by Sam Sisavath
The Spears of Laconia
Copyright © 2015 by Sam Sisavath
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published by Road to Babylon Media LLC
Visit www.roadtobabylon.com for news, updates, and announcements
Edited by Jennifer Jensen and Wendy Chan
Cover Art by Creative Paramita
Formatting by BB eBooks
Books in the Babylon Series (Reading Order)
The Purge of Babylon: A Novel of Survival
The Gates of Byzantium
The Stones of Angkor
The Walls of Lemuria (Keo Book #1)
The Fields of Lemuria (Keo Book #2)
The Fires of Atlantis
The Ashes of Pompeii
The Isles of Elysium
The Spears of Laconia
Also by the Author
Hunter/Prey
The Shadow Operators
Sometimes you have to make a stand.
They’ve been relentlessly hounded ever since The Purge decimated the world, and every day since has been a struggle to stay one step ahead of the enemy.
Keo has returned, claiming to have information that can turn the tide of war against the ghouls. Lara wants nothing more than to strike back, but she has other problems: Will has yet to make contact, and a team she’s sent on an important mission has gone off the radar.
Meanwhile, Texas becomes a battlefield as a new force rises to challenge the rule of the ghouls and their human collaborators. Led by a mysterious leader, this new threat has the firepower to cripple the enemy, but their cure might be worse than the disease.
Caught between two destructive forces, Lara, Keo, and their friends will have to make a choice—fall in line or forge their own path—before the decision is made for them.
A year after The Purge, any chance of victory will rest on the tips of the Spears, and those fearless enough to wield them…
BOOK ONE
‡
REST YOUR WEARY HEAD
CHAPTER 1
FRANK
“YOU CAN’T WIN.”
He ignored the voice. It had become easier with time, and like everything else about his new existence—this thing he called life after death (Re-life?)—it was about balancing acceptance with resistance, trying to hold onto the past while not neglecting the present. Because the here and now was where the danger lurked; it was also here that the answer to the future was within his grasp.
“You must know that by now. After all you’ve seen, all you’ve learned.”
There was something odd about the voice these last few weeks, a guarded hesitation that hadn’t been there when it first spoke to him in the early days. It wasn’t fear—no, he wouldn’t go that far—but it didn’t sound nearly as certain as it once had been, either.
“She understood. Why did you think she came over? She opened the door, remember?”
Yes, he remembered. Kate had opened the door, dooming them. Almost.
Whatever happened to Kate?
Oh, that’s right. He had killed her, that night outside the gas station. How long ago now? He couldn’t remember at the moment, but it would come to him. It always did, eventually.
“Talk to me.”
It was growing annoyed, the warning tone of a parent cajoling an uncooperative child while at the same time letting him know that it was losing patience. It wanted him to respond, because that was how it would track him. It had taken him a long time to learn how to erect the barrier inside his mind. But he had adapted. He always did.
Letters. An acronym. SE…something.
Memories came and went, sometimes garbled, other times clear as the crystal blue of her eyes, the glint of the sun against her blonde hair.
It helped to think of her. To concentrate on the smoothness of her skin. He longed to touch her again, to press against and taste her lips…
“Whatever it takes,” he had said, “whatever happens, you won’t have to face another night alone.”
He’d said that to her, one of many unkept promises that haunted his nights and terrorized his days. He’d failed her then, but he could make up for it. He could save her; save everyone.
And all they had to do was find him.
Mabry.
He was the key. The beginning and the end. He was the voice in all their heads. In his head.
Mabry was the one constant. He was the eternal. Everywhere, and nowhere.
“I’ll find you,” Mabry said to him now inside his head. “You can’t run forever.”
He focused on the surrounding blackness, on the things that moved and thrived within the endless folds of darkness that he wouldn’t have been able to see before. They were out there, swarms of them, clear as day—even though he had forgotten what day looked like, or the warmth of the sun against his skin.
They had been on his trail for months now, but their pursuit had increased in intensity in just the last few weeks. It was as if Mabry knew what he was trying to do. Was that possible? Were there holes in his barrier that he hadn’t detected? Was Mabry burrowing around inside his mind this very second?
No. He couldn’t afford this right now, because doubt was the enemy. He had to forge ahead, follow the original plan, because there was no victory without a plan…Z?
It came from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, deep, deep down in that place where pieces of his past slumbered, waiting to be resurrected.
Something about plans. Letters. A through Z…
He shook the jumbled thoughts away. It would come to him later.
Back to the present. Back to the now.
He could smell them all the way up here, the stench of their existence carried upward by the breeze that washed across all the rooftops from the ocean beyond the city limits. He could almost taste it, the bitter salt water against the tip of his tongue, sending strange sensations (fear?) through every inch of his body.
Their dark shapes vanished and reappeared out of office buildings, stores, and apartments. They were little more than tiny dots, like insignificant ants against the moonlit night. He had higher ground and could glimpse the entire city from up here. Safe on his perch, though he knew very well he would never be entirely safe. None of them were, so long as he was out there.
Mabry.
He was the key. The everything and the nothing, the beginning and the end; at once nowhere, and everywhere…
A soft click as the man came out of the rooftop access door and moved across the gravel floor toward him. The attempt at stealth was laudable, but he might as well be dropping firecrackers with every footstep. That, and the aroma of medical ointment over old wounds was impossible to ignore.
The rustling of a thick jacket as the man lay down on his stomach next to him and peered off the edge of the rooftop with a pair of night-vision binoculars. Mist formed in front of his partly covered face with every word, the taste of beef jerky still lingering on his lips even though the man probably couldn’t smell it.
But he could smell it just fine, just as he could hear conversations mu
ltiple floors below or above him, or feel the rough or smooth texture of things without touching them. Everything was hyper-realized, all his senses razor sharp. They were the gifts that came with the curse, that made him more than what he was, though he would forego them all without hesitation if it meant he could be what he once was.
“Can you see them?” the man asked. “They were supposed to have arrived by now.”
“No,” he hissed.
He hated having to talk, hated the noise that came out with every single word. They were just another reminder of what he was. As a result, he tried to say as little as possible, which was difficult because communication with the man was necessary.
“Can you see that far?” the man asked.
“No.”
“I thought you had super everything. I guess laser beams are out of the question, huh?”
He didn’t bother to answer that one.
“You ever get cold?” the man asked.
“No.”
“I guess you wouldn’t. Being both hot and cold. How does that even work, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ever think about it?”
“No.”
It was a lie. He often thought about what the transformation had done to him, but it always ended in frustration. He knew that it did things to him at a cellular level, but the details were beyond his understanding. He was a grunt before, and he was one now. Maybe she would know. Maybe he could ask her when he finally saw her again.
The man adjusted his position, his clothes scratching against the rooftop. “Looks like a party down there. How many?”
“Too many.”
“How the hell do they keep finding us?”
“I don’t know.”
“You?”
“Maybe.”
“Or us?”
“Maybe…”
The man pushed himself up into a sitting position, then opened a pouch along his cargo pants and took out an almost empty bag of beef jerky. He pulled out a stick and chewed (too loud) on it for a moment.
The stink of preserved meat made his nostrils twitch and reminded him that he no longer yearned for food as he once had. There was enough blood (Mabry’s) flowing through him that he could survive for months, maybe even years. When he did thirst, it was easily satisfied with animal blood. Two cows in Louisiana, a pair of horses in Texas…
“You thought this through?” the man said after a while. “You’re not who you once were, you know. What’s to stop the Ranger from shooting first and listening to you never?”
“You’ll convince them.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” A brief pause, with only the man’s soft breathing and calm heartbeat from under his clothes to fill the void. “Did you ever wonder that maybe it’s better for her—for all of them—if they stayed away from Texas?”
“She has to know…”
“So you keep saying, but she’s not the woman you remember.” Another pause. “I’m just saying, this reunion might not work out the way you hope.”
Another stick of jerky, followed by crunching and swallowing.
He looked down at the silhouetted forms racing back and forth below. They were free to roam and explore, to search every hole for him. But, like him, they would soon have to seek shelter, because the sun would be here.
How long had it been since he’d seen the sun? Months. It had been months, even though it felt like centuries.
“You miss it, don’t you?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“You ever tempted to just say ‘Fuck it,’ and stepping into the light, so to speak?”
Tempted? Yes. It was worse in the early days, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a siren’s call beckoning him to let it all go, to let her go. But he couldn’t. He had failed to keep his promises, but he could still save her, even if it meant prolonging this miserable existence.
“Whatever it takes,” he had said, “whatever happens, you won’t have to face another night alone.”
“No,” he hissed.
“I don’t believe you,” the man said.
“Believe what you want.”
“Gee, thanks, I’ll do that.”
Another click as the woman came out to join them. He had smelled her when she was still in the stairwell and heard her soft, careful footsteps from five floors down. Her heartbeat accelerated slightly under her winter clothing as she emerged into the open night, but he knew it wasn’t the cold air—it was the sight of him.
It was why he wore the trench coat when he was around them, with the hoodie covering most of his face, only his eyes peering out from under the frayed brim. It seemed to work with the man, but then the man was an odd one. Weeks later, and the woman was still trying to get used to being around him.
“Did they show up yet?” she whispered to the man. He didn’t know why she was whispering. Up here, the black eyes wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway.
“Don’t know,” the man said.
“He can’t see the ocean from here?”
“Apparently he can’t see that far.”
“Hunh.”
“What I said.”
“What about our other friends?”
“I don’t think they’re going anywhere anytime soon, but they’re definitely tracking us.”
“How?”
“Haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“Well, let me know when you do.”
“That might take a while.”
“Goes without saying.”
The man snorted. “Anything going on downstairs?”
“I didn’t hear anything. We locked all the doors, right?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’m pretty sure we did.”
“You’re always so comforting, Keo.”
“I try.”
The woman leaned over the edge, her short blonde hair moving against the breeze. “Jesus, look at them. If they find us in here…”
“That’s it, positive thoughts,” the man said.
She sighed. “We should have made a run for the beach. They don’t like the water, right?”
“Definitely not.”
“We should have made a run for the beach,” she repeated.
“Lara and the Trident aren’t here yet. We’d just end up waiting for them down there anyway. At least here we have a lot of floors between us and them.”
The woman glanced over at him, brown eyes focusing as if she could make out his face behind the hoodie. “How many?” she asked.
“Too many,” he hissed.
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
“But you can see them down there.”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes…”
The man chuckled. “Chatterbox, this guy.”
*
THE MAN AND woman had names, but it was easier to think of them as just the man and the woman. They were somewhere on the twentieth floor above him, their voices reaching down through the vibrations that traveled along the steel and concrete and glass of the building. Though he couldn’t hear every single word they spoke, he could hear just enough.
“…going to get us killed,” the woman was saying.
“Relax,” the man said.
“‘Relax’?” She might have laughed, but that kind of nuance was lost on its way down the stairwell. “We’re inside a building with a blue-eyed ghoul, Keo. And you want me to relax?”
“You don’t have to be here. Tobias—”
“Screw Tobias.”
“I thought you said there was nothing between the two of you?”
Silence. Then, two seconds later, the woman said, “You’re an asshole.”
The man laughed softly. “So that’s a no?”
“I told you, there was never anything between us.”
“All that time…”
“What about you?”
“What about
me?”
“All that time alone, looking for us. Did you ever…?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you. Even with that ugly scar, there are still plenty of desperate women out there.”
“Ouch,” he said.
This time he was sure she did laugh. “No offense.”
“Oh sure, why should I take offense to that?”
The woman answered, but he had already gotten up and slipped out of the stairwell and into the darkened lobby before her words reached him. He sat inside the shadows, feeling at home among the forgotten relics of an old world.
A stubborn pool of moonlight managed to filter in through the glass walls across from him, the sidewalks and streets on the other side dull and gray. He wasn’t worried about being exposed, because the black eyes had no special ability or heightened senses. But the creatures did have eyes and some measure of intelligence, enough that they could recognize the disturbances in their surroundings.
Dead, not stupid, someone once called them.
Who had said that? He couldn’t remember, but it would come to him eventually. It always did, usually when he least expected it.
Flickers of movement as a dozen of the creatures emerged out of the darkness and moved up the sidewalk. He expected them to keep going past the building, because surely they hadn’t left any clues to their presence outside, had they? He was sure of it, but then one of the black eyes stopped and cocked its head. He realized it was just glaring at its own reflection in the glass wall.
He was relieved, until the skeletal thing moved forward and grabbed the handle of one of the twin glass doors and tried pulling it instead of continuing on its way. The door didn’t budge. Its black eyes looked confused for a moment, and then it tried pulling a few more times.
If it had stopped, that might have been the end of it, except the damn thing seemed suddenly determined to get inside. Its activity attracted the attention of the others, and a second—then a third—of the ghouls stopped and grabbed the other handle and began pulling at it, too.
But the doors held, just as he knew they would.
Two others clacked their way along the length of the glass wall and peered inside. He didn’t move or react, because he knew they couldn’t see him. Not through the darkness, with just the barest of moonlight to illuminate their search. One smashed a right arm that was little more than a stump into its section of the window, producing a dull thud and little else.