Apathetic God

by Ian Withrow

  She returned to the pavement with a smirk and reached under the bus. Lauren lifted it up easily, grabbed onto the axle, and surged back into the sky. She couldn't contain the joy she felt carrying the vehicle through the air like a toy, and laughed aloud at her raw power.

  By the time she hit the edge of the lake she wasn’t even sure she cared if the bus was found. Still, the thought of Valerie was enough to convince her that she should finish cleanly.

  Lauren made it to the middle of the lake and dropped the bus into the murky, wind-whipped water below. Flood lights across the lake caught her eye and led her northward to investigate.

  Several layers of tall, razor-wire-topped fences and guard towers looked to her like the wrapping paper on a christmas present.

  The maximum security Kentucky State Penitentiary was a fortress of steel and stone, but it yielded to her like paper. In less than a half hour she’d cleared the building of life. Nearly nine hundred inmates as well as the contingent of three hundred staff and guards. Even the soaked, flooded yards of the prison were nothing but black barren dirt when she returned to the skies outside.

  Lauren was radiant, her glow so powerful that it illuminated the ground around her in the dark gloom of the morning. Curious, she walked to a puddle and examined herself.

  Her arms were pure mercury from her fingertips to her shoulder blades, her chest was crisscrossed with deep silver veins that radiated from a deep black core around her heart, and she could see the reflection of her glowing eyes like tiny molten suns surrounded by tendrils of liquid metal.

  At last the beast was quiet. With that silence came the realization of what she’d done. She knew it was wrong, she knew that hundreds of families would find their innocent loved ones lives snuffed out meaninglessly.

  But she could not muster the will to care.

  Lauren dug up her most painful memories. She thought of Gabriel, of Erin, of her father and James. The pain was there, but dull and faded like an old photograph. Darkness numbed her from within and she realized the armor she’d built around her heart had no opening, no back door through which she could cling to her own precious life.

  It terrified her.

  What was left of her screamed out in fear and loneliness, searching for a lifeline to find her way back from the hell she’d built around herself.

  Lauren’s mind gave life to her body and directed her homeward, back to the only people she had left who loved her. She gripped her stomach as she flew, when was the last time she’d felt it?

  She was nearly back to Cherry Hills when the being inside her finally gave a faint but reassuring flutter. Some small measure of tension released from her shoulders at last.

  Lauren wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but as she touched down in the grass outside the church the door swung wide and Valerie splashed out to greet her.

  “Lauren!”

  Valerie wrapped her in a hug, already soaked in the few seconds she was exposed to the weather. Lauren flicked her wings back open and shielded both of them from the worst of the storm. Valerie’s embrace ignited warmth within her once again. She tried not to let on that she needed it far more than Valerie did.

  “You’re going to catch a cold Vee, I told you I was coming back! You should have waited inside where it’s warm and dry!”

  Valerie didn’t let go, instead she buried her head in Lauren’s shoulder and gripped even tighter. Lauren closed her eyes in gratitude, warming herself by the fire of Valerie’s touch.

  “I’m sorry I left like that, I just needed to… to sort something out, that’s all.”

  Valerie turned her face up to Lauren’s, her frustrated scowl competing with a relieved smile.

  “We’re supposed to sort things out as a team. I don’t know how it works in America, I admit, but in Britain being in a relationship means working through things together.”

  Lauren allowed herself an annoyed eye roll, which did not go unnoticed by her companion.

  “Yes dear.”

  Valerie narrowed her eyes.

  “You did not just ‘yes dear’ me!”

  Lauren’s amused smile was met with a playful shove. She picked her girlfriend up, lifting her in both arms like a new bride, and headed for the door.

  “And you can’t just waltz in and sweep me off my feet and expect me to forgive you!”

  “Yes dear.”

  Caroline met them at the door. In one hand she held a mop, in the other a long pink rain jacket.

  “Nope, uh-uh. You two are an absolute mess. You wanted to go out and play in the rain, go play in the rain!”

  Lauren took a step back. Certainly she was kidding.

  She wasn’t.

  Caroline extended the pink jacket to a sheepish Valerie, who took it reluctantly. She looked pointedly at their feet, all four were caked in mud and grass, and then brandished her mop like a broadsword.

  “Shoo!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dawn found Weyland watching the sun rise over the London skyline. Over millennia he had built this simple act into a habit, then a ritual, and now an obsession. It was… calming, in a way. Some aspect of his psyche, some long-forgotten grain of sand on the floor of an endless sea of history, drove him to savor this moment each day.

  Weyland closed his eyes as the first rays lifted past the horizon and warmed his skin. He lost himself in the imagined smell of Kikuyu grass and Mahogany flowers.

  For hours he stood in perfect, total stillness. He dwelt on ancient plains, chased long-dead prey through forgotten jungles, and climbed ancient ziggurats shrouded in the mist-draped mountains of memory. Millions of sunrises chased each other across his exposed skin. One constant in the ever-changing world he was surrounded by.

  But reality intruded on his memory.

  His half-smile faded into a frown. Nothing was ever as perfect as the creations of his mind. No matter how many times he tried to guide them, mankind seemed always to invite its own destruction. But he was the shepherd, and at times it was his duty to cull the flock.

  Today was such a day.

  “Natalie!”

  She appeared instantly, good. His chosen mouthpiece’s training was going well. It had been more than two weeks since he’d last had to discipline her, and she’d been careful to cover the scars well. He despised ugliness, though he found it everywhere. She was wearing what passed for professional attire in this age. Weyland found the skirt and blouse combination most pleasing to the eye, and whatever human had invented ‘high heels’ was certainly enlightened. It promoted the greatest characteristics of the female form while also inducing the twin weaknesses of pain and an inability to run effectively.

  Nothing pleased him so much as her collar, however. The thin gold band send blood rushing through his veins. Pride, like that of a renowned horse breeder, filled him.

  Natalie prostrated herself as she knew was proper, and waited obediently for him to speak.

  “You passed my message to the United States?”

  “I did my lord.”

  “And their response?”

  “They did not respond my Lord, but their President is speaking publicly this morning. Many of the governing body will be with him…”

  Her hesitance was annoying, she should fear nothing so much as him.

  “And?”

  “And, my Lord, you are reportedly the subject of his speech. He is expected to denounce you as a false God.”

  Weyland’s anger flared, the tight weave of the carpet smoldered and Natalie’s skin flushed red with the sudden heat.

  “Where?”

  “Lexington, Massachusetts, it is a site of historical importance to the United States. I-it is where their revolution began.”

  Revolution. The word boiled his blood.

  “Is it close to the place we discussed?”

  Natalie nodded.

  Weyland grabbed his servant by her hair, ignoring her gasp of pain, and willed himself across the globe. He appeared with a thunderous explosion in the
middle of a crowded street, sending shattered cars and broken pedestrians alike tumbling through the air half charred. In the space of a heartbeat the peaceful boulevard turned into a swirling storm of screaming and wreckage.

  Weyland still had a firm grip on Natalie’s smoking ponytail when they arrived. He didn’t wait for her to recover before lifting her above the ground, her face next to his own.

  “Where?”

  Natalie had both her hands wrapped around Weyland’s closed fist, the pain from her burning palms surpassed by the pain in her scalp. When her answer was not forthcoming enough he shook her violently.

  “Where!”

  He relished the panicked, wide-eyed fear in his subject a moment longer before releasing her to fall to the ground.

  “P-please, please my Lord give me just a moment to determine our exact location.”

  She stumbled to her feet and over to a glass and steel structure that stood beside the street. The tiny building was the entrance to an underground tunnel, and on one wall it had a large multicolored map. She returned at once, pointing a quivering finger to the Northeast.

  “How far?”

  “Several hundred miles, my Lord.”

  She gulped in trepidation, how pitiful.

  Weyland dragged his herald across the intervening miles, stopping regularly to hone in on the correct location. By the time they arrived in concord his servant was all but useless. She was a shivering, heaving wreck, so he left her on the banks of the river they’d appeared beside.

  A small crowd, perhaps two hundred people, were gathered around a podium at one end of a narrow wooden bridge that crossed the river. The gathering noted his arrival, but surprised him when they did not immediately break and run.

  Weyland noted the unusually bulky clothing, the hardened stares, and the muscular physiques of the predominantly male group.

  Warriors.

  Weyland’s stride did not falter, but he was stunned at the audacity of these mortals. The crowd parted for him, putting on a show of whimpering and cowering, but he was not so easily fooled. He toyed with the idea of vaporizing them, but their courage should be rewarded with a much slower death.

  Besides, he admitted to himself, he was just a bit curious at what these men and women hoped to accomplish.

  “You are an invader on the sovereign soil of the United States.”

  A strong, powerfully built man addressed him from the podium. In his younger days he must have been a formidable soldier, but age had drawn his muscle into disrepair. It had done nothing to diminish the strength and brightness of his eyes, or the harshness of his tone.

  “No. You are invaders. Insects, permitted to live but by my grace.”

  Weyland pretended not to notice the crowd closing behind him. He cast his attention into the glinting lenses of the dozens of television cameras that were trained on him instead. During his short return to the world he’d come to realize that this, truly, was what had replaced him. What had replaced the Old Gods. Tiny flickering boxes of sound and color, transmitting information, opinions, and distractions directly into the minds of his flock.

  “For too long you have wandered aimlessly. You have strayed from my guiding hands and from the purpose I have given you-”

  “We do not need you. We do not want you.”

  To be interrupted by the upstart was more than Weyland’s short temper would allow. With a narrowing of his eyes the grass around him smoldered and the stage burst into flames. He left a ring of safety around the President. Their False God was watching, and it was important that the billions of eyes watching him through it understood his role, his power.

  “I have long been the guiding light behind humanity’s achievements. Since a time before your most distant ancestors I have watched you. I have shaped you. I have led you into purpose.”

  The crowd continued to part, partially from heat and partially to allow him to make progress towards the speaker. Finally he was mounting the steps of the small platform, only the President seemed unwilling to give way.

  “You will kneel to me.”

  The man squared his shoulders. Weyland could see his chest rise, his hands ball up, and his jaw set and knew his next words would be insolence.

  “I will not.”

  Weyland turned to the cameras again.

  “See that I am a merciful God. See that I am a just God. I offer sanctuary to the penitent, but I will not hesitate in the destruction of the unfaithful.”

  As he spoke the President staggered beside him. His skin was turning a blotchy red and he clutched at his throat. Rather than fall to his knees, he gripped the podium for support, gurgling in his attempts to speak.

  “You will bow to me. This world is my right by birth, hard-won in combat, and sealed by the fates themselves. Your impudent, insubordinate, ruler will pay the price for his crimes. But you need not-”

  The President was starting to steam, his eyes, lips, and fingernails turning a dark, ugly red. With the last of his strength he lunged at Weyland, but he fell to the floor without reaching him. His act, whether a cue or simply a call to action, mobilized the entire crowd.

  In a rolling wave the men and women surrounding him pulled concealed weapons from their garments. Assault rifles, shotguns, even sidearms were leveled at him in a heartbeat. There was no hesitation, the crowd opened fire immediately and Weyland laughed as their rounds impacted uselessly against him.

  “And yet you will not be cowed!”

  Weyland’s gloating was interrupted by a loud hissing noise. His inhuman speed allowed him to turn just in time to see a rocket impact his leg and blossom into an explosion. The blow did nothing to him, but shattered the stage he was standing on which made him stumble to catch his footing. He traced the sound of the rocket back to a low stand of trees just as another salvo of half a dozen more flew in and detonated around him.

  Weyland growled. He flashed over to the pocket of warriors, sending the stand of trees into a towering inferno that drowned out the screams of the soldiers trapped inside.

  The crowd had broken into squad sized elements, each laying down a steady staccato of firepower in his direction as they pulled back. By now, the closest group was more than fifty feet away.

  A few hearty cameramen were still filming. Weyland found himself respecting the courage of the unarmed journalists, but derided their foolishness. Weyland, rapidly losing his temper, forced himself to remember how much more difficult it was going to be to subordinate the world without at least some measure of cooperation. Still, he could not resist torching the upstart mortals one handful at a time.

  Neither could he resist a hungry, wicked grin.

  Weyland saw Natalie, limping, being half-dragged and half carried to the East. A tall, lithe hispanic woman with a bullet proof vest and rifle was helping her towards the river. Secure in the knowledge that his delicate slave was out of the immediate firing line, he set about punishing the sinners before him.

  “Do it. Escalate to Phase Two.”

  “Mrs. Vice president, there are still troops in the kill radius-”

  “Now!”

  “Aye ma’am.”

  Vice President, no, not anymore. President Lynn was sitting in a bunker deep inside the Cheyenne Mountain Complex in Colorado. Secretary Weiss, members of the cabinet, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were all present, keeping a watchful gaze on the same monitors to which her eyes were presently glued.

  The images, fed directly from a dedicated satellite, were paired alongside live news coverage of the unfolding events from around the world.

  “Fire Team Retribution, this is Cheyenne Star, prepare for coordinates, over.”

  A brief moment of static followed the command.

  “Cheyenne Star this is Retribution, go ahead, over.”

  “One, niner, tango, charlie, hotel, break. Zero, six, seven, two, break. Zero, four, five, one. How copy, over?”

  “Good copy. One-niner-tango-charlie, hotel-zero-six- seven, two-zero-four-five-one, over.”
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  “You are clear to engage, fire for effect, over and out.”

  The room held its breath while fireteam Retribution pulled the trigger on a dozen 155 millimeter howitzers just outside of Concord, Massachusetts.

  Ninety agonizing seconds ticked by. Ninety seconds of America’s finest dying on the sword of keeping their enemy in the crosshairs.

  The finely tuned artillery team used a combination of angles and fuse lengths to stagger their shots, each system dropping three high-explosive rounds onto the target area simultaneously. Thirty-six explosions, each more than capable of leveling most structures on earth, impacted within a fifty meter radius of Weyland. Dirt and debris blocked the lenses of the satellite, all but two of the cameras providing live coverage when suddenly black.

  “Nothing could have survived that. Not a chance, ma’am.”

  But President Lynn would not dismiss their enemy so swiftly. She held a hand up for silence, peering desperately at the monitors for any hint of movement.

  “Task Force Minute Man is at 12% strength ma’am… Vitals on three are falling but the other nine appear stable. I’m getting incoming radio traffic from them now.”

  “Put it up.”

  “... Movement within the crater. Hostile is unharmed, I say again Hostile is-”

  The radio cut with an uncomfortable suddenness.

  “We’ve lost vitals on fou-eight more. Ma’am, he’s still up!”

  General VanZweiten, a thin, elderly man with short-cropped blonde hair and hazel eyes, wordlessly lifted a briefcase from his side and popped it open on the table. He handed the President a key from his pocket and lifted another from around his neck.

  The room fell silent as the pair turned the keys in unison and punched in a series of numbers and letters.

  “May god have mercy on our souls.”

  Weyland was panting, not from exhaustion but from excitement. The rush of combat, of war, electrified him. The last few soldiers were clinging to life, barely, and one lone reporter was trying to crawl his way out of a crater, his one remaining leg dangling useless and broken.