Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

by Jinn, Bo

  “You are sick again?”

  She stopped coughing and sniffled.

  “No. I’m alright, really…”

  But a second later, she once again burst into fierce coughing, and he held her little head close to him. When the coughing stopped, he lifted her head up. The moonstone eyes were drooping and pale and her little cheeks were sallow.

  “You are not alright,” he said.

  “I am a little tired,” she croaked.

  He cradled her in his arms and stood up.

  “Back a’ready?” said Duke, when he emerged from under the arching trees.

  “We should go.”

  The rear shutter rose again. He laid Naomi back down on the padded bedding among the pile of mannequins and stacked up the cargo to make sure she was securely hidden before he drew the bed sheet over her. She appeared to have fallen asleep.

  The doors shut and the truck started up again and they started slowly down the rough dirt roads.

  “Wit’s wrong with her?” asked old Duke.

  “Fatigue … She is prone to illness. She needs her medicine.”

  He had been trying to wean her off over the last month, but it appeared she was more vulnerable than he had first thought. He was anxious to get her home.

  They descended from the highlands and were soon back on the main route to the inner metropolis and re-entering the checkpoint tunnels. Three green flashes and the automatic voice came over the intercom:

  “Attention: Please proceed to…”

  “Ah, bugger off!” Duke slammed his fist on the speaker. “Here we go again,” he grunted.

  The truck veered left down into the security deviation and they were back at the security gates. The guard lights flashed again and they stopped before the red-light gates. Duke was about to unbuckle his seat belt…

  “Wait here,” said Saul. “I will go.”

  He thrust the door open and shut.

  “This vehicle checked out less than two hours ago,” said one of the awaiting SGs.

  “Short commute,” he said, striking the switch on the side of the truck.

  The SGs climbed onto the carriage as the shutter was still rising, torchlights on.

  He crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the edge of the truck rear, making his best efforts to seem casual. His eyes dawdled from corner to corner. Rush hour was in full swing and the traffic was mounting at the checkpoints. Two juggernaut transporters carrying a fresh consignment in from some neighbouring metropolis rolled into the gates on either side. SG teams got to work straightway scanning martial IDs. Each gate got through a vehicle a minute and the clamour resonated throughout the cavernous space, setting him on edge. He lit a cigarette.

  Five minutes passed. What was taking so long?

  He inched his line of sight over the corner of the open rear, peering over his shoulder back into the carriage. When the torch lights passed over the mannequins, it elicited the same interest as before, but it quickly subsided, much to his relief. Then, one of the SGs suddenly stopped. The circle of torchlight was over the heavy crates at the far back.

  “What’s in the boxes?” he heard one voice speak

  “Looks like more of the same,” replied the other.

  “Get them open.”

  He could just about see them, deep inside the hold, inches away from where the prostate mannequins were stacked on top of each other, partially concealed by bedding. The SGs were conversing, but the interfering noise made it impossible to hear. Then his pulse soared when a trailing step brushed against the bedding draped over the mannequin torsos. The container shutter clanked open and kicked up a smog. Their lights flashed over the inside of the boxes.

  “Looks clean…”

  The torch lights went out and his racing heart yielded when the SGs turned to make their way back out. Then, just as he was about to breathe a final sigh of relief…

  “…Wait.”

  One of the SGs halted just before the lip of the deck.

  “What is it?”

  “You hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  That’s what he wanted to know. He shut his eyes and listened closely, and a few seconds later … he heard it. The fateful sound was just loud enough to creep through the clamour. His eyes flared wide.

  Coughs – constant and irrepressible coughs.

  “Get back here.”

  When he heard the order, he turned at once and looked back into the carriage and the lights flashing about the back of the cargo hold.

  Naomi!

  “Wait right there,” said one of the Guards.

  The one who gave the order immediately started shifting through the cargo whilst the other hung back with his back turned, gun ready.

  It was all happening fast. Too fast. One mannequin hurled across the carriage and then another and another, leaving no time to deliberate. His judgments swirled in a maelstrom of panic and instinct took over. He noted the line of sight of the surveillance cameras and glanced down both sides of the truck. A current pumped into his limbs and all the emotion allayed to a deathly calm

  He quietly lifted himself onto the deck. The blade slipped out of his coat and he snaked forward, body low.

  When the first Guard was roused by a presence, he turned and looked up just in time to see the blade shimmer. A short, sharp convulsing noise came out from the amp the instant before the blade ripped through his gear. The blood poured from the vents in the mask, blade hilt-deep in the throat, he pulled the Guard toward him in a death embrace, wrapped his other arm around the back of the head and pulled back with such force that the whole body followed the skull in a snapping twist and the first body fell, dead and silent.

  In the midst of the surrounding clamor, the second Guard had no idea what had befallen his comrade until he pulled the bed sheet off the stack of mannequins, and one of the little pale figures was lying on its back, staring right back up at him – alive.

  “It’s a girl,” the SG gasped and turned. “It’s a…”

  Before he could reach for his gun, he was flattened against the walls of the cargo hold: lungs locked, the shaft of the blade clean through his spine, and out the back of the neck. His body went limp, his hands drooped off the arms of his killer and what little light there was a second ago disappeared forever.

  Saul looked down, and Naomi’s eyes gaped back at him in the light of the fallen torch.

  “Look away!” he growled.

  She buried her head in the bedding just as the blade pulled out and the blood sprayed all over him and the carriage floor, seeping through the bedding in thick blotches. The corpse fell almost automatically in his arms and he dragged the body behind the stacks of cargo at once and laid it down. He dragged the second body out of sight before anyone on the outside could see. He stood, panting in shock as the rush after the kill came back in a flood.

  When the brief aftermath passed, his attention shifted immediately. He rushed over to the shaking mound underneath the bedding. His bloody hands shook over her. He could feel her quivering beneath the sheets and when the blood dripped from his hands onto her, he withdrew. He heard her whimper and shake. The blood seeped through the covers.

  He stood and regarded his hands and his coat, drenched in blood. The stream of thought that followed came in a sequence of chilling intuition: He removed the coat and wiped his bloody hands off. He opened a jug of spirit and poured it out on his hands, splashed it on his face until the jug was emptied, then threw the coat in a bundle in the corner. He checked one of the corpses, remembering the exact location of the activator for the security gate above the left chest plate of the gear, pressed it.

  There were two rapid beeps and the lights over the gate outside went green.

  He climbed down from the carriage deck, punched the shutter switch, and as the shutter was still lowering, he ran the scanner over the registration plates, then gripped the edge of the plate and pried it off discretely with a sharp tug and crack, always looking around to make sure
no one was looking. He held the plate close and concealed, and hugged the side of the truck until he reached the passenger door. He pulled the door open, climbed up and slammed it shut.

  “Drive,” he ordered immediately.

  Duke lurched.

  “Whaur the ‘ell…” He glared from the registration plate to the blood stains on his shirt. “…Whit – the – fuck happen’…”

  “Drive – NOW.”

  Duke slammed the truck in gear and the light over the gate flashed red in the side mirrors as the truck rolled forward and back onto the motorway to inner Sodom.

  Nothing was said for a long while, but Duke would tear his eyes away from the street intermittently to regard him.

  “Why the hell ye got blood on ye?” he growled, glaring at the road ahead. The shadows of severity formed over his eyes

  “There are two bodies in the back of the truck…”

  Duke’s eyes flared up.

  “They were going to find her,” he said.

  “Deid!”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Shite, shite, shite.” The heavy hands beat at the wheel with each curse. “Shite, shite!”

  “No one saw anything…”

  “There’s two bleedin’ SGs in the back of my truck…”

  “They did not scan the vehicle registration,” he continued to explain as Duke mumbled to himself, “The plates have been removed so city surveillance cannot trace you. Hundreds of trucks like this come and go every day.”

  Duke’s chest began to heave and fall and the muscles of his boxed jaw bulged above his gritted teeth. For a moment he slowed the truck down, as if the thought of stopping had crossed his mind, but there was nothing he could do except keep driving on.

  “Leave the truck in a low surveillance area for now,” he instructed. “We will figure out what to do with the bodies later.”

  “…This isna happenin’.”

  Nothing more was said between them for the rest of the drive. An angry brood swelled in the old Duke’s grey eyes each passing minute as he kept his scowl fixed forward.

  They broke off from the traffic on Orion Avenue and onto 4th Street. The truck came to a grinding stop in front of Grove Towers and reversed roughly into the narrow side alley. The truck stopped. The engine switched off.

  “Git out”

  “Call me when it is done…”

  “Git the gir’l, and git – out,” Duke rumbled.

  After a long silence, he complied with a contrite bow of the head.

  He will call, he thought, he has to.

  He nudged the passenger door open and exited the truck, shut the door, hit the shutter switch and climbed up into the carriage. Naomi was still buried under the bedding, shaking. He laid his hand on her shoulder and removed the sheet.

  “Come,” he said, as soon as the frightened little face appeared from under the covers. “Put your head against me. Close your eyes.”

  “Saul…”

  “Do not look,” he said, pressing her head against his chest.

  The corpses had slumped and were lying prostrate in puddles of blood across the deck between the stacks of cargo. He stepped over the bodies and gore, picked up the bloodied, bundled coat and put the dry side over her as he descended from the deck. The shutter clanked shut, the engine started up and the truck, and Duke, were gone.

  “Keep quiet,” he whispered.

  Footsteps echoed down the stairwells from below just as they passed the seventh floor; -- three walkers leaving the building after a night’s work. When they reached the top, he put Naomi down, bundled up the coat and pressed his face up to the iris scanner. The flash of blue in his right eye was followed by the click of the unlocking door; he pushed the door open and froze as soon as they crossed the brink.

  “…Hello, Martial Vartanian.”

  Standing in the middle of the hall was the silhouette of a figure in black, obscured by the bright morning shine against the backdrop. The tall, heavy shapes of four SGs were on either side of him.

  He reeled back at once, shielding Naomi on instinct.

  The obscure figure stepped forward, and the beady gaze and vinyl face emerged from the shadows … Eastman.

  “You…” he growled.

  “S – Saul…” Naomi hugged onto the backs of his legs, peeking out at the five dark figures. “Who are they?” she trembled.

  He drew the blade and the SGs raised their guns in rapid response. The long and silent standoff lasted until the moment Eastman held up his hand, and the SGs cautiously lowered their guns. The commissioner took one deliberate step forward, then stopped and considered him -- silent, motionless, dispassionate, as one would a wild and cornered animal, his stare drifting calculatingly over the bloodstains.. The blade gleamed chrome and crimson in the light. After a long, guarded silence, the cold, calm, effeminate voice spoke: “Before you make any rash decisions, you should listen to what I have to say.”

  He looked from Eastman to each of the SGs. There was no way they could know about what had just happened. It was too soon. They had not come for him.

  “You are here to take her,” he snarled.

  “I am here to help you.”

  Eastman stepped forward again.

  “I will not let you take her,” he said.

  “I am a martial servant, not an enforcer.” Eastman motioned toward the Guards. “They will take the girl away. I am here in my capacity as your counsel, to tell you not to get in their way.”

  “Get BACK!” he roared as two of the Guards stepped forward.

  “Do as he says,” Eastman commanded.

  One of the SGs rejoined, “We have orders…”

  “Your only charge, gentlemen, is to serve and protect martial order and may I remind you that my client is a martial of the highest caste,” Eastman rejoined rapidly, then eyed the Guards over his shoulder. “:You are aware of the consequences should any harm come upon him through your own fault.”

  The SGs exchanged guarded looks, stepped back and lowered their weapons.

  “You must trust me, Martial Vartanian,” Eastman said, taking another daring step forward. “I am not the one who betrayed you…”

  The shaking blade stilled. His eyes centred warily on the commissioner.

  “Betrayed…”

  Eastman stopped six feet in front of him, raised his head, and the vacant look in his eyes alone imparted his purpose. Saul’s blood congealed to ice.

  “Celyn,” he muttered.

  The commissioner bowed his head.

  “She revealed everything before they cleaned her,” he said.

  There was silence.

  “You are lying.”

  “I would tell you to ask her yourself, but she would not remember you even if you could. Martial Knight no longer exists.”

  Eastman’s words would not sink in. It could not be true. It could not.

  “They have their orders, Martial,” Eastman continued. “They will not leave this place without the child.”

  Naomi pressed tightly against him. Her fear increased his wrath. He wanted to kill them – every last one of them. He would destroy Sodom – the whole martial world – if he could. But he couldn’t. He could not put her life at risk.

  “Bloodshed will solve nothing,” said Eastman. “It is no use fighting this. You know that. The hearing dates have already been set…”

  “I will not let you take her away,” he reasserted.

  “We won’t,” Eastman averred, shaking his head. “The girl’s fate will be resolved in martial court. Until then, she will remain in Sodom.”

  “Where?”

  “That I do not know. And neither will you, until this is resolved.”

  He fell quiet again – a passive, submissive quiet.

  “She will be safe,” Eastman reiterated. “You have my word.”

  His promise was worth nothing. But he had no choice. There was no escape. He fought against every riling impulse to lower his fist. The hopeless blade slipped from his limp
grip and he hung his head. As soon as the blade fell, two of the guards came forward.

  Naomi shrunk away.

  “S-Saul…”

  “I am sorry, little one,” he whispered

  One of the SGs grabbed her roughly by the arm and a short, sharp squeal of fright sparked his blood like acetone. Powerless, he shut his eyes and compressed his fists as they carried her away. The girl’s tear-filled eyes sought him and he heard her weep his name right up until the moment the door opened and closed, and she was gone.

  He raised his head again.

  Eastman remained where he was, his vague and beady stare probing him from head to toe.

  “You have blood on you,” he said.

  Silence.

  “Martial Vartanian … If there is something else I should know, now is the time to say it.”

  The silence continued. A moment later, it was broken.

  His cell started to ring…

  BOOK III

  FULL CIRCLE

  III

  The pandemonium in Capitol Plaza was audible until the bounds of the city, even in the most secluded boroughs and alcoves. All along the dusk-concealed street of one such borough, the eight-star phoenix of the Eden Accord swayed, sparkled and shimmered -- on hologram billboards and bright banners hanging from corner to corner and window to window of jagged, terraced, corrugated old buildings.

  Though it was only just past noon, a mist had dulled the sky to ash-grey and the flyover which ran directly overhead cast its shadow over the borough, impeding what little light was left. The rain came in rising rhythm, thin at first and then growing from patters to drumbeats.

  On the edge of a footway on that narrow, dusky street, there stood an ancient figure in archaic wears -- a long black coat with a high collar over his face. A marbled fist tightened over the grip of the cane on which his weight was precariously perched. And he stood, gazing around, receiving his surroundings like a new arrival to the world. His sights stopped high and afore, in the direction of the distant blares from Capitol Plaza.