Night Legions

by Jeremy Flagg

  NIGHT LEGIONS

  CHILDREN OF NOSTRADAMUS, BOOK 3

  Jeremy Flagg

  Copyright

  Series Info

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  ISBN: 0-9989282-4-0

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9989282-4-1

  Copyright © 2018 Jeremy Flagg

  All rights reserved.

  Book design by Jeremy Flagg.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons— living or dead— is entirely coincidental.

  Children of Nostradamus Series

  Book 0

  Morning Sun

  Book 1

  Nighthawks

  Book 2

  Night Shadows

  Book 3

  Night Legions

  Book 4

  Night Covenants

  (2019)

  This book is dedicated to the awesome ladies who keep me entertained while writing. I promise, there’s a rugged Scotsman coming soon. Also to Meenaz Lodhi, sorry your birthday present is late!

  I must acknowledge the support of many who without their help this book wouldn’t exist. First I must thank the support of the Metrowest Writers who make me interact with humans every Wednesday. Thank you to my editor, Therese Arkenberg and beta reader Ken McWilliams. Special shoutout to Trish Heinrich who frequently checks in to make sure I haven’t lost my sanity.

  CHAPTER ONE

  2033

  Conthan was their God.

  In a former Catholic church, nearly a hundred people prepared to surrender themselves to the priest of a new era. The pews creaked and groaned as parishioners eased to the edge of their seats in anticipation of another sermon claiming that the Children of Nostradamus were gods among men. He was supposed to be their god, but with his hoodie pulled over his head, shrouding his face in shadows, Conthan felt anything but godly.

  “The titans of the new era walk among us.”

  The man’s voice boomed, carrying across the room as if he spoke with a microphone. The curvature of the church amplified his deep bass proclamation. The priest was unfamiliar to Conthan, a common occurrence with the growing popularity of the Church of Nostradamus. Or their desperation, he thought to himself.

  “Transformed by powers beyond our understanding, Children of Nostradamus, we surrender ourselves to their divine presence.”

  “We surrender,” the crowd replied.

  He envied their ability to surrender. As they lowered their heads, a hush filled the room. To his right, a gentleman knelt, perching his elbows on the back of the pew before him as he clasped his hands. The man’s eyes clenched shut, as if his dedication might leak from his eyes otherwise. The quiver of his lip and his nails biting into the top of his knuckles made Conthan wonder what brought the man here. His clothing and clean-shaven face left him looking rather average, providing no clues.

  Conthan lowered his head with finger intertwined. The priest started as they always did, urging the congregation to admit they were powerless in their lives. Once accepted, they could begin believing there were powers in effect far greater than them. The postulating man stepped from behind the pulpit and descended the stairs, walking down the aisle.

  “Nostradamus predicted these movers of the earth, benders of air, and creators of fire. While they walk beside us, we will not lose faith in our tomorrow.”

  “There is no yesterday,” the crowd responded.

  “May Nostradamus have predicted our prayers.”

  “So he sees,” he concluded.

  The customary pause for parishioners to beseech Nostradamus followed. “Please, Nostradamus,” the man to Conthan's right whispered. “She won’t survive the night. I don’t know if you can hear me…”

  The desperation in his voice, even at a whisper, spoke volumes. Tears ran down his face as prayed for a miracle. The dedication to this mysterious woman caught Conthan’s attention and he found himself eavesdropping on the man’s speech with God.

  “I’ll do anything, whatever…” The man sobbed softly as he attempted to sweeten the divine bribe. Somewhere, somebody was dying, and here, praying to Nostradamus, this man hoped anybody could save his love. Conthan averted his eyes, wanting to ignore the man’s pleas. Vanessa once mentioned a woman capable of speeding up cell regeneration; if she were here, she’d answer his prayers.

  A small part of Conthan wanted to stand up and demonstrate his abilities. The congregation might whoop and holler, perhaps even fall to their knees praying to him. He wanted to get their attention before telling them he was nothing more than a cosmic fluke. He wanted them to realize Children were not gods. He wanted them to stand up for themselves. He wanted…

  The priest’s hand rested softly on Conthan’s shoulder. The teleporter didn’t turn to the “holy” man. Instead, he took stock of the exits. To the sacristy behind the pulpit, out the narthex's double doors, perhaps leaping through the boarded-up window—none of the exits would let him leave without attention. The flight response calmed as the hand gave him a gentle squeeze, more reaffirming than predatory. When Conthan dared to look up, the man’s brown eyes held compassion.

  Conthan hadn’t believe compassion existed in this world anymore. The fatigue of being hunted day after day, trying to survive, took its toll. From the moment Jed handed him Eleanor’s dying words, his world had shattered and reformed into something dark. It had started as a gift, the ability to tear open space and time, but with each lost battle, the gift transformed into a curse. The death of Dav5d, the disappearance of Vanessa, the abandonment of Jasmine, each blow added boulders to the weight bearing down on him, a weight he never asked for.

  Months ago, he spent his evenings waging a one-man war against a synthetic army. Now, each day, fury edged closer to despair. At each step, he attempted to do what was right, attempted to step into the grand role his powers demanded. Long after he died, he wanted people to remember him as a man who made a difference. He found himself doubting his immortalization. Could he be the only person without faith? Even the man quietly begging for divine intervention believed in him, but like each time before, even with this uncanny ability, Conthan found himself helpless.

  The priest’s hand slid along his shoulder until a finger hooked his hood, pulling it back. The media plastered Conthan's face on every big screen, announcing him one of the most wanted terr
orists in the United States. The priest’s eyes didn’t give away any recognition, instead maintaining that look of tenderness. The depth, the way his eyes reflected a pain, a knowledge—Conthan had only seen eyes like those once before.

  “Vanessa?” he whispered.

  “I will have enough faith for us both,” the priest said quietly.

  Are you…

  The priest turned, addressing his flock. “The world is failing. We live under the iron rule of tyrants who usurp power for their own machinations. We, the people of the street, we fall victims. But we are not victims!”

  Conthan wiped his eyes, finding the man’s offering of faith exactly what he needed to hear in a moment of self-doubt. The priest managed to strike a chord. He would not be a victim.

  “Nostradamus himself would find this state of affairs staggering. But the prophet is not alone. We do not rely on the divinity of the Children to pull us from the fires. They will not save us.” The man’s declaration held the audience in a gasp. In a church filled with believers, they found his statement appalling. One woman cried out, “Blasphemy.”

  “They will not save us,” he repeated. “They will inspire us. We own the future before us. We are not victims, we are the underdogs. We do not go quietly. We, the people of the street, we will stand against oppression. We will show the Children we are worthy of their absolution.”

  “He sees,” several people shouted.

  “He does see.” The priest turned enough to cast a downward glance.

  Conthan’s chest tingled as emotion surged about his heart. A rush along his skin sent the hair on the back of his neck reaching for the heavens.

  Each day grew darker. The world closed in tighter, squeezing the breath from his lungs. There were days when he cursed Jed for handing him that letter and Eleanor for writing it.

  Within, hidden behind organs, he imagined a well built from loose stones. In the murky scene, the well bubbled to the brim with black liquid, thick like oil. The image gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. He visualized himself approaching the well leaning over the edge, staring at his shiny reflection.

  A cool chill spread through his hand as his fingers sank into the opaque liquid. The black crept up his arm. The first time he visualized the well, the liquid had shocked him by taking on a life of its own. Fear retreated as he affirmed his belief in his power. Unlike Dwayne or Skits whose powers had a scientific explanation, he defied science, acting as a conduit. The power rushed along his body until it pulsed beneath the surface of his skin.

  Conthan reached out to the man next to him in the pew, resting his chilly hand on his shoulder. It pained him to know he could do nothing to help the man’s loved one. If he knew where the healer from Boston relocated, he could teleport them here, but without Vanessa and Dav5d, the knowledge was lost. The only thing he could do was console the man.

  “What are you…”

  Conthan opened his eyes. Their blackness, the byproduct of surrendering to his abilities, skewed the colors in the church. The man's jaw went slack. His hand covered his mouth, trying to contain his awe at seeing a Child.

  “I see you,” Conthan whispered. He slid his hand to the man’s neck and pulled his forehead against his own. The man started to sob again, the experience overwhelming him. “Have faith,” Conthan whispered in his ear. The parishioner nodded slowly.

  Pulling the hood over his head to shield his eyes, Conthan got up from the pew and started to walk toward the narthex. The power in his body itched to open a portal, the sensation of insects crawling along his skin.

  “And we will stand by them as the war grows, both in the world and in their hearts,” the priest’s voice boomed.

  Conthan reached the door as the congregation clapped and cheered at the statement. Months had passed since he had been declared Public Enemy Number One. Cut off from his past life, he felt lost in the madness, with no anchor to hold him during a troubling storm. The expression on the parishioner’s face, the faith he held, the devotion to an idea—Conthan clung to the momentary peace.

  As the portal in the lobby snapped into place, he imagined the smallest flame burning in chest. The Church of Nostradamus provided him something he thought he’d lost: hope.

  * * * * *

  The gears making up Twenty-Seven’s hand whined as the hydraulics whirred to life. The tips of her carbon steel fingertips wrenched the lock securing the gate. The cast iron resisted. She shouldered the rusted bars and the entire obstacle fell to the ground in a loud crash. Any attempts at being stealthy in the dark tunnel were long past.

  She couldn’t hear the machines chasing her, but she knew they wouldn’t be far behind.

  As she bolted, the tunnel narrowed. Every so often specks of light shone down from above, shafts of illumination sneaking through the manhole covers. Even in a Sanctuary city like Chicago, moving through the streets when you were a criminal proved difficult. The sewers offered a safer way to travel unnoticed. Apparently, Twenty-Seven wasn’t the only one with that idea. Synthetics in scouring the underbelly of Chicago meant trouble.

  The moon wouldn’t be enough for the average person to see. Without her contacts providing night vision, she’d be a sitting duck. Even so, while fumbling with her pack she stumbled on uneven ground. She reached into the pack draped across her shoulders and scoured for a small box.

  Now she heard the familiar scraping down the corridor.

  After sticking the box to the wall, she flipped a switch, causing a small red light to blink. She continued running, the stomping of metal feet on cement closing in. A break in the stench reached her nostrils. If she continued running, she’d reach the tunnel dumping into Lake Michigan near the Navy Pier.

  An explosion filled the tunnel, the pressure threatening to knock her to the ground. They had run by the motion sensor. The trick worked once, twice if they were moving quickly. Hopefully there weren’t many more behind her. Her rifle hadn’t survived the initial attack; a synthetic ripped the weapon out of her hands. She liked to pretend she could go hand to hand with the synthetics, but despite her robotic parts, she remained a fragile human.

  The tunnel turned right. She thanked the creators of the underground network. Bullets chipped away at the wall behind as she ran on, her legs pumping at full speed. It couldn’t be much longer before the tunnel emptied out. She didn’t want to be in the water, but it seemed to be one of the rare places the synthetics refused to follow.

  Light.

  Twenty-Seven couldn’t swim anymore. It had taken her months to learn the limitations a prosthetic metal arm presented. She had more strength, but the moment she hit water, the arm acted like dead weight. Without the ability to fully rotate that limb, plus the extra forty pounds, she had difficulty keeping herself afloat. She hoped the water didn’t get deep fast. Dying from Mother Nature didn’t sound any better than being riddled full of bullets from giant tin cans.

  The light grew brighter as she neared the end of the tunnel. The synthetic behind her attempted to round the corner, but the heap of deadly circuits crashed off the wall as it turned. If they paused for a moment to fire, they stood a chance of landing a shot. With the last few steps, she closed her eyes and hurled herself out of the tunnel in a tight ball.

  “Incoming!” she yelled.

  The moment the wind stopped moving past her face, she knew reinforcements had arrived. Her body jerked as an invisible force pulled her straight up. She landed on the seawall overlooking the massive body of water.

  The tunnel underneath them collapsed and the synthetics were either trapped under rock and rubble or stuck inside the sewers. Twenty-Seven rolled onto her back, taking a moment to appreciate the full moon hanging in the sky.

  The face of an elderly woman blocked out the moon. Its halo made her red and white hair appear angelic.

  “That’s why we don’t split up,” Ariel said.

  Twenty-Seven didn’t want to move. Her heart beat hard enough that she wondered if she’d feel her mechanical arm going nu
mb from a heart attack. She tried to stay fit, but if she was going to keep encountering synthetics, she needed more cardio in her workout. Thankfully the machines didn’t move any faster or she’d be a bloody heap in the sewers underneath Chicago.

  “We should move,” Ariel insisted.

  Ariel had to be thirty years her senior, the white hair starting to outnumber the red. Moonlight emphasized the lines on the woman’s face while her eyes appeared to retreat further into their sockets. Twenty-Seven knew underneath the black trench coat, the woman’s body defied her age, with muscles pulled tight, making her the better athlete of the two.

  “It’s past curfew, we need to move before the militia comes out. Jasmine is going to start wondering what happened to us.”

  Twenty-Seven couldn’t argue with that logic. The woman had a sagely quality about her, almost always speaking with a certainty that made every wrinkle seem earned. Twenty-Seven sat up, pushing off the ground until they were eye to eye. Yes, even the scar down the woman’s cheek and neck told a story about a very real struggle. And yet, each day, they operated as the rally point for refugees, helping them escape into Canada.

  “She’s going to be pissed she didn’t get to break things,” Twenty-Seven said.

  “She’ll have more opportunities,” Ariel said.

  The seawall took a beating as waves crashed into it. Twenty-Seven appreciated the smell of water, but something smelled off, almost as if the waters were rancid. The sulfur in the air meant a storm was coming from the east, bringing with it whatever toxicity emitted from New England.

  “How many synthetics do you think are left?” asked Twenty-Seven.

  Ariel shrugged. “There seem to be more and more. We need to keep moving.”

  “The militia isn’t coming here.” She waved her hands to the wreckage of Navy Pier in the distance. “I’m surprised that place is still standing.”