some form of violence to follow his remark.

  “W-what did you say to me—you little fuck!” Craig lumbered forward, fueled by rage and bourbon, in an attempt to grab the Young Man. The Young Man sidestepped the attacked and produced an object from his blazer pocket.

  “Easy, Craig! You’ve had too much to drink, take a load off!” With saying this, the Young Man plunged a needle of some sort into Craig’s shoulder. Craig stumbled onto the floor and pulled the small needle from his shoulder, he held it in his palm. A ‘Database’ applicator!

  “Excuse me! Bouncer! This man is doing ‘Database’ on the floor!” the Young Man shouted out to the bouncer, whereupon the bouncer made his way toward Craig. Craig’s vision went hazy, and his throat became tight. The sounds of the music being transmitted to his neural implant bled away and transitioned into crow’s calls, and wind howling. He found himself knee-deep in snow and clad in his L.O.V.E.: S.O.R.E. armor. He saw that his armor had been breached and he was wounded, having blood on his hands. He brandished his Claymore sword in his hands. A large Chinese soldier was rushing straight for him, with rifle raised and bayonet presented. The Chinese soldier thrust the bayonet at Craig's chest, but Craig easily parried, and with a smooth motion stabbed the sword through the soldier’s heart.

  “Die, you chink!” Craig yelled with bloodthirsty fury. The soldier went limp and fell into the snow, turning it crimson with spurts from the wound.

  “Oh my god! He killed the bouncer!” another Chinese soldier yelled. A whole platoon surrounded him now.

  “Stay back! All of you!” Craig yelled, swinging the sword left and right. The Chinese soldiers left a gap in their ranks, and so Craig used the ‘snow shoe’ configuration on his armor to climb out of the deep snow, and he ran as fast as he could through the gap. The soldiers called after him, demanding he stop. He ran for what seemed like ages, through the snowdrifts, and up a peak, through forest, and down into a ravine. He was now exhausted and he dropped down into the snow against a pine tree’s trunk. Breathing heavily, he fought to stay awake. With eyes half open, he could hear a vehicle approach. Craig tried to will himself to move, but he was spent.