by Lars Teeney
Ernest led Craig and Sailor to a long, wooden plank table where Chinese officers sat conversing with one another. The wife and daughter stood near a barbeque, tending to grilling meats. Craig did not see the son.
“Craig come on over. The Major-General here will be able to address any concerns you may have with the Chinese presence in the region. Cheng, this is Craig a Briuis,” Ernest announced. With the mention of that name Major-General He shot up from his seat, with wide-eyes glaring.
“You!” he hissed. Craig returned the glare.
“Yes, me,” Craig said calmly, then, almost instinctually and with one fluid motion he drew his Claymore sword, and swung it in a horizontal arc around him before anyone could react. The path of the blade had passed clean through Major-General He’s neck, whereupon the head rested on the body, with the glare affixed to Craig’s face, briefly, before it rolled off the stump and onto the wooden table top. The blood from the cut had splattered across Ernest’s face, and he stood frozen, with his mouth agape in shock. His wife and daughter screamed in horror from the grill. The Chinese officers, especially the Second in Command, all jumped up with weapons drawn, cursing at Craig, who brandished his sword threateningly. Sailor barked up a storm, then transitioned into a primal growl, in an effort to protect his human.
“Yeah! That’s right you yellow monkeys! Do it! Fucking do it!” Craig snarled, launching spittle about.
“Wait! Wait! Everyone put down your weapons!” Ernest pleaded for calm.
“Shāle yīkuài gǒu shǐ! (Kill the piece of shit!)” one Chinese officer yelled. The Second in Command called for order, trying to keep his officers under control. But, his efforts did not stop the first shot, which struck Craig in the chest. Craig winced in pain. The first shot caused a chain reaction as all the officers became spooked and pulled their triggers. A hail of bullets struck Craig one after another. There was a high pitched whimper for from Sailor, as he too was hit. When the barrage had halted, the only sound to be heard was Sailor whimpering and the women crying. Craig still stood. He took three steps forward holding his broken sword. The Chinese officers shrinked back with alarm. Then, finally, Craig succumbed to his wounds, and slumped over the wooden table, dead. The sword slipped from his grasp, and clattered onto the deck surface. Chinese officers turned their guns on Ernest, cursing him in Mandarin. The second-in-command, Lieutenant commander Junjie Liu ordered his men to hold their fire.
“Herpes One down!” was the last phrase Craig uttered quietly before he died.
“Oy Vey!” Ernest said repeatedly, just looking down at the carnage in shock. Gertrude and Teri screamed and pleaded for the Chinese officers not to shoot.
“Bù bù! Wǒ mìnglìng nǐ! Bié kāi qiāng! (No, no! I command you!! Don’t shoot!)” Lieutenant commander Junjie Liu shouted the order. His men, clearly wanted to kill the President, but restrained themselves from acting. Lieutenant commander Junjie Lie began arguing with one of his officers, and they gestured at the dead Major-General. The heated discussion continued.
“Oy Vey—” Ernest repeated.
“No! We not kill Greenbaum! We leave. And let Remnant Regime come and take Ukiah. They can destroy each other. We take leftovers!” Lieutenant commander Junjie Liu gave an order for his detail to leave the house. Several officers rushed over to retrieve the remains of their slain Major-General. Junjie turned and gazed once more upon Teri Greenbaum, who embraced her mother, but stared back at him. Then Junjie turned to leave.
“Junjie!” Teri called out, but he did not respond, then he was out of sight. Teri and Gertrude rushed over to Ernest and embraced him, and cried. He returned their embrace. A million different scenarios rushed through his head. Would there be a war with China? Would Ukiah fall to the ‘Remnant Regime’ forces? Would the Apostates come to retaliate for their fallen comrade? Then his thoughts were interrupted with a familiar sound: a dog’s whimper.
“Teri! Teri! Get my medical supplies!” Ernest broke the embrace.
“What?” Teri asked, still half in shock.
“My medical bag! Please! The dog is still alive!” Ernest pleaded. Teri ran into the house and Gertrude helped to lift the large dog onto the wooden table. Sailor, let out a whelp and barely moved.
“Gertrude! We have to find the entry wound!” he instructed.
“Yes! Okay!” she confirmed, “Here! The front, right leg!” she announced.
“Right! I don’t see any others. Do you?” Ernest asked excitedly.
“No—no, I think that’s it!” Gertrude confirmed.
“The leg will have to be removed! It’s completely shattered and will cause infection because of the bullet fragments!” Ernest explained.
“Here’s your medical supplies, dad!” Teri dropped the bag next to him on the table.
“Great! I need blankets and water! Please!” Ernest pleaded.
“Got it!” Teri volunteered and ran back into the house. Ernest prepared a sedative and anesthetic for Sailor in a syringe, then, he plunged into the shoulder of the Sailor’s mangled leg. The dog let out a slight, weak whimper.
“Sorry, big guy!” he said, patting the dog lightly on his head. Shortly, Teri came running with all the supplies. They lifted Sailor and placed a blanket underneath and set him down gently. Then, Ernest took a deep breath and prepared to perform the leg amputation, as the sounds of tank engines roaring to life could be heard on the outskirts of town. Everything else had gone to shit, the least Ernest could do was save this dog.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
WHISPERED IN PRIVATE ROOMS
They were all gathered together at the Trinity Church Cemetery, that stood just blocks from the carnage that had rocked the Port on the Southern end of Manhattan.With so much rubble and wreckage rescue crews did not have the resources to find all the victim’s bodies. They had failed to turn up Elsa Wynham’s body, and many others. So the Apostate and Neo Railroad personnel were holding a symbolic mass burial for all who had died that day. Jaspar Wynham had confessed to Greta that it was better that they had not found his mother’s body anyway, as he wanted to remember how she looked in life and not in death. Greta had to agree that she preferred it that way too. She had seen too much of death, it seemed to follow her like a plague, always stalking her around a corner or just over the horizon. She wondered briefly and morbidly if she was a harbinger of death, but dismissed the idea as silly superstition. After all, if she believed in that she might as well be religious. She also noticed the irony that they had been part of an uprising to topple a fundamentalist Christian regime, and yet, here they were, still steeped in those traditions. Old habits died hard for societies.
Greta looked on as Jaspar said words for his mother. Next to him, stood a hobbling Meriwether, who leaned upon a crutch, and had his mid-section bound in gauze.
“—my mother, Elsa, and my late father, Graham Wynham, had devoted and ultimately sacrificed their lives for the idea of freedom—freedom from religious oppression and tyranny perpetrated by a corrupt few over the many. I should say that my father was more zealous in his ideology. My mother only wanted to help people, which is why she joined the Neo Railroad. My brother and I, followed my parents examples, as we saw that “you can’t remain neutral on a moving train”. Some ancient scholar once said that, and my dad picked it up during one of his ‘Database’ trips in his youth. Who would have thought that doing a bunch of drugs would have lead to this—” he continued on, and people laughed. Greta, despite her best efforts to pay attention, found herself zoning out in random thought.
“Greta—” she heard her name called, but, just assumed it was the wind rustling leaves in the trees.
“Greta—” she looked around at the people next to her, but no returned her gaze. She shook her head to regain her senses.
“Greta—the Reverend and Messiah shall return to bestow humanity the gift—” the voice whispered. Now, she knew she wasn’t hearing things.
“Marco?” she called under her voice. No voice answered. She looked at her re
tinal H.U.D., but everything was in order. However, she noticed that the [Virtue-Net] and [Apostate-Net] were both back online and she was connected. She cursed under her breath. Greta pushed her way out of the crowd of onlookers to get some air. She walked down a path lined with ancient gravestones. Black and gray granite had been carved to assume all manner of forms, some were weeping angels, others were urns and obelisks, and yet, others were mischievous gargoyle faces, that mocked her with mouths agape, and tongues out. The trees were all bare, save for a few evergreens, and the wind howled ferociously. As she walked toward the main gate of the cemetery she saw a figure standing alone and silent. The figure faced her and waited for her approach. As she got closer, she was glad to see a familiar face.
“Evan!” she cried out and jogged toward him. She embraced him and he picked her up off her feet, and twirled her around once.
“Greta! It’s been too long. It appears I was too late for the party!” Evan quipped.
“Oh, Evan! Let’s not talk about that right now. How the hell are you? And, where the hell have you been?” Greta looked him in the eyes and stroked one of his dreadlocks.
“Well, it’s a long story. I was actually stuck here in New York for much of the year, along with Consuela. I’ve been tooling around the South—went to check out the aftermath of the nuclear blast in New Megiddo City—you know, fun stuff?” Evan jested.
“And is it true? Is New Megiddo City gone?” she asked.
“It was ground zero of a hydrogen bomb detonation, it‘s gone as gone,” he answered, quite assured.
“How terrible—all those dead,” she lamented.
“Hey, I thought you wanted to talk about lighter topics?” Evan asked sarcastically. She looked down.
“I know, I wish I could take pleasure in the simple things, but I have a feeling of dread that hangs over me. There has been so much death despite all we have accomplished. It just makes me wonder if we actually did the right thing,” Greta pondered.
“What do you mean?” Evan asked, slightly perturbed.
“I mean, maybe we should have left the Regime in place because the cost in life is too high for the factions will fight over the remnants. I think we might have removed a cork that we will not be able to get back into the bottle,” Greta said woefully.
“This doesn’t sound like the Greta I know. What happened to that fiery resolve?” Evan jabbed.
“I have seen much since I was first forced into the Apostates,” Greta said sternly.
“We have sacrificed much to make this uprising successful. I mean, Marco sacrificed himself for the cause, think about that!” Evan was slightly insulted that Greta was doubting the Apostate’s actions now.
“Yeah, and he murdered millions in the process!” she shot back.
“Damn, I didn’t know you felt so strongly about him that way—you two were practically married—the father of your child—” Evan was cut off.
“You see, there has been much that has occurred while you were gone. During my time in West Europa, I was solicited by many of influence who wanted to make me a puppet, in exchange for military aid and installing me as head of state. I refused them all. Also, one of the Neo Railroad ships was destroyed during a crossing, by apparent Regime loyalists, posing as refugees. In fact, it seems like these Regime loyalists have infiltrated the refugees at every level, and could be using the [Virtue-Net] for their ends,” Greta explained.
“H—how is that possible? The [Virtue-Net] mega-servers were destroyed with the capital?” Evan was confused.
“Look, it’s really fucking complicated, but every time we were attacked it was because the agents of Regime loyalists would somehow get their orders via their neural implants. They would start mumbling nonsense, and then claim the “Reverend and Messiah” are going to return, then they’d blow the shit out of everything. This happened right before we were attacked recently when Elsa was—shit—I didn’t tell you, this is her funeral,” Greta informed him, being filled with sadness once more.
“Elsa’s dead? Jesus. I’m sorry. You weren’t joking that I have missed much,” Evan confessed with astonishment.
“That is not all, I was told by a diplomat from the North African Union—with a newly minted neural implant—that Simon Schrubb had been commissioned by the Neo Railroad to neural network the shit out of every country that accepted as a humanitarian mission,” Greta explained.
“Well, what the hell is he doing that for?” Evan was puzzled.
“I don’t know. We need to reach out to him. Evan—I have to tell you something—you may think I am crazy—but, just before I saw you standing there, I heard a voice in my head,” Greta said.
“What kind of voice?” He asked.
“It was a voice in my head, that had repeated what the infiltrators had said—but, well—the voice sounded like Marco! I know it sounds crazy—that’s why I left the service—I needed air,” Greta said, as she turned away to gaze at the burial service that was breaking up.
“That does sound crazy—I mean Marco is deader than dead,” Evan told her. This did not make her feel any better.
“Which is why I must speak to Simon. He may have some insight into how this is possible. A neural hacker? His father did basically invent neural networks, and he would have insight,” Greta surmised.
“I agree. We also need to work on making a provisional government,” Evan stated.
“God—let’s not get on that subject. What else were you up to while you were away?” Greta asked as she saw that the M.I.D.W.I.F.E. which carried her son was approaching. Evan appeared to be giving his answer some thought and he turned away.
“That’s a loaded question. It’s tough to explain, but I had not known my last name—being an orphan and all. All I had was one token from a family member, but it was enough of a clue—I was able to do research and I found out my family name,” Evan explained, as he turned to face her he heard the childish mumblings of Greta’s son, as she played with him, while he was supported by the M.I.D.W.I.F.E. He approached.
“That’s wonderful, Evan!” she remarked. Evan looked down at the child.
“Is this your son?” he asked, as he smiled at her.
“Yes, would you like to hold Amerigo?” Greta offered.
“Yeah—okay!” he agreed. She picked up Amerigo from the cradle-like drone and gently handed the boy to Evan. He rocked the child gently, and Amerigo looked up at him with big, brown, familiar eyes.
“So, Evan, what is your family name, then?” she asked with interest.
“Well, I did a lot of research in Philadelphia, and I found out that it’s ‘Nubia’! Evan Nubia!” Evan announced proudly. Greta approached and peered down at Amerigo’s face, then looked to Evan.
“That is great to hear! I was keen to learn what your son’s last name would be—Amerigo Nubia.” Evan shot her a look with wide eyes, as shock overtook him.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The 1968 Dodge Charger pulled into the cavernous chamber with the Sunset Mural painted on the far wall of the bunker. The car was turned off and the driver clad in a white cloak blazoned with a black, encircled pentagram stepped out. The figure dropped the tattered and bloodstained cloak on the cold, cement floor. She could hardly believe that she was home once more. Ayane Inoguchi was no longer Friar Anastasias of the Societatum Pentagram because there was no more Societatum Pentagram. They had been routed and destroyed while fighting the Two Tone, Rude Boy army, when quite suddenly, almost half of the Order militia began babbling nonsense, then, without warning, turned cloak and attack their own. The confusion allowed the Rude Boys to gain the upper hand and she saw many Friars killed in battle. Ayane herself had been cornered and probably would have been killed, but she had sacrificed all her drones to allow her to slip away.
Ayane had been on a cross-country journey ever since, to return to her safehouse, the former Regime bunker built into the extinct cinder cone volcano located in what was once Portland, Oregon. She was now home, and she stripped off her orde
r garb. Naked and fatigued from both battle and driving cross-country in a relatively short period of time, she collapsed to her knees in front of her Shinto-esque Christian altar and prayed profusely. Ayane cried for the first since childhood.
“My God—My Lord Jesus Christ—why do I not please you? I have done everything to please you! I have followed your signs to the Pentagram and yet still you forsake me!” she cried out, pleading to some higher power. She thought how the Monsignor Francis had been so fervent in her faith and yet she seemed unstable even to Ayane. The Order had been so preoccupied with Revenge that they had squandered their advantage in numbers and material, only to be defeated by heathens. Ayane had considered to sacrifice herself in that battle, but then decided that the Lord was not yet done with her, and so she fled. But, as fervently as she had prayed she did not receive a message from God, no signs. For the first time in her life she was beginning to have doubts in the cause that she had devoted her life to. There on the barren pavement of the bunker, she curled up and wailed.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Simon Schrubb and his entourage had traveled nearly the circumference of the Earth, on a grand humanitarian mission that had taken them from Paris to Beijing, and beyond. He had seen Central Asian neo-nomads and ancient, untouched metropolises of power. He had worked to neural network them all and was hugely successful in his endeavor. From China, his entourage had commissioned ships to ferry them across the Pacific Ocean, through the Panama Strait (after paying off an upstart ‘Database’ cartel, which seized the Strait in the absence of the Societatum Pentagram), and then up to the Chesapeake Bay. He was returning to Chesapeake Beach to search for his mother. He hoped with all his heart that he would be reunited with her.