Sullivan Saga 2: Sullivan's Wrath

by Michael K. Rose

  And there, near the center of the ceiling, was The Creation of Adam. Peter couldn’t remember how many times he had seen that image used in advertisements, in parodies. His stomach turned slightly as he thought about how human beings could take the most beautiful things in the world and twist them, pervert their meaning. Even the most sacred act in the history of the universe, the very moment God brought forth Adam in his image, was open to mockery.

  Peter shook off these feelings and allowed himself to be drawn in by the image. It was the hands that had particularly captivated people. Could a more perfect symbol of divine creation ever be conceived of by the mind of man? Here were not the vulgar, sexual acts of creation of the pagan gods. This was truly a perfect moment when God, having formed Adam from clay, reached down and with the slightest touch brought him to life.

  Peter turned to the altar wall of the chapel. There was Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, the second coming of Christ. He admired the painting and recognized the skill of the artist, but it did not move him the way The Creation of Adam did. Strange, considering this—the possible return of Christ—was the reason Peter happened to be in Rome.

  Finally Peter understood why he felt no affinity for The Last Judgment. It was the misery depicted at the bottom of the painting: the figures of the damned being dragged down to hell. And there, in the center of the hell scene, was a glimpse of the accursed place itself. Through a cave opening in an outcropping of rock could be seen figures being burned in eternal hellfire.

  Peter shuddered. He had never enjoyed focusing on the punishment those who were not saved would have to endure. It saddened him greatly. He would much rather meditate on the act of creation as depicted above.

  Peter came to a realization in that moment. For three years he had sequestered himself away at the monastery. He could no longer do that. If the Apocalypse was imminent, he had to let people have access to him. If they could hear the sincerity with which he spoke when telling his story, he was certain that he could win many converts.

  Another realization came to Peter. The Pope could not have taken the visions seriously. If he had, he would have wanted to meet with Peter immediately and would not have delayed him. If the Pope truly believed that Christ was returning, there was no time for delay.

  Peter found his guide. “Do you know where Rome’s Stellar Assembly News Network station is?” he asked.

  “Yes, not far from here.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “You do not wish to see the Trevi Fountain?”

  “I do, but it will have to wait.”

  His guide nodded and led him from the chapel.

  What are you doing? a voice inside him nagged. He knew Father Curtis would not like him going public, especially before he met with the Pope. Peter ignored his doubts. He was doing what must be done to save as many souls as possible before the return of Christ. He was doing the work of God.

  31

  SULLIVAN SAT DOWN and went to work scanning the planet. “It’s Earth all right, but definitely not our Earth.” A moment later, a close-up view of the European continent filled the view screen. Sullivan zoomed in, found a city, and zoomed in further. He felt a chill run down his back.

  “Their level of technology,” said Liz, looking at the image, “is equivalent to your early twentieth century. The war they were waging was their version of your World War One.”

  Sullivan turned. “You’re back. Where’d you go?”

  Liz just smiled.

  Sullivan turned back to the view screen and studied the city. “You said World War One? That was even before the first space flight, wasn’t it? My knowledge of Earth’s history is lacking.”

  “I grew up there,” said Allen, “so I probably got more Earth history that you did. As I recall, the war was between several national powers. Primitive weaponry: solid-projectile weapons, no guidance systems, no body armor aside from helmets. Much of the war effectively ended up being one of attrition. Each side was bogged down in trenches, and little advancement was made either way.”

  “But this Earth’s history has veered off from yours with the attack of the aliens,” said Liz. “There is an unofficial truce between the opposing forces while they deal with the new threat.”

  “And where do we come in?” asked Sullivan.

  “We have been watching several forces as they fight the aliens. We eventually chose three groups as the most likely to be able to help you accomplish your goals. Only one of them consists of English-speaking soldiers, so for ease of communication, we have chosen them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They are a British platoon of nineteen men led by a Captain Roger Quinn.”

  “Where are they now?” asked Sullivan.

  Liz reached around him and entered the coordinates on the computer. Sullivan shuddered as her hand passed by him. “Here,” she said, pointing.

  “This is France,” said Allen. He briefly thought back to the night he and Liz had spent in Paris before being called upon to track down Sullivan.

  “Yes. When the aliens attacked, they were entrenched here,” Liz said, indicating an area on the map.

  “The United States of America played a crucial role in turning the tide of the war,” said Allen. “What is their involvement now?”

  “They had not yet entered the war when the aliens attacked. But the first American troops have just landed in England to help fight the aliens.”

  “How long ago did they attack?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  Allen nodded. “And where is their wormhole?”

  Again Liz entered coordinates on the computer. “Here. It would, of course, simplify things if you could land your ship near the wormhole and fire your energy weapons into it, but their soldiers would swarm you the moment you landed. You’d never be able to get off the ship. Besides, the wormhole is defended in other ways. There is a chance your ship would be shot down.”

  “So we need to fight our way there,” said Sullivan, “with the help of this Captain Quinn.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How many alien soldiers are in the area?”

  “We estimate that three thousand have crossed through so far.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all they’ve needed to completely scatter the massed armies of Europe.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “I really hope you’re not sending us on a suicide mission.”

  “We would not be sending you if you didn’t have a reasonable chance of success.”

  “What’s reasonable?”

  In response, Liz only smiled again.

  Sullivan still didn’t know why they couldn’t land nearby, just out of range of whatever weapons the aliens had. Captain Quinn’s position was rather far from the wormhole. It would take days of travel.

  Sullivan suspected that there was an easier way, but that Liz and the other entities were stalling for some reason. Were he and Allen only a small piece of the puzzle? Was the timing of when they attacked the wormhole a factor?

  Sullivan looked over at Allen. He was deep in thought. Taking a cue from his friend, Sullivan leaned back in his chair and began to mentally prepare for the coming battle.

  32

  HIS MEN CALLED him Quiet Quinn. In fact, Captain Roger Quinn had always been a quiet man. Even now, separated from his battalion and with a third of his platoon dead, he spoke little except when giving orders and never engaged in idle chat. Despite this, his men were devoted to him. His steady, quiet confidence gave them courage, and his inherent sense of honor and duty inspired them to acts of what could only be called heroism.

  Captain Quinn would never call himself a hero, of course. As he looked over his men, he knew that without them he would have accomplished nothing. But even with their extraordinary efforts, first against the Germans and now against this new threat, there was little hope that any act of heroism, no matter how extraordinary, would be able to stem the tide of this battle. The enemy was too powerful. Even
in relatively small numbers, they were able to quickly overwhelm their human foes.

  Quinn stood and peeked over the edge of the trench. There was no longer any threat of German snipers: the opposing trench had been long since abandoned. But earlier in the day, his men had spotted one of those creatures lurking in no man’s land. It had been feeding on the bodies of the dead, but didn’t seem to have noticed them.

  Quinn scanned the area. A flash of movement caught his attention, and he brought his binoculars up. The creature was near the German trench. As Quinn watched, it casually tore an arm off of a dead German soldier and bit into it with its glistening white fangs.

  Quinn had, of course, seen the creatures up close, but he still marveled at their form. They seemed to be designed for killing and little else. They were vaguely human in shape. No, that wasn’t quite right. Their long arms, ending with grasping, clawed hands, gave them more of an ape-like appearance. And the legs bent the wrong way, like a cat’s. What could be seen of their skin showed it to be red with dark, almost black markings. It looked wet, but Quinn had touched one of them. The skin was dry but smooth and shiny. Their torsos were covered in a thin, light-colored material that repelled fire from a standard-issue Lee-Enfield rifle. Concentrated fire from a machine gun did seem to affect them, however, and grenades certainly did the trick.

  Quinn didn’t know what their eyes looked like. They were covered by a curved pane of metallized glass, or some similar substance, that repelled bullets as readily as the suit. Quinn had tried to smash through the visor of a dead creature without success.

  Quinn and his men had discovered that concentrating their fire at the creatures’ gruesome mouths was the quickest way to defeat them, but it made for a difficult target. Their heads were small compared to their body size, and they effortlessly moved at speeds that few humans could maintain for more than a few seconds. Even if one managed to wound them in the arms or legs, they would still keep coming, seemingly oblivious to pain. Only a shot to the head, through the mouth, seemed to kill them outright.

  As Quinn watched the creature feed, another joined it from the trench. Abruptly, they both looked in his direction. Quinn froze. He’d seen enough of them to know that they operated by smell and sound as much as sight and, in fact, didn’t seem to be able to pick out a motionless man.

  But luck was not on Captain Quinn’s side. Some slight movement must have given him away, and the creatures began bounding across no man’s land, directly toward him.

  “Up! Up!” he yelled to his men.

  They scrambled up from their sitting position and brought their rifles to bear on the approaching creatures.

  Quinn drew his Webley revolver and aimed it at the nearest creature’s mouth. “Fire!” he yelled.

  The nearer creature fell, and the second effortlessly leapt over its partner’s body.

  His men fired again, but by the time they could chamber a third round, the creature was upon them.

  From two meters away it leapt into the air and cleared the jumble of barbed wire along the edge of the trench. It landed beside Quinn and immediately lashed out with one of its clawed hands, striking Quinn on the helmet.

  Captain Quinn fell backward and watched helplessly as the creature’s other claw disemboweled one of his men. He desperately grasped at the lanyard attached to his revolver. His other men were firing their rifles at the attacker, but even at point-blank range the bullets flattened and slid harmlessly down the creature’s protective armored clothing.

  Quinn found his gun and pulled back the hammer. The creature, looking for its next victim, saw Quinn lying on the ground and turned fully toward him. Quinn fired off a single shot and struck it in the mouth. Its foul teeth shattered as the bullet hit them then carried on into the monster’s brain. It fell backward, its limbs twitching.

  Quinn jumped up and looked over the edge of the trench. There were no more of them in sight. He took a few deep breaths then turned back to attend to his dying man.

  33

  FRANK ALLEN WAITED until the sun had set over France before programming the ship to land at the coordinates Liz had given him. They had to come down in an area where they wouldn’t be seen then approach Captain Quinn on foot. If he saw them emerge from the ship, he was likely to think they were also aliens and fire upon them.

  “I’ve programmed the ship to return to orbit,” he said as the ship set down. He tapped his pocket. “I have a remote here. When we’re ready, I’ll enter our coordinates and bring the ship to us.”

  “And what if it doesn’t work or is damaged?”

  “I’m ahead of you on that,” said Allen. “It’ll return to this location in ten days. If something happens to the remote, we just need to get back here to meet it.”

  “And if we’re not back?”

  “Then let’s hope no one else comes across it before we do arrive.”

  “Why ten days, Frank?”

  “Because it’s enough time to get to the wormhole and back.”

  “Is that what Liz told you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Don’t you feel like the timing of all this is a little suspicious? Like Liz is stalling us for some reason?”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “This again, Rick? Really?”

  “Forget it.” Sullivan turned away and picked up one of the duffle bags that the energy weapons had been moved to and slung it over his shoulder. He’d taken one of the rifles from the bag and had it over his other shoulder. Allen had also taken a rifle for himself and was checking the charge as Sullivan made a final survey of the ship.

  “We’ve got the weapons and as much food and water as we can carry,” Sullivan said. “Time to send her away.”

  The men left the ship and moved to a safe distance before Allen entered the commands on his remote. The ship lifted off the ground and quickly disappeared into the night sky.

  “According to the orbital images we took,” Sullivan said, looking at his tablet, “Captain Quinn and his men are about two kilometers in this direction.” He pointed east. “There’s what looks like a farmhouse on the way. This close to the trenches, I doubt there’d be anyone still living there, but we should check it out. It might make a good defensive position if we need it.”

  “All right.” Allen stepped over to Sullivan and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you have your doubts, and I don’t blame you for it.”

  Sullivan grunted in reply.

  “One last adventure, eh?”

  “I suppose,” Sullivan said, not smiling. He stepped away, and the two men began moving toward the farmhouse.

  When they had traveled a kilometer, the structure came into view. Sullivan held up his hand and Allen stopped.

  “Second story. There’s a light inside.”

  Allen squinted and could just see a dim glow coming from the curtained window. “Let’s give it a pass, then. We don’t want to scare anyone unnecessarily.”

  As they were moving past the farmhouse, a scream echoed through the night. They looked up and could see shadows moving erratically between the curtains and the light source.

  Without stopping to discuss it, Sullivan and Allen dashed toward the farmhouse. They were inside and up the stairs seconds later.

  Neither man hesitated when they saw the scene inside. The alien creature, before it could even turn to face these new intruders, died screaming as two bolts of energy tore into it and incinerated large chunks of its flesh. Sullivan stepped forward and kicked it to make sure it was dead.

  The far corner of the room held a small boy, no older than nine. Sullivan slowly crossed over to him. He stopped as the child raised a pistol and shakily aimed it at his chest.

  “All right,” said Sullivan, putting his own weapon down. “It’s okay now.”

  The child began speaking quickly in what Sullivan decided was French. One word he thought he understood.

  “Did you say English?”

  The child nodded.

  “Y
es,” Sullivan said, smiling. “English.” He pointed to himself, then to Allen. “English.”

  The child lowered his weapon.

  “Looks like he’s all by himself,” Sullivan said. “What do we do about him?”

  Allen shook his head. “Nothing. We have to leave him here.”

  Sullivan nodded. “You’re right.” He reached into his duffle bag and took out one of the sealed emergency rations he had brought from the ship. He handed it to the boy. “At least this’ll last him a couple of days.” He smiled once more at the boy then turned away.

  They went back outside and continued on their way. Allen began walking behind Sullivan but stopped after a few meters. “Is this right?”

  “You said we have to leave him.”

  “I know,” said Allen.

  “Like it or not, we have a job to do, Frank.”

  Allen nodded. “He’s no doubt been through a lot already. His parents are probably dead. He’s all alone.”

  Sullivan stopped walking again. “Listen, Frank, the best thing we can do for that boy and everyone else on this planet is get that wormhole closed as soon as possible. Why are you having doubts now, anyway?” Sullivan grinned. “Liz not around to keep you in line and tell you you’re being a good boy?”

  Allen suppressed the urge to hit Sullivan. “It’s not like that,” he said softly.

  “Sure,” said Sullivan. He continued on without looking back.

  THEY HAD BEEN traveling for twenty minutes when Sullivan held up his hand. In the moonlight, he’d seen something scurry ahead of them.

  “Movement,” he whispered to Allen.

  Allen set down his duffle bag and readied his energy rifle. “I see it,” he said.

  The glint of the alien’s eye mask caught the moonlight.