Afterworld (The Orion Rezner Chronicles Book 1)

by Ploof, Michael James

  Ahead of me were only a vast hall and a large spiral staircase leading up into the ten partially hollowed-out floors above. I nodded at the large picture of Benjamin Franklin to my right and headed up the spiral staircase. Landings split off at random intervals, leading to a variety of different rooms.

  The Temple of Light housed the source of the spell shield and therefore many of the elders of the council. I was appointed the exorcism job a week ago as my rite of passage from apprentice to wizard, and I passed. I’d been waiting for this day for two years, but for some reason, battling a demon had taken some of the glee from my step. I mean, what was there really to celebrate? I almost died on my first real gig, and now it was going to be a full-time job…lucky me.

  I didn’t realize my magical abilities until five years after the Culling. Like the rest of the world, the virus had seriously thinned out the wizard ranks in and around Boston, though a higher percentage of them had become Witnesses. After a few years they began conducting tests on the survivors to see if anyone could become an apprentice. I scored high enough to be taken as an initiate and then quickly an apprentice under Bartholomew Kronos, a real asshole. I was given a crash course at Harvard, now Harvard Witchcraft and Wizardry. The facilities and dorms functioned much as they always had, but now catered to apprentices of the craft. For two years we were drilled in combat wizardry. Though there were many more schools of study—apothecary, poisons and potions, transmutation, star reading, and so forth—the council needed warriors. It makes me laugh, looking back now. I went to college at a mediocre school and ended up graduating from Harvard with a degree in Wizardry. Life is funny sometimes, usually after it pisses in your corn flakes.

  Eventually I came to the landing I was looking for on the fifth floor. I knocked on the solid-white door and waited patiently. After a time, it opened and a weird little hunchback dwarf named Croc peered out at me. Dude hissed and scurried up my robes to my shoulder. His clawing had drawn my hood off kilter, and one of my eyes was covered. I peered past Croc and saw the council elders staring at me from across a long room.

  Croc called out in a croaking voice, “One Orion Rezner, apprentice to Bartholomew Kronos of the East Coast chapter of the Order of Franklin.”

  I suspected that the extremely long chamber had been made so as to allow Croc enough time to name all titles. The room, no more than forty feet wide, was at least a hundred feet long. As I walked across it, there was plenty of time to gauge the faces of the gathered crowd. I came finally to the table that seated the seven elders of the Council of Light, and sitting off to the side was my master, Wizard Kronos. He looked nervous, for the first time I had witnessed.

  The table of the elders was a ZZ Top look-alike contest—have I mentioned I’m obsessed with the 1980’s? They all wore flowing robes and had long white, brown, or salt and pepper beards. Atop their heads, they actually wore pointy hats—which were adorned with a number of different patterns representing their credentials and achievements, kind of like an army general’s campaign ribbons. Fortunately, they only donned such garb during official business—unfortunately, they considered everything official business.

  Maximillian, the center wizard of the seven, spoke up, his weak raspy voice showing nothing of his true strength and power. He was, after all, at least two hundred years old, or so I am told. We wizards tend to live very long lives if we don’t get ourselves killed. It’s a positive side effect of working with magic.

  “Orion Rezner, you have been tasked with aiding Father Killroy of Trinity Church with the exorcism of one Trevor Marks. Is that correct?” he asked.

  “Yes, Eldermaster.”

  “Do you know why we chose this quest above one more suited for you?”

  I played along. “No, Eldermaster.”

  Suddenly Dude shrieked—as he liked to do when thoroughly bored out of his mind—and the eldermaster looked at him as if he’d never seen a chimp before.

  “You have shown a high proficiency for destructive spells, power, and force. We decided that a better-suited test would be one of will and ability—one in which presence of mind would be required.” He glanced at me over his spectacles. “And you passed.”

  No shit.

  “The Council of Light grants you the title of Initiate Wizard of the Order of Franklin.”

  A wave of excitement washed through me as the elder motioned for me to approach the long table. He handed me a sheathed katana, blue with a single lightning bolt—my reward for completing the rite of passage. Upon completion of training, each wizard is given a powerful weapon that has been enchanted by the elders.

  “Wizard Rezner. We present to you Inazuma, Lightning Blade.”

  I took the revered blade with a nod of respect to the council and returned to my place. A slow clapping echoed through the room, and I glanced back to my left to find Old Ben in his best early 1800s garb, applauding joyfully. I offered him a wink and turned back to the council.

  The elder wizard looked behind me expectantly and then gave me a queer look.

  “I accept the title generously offered me by the council,” I said.

  The elder wizard nodded as if to say yeah, yeah, and they all began to get up. It was more than apparent that none of them liked the idea of granting the title of wizard to an apprentice after only two years of study. Back in the good ole days before the Culling, one would have to study for decades before becoming a wizard. But these were different times—we were at war, and wars need warriors. Still, they weren’t too excited by the proposition and were wasting no time in moving on to their next order of business—but I still had some.

  “Wait! I mean, please—I would speak.”

  The elders looked to each other and sat once again. Kronos gave me a threatening scowl.

  “Go on,” said the center wizard.

  “I would ask the council to allow me to join the next search party. I hav—”

  Master Kronos shot up and bellowed in a deep voice that belonged to a Russian blues singer, “You never been out in field, need more time. You think it is game out there?”

  “Master Wizard Kronos,” said the center wizard, “we have granted Wizard Rezner his title on your recommendation, and your voice has been heard. Please sit.”

  Kronos shook his head and sat grudgingly.

  The eldermaster looked me over and then conferred with his peers in hushed whispers. Finally he looked back over his crooked nose. “Wizard Rezner, during the exorcism, what did the demon do to try and rattle you?”

  “Sir?” I asked, trying to avoid the question.

  “Demons battle the mind when attempting to forcefully possess a body. What did the demon do?”

  I was getting annoyed and starting to feel cornered. “I assume Father Killroy has told you all about it in his report. With all due respect, Eldermaster, why ask me a question you know the answer to?”

  “To gauge your sensitivity to the matter, of course.”

  Guess I failed that one.

  “Your sister…Does your pain and a sense of revenge guide your decision to join the next search party?”

  Shit!

  I couldn’t lie—it was pointless against centuries-old wizards—but I couldn’t tell the truth, either. “Of course it has to do with it. It has everything to do with it. We all lost loved ones in the Culling, and we all have a sense of revenge. I am no different.”

  “You believe her to still be alive, do you not?” He asked the question as if saying checkmate.

  I shuffled where I stood, though I tried not to move. Every action seemed obviously awkward. “I don’t know.”

  “She is Cain, is she not?” He cocked an eyebrow, and my nostrils flared as I felt myself redden.

  “I don’t know for sure.” Technically I hadn’t lied, but I wasn’t about to tell them what the demon had told me, either. They whispered among themselves once more, and I’d nearly had enough.

  “Very well. You shall go with the next search party and accompany the hunters. You will obey th
e party leader as if he was your master, and your main objective shall be to keep safe the party members.”

  “Yes, Eldermaster.” I bowed to the elders and they rose to leave. After I turned on my heel to do likewise, the eldermaster called to me again.

  “Wizard Rezner.”

  “Eldermaster?”

  “The party will be bringing no Cain back to Boston.”

  Chapter 5

  Hammertime

  I left the Temple of Light eager to report to the Boston Militia, housed at the old Coast Guard base. Behind me, Master Wizard Kronos yelled as a father might to a kid who was in trouble. I had hoped to outpace him.

  My Russian master came with long, purposeful strides to stand before me. All that could be seen of his face were two beady eyes of gray and a wide, flat nose. His large, bushy mustache and gray, tobacco-stained beard left his mouth hidden, and his full head of scraggly hair hung in clumps about his forehead. He was the only wizard I had ever seen who wore a cloak made of animal furs…in the summer.

  “You make me hot just looking at you,” I said.

  “I’m coming with,” he told me, his accent as thick as Russian snow.

  I knew there would be no discussion on the matter. He never budged.

  Bartholomew Kronos had been born in 1922. He became a wizard at the age of forty, after twenty years as an apprentice. I’ve been told he served the Russian branch of the Council of Light as a bounty hunter, searching out and taking, alive or dead, renegade wizards and witches. He likes long walks on hot coals, nights alone with his knives, and watching snakes eat their prey.

  In mother Russia he was known as Monotok, which, translated, means Hammer. He wears a hammer on his belt, and it is one of the most beautiful works of art I have ever seen, though I had yet to see him use it. The metal shaft is as long as my arm from elbow to fingertip and leads to a head the size of a cinder block, which is housed in twisting metal bands. At the top is a lone, two-inch spike.

  He once told me—during a rare moment of bonding, and after many shots of vodka—that the head of his hammer was made from the remains of a shooting star which landed deep in the forest near his village, and that it held the power of a comet. He’d named it Starkiller.

  I raised my eyes from the hammer to Master Kronos and shook my head. “Haven’t you been riding my ass long enough, Hammertime?” I was annoyed. I wouldn’t have dared speak to him that way yesterday, but I had been promoted by the council, and I was hoping to never have to put up with his crap again.

  For the two years of my apprenticeship he was colder than a Russian winter and less forgiving than a cheap vodka hangover. Never have I received a compliment or kind word from the man—only how bad I do everything and what a waste of time I am. But I never stopped trying to please him. It was so bad the first year, I wanted to quit daily and thought for sure I was failing miserably. It wasn’t until I went out on a few field tests within the city that I realized I was kind of good at wizardry—compared to the other apprentices, at least.

  Master Kronos took my cheeks in his hands and squeezed until I was giving him fishy-kiss lips. “I will ride your ass long after I am dead.” He slapped me twice…hard.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said, rubbing my face.

  He turned and left without a word.

  The last thing I wanted, on my first time out of the city, was his old ass eyeballing my every move.

  I looked down at Dude, who was making himself crazy trying to catch a butterfly. “Look on the bright side, bro. We’re wizards now. Hammertime can’t own our asses forever.”

  He jumped up and down and did circles around me, nearly slamming into a woman who was walking toward the temple. She reared and nearly jumped out of her skin as she seemed to notice the chimpanzee for the first time.

  “Watch out, Dude!” I said.

  The woman jerked her head to me and lifted her too-big sunglasses. “I’m a woman, you moron.” Disgusted, she turned and hurried off on her way.

  “I was talking to the…”

  She disappeared inside before I could finish.

  I looked at Dude and we both shrugged.

  “Jinx, you owe me a soda,” he said in sign language, before I could even speak the words.

  “Damn, you win. All right then, we’ll hit the pub, but first we go to the armory.”

  I walked home with a new pep in my step, good ole Roaring 2020s jazz playing in my head. I was finally a wizard of the Order of Franklin, which meant that I could go to the armory at Harvard and choose from a variety of magical weaponry, and also not-so-magical weaponry.

  Wands, staffs, trinkets, and medallions would normally be handcrafted by their wielders, but these were different times. Much like my katana, the weapons were crafted by elder masters to be used by all wizards of the order. There was no time these days for patient creation of one’s own tools. And unlike the spells that had to be read precisely from spell books, magical items were created by enchantments that could be used indefinitely.

  As I walked on top of the world, I looked around for Old Ben. There was no sign of him. He shows up whenever he wants, and leaves likewise. It takes some getting used to, especially when he appears while you’re dropping a deuce.

  When I reached the apartment, he was sitting on the stoop, writing in a small book, but he promptly stashed it in his pocket as I approached. He was a bit more translucent than usual, and though the sun had much to do with it, I suspected the light show against the demon had taken a toll as well. I found myself worried about my old mentor and shuddered at the thought of going into battle without him.

  “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing,” he said, beaming. It was his way of congratulating me.

  I smiled back. “Thanks, Ben.” He was really the only reason I got through Bartholomew “The Hammer” Kronos’s teachings. I was lucky to have him.

  “Sup, Rez.”

  The voice came from the part of the stoop I was blind to, but it belonged to my friend and fellow wizard Johnny Mushiro. He stepped into view and I yelled, “Mushi!” and gave him the old Class of 2040 handshake. Johnny and I had been roommates up until a few weeks ago and had both been busy studying for our Final Rite of Passage since.

  “So?” he asked, apprehensively.

  “What do you mean ‘so’? Why does it have to be me who might have failed?”

  Johnny stood and raised his shoulders. “Because you suck, little Nikita.”

  I busted a gut—he does a perfect imitation of Kronos.

  When the Culling went down, he had gotten stuck here on a college out boarding program from Japan. When the Elders decided to begin testing the general population, he passed as well. We’ve been best friends ever since our first year.

  “Sooo?” he pressed.

  “Yeah, man, I passed my test. Had to help exorcise a friggin’ demon.”

  “No wayyy,” he said longingly, as if his own test hadn’t been so exciting.

  I hit him in the shoulder. “What about you, man? Out with it.”

  “I passed, no big deal. Had to fight and subdue a werewolf without killing it.”

  “Holy shit, Mushiro, you took down Master Wizard Drake?”

  “Yeah, man. It was easy—he couldn’t use any spells, just straight up werewolf style. I did a mimic spell, cloaked myself in a tree above my illusion, and then trapped him in binding spell. It was awesome. He freaked out and went ape shit. Sorry, Dude. No offense.”

  I unsheathed Inazuma with a ringing of metal. Mushiro nodded and produced a sheath of his own. On his insistence, I had trained in swordplay with him for the last two years. I was getting pretty good, but had yet to land a killing blow against him—he kicked my ass constantly. When we learned that, upon completion of training, we would receive a powerful magical weapon of our choice, Mushiro and I had set our sights on the two blades.

  His scabbard looked like sheer black ice, and was inlayed with pearl whirlwinds and storm clouds.

  “Arashi,
Storm Blade,” he said, clearly in love, and unsheathed the beauty. The song of the sword echoed throughout the street with a long pristine ring.

  Much like wands or staffs, the swords were enchanted to be conduits of certain spells. Mine had been imbued with lightning. Mushiro’s would enhance his wind and water spells.

  “What do ya think, Dude? Is it me?” I asked.

  He shook his head, staring longingly, and signed, “No, Dude blade please.”

  “Well then, Mushi, this calls for celebration. Wanna hit the armory with me and then the pub?”

  “The armory,” he said dreamily, as if he had forgotten that he now had a right to its contents. “Oh, hells yeah, Roundeye!”

  Chapter 6

  The Armory

  Mushiro and I, being the badass wizards that we are, jumped on our solar-powered scooters. We cruised across the Charles River and headed to the Harvard armory.

  A pickup truck approached from behind and the driver began blasting his horn. Mushiro and I were in the right lane, and he had more than enough room. I waved him on, but the horn blared again. “Get outta the way, dorks!” the driver yelled, leaning out his window.

  The passenger—and three guys standing in the back, leaning on the roof—laughed and started throwing empty beer cans.

  “Go around, dickweed!” Mushiro yelled back.

  The driver laid on the horn and revved the big engine, coming within inches of our scooters. Mushiro began screaming what must have been Japanese obscenities and pulled out a wand.

  “That’s a really bad idea,” I warned him.

  “So is screwing with me!” he yelled back at the truck.

  I finally convinced him to move over some more, and the truck full of douchebags blew by.

  We get a lot of crap from the meatheads who survived the Culling. Unfortunately, assholes can also have a natural immunity. And we, being wizards, can’t put them in their places with magic—it’s against the code. So we have to take their shit like Amish dudes with superpowers. It’s a bit frustrating, but I hear it builds character.