by Jerry Ahern
“Super—just let people die.”
“One does not do this thing you say, young man—one goes.” The old man was easing into the largest chair, before the two candies. “You go outside and get torn apart by those can-nibals like you sent Madison.
You die—pure and simple.”
The old man laughed.
The other six men moved about the room, one lighting the two candles at the head of the conference table, another opening a wall safe behind an inset wood carving in the back wall, the carving out of place amid the mural of the end of the world. From the safe, another of the six assisting him, he withdrew two books. One was leather-bound and the size of a Bible or un-abridged dictionary, the other smaller, leather-bound as well, but the size of a diary. “What are those?” Michael asked.
The old man looked up, “Why, the holy books, of course.”
“The large book—it’s a Bible, right? But the other one—it looks like a diary.” “It is the last book, written by our progenitors and it is locked and shall remain so for all time.”
“You revere a book as holy and yet you have no way of knowing what it contains?” The old man smiled indulgently again. With great effort, he stood, one of the others assisting him. He reached to his vest pocket, extracting from it on the end of what appeared to be a gold chain a small key. “As head of the counsel of the Ministers, I carry the key. It is my badge of office. The key will unlock the second holy book, but the key is given to us to test our faith and will never be used as it has never been used.”
“If it’s a diary, it probably tells something you should know—it’s not wrong to pry into the”
writings of someone who’s gone if it will help you to stay alive in a situation like this.”
“You are a most peculiar young man.” The old man smiled again as he sat. “The second holy book is five centuries old. And to stay alive as you put it is not a problem to us. And what situation? A situation requiring desperate measures? I think you misunderstand me. We thrive here. We have happiness here. There is no desire to alter this at all. So, then, why should sacrilege be committed and the second holy book be opened? But perhaps you will better understand after I recount our story.”
“Go ahead.” Michael nodded.
“Be seated—there, in the far chair from me.”
Michael looked at the second largest of the two large chairs. He moved the chair as he approached it—no wires, nothing out of the ordinary. He sat down, placing his hands on the polished table before him. “So, tell me your story, if that’s what you want.”
“Yes—it is what we want, young man.”
“My name is Michael—Michael Rourke.”
“The Place,” the old man began, seemingly oblivious to Michael having given his name, “was built more than five centuries ago, and at great expense and labor. It was the fashion, as the story has been passed down to us, for persons to plan to survive warfare among the nations of men, or disease, or economic trials. And so, the Place was built. And it was staffed. Because of the guns and because of the expense of the fixtures here in the Place, security persons were used to protect the Place from outsiders. The war between the great nation of the United Statesof and the evil nation of Commie took place—“ “It’s the United States of America, not United Statesof, and the nation of Commie—it was the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union was run by a Communist government, and sometimes Com-munists were called Commies. You’re telling me an oral tradition, aren’t you?”
The old man resumed, as though, Michael realized, nothing had been said. “The war between the United Statesof and the Commie began, but our very wise progenitors foresaw this time of grief and took shelter in the Place and the Place sustained their every need. Time passed, and the great fires came from the heavens and consumed the earth as it was prophesied in the Holy Bible. But our progenitors in their wisdom had become the Chosen of God and it was His decree that the Place and our progenitors remain unscathed. And when the fires consumed all that was evil and had purged the land and the waters and the air, only the progenitors and their servants remained. Yet the servants were evil, consumed by jealousy of the wisdom of the progenitors and sought to hurl out the progenitors from the Place, but they were not successful, and as punishment for this blasphemy, the servants were put out. It was decreed that the number of one hundred persons should not be exceeded over seven days. And so, it is the descendants of the servants who are set out into the evil of hell which surrounds us, and consumed by Them, the ones who eat the flesh.” The old one looked up, smiling—he seemed somehow pleased. Perhaps that he had remem-bered it all, Michael conjectured. “What you’re saying is that you practice institutionalized geno-cide on persons you consider racial inferiors. And that the ones you threw out eventually became able to survive, by cannibalism, and now you continue the practice to feed them.” “You eat flesh—this can be seen from the things you wear on your feet.” “I eat meat, but the meat of cattle and other animals raised for human consumption. But since the holocaust, there has been no fresh meat so we eat very little meat at all.”
“By his own words, he admits his origin, sir,” one of the younger business-suited men said to the old one.
“From hell thou art and to hell thou shalt return—both you and the girl.” Michael stood up.
“Wonderful—you’re letting us leave. You think outside is hell—this is hell. Never going outside, killing people to keep the population in perfect balance. You’re all crazy.”
“They shall be bound and set aside to be consumed by Them.” Michael’s right hand flashed under his shirt, the button there already open, his fist closing around the butt of the Predator.
“Uh-uh, guys.” Michael stabbed the .44 forward, aiming it toward the opposite end of the table, his right thumb jacking back the hammer. “You’re plain out of luck. I’m finding Madison and my guns and I’m gettin’ the hell out of here.”
“See how he defiles the Conference Room!” It was the one who had proclaimed Michael as guilty.
“See how I defile your face when I blow your fuckin’ brains out,” Michael whispered, his voice low. “My advice—open that diary, read it. Maybe you were meant to read it, and if you weren’t, then maybe you should anyway.” Michael started toward the door, backing up, glancing once behind him—the doors were still closed. He assumed the three guys with the cattle prods would be outside—but the gun would even the odds substantially. “Where do you keep the girl?”
The old one smiled, but said nothing.
Michael nodded. “OK, I’ll find her—then we’ll be out of your hair, you’ll pardon the expression.” he added, the light reflecting from the top of the man’s head.
Behind him, he felt the doors. He reached for the handle…
“Not gold,” he rasped, the electricity surging through him, the Customized Ruger falling from his right fist, not discharging, his body shaking, trembling, pain. “No!” He sagged forward, the blackness coming, but his hand unable to release the door handle.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The door opened, and she shrank back into the corner, three of the ones from the Families, two of them with gloves on, dragging Michael. His body shook, his eyelids fluttered as they rested his body on the floor, walking from the room without looking at her, the third one closing the door. She Jeft her corner, on her knees, moving to be beside Michael, her right hand gently touching at him—she felt the mild shock his body still carried, her hand drawing back, cradled in the palm of her left hand on the faded gray skirt of her uniform.
“Michael—Michael, answer me. Michael— please—Michael!”
His eyelids fluttered again, but did not open.
His right hand—it twitched. The flesh on the inside of his fingers—it was black and burned.
She could not touch him until the electrical current left his body—she had seen what the electrical current could do before.
On her knees, still, she rocked her behind back against her heels, her body swayin
g, her hands still in her lap, her calves cold-feeling against the bare floor. It was a holding room. She knew where she would go. She had been placed in a holding room once before—when the Families ha4 selected her as one who goes. To Them.
She felt tears in her eyes, felt them dribble down her cheeks.
Her archangel.
Michael.
He was human after all.
And in her heart, the thing Michael had talked about as love—she felt it stronger for him now as she knelt at his side.
“Michael…”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The wind of the slip stream was cold against his face, but every few moments he would feel the warmth of Natalia’s breath against the back of his neck, her body close against his as they rode searching for Michael’s trail lost in the rocks an hour earlier. They had split up, Paul running a search pattern to the south, Rourke and Natalia searching to the north. AH they had uncovered was another campfire of the cannibals and more—but vastly less this time than before—of their ghastly leavings: human bones.
“John.”
He turned his face right, to speak over his right shoulder. “What is it?”
“I think I saw movement in the rocks—above us and to the left.” He nodded. “I saw it a little while ago. I think we’ve got company. Our cannibal friends.”
“What about Paul?”
“He’ll be all right—so’ll we. It’s Michael I’m worried about.” He glanced up into the rocks—a furtive blur of motion, then nothing. He slowed the Harley, stopping it at the close of a wide arc, cutting the engine. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going up there—gonna catch a cannibal. Get him to talk.”
“John!”
“They won’t come down here after us. I’ll go up after them.” He felt her hands leave his waist where they had rested as they had driven. She dismounted the Harley, Rourke dismounting as well. He un-zipped his coat, pulling off his gloves, folding them after straightening them, putting them in his bomber jacket’s left outside patch pocket. He took a cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket, the end already cut away as was his habit, putting the cigar in the left corner of his mouth, clamping it tight between his teeth. “You back me up from down here—and listen for any gunfire fr6m Paul. He should be on the other side of the rocks. If it sounds like he’s getting into trouble, you double back and I’ll cut across the top.”
“You don’t know how many of them there could be, John.” “They don’t have guns,” he told h^r, his voice low. “At least I don’t think they do. But I do. Anyway, maybe we can just talk,”
and he smiled.
“Don’t—I mean—just because it is Michael— don’t—“
“I won’t,” Rourke whispered, leaning toward her, kissing her cheek lightly. He pushed the CAR-15 farther back on its sling so it was across his back, then started toward the rocks.
Chapter Thirty-Six
He would find his son—there was no question of it, he knew. He kept moving, across the bare rock face, moving upward slowly, his rifle sway-ing away from his back, then swaying against it. He had seen no more movement above. Rourke looked back once, below him, Natalia, her hands on her hips, standing beside the jet-black Harley, black like the black of the jumpsuit she wore—her battle gear—black like the boots she wore. Black like the color of her hair—but her hair was only almost black for there was no true black in nature he knew. Rourke kept moving.
Sarah. Natalia. But now the task was to find Michael. He had laughed at Annie when she had awakened them early from the Sleep, laughed at her premonition, her dream. But the cannibals—
he had not anticipated this. How any men could have survived on the surface was incompre-hensible to him. There were mysteries in this new earth. If the Eden Project returned, there would soon be machining capabilities. Perhaps an aircraft could be built. As it was, the Harley’s engine would power a light biplane more than adequately. He kept moving, reaching up with his right hand, then bringing his left leg up, then his left hand, then his right leg, repeating the sequence as he climbed higher, the edge of the higher rocks more clearly discernible now. He kept moving.
His left hand reached out, and with his left leg he thrust himself up against the meager purchase below the height of the rocks, half falling forward onto the rock surface.
Rourke pushed himself up and rolled away from the edge, flat on his back for a moment, resting from the exertion in the thin air, setting himself as bait to the cannibals, for them to attack.
No one came.
After several minutes, he rolled onto his abdo-men, then pushed himself up, standing to his full height. He walked back toward the edge, waving down at Natalia. She waved back. Michael would be more used to the thinner air. In time, he too would become used to it.
He turned away from the edge, staring across the flat expanse of the height of the rocks. He reached into his Levi’s pocket, finding his lighter. He smoked less and less—in the thin air, intentionally damaging his lung capacity was insane. But he lit his cigar now, rolling the Zippo’s striking wheel under his thumb, plunging the tip of the cigar into the wind-dancing blue-yellow flame, flicking the cowling shut with an audible click. It was the stillness. No sudden engine noise betraying a Soviet patrol or a Brigand biker gang, no gunshots from off in the distance, no one. Nothing. The Earth was a dead place.
And he supposed the cannibals were its new-found scavengers. He moved ahead, dragging easily on the cigar, his breathing still rapid from the exertion of the climb, his rifle across his back again rather than at his side as he had placed it before making the final assault on the top. He wanted to look like easy prey.
Rourke kept walking.
Could these people talk? Could they under-stand?
Where had they come from?
If these cannibals lived, however few in number, others lived too, he knew.
He kept walking. “Hey—I want to talk,” he called.
No answer. “Do you speak English?”
No answer. “Habla EspanoB”
No answer. “Parlez-vous FrancaisV he laughed. He could ask the same question in German, in Russian, perhaps another language or two if he racked his brain for the right combination of words.
“I didn’t come to harm you,” he shouted. “I came searching for one who looks like me.”
And Rourke stopped. “One who looks like me,” he whispered. If Michael had met the cannibals and fought them off, they would think he— Rourke—was his own son. If Michael had died—a shiver ran along his spine. They would think he was Michael’s ghost.
He gambled on life, smiling to himself—it had been the one commodity on which he had always gambled.
He reached down to the holster at his hip, slowly withdrawing the Python. It was big, shiny—close enough in appearance to Michael’s handguns, at least to the untutored eye. Slowly, Rourke raised the gun over his head. Then slowly again, he dropped into a crouch, flexing his knees, setting the pistol on the ground. The CAR-15—it too looked near enough to Michael’s M-16. He slipped the sling over his head and set the rifle down, the safety off but the chamber empty. Michael carried two handguns, and Rourke reached under his jacket for the Detonics in the double Alessi rig. He-snapped the pistol from the leather, setting it down beside the Colt revolver and the CAR-15. There was still one under his right armpit. The little Detonics Combat Master .45 looked nothing like Michael’s smaller .44 Magnum Predator—but again, Rourke thought: To the untutored eye. v And a knife. He gambled Michael had likely had only the one knife visible—the big Gerber. Rourke unsheathed the black-handled Gerber Mkll and set it down beside his guns.
He stood. “There,” he shouted. “No weapons!”
He stepped back one step, then a second step, then a third. His palms sweated. There were boulder-sized rocks scattered all along the top of the mountain, and from behind one of these now stepped a man. He was clad in human skins, a woman’s head of hair dangling obscenely near his crotch. In his r
ight hand was something Rourke considered at least slightly more mundane—a stone axe, the handle perhaps two feet long, a massive flat rock laced to it with what Rourke surmised would likely be human hair woven into rope. “Do you speak English?”
Rourke called out.
The cannibal’s face seamed with something half between a smile and a snarl, his body bending slightly forward as his left hand joined his right on the axe. From behind another rock, another of the cannibals, then from behind still another rock still a third, the second two armed like the first, each with a massive stone axe. Rourke owned one, a Cherokee Indian stone axe. But he had never fought with it—as these men, barely men, seemed intent to do. The first one—with the woman’s hair near his crotch—started forward in a loping, crouching walk. Rourke didn’t move away. “I didn’t come to kill you—probably. I want my son. He looks like me— just like me.”
The first cannibal was coming closer, the other two hanging back slightly. Rourke swallowed hard—the reason for the man’s loping walk, he realized, was a bullet wound, the left side of the man’s body sagging, leaves plastered over the left shoulder, dried blood there as well. The wind shifted, and Rourke could smell it—the wound was suppurating. “I’m a healer—for information on my son, I’ll heal your wound.”
The cannibal kept coming, raising the stone axe now to swing. The only other person alive—possibly—who could have shot the man would have been Michael. For that reason, as the cannibal moved toward him now, Rourke would not reach for the second Detonics pistol, or the Black Chrome Sting IA. The axe started the downstroke, Rourke side-stepping quickly, wheeling half right, his left leg snapping up and out, a double Tae Kwon Do kick to the left side of the cannibal’s head, the cannibal staggering, not falling. The other two were coming now, screaming something so guttural Rourke couldn’t even be certain the screams were not words, threats, the second cannibal closing. Rourke wheeled again, sidestepping as the stone axe cleaved the air where his head had been, a high sweeping forward kick with his right leg, then wheeling, the same high sweeping kick again, but this time the left leg, this time connecting against the jaw of the second cannibal, the axe flying from his hands. Rourke stepped in, the heel of his left hand hammering up and out, impacting the base of the cannibal’s jaw, his right hand punching forward, the middle knuckles finding the solar plexus—the human skin the cannibal wore over his own was cold, damp to the touch.