Offspring

by Liam Jackson

  Axthiel also owned an extensive collection of highly detailed maps, some rare and as ancient as recorded history, while others were among the most modern and accurate to be found anywhere in the world. Today he stood contemplating one of the latter.

  Tennessee, East Central United States... the Veil isn't far from where I battled Nathaniel. Little wonder the Host has been hanging around the area. Not that it will do them any good. They don't have the ability to restore the Veil.

  Axthiel paced the length of the room, then called for his manservant and demanded a chilled pitcher of sangria. While he waited, Axthiel considered the facts as he knew them.

  The Offspring were awakening in record number, of that he was positive. What he didn't know was why.

  Do the Offspring awaken in response to Legion's invasion? I suppose it's possible.... There is another possibility, though remote. After all these many centuries, and diluted genetic gifts, is it possible the Offspring are answering the call of the Veil? And what of the Conner boy? Why is he so important to Legion?

  Axthiel's servant entered the room and set a black lacquered tray on the buffet. From the tray he took a crystal pitcher of wine and poured a generous measure into a goblet. He presented the goblet to Axthiel with his head bowed low. "Does my lord require anything else?"

  Axthiel sipped the wine, and contemplated the question for a moment. "No, that will... wait. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Go into town after dusk and fetch back a boy to satiate my appetite tonight. With green eyes. Yes, green eyes, this time." This Conner boy has green eyes. Axthiel smiled in anticipation.

  The old man bowed lower, until it seemed he might topple over. "As you wish, lord."

  Axthiel watched as the old man shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Suppose for a moment the child knows the Veil is damaged and goes to mend it. If that is true, he surely knows Legion guards the entrance. The boy practically sacrifices himself. Even should a hundred Offspring arrive at the site with him, they are no match for Legion. Unless... unless the Host intends to plow the way!

  Axthiel drained his glass and smiled. This could all work out very well, he thought. Once the Offspring reached the Veil, Legion would deal with them, leaving Axthiel free to finish his business with Nathaniel. Surely, if the Host intends to escort the boy to the Veil, Nathaniel will be in the vanguard. Legion and the Fallen, side by side!

  The notion of the unholy alliance brought a smile to Axthiel's flawless face. A grave treachery, to be sure, though no more treacherous than his own deal with Legion. That a Domination such as himself would secretly conspire with the Nine behind the Runner's back made this gambit all the sweeter. And extremely dangerous.

  Months ago, the Runner had made good on his boast, and corrupted the Eye of God. Almost immediately, demons made their way from the accursed plane of Sitra Akhra into the world of men. Of course, lesser demons had long ago found a way to this world. The Veil wasn't designed or intended to prohibit the entry of lesser demons. That ridiculous Law of Balance again.

  Now, however, through the slow disintegration of the Veil, it was possible for their more powerful kin to cross over. At least a half dozen Greater Demons now roamed the earth, and Mankind's time was truly limited. The Runner thought he had them under control. The arrogant fool! Axthiel knew better. Thus, when a prince of Sitra Akhra sent a messenger to him with an offer of a secret alliance, Axthiel eagerly accepted.

  The bargain was simple. Axthiel would hunt down the Offspring, and eliminate them with extreme prejudice. He would give particular attention to a boy, this Sam Conner. In return for the boy's death, Axthiel would be given status and position over many of the more powerful demons. With such an army under his command, Axthiel would perhaps be strong enough to challenge the Runner for dominance of the planet. Axthiel knew that if the Runner ever learned that he had struck any kind of deal with the Nine of Sitra Akhra, his life was forfeit. Among the Fallen, only the Runner was permitted to negotiate directly with the Nine.

  Axthiel pushed the thought aside. He would hunt and destroy the Conner boy, if for no other reason than to draw Nathaniel out of hiding.

  Axthiel enjoyed the notion of supplanting the Runner as leader of the Fallen. However, domination of a planet wasn't his ultimate goal. In truth, there was only one thing Axthiel craved; the respect of the Host, his estranged brothers and sisters. Once Axthiel bested Nathaniel, the Host of Heaven would forevermore acknowledge his battle prowess, his superiority. For this respect, Axthiel would gladly risk the Veil, the Runner, and all the minions of foul Sitra Akhra. The glory of war was like no other. It was, for Axthiel, the only redemption.

  CHAPTER 43

  Abbotsville, Tennessee

  The explosion blew out a long section of Pole Bridge, and sent large chunks of twisted, burning metal sprawling over several acres of downtown Abbotsville. Sam had watched in disbelief as the wreckage of the cruiser cartwheeled through the air, landing within a few yards of the disabled Jeep. The heavier tanker had crashed through the guardrails and disappeared into the swirling waters of Woeful Creek.

  Despite Mark's pleas, Sam climbed out of the station wagon and raced down the incline toward the bridge. As he neared the burning wreckage, he felt an uncomfortable mental tug. Something drew him to the ditch and the partially submerged Jeep. From somewhere behind him, he could still hear Mark shouting.

  Sam cautiously approached the edge of the ditch. The Jeep was standing on its nose, the hood and windshield submerged beneath broken ice and muddy water. Flames fanned out from the cruiser, lapping at the exposed undercarriage of the Jeep. Through the broken glass of the side doors, Sam could see a man still strapped into the driver's seat, struggling to keep his head above rising water. It was the tall man from the truck stop in Knoxville.

  Suddenly, Mark was standing at Sam's side, out of breath and flushed from the run. "Gas! I smell gasoline."

  Sam sniffed the air, but instead of gasoline, he smelled something else, an old familiar odor that nearly drove the air from his lungs.

  "Mark, we have to get him outta there now! Something's coming this way and it ain't friendly."

  Mark stared at Sam, then at the Jeep. "How close is it, can you tell?"

  Sam closed his eyes and opened his senses. The enemy was very near. They would have to hurry. Sam opened his eyes and looked at the wreckage.

  "We've got a few minutes. No more than that." Sam nodded at the Jeep and said, "Mark, it's the big guy from the truck stop. That thing will be all over him in another few minutes. I won't leave him here."

  "I thought the Jeep looked familiar. I'll have to go in through the back door."

  Without waiting for a reply, Mark stripped off his jacket and handed it to Sam. Then, crouching to avoid the rising flames, he inched to the edge of the bank, took a deep breath, and jumped across to the rear bumper of the Jeep. He lost his footing, teetered on the trailer hitch like some drunken acrobat, then managed to grab onto the luggage rack. Unable to offer any real help, Sam almost applauded.

  Mark took a second to catch his breath, then tried to raise the rear hatch. It was locked.

  "Damn! Sam, find me something to break out the glass. No! Wait!"

  Mark pulled the Ruger from the waistband of his jeans, and for a second Sam was afraid his friend meant to shoot out the back glass. Relieved, he watched as Mark ejected the magazine and tossed it across the ditch near Sam's feet.

  "Hold on to that, will ya?"

  Carefully, Mark ejected the round from the chamber and shoved it into his pocket. Then, using the butt of the gun, he struck the thick safety glass several times, finally punching a large hole just above the lock. He reached in and unlocked the hatch.

  "Okay, Sam. I'll be right back." Mark disappeared into the Jeep.

  Sam moved along the edge of the ditch, watching anxiously as Mark made his down the cargo area and over the backseat. When he reached the driver, Mark said something and the man responded by tugging on the shoulder
belt.

  The seat belt... he's trapped in the seat!

  Sam saw the driver say something to Mark then gesture toward the floorboard, but Sam couldn't make out the words or their meaning. Mark nodded, then took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. He repeated the action twice more, then took a final breath and held it. Sam watched in amazement as Mark's head disappeared beneath the freezing water.

  Sam realized he was holding his own breath when Mark surfaced a few seconds later, holding a long, gleaming knife. Within seconds, the man was free of the seat belt and climbing toward the hatch.

  Once on the roadway, the man supplied his name, Michael Collier, through chattering teeth. He looked a little beaten up from the crash.

  "Can you walk?" asked Sam.

  Shaking violently from the onset of hypothermia, the man nodded. "Nothing b—broke."

  "How close is our friend, Sam?" asked Mark.

  Nervously, Sam scanned the surrounding darkness, but the fire had destroyed his night vision. He tried to reach out for the oncoming creature, but a terrible stench flooded his senses. He shook his head. "I can't tell for sure, Mark. The smell is all around us now. It could be minutes, or seconds. C'mon, help me get this guy back to the car!"

  With Sam under one arm and Mark under the other, they led the big man toward the station wagon. Midway up the incline, Mark thought he saw a darting shadow off to his right. With his free hand, he reached for his handgun, then remembered the gun was useless. He had given the magazine to Sam.

  "Pass me the ammo, kid. Hurry!"

  Sam nodded and reached for a back pocket, then the other. The magazine was gone.

  "Oh, shit! I—I must have dropped it back at the wreck. Can you handle this guy?"

  Without waiting for an answer, Sam slid out from under the big man's arm, and darted back down the hill. Mark called out for him to come back, but Sam ignored his friend. They might not survive this night, but Sam vowed it wouldn't be because he had lost the damn ammunition.

  By now, the burning wreckage of the Caprice had set the rear tires of the Jeep ablaze, and a thick plume of black, noxious smoke rose- to meet the falling snow. Orange flames licked at the ditch bank from where Sam had watched the rescue. Where he had most likely dropped the magazine. Shielding his face with the edge of his coat, Sam inched toward the ditch, carefully searching the debris-littered ground as he went. Suddenly, Sam's blood froze.

  From across the ditch, well outside the glow of the fire, a shrill, bestial scream pierced the night. Oh, shit! I'm not gonna make it! Sam turned, and looked up the hill. Mark and the big man were nearly to the wagon. I could make a run for it.... "No! I'm not running! You hear me, you sick fuck? I'm not running!"

  Determined to make a stand, Sam looked around for something he could use as a weapon. Then, from the corner of his eye, Sam saw it, a silver gleam half-buried by churned snow. Dropping to all fours, Sam scrambled beneath the smoke and rising flame. His hand wrapped around the magazine, just as the Jeep's gas tank exploded.

  Mark helped the big man inside the backseat of the station wagon, then looked down the hill for signs of Sam. When he finally saw him, he swore and bit the inside of his cheek. The crazy kid was on his hands and knees, crawling into the smoke. Suddenly, a blast ripped through the air and an enormous fireball engulfed the rear of the upended Jeep ... and Sam.

  "Jesus, no!" screamed Mark. He climbed behind the steering wheel, slammed the shifter into drive, and stomped on the accelerator. Mark was halfway down the hill when he slammed on the brakes, sending the car into a fishtail. A "Thank you, God" spilled silently from his lips as he watched a skinny redheaded kid jog out of the fire toward the station wagon.

  With Sam back in the station wagon, Mark drove another mile farther up the mountain, before deciding it was safe to stop. He pulled over onto the shoulder of the road, a spot situated on an outcrop that overlooked the burning vehicles some eight hundred feet below. He and Michael stripped down to the waist. Mark quickly wrapped himself in the only dry article of clothing he owned, his coat, while Sam dug the old army blanket out of his duffel bag and tossed it to Michael. Afterward, Sam climbed into the front seat and locked his door. "Okay, Mark, as soon as you stop shaking, we need to go."

  Mark gave the boy a sideways glance, and grunted. "Your fucking coat is toast. Look. Even the plastic buttons melted. But... but you don't have so much as a singed hair. You want to tell me what happened back there?"

  Sam shook his head. "I can't. I mean, I don't know. Our friend was just across the ditch from me, and he sounded really pissed. I thought about hauling ass back to the car, but I knew I'd never make it. So I said screw it, I'm tired of running anyway. I'm looking around for a club or something when I spot the magazine. That's when the Jeep exploded. I can't tell you any more than that. Let's just go, huh?"

  "Go?" said Mark. "I'm not even sure where the hell we are."

  "Just start the car and drive. If we sit here another couple of minutes, we're going to have company and you're not going to like him."

  "Oh, gotcha." Mark didn't need to hear any more. He dropped the shifter into drive and drove into Abbotsville.

  Highway 112 wound its way through the heart of the mountain community, past long deserted storefronts and rows of cozy little cottages made of rough-cut timber and quarried stone. At some point, the highway became Main Street and the buildings on either side of the roadway appeared to be in better condition. A few curious folk braved the treacherous weather, and made their way down the mountainside to the bridge below.

  "If those people had good sense, they'd stay inside and bolt every door and window," said Mark. He drove slowly, alternately watching the icy highway and the fuel indicator. The station wagon was a gas hog and they now had less than a quarter-tank.

  Sam used the time to exchange stories and information with Michael. After only a few minutes, it became readily apparent that they had been drawn together by something other than coincidence. Sam and Mark knew that Michael had been the missing link to their party. The chain now had another link.

  Sam was amazed at how quickly the big man recovered from his ordeal in the Jeep. He was also surprised at how candidly Michael spoke of his experiences with the Enemy. Sam quietly noted the absence of hesitation or denial. The only time Michael stammered during his narration was when he mentioned his wife, Pam. Sam thought it was a good sign that despite Michael's obvious and understandable distress regarding his wife, he was fully focused and committed to the task. Whatever that turned out to be.

  "So when I heard about the story about sanatorium, bells and whistles went off in my head." When Michael finished, he huddled deeper within the old wool blanket. "Okay, while I catch my breath, one of you can have the floor. Mark? How about you?"

  Mark shook his head a single time and buried his face inside the fleece of Sam's coat. A muffled "Nothing to tell," was all he said.

  Sam grinned and said, "I'd like to hear more of his story, myself, Michael. There's a twenty in it for you, if you can get him to open up."

  Michael shook his head. "I've always figured a man is entitled to a few private thoughts. So, how about you, Sam? I think I already knew you carried the rank around here. Fill me in on what I need to know."

  Sam was busy searching the shadows along either side of the road for signs of unwanted guests. They had put some distance between them and the Enemy, but Sam could still smell the putrid taint. The odor had faded for a while, but seemed to be getting stronger now. Never taking his eyes from the shadows, Sam asked, "You want the long or the short version?"

  From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Michael suddenly come alert, and look out the window in the direction of a distant tree line. After a slight pause, Michael laughed nervously. "The short version will have to do, Sam. I have the feeling that we don't have time for anything more."

  Sam turned sharply in his seat and looked at the big man. "You can smell it, too, can't you?"

  Michael didn't answer. Instead, he reached behind
his back and pulled out a large, black semiautomatic handgun. He checked the chamber, then the magazine. He then pulled two additional magazines from his back pocket and tamped both against the palm of his hand to seat the shells and ensure that they would feed properly when the time came.

  Holding the gun in his lap, he nodded at Sam.

  "Yeah, I know 'em when I smell 'em. But it's a new experience and I don't fully understand it yet. Right now I can smell one of them, but I can't tell if he's close or ten miles away. I can't tell if he's moving away or coming nearer either. What about you?"

  Sam grinned and said, "I've had the knack a little longer than you. Like, since before I could walk. I can usually pin them down within a few blocks, and I can always tell which way they're moving. We've lost the one that followed us at the bridge. Or maybe he just gave up. Either way, I can't sense him."

  "Okay, so what's the plan?"

  Sam shrugged. "I wish I knew. I have a feeling that everything will come into focus once we reach the hospital. Until then, we're just spinning our wheels."

  "Yeah," Mark mumbled from beneath the coat. "That's just what we need. A crazy house in the middle of the Tennessee tundra."

  Sam said, "I think sanatoriums are hospitals for people with terminal illnesses. Not exactly a 'crazy house.'"

  "Oh, but this sanatorium was," offered Michael. "It started out as a tuberculosis hospital, was converted to an institution for the criminally insane in the early fifties. One of the locals back in Knoxville, a kind of amateur historian, gave me the lowdown. He said a small group of nutcases escaped back in fifty-five and murdered a couple of kids. Did some really nasty things to the bodies."

  Sam's jaw clenched. Oh, shit! Why did he have to go there?

  To his great relief, Mark seemed to ignore Michael's comment.