Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Although Wage couldn’t see or hear anything with his ears ringing, he could feel Mortimer’s warmonger running toward him. Wage flailed his arms and legs, managing to flip himself to his back. “Get up, dammit!”

  But he was too late. Mortimer stood over him, leaning in to place his Gatling arm almost flush with the viewports. The Gatling arm spun and Wage figured it would be the last sound he ever heard.

  But then, the entire ship lurched forward as if it had run aground. The motion launched Mortimer backward as he fired, sending bullets careening overhead. Mortimer landed on his back and flapped about like an overturned turtle. Wage braced himself with his left arm and threw his right arm over again and again, rocking the warmonger until he got enough momentum to flip back to its stomach. Wage then lifted his leg, digging the warmonger’s knee into the deck to finally lift his machine up.

  With the engine dead, the ship seemed be barely adrift now. The hole in the ship continued to take on water, but Wage paid no attention to it and focused on Mortimer, who had scurried down one of the rows on his back, waggling away like a downed moth. Wage took aim with his Gatling arm, but this time he pressed a different button. A new barrel lifted from above his machine gun. Instinctually, Wage pulled the other trigger on his left hand. He could feel and hear the thunk of the mortar leave the barrel. The mortar hit Mortimer’s warmonger at the feet, propelling it forward and opening another hole in the deck. Water began bubbling up through the cavity in the deck as Wage walked forward toward his downed foe. Operating the clawed hand was trickier, but Wage managed to tilt to one side and grasp Mortimer’s Gatling arm. As the claw squeezed, Wage screamed and twisted his warmonger’s arm with all his strength. The movement wrenched off Mortimer’s machine gun. Wage yelled again.

  Mortimer’s Gatling arm was now disabled, but his clawed arm was still fully operable. He swung that hand at Wage’s head, smashing in his right viewport. One of the glass shards cut Wage’s cheek as he winced. And that small distraction was all Mortimer needed to spin on his side, knocking Wage back into an unmanned warmonger, which fell backward and struck the warmonger behind it like a domino. A chain reaction went off, and warmongers began to topple toward the bow. Wage, however, managed to keep his feet. That is, until Mortimer’s one-armed warmonger, who had finally gotten to its feet, tackled him.

  Wage peddled his feet backward as fast as he could as Mortimer continually forced him back. Wage couldn't see what was behind him, but he felt the hard jolt when his head hit the hull.

  He felt his warmonger bend forward as he fell through the gaping hole in the hull. Then he felt the jolt of the water on his back and the weight of Mortimer crushing him and pushing him under. Dark Mississippi water poured in Wage’s right viewport, while Mississippi moonlight streamed through his left viewport and into his red-lit cabin.

  Seconds later, that moon disappeared. And Wage could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper.

  Simon Hum

  April 5, 1915

  Aft Staterooms of Charon’s Wake

  South of Memphis, Tennessee

  Simon checked his pocket watch. 12:01am. He sprinted out of the room, down the passageway, and back outside. Peering over the portside railing, he saw a gaping hole in the hull below him. “Good God,” he said. The ship listed slightly as a result, but continued slowly forward.

  “Simon!” Quincey yelled from the deck above him. “What’s your status?”

  “Delacroix is dead!” Simon yelled back. “Not my intention. Where’s Amber Rose?”

  “Beat up, but she’ll be OK. Same with Mink. Dom is in the wheelhouse now.”

  “The ship is taking on water! We may consider abandoning,” Simon called.

  “OK,” Quincey said with a thumbs-up.

  An explosion resonated deep within the ship. Moments later, the paddle wheel stopped rotating. “What’s going on?” Simon yelled. “Why are we stopping?”

  “Dunno? Stay put. I’ll check on Dom,” Quincey shouted through cupped hands.

  “Quincey! Where’s Captain Pascal?”

  Quincey turned back around, shrugged his shoulders, and made his way toward the wheelhouse.

  Simon looked over the railing once more, inspecting the gaping hole in the ship’s hull. He saw the hole expand and the ship’s skin bend outward as two colossal suits of armor crashed through it and into the river below. The massive metal bodies, one nearly mounting the other, bobbed in the river for only a moment before the water consumed them both. Simon looked around and spotted the nearest ladder well that led down and headed that way.

  Stepping one foot onto the boiler deck, Simon saw the legion of warmongers neatly arranged, all of them leaning to the portside as the ship continued list as it took on more water. “My God.”

  Simon ran down the columns, surveying each row and noticing a few downed ones. “Captain!” he called. “Captain!” After traversing the entire length of the boiler deck from bow to stern, he made his way back the enormous portside hole amidships, where the water crested his ankles. “Captain!” he yelled once more as he looked into the Stygian abyss. Where has he gone off to?

  The water level rose subtly, and by Simon’s calculation, the ship would inevitable topple and sink. What he couldn’t calculate is how long it would take. He also couldn’t figure where Captain Pascal had gone. Clearly, the crew agreed with his calculation regarding the ship sinking, because he saw two of them jump from the decks above into the river. Another crewman, a boilerman judging by his sweaty, soot-stained face, ran by him, kicking up water as he did.

  “Have you seen anyone else down here? Not part of the crew?” Simon shouted at the running boilerman.

  The sailor didn’t stop. He ran for the opening in the hull. He yelled back, “Look inside the …” The man’s fall into the river obscured the last part of his sentence.

  “Look inside? Look inside the what?”

  The warmongers closest to Simon had reached their tipping point and fell over, which created a deafening cacophony. Simon, defaulting to what he knew best, inspected the downed warmongers. Are they asleep? Unconscious? Why are they not abandoning the ship? He tapped the closest one with his fist. Hollow? He looked into eyes of the metal behemoth. It’s empty. Spacious. A man might be able to fit in there. The boilerman’s words echoed in his mind. Look inside! My God in Heaven!

  Simon turned to the punctured hull. The ship was drifting slowly with the natural current. How long has it been? How far have we moved? Where would he be?

  Simon did not linger to ponder the questions. Inhaling as deep as he could, he dove into the water.

  Wage W. Pascal

  April 5, 1915

  Bottom of the Mississippi River

  South of Memphis, Tennessee

  The warmonger no longer felt like a futuristic vehicle of destruction. It felt like a tomb. A tomb about to be sealed in the murky depths of the mighty Mississippi. The heavy machine sank faster than an anchor, and Wage waited and waited to hit rock bottom as dark, cold water rushed in through the cracked viewport. He could feel the water engulfing him and numbing his legs as it filled the warmonger’s hollow extremities.

  “OK, OK,” Wage muttered aloud. “Relax. Relax. Think. Think. Plan B.” Wage could still see because the red cabin light continued to shine above him. He glanced out the intact viewport—the machine’s left eye—and saw a grim, inky blackness. The jaws of death had swallowed him whole, and he now made his way through death’s own pitch-black bowels.

  The warmonger’s back hit bottom, but it wasn’t rock. It was a soft mud that effectively glued him to the riverbed. Water continued to pour in. “OK, OK. I’ll just pop the hatch and swim out.” Luckily, Mortimer’s warmonger had found a different trajectory to the river bottom when they hit the water, and Wage had shrugged him off. Wage pulled the release lever for the chest plate. It unlatched. “Halleluiah!” He pushed with all his strength, but his only way out didn’t budge—not even an inch. A veritable ton of water sealed the door shut. Wage t
ried futilely again. “Son of a bitch! Come on!”

  Out of breath, Wage decided to pursue a different strategy. “Plan C. Come on, now,” Wage said as he maneuvered the claw arm back, trying to prop the machine up on its elbow. He felt the joint sink into the mud. He gripped the control bar within the left arm tighter, pulling and pushing the damn thing to try and free the machine’s Gatling arm. It didn’t budge. “Dammit!” he cried. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

  With his feet still in the stirrups, he tried to move his legs, but they, too, were unresponsive. “Plan D,” he muttered as he focused on his right arm, the one ending in a two-pronged claw. Water was up to his waist now. The warmonger shot its left arm up. “All right. Here we go!” Wage triggered the claw to open. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull his other arm out. Free it, and try once again to prop himself up. The warmonger reached its clawed arm over. “Come on, baby. Come on …” Wage could feel the water creeping up to his chest now. “Almost there!”

  He activated the claw. It closed just shy of the other arm’s metal bicep. The warmonger’s right shoulder, sealed in the mud of the river bottom, didn’t allow him the mobility he needed. “Come on, you piece of shit!”

  The water was up to his chin now.

  Still firmly holding both arm controls, Wage shook himself, violently screaming, “No! NOOOOOOO!”

  Water met his bottom lip now. He tried to hoist himself up to the top of the metal skull, but he could gain no headway in his stirrups. He lifted his head and took the deepest breath he could, sucking in the remaining air within his watery, metallic tomb.

  Water finally reached his hair line, and reality set in. Hyperventilating, he wasn’t able to suck in as much oxygen as he needed. He could already feel his body pulsate for more air as water filled the entire warmonger. This time there was no Catastrophic Emergency Plan. This time, he had finally lost. An unnatural grimace graced his face. His lungs, his body, screamed for air. He pounded the inside of the machine, feeling the hollow thuds beat his waterlogged eardrums. The red cabin light began to flicker ever so slightly. Sparkling crystals formed at the periphery of his eyesight and seemed to eerily float all around him. Was he already seeing things?

  Yes. Yes, he was. Now he saw a human eyeball staring at him through the intact viewport. The eyeball blinked. The sound of metal hitting metal was followed by watery hinges creaking and echoing loudly in his tomb. Now he was hearing things. A great black, round hole opened just below his chest.

  This is it. This is it. That black hole below him would open wider and consume him. Soon, he would be ushered to what he hoped would be heaven, but in all likelihood, a terrifying hell. This was it.

  A metal hand reached in through the darkness and grabbed him. It snagged his shirt and pulled him forward. Pulled him into the darkness.

  The Witchdoctor

  April 3, 1915

  King’s Arms Apartments

  Harlem, New York City

  Dr. Victor Mamba sat in his chair listening to the wind, rain, and pliable tree branches brush the arched windows of his third-story apartment. Only a few candles kept the room from total darkness. Dr. Mamba took another sip of his cognac and savored the sweet oak flavor as it coated his palate in liquid velvet. The classic delight was a gift from E.J. Delacroix, a small token of the judge’s appreciation for designing and perfecting the lethal sulphur-based gas meant for the warfront to blister enemy soldiers and liquefy their morale. The stipend Dr. Mamba received also paid for the modest apartment he now resided in, a place where he could hide away for a spell and, as Delacroix put it, “blend in with the other negroes.”

  He would need to light more candles to enjoy the book that sat in his lap. His fingers tapped lightly on the leather-bound cover of Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. Although he would have much preferred Dumas’ Count of Monte Cristo, one good revenge story would pass the time as easily as another.

  After finishing his cognac, he set his book and glass down on the small table next to him. He rose from his chair, the only comfortable piece of furniture in the apartment, and shuffled across the threadbare rug onto untreated wood planks, making his way to the small writing bureau where his bottle of gifted cognac sat among strewn parchments. He grabbed a box of matches and the cognac bottle by its neck, giving it a swirl and noting the amber tail clung to the innards of the glass before sliding back down to join the rest of the barrel-aged concoction. Dr. Mamba snickered. His whole life had been about chemistry. His whole life had been a study of the unseen. Atoms that made elements, elements that made molecules, molecules that bonded and blended with other molecules creating poisonous pastes, lethal gases, and sometimes, delicious cognac.

  He understood the properties that made up his favorite spirit. He even understood the process of the subsequent inebriation. But to him, there was still something magical about cognac. As if it were distilled by ancient alchemists rather than savvy distillers.

  He started back to his chair but stopped when he heard a tap at the nearby window, like someone had thrown a stone from below. Dr. Mamba changed course to the window and pulled up the shade. A flash of lightning silhouetted the large sweetgum tree outside his window. The ensuing thunder finally caught up and shook his entire hideaway. He gazed upon West 133rd Street, watching as some unlucky chap tried to shield himself from the rain with an already drenched newspaper. He snickered again and drew the shade.

  He poured another glass of cognac into his snifter and set the bottle down. After lighting the candelabra on the end table, he brought the snifter to his nose and inhaled the delectable smells of … there it was again.

  With snifter in hand, he retreated once again to the window and pulled up the shade. West 133rd Street was barren. He saw nothing but quickly accumulating puddles and dark, swaying trees. Dr. Mamba took another sip of cognac and drew the curtain once again.

  He finally took his seat, leaning to one side and crossing his legs. He opened Titus Andronicus. Act I Scene I. The Roman Emperor has died and his two sons, Saturninus and Bassianus, are arguing over who will succeed their father.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, hearing the tap again. He rose from his seat and stomped to the window, determined to solve the mystery. He raised the shade again.

  He saw two flaring yellow eyes. A shadowed demon was staring at him, crouched directly outside his window. Lightning flashed, revealing the demon’s pale blue face behind tangles of raven hair. It was a gargoyle facing the wrong way and fixed with a snarl that would not only ward away evil spirits, but consume them entirely.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mamba sputtered. “Jesus bloody Christ!” He dropped his snifter on the floor and stumbled backward, catching a foot on the rug and falling to the ground. The gargoyle continued to stare.

  Dr. Mamba scampered on his hands and knees to his writing bureau and pulled open the only drawer. He fumbled inside and grabbed the pocket revolver. He aimed at the window and fired all four shots.

  Smoke rose from his small gun as he lay on the ground. He could hear the wind whistling through the four holes now punctured in the window, but he saw no demon. No gargoyle. He breathed heavy. “Jesus.” He reached a free hand over to the drawer and felt around to find four more rounds. His nervous hands could load only three.

  With his revolver still trained on the window, he rose to his feet and took cautious steps forward. Finally peering out the window, he saw nothing but the still-empty street, swaying trees, and the sound of the pouring rain.

  The demon crashed through the window.

  Dr. Mamba fired blindly as shards of glass whirled about him. He turned and ran for the door, screaming as he did. That’s when he felt a sharp pain in his calf that crippled him, dropping him to the floor. His instincts told him to keep crawling for the door, but his curiosity made him check his leg. An enormous hunting knife was buried in the meat of his calf and sunk into bone. Dr. Mamba screamed again as he looked up and saw the demon by his plush chair. It grabbed the bottle of cognac, took a swig. Then, sti
ll holding the neck of the bottle, it smashed it on the table.

  The demon walked on the balls of its bare feet, making no sound as it traversed the rug and raw wood.

  “Stay away from me. STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Dr. Mamba shouted, finally recognizing the feral woman. The one from Haiti. The one from the Knickerbocker Hospital. “Please! Stay away!” He held up the empty revolver.

  Her hips swayed like a stalking tigress, and when she got close enough, she kicked away his revolver and mounted him in one fluid motion. She placed one hand on his chest, pinning him the floor. She held the jagged end of the broken cognac bottle to his throat, and leaned in close, nearly nose-to-nose with the infamous Witchdoctor. He could smell her animal breath, the distinct smell of rotting food inextricably wedged between her teeth.

  “Please! Don’t!” he pleaded.

  She sniffed him repeatedly, then snapped her excited saffron eyes to his. “You. Dangerous. Man,” she said slowly.

  “No. No,” Dr. Mamba pleaded once more.

  Pani plunged the jagged bottle into his neck and twisted.

  As blood pulsed from his neck, Dr. Mamba could only think about the unseen. The oxygen that would fail to be delivered to his brain because the red blood cells tasked with delivering it were now pooling on the floorboards beneath him. He closed his eyes and embraced his last breaths—the simple, unseen chemical exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide.

  Pani stood over the dead man. She pulled the knife from his leg and wiped it on his trousers before placing it back in the sheath that hung from her belt.