Father Killroy just sighed, and I followed him out the door. Out on the stoop I looked down to the street and froze. And then I chuckled. “You gotta be kidding me right now,” I said.
There, parked on the side of the street, waiting for us, was a black stretched limo. The driver opened the door for the father, and I could only shake my head.
“What?” Killroy asked. “It’s filled with baked goods from the church. We’re delivering all over town. C’mon.”
We made a half a dozen stops on the way to the briefing. Father Killroy offered me a warm apple pie and a spoon. My belly let me know just how good of an idea that was, and I thankfully accepted.
A few miles and a half a pie later, we reached the base. Heading into the complex, I realized just how nervous I was. I guess Old Ben had been right—I hadn’t drank so much solely in the spirit of celebration. But neither was I afraid. After the horrors I saw during the Culling, the old definition of fear no longer applied. I was broken, we all were, but it was seldom spoken of. To think that you are going to die along with the rest of the planet, and then to somehow survive, without rhyme or reason, is terrifying—makes you wonder why in the hell you lived while so many other good people died.
The apple pie threatened to wage a coup as we walked past the gates into the main building. A pair of soldiers stood like statues as we entered, not acknowledging us in the least. I was tempted to make funny faces in front of them, but we didn’t have time.
Inside were similar soldiers, all donning the same insignia, BM—Boston Militia. Many of Boston’s army are ex-military who survived and found their way here. For a few weeks after the Culling, the soldiers still functioned as US military, but when they were attacked by warplanes and tanks with army and air force insignia, we began to realize that our government was no longer on our side—or else didn’t exist anymore. It seemed that the Elites had infiltrated every corner of every crevice of humanity, and they were in full control. Life here in the Afterworld is like living atop a bomb. We never know if they will just nuke us into extinction on a whim.
We made our way into one of the briefing rooms and found ten chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of a projector. Three were vacant. Mushiro was there already, and when he saw me, his eyebrows shot up and then toward the woman on his left.
I assumed she must be Melody Stone, judging by his dorky demeanor, and leaned forward to get a better look just as she turned from talking to someone.
Our eyes met.
Shit!
It was the woman who thought I called her a dude—perfect. She eyed me up and down, expressionless, and then glanced at Dude in the seat next to me. I’d almost forgotten entirely that he was there—it’s creepy how quiet he can be sometimes, like a ninja.
Our eye contact was broken as someone touched my shoulder. “Your ape,” said a guy about six four, and stacked with muscles.
I looked at Dude and then back at the son of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Xena Warrior Princess. “What about him?”
He deadpanned me for a moment and sniffed, as if containing himself. “Mind if I sit?”
“I don’t mind, but Dude might. It’s probably best to ask him.”
Dude perked up and hissed at Meathead.
He leaned closer to me. We had gained the attention of the others in the quiet room. “There is one seat for each of us,” he said, “none for baboons.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to stand, bro.” I smiled, and his nostrils flared threateningly.
“Rezner, quit stirring shit,” said Kronos. He briskly walked into the room to stand before us all.
I realized, to my dismay, that he was the party leader.
Sonofabitch
“Dude, get lights,” said Kronos, flipping on the projector.
The chimp eagerly leapt over the back of the seat, bounded to the wall, and shut them off.
Meathead gave me a contemptuous look and took the seat as a topographic satellite picture of a small lake appeared on the wall.
Dude returned and absently sat on Meathead’s lap, enthralled by the light show. He loves movies, but he gets a little carried away. He once watched the 2025 remake of The Wizard of Oz with me and Mushiro, and decided he was a flying monkey. It took us an hour to talk him down off the roof.
“Crystal Lake, Connecticut, seventy-five miles from Boston,” Kronos began, his thick accent making the place sound epic. “There was mayday signal intercepted night last from area. Could be trap, could be survivors. No way to tell. No matter, we go find out.”
As Kronos droned on in the background, Mushiro and I traded glances—he looked like a kid on Christmas Eve—and I got a better look at Wonderwitch. She looked to be about my age, mid-twenties. I couldn’t pinpoint her ancestry—somewhere between Italian and French. I was never good at that. She was short, no more than five five, but had the air of a giant. I don’t know if it was her inner strength or some kind of magical glow, but she seemed to shine like a supernova.
“We take I-90 till reach here.” Kronos indicated with a wand. “Four miles from freeway we begin search. Our mission, infiltrate lake area. If survivors, bring back. If not, load up truck with supplies.”
Master Kronos put his wand away and squared on the group. “Stand and speak names and titles. Then sit. You begin.”
He pointed at Meathead, who shot to attention, sending Dude flying. “Sir, Private Anderson, sir. Boston Militia infantry, sir!”
I smiled up at Meathead Anderson and realized I was already next. “Oh right.” I cleared my throat and stood. “Orion Rezner, Wizard of the Order of Franklin.”
Killroy rose as I sat. “Father Killroy. Many of you know me from Trinity Church.”
A nerdy dude next to him pushed up his glasses and stood clutching a laptop. “Bernard Macklebee, tech master at large,” he said, and gave a jerky bow.
“Doctor Dockson, Medic,” said the man next to him, who looked just like Bill Hicks. “Call me Dr. Doc.”
“Juggernaut, operator of all things badass, Boston Militia,” said the long lost brother of Mr. T. I found myself waiting in gleeful anticipation for him to say “Foo,” but it never came.
When the roll call came to Wonderwitch, she stood and regarded each of us in turn with a deep stare. “I am Melody Stone, newly appointed Witch of the Coven of Elzabeth, Keeper of the Word of Maliki, Sister of the Order of Franklin, of the Temple of Light,” she said with the authority of a queen. It was actually pretty cool.
After Melody was a woman in her twenties. She wore the same camo garb as Juggernaut and Anderson Meathead, and her watchful eyes were partially hidden behind a camo baseball cap. “Angelica Lopez, mechanical engineer, demolition expert, Boston Militia,” she said, concluding introductions.
Kronos changed the image on the projector to one of a crazy-looking war machine that could have belonged to Batman. “For mission, we use three machines. This is—”
Dude screeched and scampered over to the chalkboard by the projector screen, and wrote DUDE in big letters. He turned to the group proudly and put his hands on his hips, doing his best Superman impression.
“That’s Dude,” I told the room. “He’s a superchimp.”
Dude curled back his upper lip and gave everyone a big ape smile, before taking his seat once again on Meathead’s lap.
“Rezner, keep chimp under control!” yelled Kronos.
I shrugged and held up my hands. “I didn’t invite him, man. I thought you did.”
Kronos gave me a look that would make a baby cry and returned to his droning. I barely heard a word he said, being pretty nervous about the first mission outside the walls.
Dude didn’t seem to share my apprehension. He was stoked.
Kronos finally finished his spiel. “Any questions?” he asked.
I burped and felt some of the apple pie retaliating.
“What is it, Rezner?” He was annoyed.
“Huh?” I said, swallowing down the rebel pie forces.
Melody looked
to me with slight disdain and addressed Kronos. “Is this a circus or a rescue mission? With all due respect, Master Wizard Kronos, I don’t feel that a clown and an ape will be much use on the outside.”
“Hey!” I yelled. “Don’t call Dude a clown. He has feelings too.”
Dude gave her fish lips as Johnny broke into laughter.
“Enough of horseplay!” Kronos slammed the desk. “If no questions, suit up. We leave on the hour.”
“On the hour?” I protested, suddenly sober. “I thought this mission was scheduled for tomorrow.”
Kronos laid the full weight of his heavy gaze on me and said, “We not get there first, will be no mission.”
Chapter 8
Into the Great Wide Open
I had always loved the classics in fantasy, from Lord of the Rings to Harry Potter, but I’d never imagined that one day I would be a wizard, or that magic was real—OK, maybe when I was seven.
I doubt anyone who experienced the Culling ever really thought they would see the end times. Sure, it was talked about and obsessed over through every age and preached by every religion—the fabled end times—yet here we are, still fighting to survive, still hiding from evil men and evil ways, and we still just want to be left alone.
Seeing the world fall into chaos is something that I could never describe. And there are times I wish I hadn’t survived. To my knowledge, none of the people I knew in life lived to become a Witness, and everyone I see, I wonder if I might have met before. When all the people in your life cease to exist, do you not also cease to exist in a way? Yet I linger on like a spirit floating in a fallen Eden, a living memory forgotten by the dead, and a stranger to the living.
The Boston Witnesses cope with their survivor’s guilt in different ways: some with the bottle, some with pills, others find Jesus, and still others, Allah. Many find salvation in the newest members of Boston, the Afterworld babies.
Some people call our time the After Culling, but that too often reminds us of the event—Afterworld is the place our planet has become.
An hour after our briefing we were standing in a hangar, all changed into our respective garb. I felt like a ninja wizard in the dark blue Kevlar and mail body armor—Mushiro basically is a ninja wizard.
The three Boston Militia grunts, Anderson, Juggernaut, and Lopez, donned BM gear pimped out with Kevlar and plate armor. Dr. Doc wore a white coat, likely with a vest beneath to cover his major organs.
Father Killroy carried with him a cross I can only describe as a battle axe that would have a crusader drooling. A reflection of light danced across it as he walked around the vehicles. For a moment, at just the right angle, patterns of scripture and depictions of holy symbols flashed across its highly polished surface. It was a holy symbol of Father Killroy’s faith, but it was also one mean-looking weapon. The father was a member of the Empyrean Brotherhood, a group of holy men who had begun to exhibit—or possibly, reveal—strange powers since the Culling.
Bernard Macklebee, tech nerd at large, was sporting some BM issue light armor and showing Miss Stone around a Bradley tank. She wore a cloak similar to mine—sans pointy witch hat, thankfully. I had no way to know what was under her cloak, though I had imagined. I knew she was as armored as any of us, being that it was Boston Militia protocol during Out World missions.
Mushi approached with palpable excitement. “You nervous, Rezner?”
I shrugged. “How ’bout you?”
“Psht, you crazy, Roundeye? I was born in this shit.”
I laughed without correcting him. The truth was we were both nervous, and we knew it. This was our first expedition beyond the spell shield, and we remembered well the horrors that awaited us. Johnny nudged me and lifted his chin toward Kronos, who was heading our way.
The master wizard squared on us, with one unamused eyebrow arched over a speculative scowl. “If this first is journey outside walls, listen good. Keep eyes open and mouths shut—might not come back dead.” He leaned in and gave me that loveable deadpan glare. “Don’t fuck up, Rezner.”
A million one-liner comebacks played through my mind, but with great effort I suppressed the urge and said only, “Yes, Master Wizard,” all business like.
He gave me a skeptical look and waited for the punch line, but none came. With a nod he finally turned to the others and said, “Mount up!”
Mushiro eyeballed me with apprehension and put a hand to my forehead, as if checking for a fever, and asked if I was alright.
“What? I can’t be serious?”
“Not usually,” he said.
Father Killroy gathered us all in a small circle and bowed his head in prayer. Being a member of the Empyrean Brotherhood, his blessings had power—even more so, if your faith was akin to his.
And though I believed in the father’s conviction, I didn’t share his beliefs. Neither did Mushiro, and as far as I know, Dude was agnostic. But I felt the blessing wash over me, nonetheless.
A few—Anderson, Lopez, and Macklebee—apparently did believe, for they shuddered and took in rushed breaths when the blessing took effect. I believe this is behind his insistence that I come to Mass. He wants his blessings to give me strength. And, of course, he wants me to feel the glory of his god. He is a shepherd. His instincts are to save.
People like Father Killroy, those of holy faith, had been exhibiting strange powers since the Culling. Answers seemed to come to their prayers, blessings had an obvious effect on practitioners, and they could perform divine feats that left the biggest skeptics scratching their heads. No one knows why the Empyreans have gained so much power. There are witnesses who believe these holy men have always had at least some degree of divine force at their disposal—exorcisms, for example—but for some reason, maybe similar to the wizards’, kept it a secret until after the Culling.
However, there are many theories. The one that I align with most is the idea that their faith has simply solidified in the face of Armageddon. For a holy man, as well as everyone else, surviving the end times can either destroy your faith or make it as solid as steel.
The Empyrean Brotherhood are wizards of a sort, I think, in their own right. The difference being, their power is fueled by extreme faith. They believe so fully that their blessings will work—they do. I could be wrong, of course. It seems completely reasonable that God might be behind their “divine power”. But that doesn’t explain why powerful Empyreans come from all religions. Strangely enough, the priests cannot answer that question either.
Kronos and Macklebee took the recon vehicle, a small tank with a light cannon, antennas, and mini satellite dishes galore. Aside from our main mission, we would also be gathering any important data for the Militia and Council of Light. Juggernaut and Meathead jumped into a beefed-up dune buggy with fat wheels and a beast of a machine gun set behind the driver. Mushi, Killroy, Melody, Dr. Doc, Dude, and I loaded into a transport truck which would be driven by Lopez.
As we pulled out of the hangar and made for the western gate, my excitement grew—as did my apprehension. There were no windows in the transport, and the lone red light inside lent a dreamlike quality to the confines of the vehicle. My nerves tensed as I began to imagine being trapped inside the hunk of metal while it burned. I didn’t like not being able to see what was going on outside, and facing the back just made matters worse.
I must have worn my emotions on my sleeve because Melody kept looking at me from under her hood. “Try to relax, Joker. Your nervous mojo is polluting the environment, and thus, my spell crafting.”
Witches. They always seemed to know how you were feeling. And they had a bad habit of taking it upon themselves to alter those emotions to their liking. Every wizard knew they couldn’t really be trusted. Back before the truce between the two, witches and wizards had battled for centuries. And witches proved to be a powerful foe. It wasn’t until we nearly wiped each other out that the truce was finally formed. Their magic may not be as physically devastating as wizards, but their strength lies rather in subtle
ty and preparation. While wizards control inanimate objects more easily, witches are masters of the living. Plants, animals…men, we all become putty in the hands of a powerful witch. They are the givers of life and therefore masters of the living world. A witch can kill you with a friendly encounter, and you would never know what happened. With but a hair or a drop of blood, they can send a curse down your entire bloodline indefinitely. This is why, back in the day, wizards who battled witches shaved their heads.
Melody regarded me still.
I could feel everyone’s attention on me. It seemed no one else shared my dread of confined spaces or had any clue that, once we were beyond the gate, the Elites could turn us into charbroiled rebels with the push of a button. I tried to remind myself what the fuck I had been thinking, asking for this mission, and then I remembered my sister Mary. I had to get my head in the game. Reaching up, I threw the handle back on the hatch and pushed up into fresh air.
Boston sped past as we made for the western gate. The streets were bustling with Witnesses who’d come to see us off. Women blew kisses, children waved and clapped, and men saluted or gave a thumbs-up. All of them had the same smile on their faces. We symbolized their fighting spirit. We reminded them they weren’t helpless. I waved to them as we passed—not a week ago I had been in a similar crowd, watching the Boston Militia Minutemen speed off into the unknown.
I could get used to this.
Dude climbed up out the hatch and saw the admiring crowd. He screamed joyfully and pumped his fist.
Kronos’s voice came in my earpiece. “When we reach gate, monkey gets off.”
“Roger that, Hammertime.”
Dude screeched at me.
“Sir, he wants you to know he’s an ape. Monkeys have tails.”
Dude crossed his arms and nodded.
Kronos’s mic cleared the static, but he seemed at a loss for words. A mumbled obscenity in Russian gave way to a hiss as he signed off.
Afterworld (The Orion Rezner Chronicles Book 1) Page 6