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The Apostates

Page 63

by Lars Teeney


  “And while you’re at it, rouse Mr. Wynham out of his slumber,” Hades insisted. The aromatic physician was worried, and a look of despair was worn on his face.

  “I-I fear that Graham Wynham is comatose—there is nothing I can do right now to wake him.” The doctor almost flinched in anticipation that he would receive physical punishment.

  “What the fuck? You can’t be serious!” Hades was angered because of everything he had gone through to get to this point, but he really wasn’t surprised, as he hadn’t heard from Graham in weeks.

  “I-I am sorry. I am actually serious. It wasn’t my—” the doctor was interrupted.

  “It was rhetorical, you idiot! Look, just tell me where I can find Inquisitor Rodrigo,” Hades snapped. He wrinkled his nose when he caught wind of the doctor’s accident he harbored in his trousers.

  “I-I apologize! The Inquisitor is not present in the M.O.S.S. building. A Ranger had told me that he headed to the Minister’s residence in Annapolis. I do not know why—please believe me!” The doctor was still convinced that Hades would kill him.

  “Alright! Alright. Look, why don’t you beat it? You aren’t needed around here anymore. Consider this your exit interview.” Hades looked at the man intently through a mess of encrusted blood.

  “Yes! Yes! I’m leaving now!” The doctor stumbled to his feet, then, waddled out of the O.R. due to the load in his pants. Hades-Perdition looked over Graham Wynham. He checked his vital signs and tried to rouse him as he called Graham’s name while he slapped him. The doctor seemed to be truthful: why else would he have attempted to extract Graham’s neural implant? There was no guarantee when and if he would wake up. There was a chance that he was also brain dead from the ‘Database’ interrogations that the Inquisitor was so fond of putting his captives through. If that were the case there was no bringing him back. Hades agonized over his options, then, he came to the conclusion that there was only one.

  “Sorry about not getting to you sooner, Graham. If I am correct about who you were in life, you would want me to do what I am about to do. Rest in peace knowing your revolution is at hand,” Hades spoke his piece and then fingered a grenade collected from a dead Ranger, pulled the pin, and tucked it under Graham Wynham’s arm. Hades patted him on the back and rushed out of the room. The detonation of the grenade ensured that there would be no retrieving his neural implant.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  The striated and sinewy sea surrounded him once more. He free-floated through the narrowing passage. He seemed to be immersed in a liquid and had swallowed it, and yet it had no tangible quality to it; no taste or texture. As he traveled along, the fleshy surrounding tissue contracted, undulated, and tightened. The canal narrowed and soon was tight-fitting around his body, and the muscled-walls pushed him forward, towards a faint light. He tried to fight the red, blood vessel-clad will of the walls that urged him onward, but it was no use. His head was grasped by hands and pulled upon. He was yanked violently from the cavity that contained him, which was flanked by two scarred, female legs that kicked about. A possessed-looking doctor who wore a facemask, blazoned with a black cross on it, dangled him from one leg. Helpless: he cried out.

  The doctor looked at him with sinister, red eyes, and nodded in approval. Without cleaning him off, the doctor laid him in a rusty and torn fabric baby carriage. The carriage was wheeled by a corpse of a nurse, with the same cross-blazoned surgical mask over her face. The floor was uneven and obstructed by objects that he could not see, but could feel the impact of, as the carriage plowed into them. The baby carriage ride jarred him from side-to-side.

  At last the violent ride came to a stop. The hellish nurse overturned the baby carriage and sent him tumbling onto the cold, concrete floor, naked and blood-encrusted. A steel, cell door slammed shut after the rickety baby carriage was withdrawn. As he lay there on the cell floor he felt his bones groan and crackle with activity. When he peered down at his body, he saw his skin ripple and stretch; hair grew at an accelerated rate. His limbs lengthened with a popping and slackening of tendons. He felt his head swell and his skull expand and settle. When he gazed upon his body it was that of a toddler.

  After hours of lying helpless on the ground of the dark cell, he heard footsteps echoe in the corridor. A key turned and the cell door slid open with some rusty protest. The doctor and nurse were back, with a third man, obscured by shadow, he seemed to have some sort of funny hat on. The doctor and nurse hurried over to him and jerked him by the arms to his feet. He was weak and could not stand on his own, so they carried him, with his feet dragging on the cold, wet floor. He looked down through blurred vision to the floor. The obstacles that had impeded the progress of the baby carriage were rotting bodies that looked to have been there for a while, as they were half-skeleton. He was dragged for some time more, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Once the procession came to halt, he was dropped to the floor once more, which jarred him awake. When he came to, he was lying at the foot of a throne-like chair. The chair was ornate: plated with gold carvings and encrusted with precious gemstones. It rested upon a red carpet and was elevated higher than the surrounding floor by two marble steps. Behind the throne on the wall was a gigantic oil painting: the effective use of the Chiaroscuro technique obviously meant it had been painted by a Renaissance master. The subject matter was that of a slave who had broken his bonds of chain, and was setting upon his master, who’s dress was that of a clergyman. Below the ornate golden frame of the painting was a plaque: “Ephesians 6:5”, was what it read.

  Upon the throne, sat an old man, dressed in full regalia. He wore a white under-robe, and atop that a red and gold maniple, blazoned with the “Fleur de Lis” and golden keys, as well as other symbolic depictions. The old man wore a tall “pretiosa mitre”, with a cone-shape that displayed golden crosses formed from precious stones. He held in his right hand a staff with a crucifix attached to the top. The old Pontiff leaned over and sneered at the pathetic toddler. The toddler recoiled in fear. The doors opened to the cavernous hall. A man walked in through the doors, down the central isle, which was flanked by two sections of pews, where shadowy, apparitions were perched. They watched in silence. The man walked down the central aisle and emerged from the shadow, then, approached the throne.

  The Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright looked down at the dirty toddler crouching on the floor. He pulled from his suit breast pocket a red, velvet sack, with a drawstring keeping it closed. The Reverend tossed it to the Pontiff, who struggled to catch the sack. The Pontiff picked up the sack from his lap where it had settled. He tossed it lightly in his palm, judging its weight, then he unstrung the sack and poured gold coins into his other hand. The Pontiff smiled and nodded, and set out a dismissive hand. The Reverend Wilhelm smiled and grabbed the toddler by the hand, then, dragged him away from the throne, up the central aisle. The toddler struggled to free himself, but to no avail. They exited the regal hall and walked out into an ashen and barren landscape. The toddler grew and grew at an accelerated rate. As the Reverend dragged him along, he passed through puberty and his teenage years within seconds. The toddler caught sight of a terminal by the side of the road: it displayed a big, red, cartoonish button. He now possessed the physique and face of Ravine-Gulch. He was an adult now and possessed the strength to wrench himself free from the Reverend’s grasp. Ravine ran for the button, and the Reverend pursued, but could not catch up. Ravine pushed the big red button, and a low, infernal humming emanated from deep below the ground. Storm clouds gathered and churned like they had been on “fast-forward”. Cracks formed in the barren landscape, with yellowish-orange light shining out of them. Great chasms were torn into the ground, spewing forth molten material. The sky turned a reddish hue, and fiery comets descended to the earth below, exploding with a furious impact, setting dead trees alight. All around him was consumed in a Hellish fire, including his own body and that of the Reverend. Then, everything went dark.

  That was when Ravine-Gulch came to. H
e found himself lying in a nest of his own vomit and feces. He gagged at the smell of his filth. How long had he been out? He looked around and found himself surrounded by darkness, except for a dim light above a washer and dryer unit. Ravine judged that he was in a basement of an apartment building or house. Apparently he had claimed a pile of dirty clothes for his drug nest. Ravine recalled the details of his recent drug-induced vision. He poured over the details of what he had just experienced. The puzzle pieces began to fit together. He suddenly started to see the veritable light. It was revealed to him about what his next move was, and ultimately, what his fate would be. Ravine had thought that Graham Wynham had a flare for the long-winded. On top of that, he might have even cost Apostates time and lives by being so esoteric with his methods of secrecy. But, if the endgame entailed what Ravine thought that it did, he could understand the need for such exclusivity.

  Ravine pulled himself to his feet and did the best he could to clean the filth off. He stumbled and fell to the ground. His head felt dizzy. How would he make his way to the Church of New Megiddo Central Authority in his current state? Every movement was a struggle. It seemed like his mission was doomed, but he had to try. Ravine stripped out of his soiled garments and changed into nondescript clean, civilian clothes. He collected a couple of blankets and wrapped them around himself. He then gathered all his pertinent gear and climbed the basement steps. When he opened the cellar door, he found that he had been holed-up in the basement of a building that no longer stood. The city environs were that of a war zone: collapsed buildings and smoldering craters. He made his way out into the Hellscape.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Gale-Whirlwind directed a cadre of Apostate troops armed with anti-tank missiles to take positions on high points around the ruined building just before the approaches to the beachheads that they so dearly needed to protect. The anti-tank armed troops waited patiently atop ruined buildings and debris piles for the unstoppable armor column, which bulldozed its way forward through the lightly-armed Apostate forces. Gale watched intently as the Regime armored column pushed onward, ever-confident that it would be victorious. Once she felt satisfied that the column had strayed into her trap for maximum effectiveness, she relayed an order for platoon leaders to fire at the lead and rear tanks.

  The assault began. The forward and rear platoons along the rooftops let their anti-tank missiles and anti-tank rifles rip. The missiles and rifle shots tagged their targets multiple times, causing the crews and contents to be incinerated within the tanks. The resulting effect of taking out the lead and rear units was that it deprived the Regime forces of maneuverability. And so the bloody business of descending the buildings and dealing with each tank on an individual basis began. The men and women under her command began to fling Molotov cocktail, grenade, and traded missile fire point blank with the Martyr tank’s main cannons. Both sides did its best to inflict death on the other side. But in the end the tactical edge was given to the most mobile force, as each tank was destroyed, and in the process blocked the approach to the beachhead.

  The crews of the disabled tanks labored furiously to free themselves from the flaming death-traps that their tanks had become. The Apostate forces perched on high ground did not let this opportunity slip by them, and picked-off targets as they became available. The slaughter was terrible. The clean up operation lasted a few minutes more, and then the engagement was over; but, what now? They had no clear objective, aside from liberating Regime camps set up to hold populations for the start of the B.A.G. So, that is what she decided upon: striking-out to liberated the nearest B.A.G. venue. There was no sense to sacrifice many lives in a vain attempt to capture the Capital. After all, they did not have a large enough force.

  Gale-Whirlwind sent an order down the line for the officers of each company to abandon the defensive line and to move inland to find the place, once called R.F.K. Stadium, where the B.A.G. was being held in New Megiddo City. Her forces would first need to traverse the abandoned portion of the city: before the die-off, Washington D.C. was once a megalopolis which spread to the shores of the Chesapeake. But now these miles of the city stood vacant and crumbling. Gale could only imagine the dangers and ambushes that could be set up in this maze of ruins.

  The soldiers geared up. Her militia lacked any real armor, only lightly armed A.P.C. and infantry grade anti-tank weapons, so they would need to rely on guerrilla tactics in order to prevail, and avoid direct assaults. Line by line the Apostate militia disappeared into the dark and overgrown ruins of the abandoned city. It’s towering ruins and narrow streets made it impossible to see the skyline of the New Megiddo Divinity center, or to see battleships and landing zones on the beach. The old city ruins enveloped the Apostates totally.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Kate Schrubb knew that the game was up. She had received the reports of mass-uprisings throughout the country. She realized that the Apostates had a militia blazing a path through the north toward New York, and that the Capital itself was being attacked from the sea by the Apostate fleet. This meant that her brother Keir Schrubb was likely dead and that his fleet had been defeated. She couldn’t say she mourned his passing too much. She wondered about her father: he had been strangely quiet throughout this whole crisis and had not answered her hails. Her father was the one man that she could not legally keep tabs on, so she had no way of locating him. Also strangely quiet throughout this whole predicament, was the Reverend. Except for his one broadcast to the masses, appealing for resistance against the Apostates, he had made no appearances. This was hardly a time for conservative measures. She no longer had any faith in the Regime or Church leadership. The government was crumbling all around her.

  She had even heard initial reports that the Ministry of State Security building had been attacked. There was no further information on the matter. Inquisitor Rodrigo had not contacted her either. It made Kate think the Divinity Center of the city had already been overrun. Which is why she had made the decision to pack up her belongings, take her son, and use the personal submersible to escape the country, and seek asylum elsewhere; maybe across the Atlantic. Though she literally had no idea what that side of the ocean was like, since New Megiddo cut ties with the outside world.

  Kate wondered what the legacy of her family and their Regime would be. Did the rest of the world carry on without New Megiddo after her country’s defeat in the Holy War? Had the countries of Europe, Africa, and Asia, surpassed New Megiddo in every way? She did recognize the fact that the Regime she had been part of was built on fear, suppression, and control of information. Kate recognized that she had been an integral part of that operation, being the Minister of State Security. She wanted to now leave it all behind: become anonymous and blend into the crowd in a foreign land. Kate was looking forward to adventure and new experiences. Of course, it would cost money, but she had stashed plenty of gold bullion and other valuables over the years. She had enough amassed wealth to ensure that she and her son could melt away forever and assume new identities. Now all she needed to do was to board her submersible with her son and escape New Megiddo undetected.

  “Come on Simon! Has your D.A.D. gathered everything that you need yet? We have to go, son!” Kate encouraged him to move faster.

  “Mom...why do we...have to go?” Simon acted up because he did not want to leave the home he had known his whole life. His mother was about to force him to leave all his favorite possessions behind: his illegal books on politics, history, philosophy and science. Of course, he had memorized and retained the majority of the contents of the books, but he had a strong sentimental attachment to the collection that had yielded their secrets to him.

  “Because, Simon—listen to me: bad things are happening in our country right now. It is no longer safe here. We must leave! Please, son!” Kate pleaded with her son to hurry. She secured the automated cargo drones that would attach themselves to the submersible and instructed them to carry out the function.

  “Mother...just...let me stay...I want
to be with my books. I do not wish to live without...them.” Simon began to tear up as he said this. Kate’s heart sank. But, he had to go. He presented too valuable a target for Apostates, bent on making the Schrubbs suffer for Regime crimes. Simon had to leave, even if it was against his will. Simon’s D.A.D. was loaded-up with his clothes, some essential personal effects, and supplies.

  Suddenly, the perimeter alarms went off throughout the mansion. Kate looked worried. She interfaced her neural implant to the mansion’s network, so she could access visual data from outside through her retinal H.U.D. Kate caught the disturbance that triggered the perimeter alarm: a L.O.V.E. armored personnel carrier had pulled up into her stately driveway. But, it was not just any A.P.C.: she recognized it because she authorized M.O.S.S. funds for its purchase from Wynham Industries. It was the personal vehicle of Inquisitor Rodrigo. Kate knew that there would be no good to come from his visit. She did not know how he found out that she planned to leave New Megiddo, but she had no time to deliberate. Kate triggered the two automatic turrets installed at the front of the house to spring into action. They revealed themselves from a concealed door that peeled-away a portion of the mansion’s facade. The barrels of the guns unfurled and acquired its target: Rodrigo’s A.P.C. The guns were of a Gatling variety that fired one thousand rounds a minute. The guns were perfect for clearing a mob, but did nothing against the armored vehicle, except create sparks on impact. Two small compartments on the top of the A.P.C. opened, and out launched two missiles that arced high into the air, out of the firing line of the Gatling turrets. Leaving a trail of burned fuel behind them, the two missiles began their descent. Digital targeting systems locked onto the heat signatures of the muzzle blasts, and in another split second two fireballs rose from where the Gatling turrets had been perched. Scraps of metal and unspent rounds dropped to the ground all around the property.

 

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