Nox

by E. R. Torre

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

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  33

  34

  35

  36

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  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  EPILOGUE

  NOX

  By

  E. R. Torre

  The novel contained within this volume is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Nox, Corrosive Knights, and all characters within this novel were created and are Copyright © 2012 E. R. Torre

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and Interior Artwork by E. R. Torre

  Please visit my website:

  www.ertorre.com

  Comments or questions? Email me at:

  atrocket@aol.com

  ISBN: 0-9729115-7-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9729115-7-3

  PROLOGUE

  During the Third Punic War of 148 B.C., General Scipio Amilianus Africanus was tasked by the Roman Empire to take its army into Africa and sack the rebellious city of Carthage. Long did the Empire look forward to destroying this troublesome enemy, and Africanus and his army's rage reflected the Empire's own.

  Africanus and his army mercilessly attacked the once mighty city over the course of many years. They systematically ground it down and razed it until almost nothing remained.

  According to legend, after destroying the city, General Africanus sought to ensure the Empire’s enemy would never trouble them again. He had his troops plow the fields of what remained of the rebel city and ordered salt and sulfur laid into them, poisoning that patch of land so that no one could ever use it again.

  The legend of Carthage's eventual fate appears to be just that.

  A legend.

  1

  THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, ARIZONA.

  October, 1925

  The Sheriff was known to be an even tempered and fair man. While he served in this very small far western town, he hailed from the east, from a place the generations of locals considered an almost mythic kingdom: the city of New York. Stranger still, he was a veteran of the Great War. He walked the battlefields of Europe and saw things the locals could only imagine.

  When he first arrived in Arizona, he brought with him a wife and a small child. Unlike him, they fit in well with the small town and its citizens. While they made friends with the locals, he presented himself as a polite but shy person who rarely talked to others. There were times he could be coaxed into describing the mighty metropolis of New York and his childhood memories of the wonders of that city. But he always fell silent whenever asked about the war.

  Two years after he and his family arrived in the small town, Sheriff Donaldson decided he had enough of the job and opted to retire and head further west. There were no clear successors to the Sheriff’s position, and the election that followed was wide open. It was a surprise to everyone when the stranger from the east ran for the office. As it turned out, he won the job easily as he faced no rivals.

  In time, the townsfolk grew to respect and even admire their new Sheriff, even if he still remained a distant man.

  Early one morning, there came a great commotion. The Sheriff abruptly left his office and headed straight for old man Robinson’s stable. He took one of Robinson’s fastest mares, a canteen, and his weapons and charged like lightning out of town. Old man Robinson said the Sheriff looked scared, as if the devil had come for him.

  The Sheriff didn’t return to town until the following morning.

  No one, not even the Sheriff’s own family, ever found out what happened to him that day.

  The Sheriff yelled.

  He grabbed the Prospector’s animal skin jacket and slammed the ragged old man against the rock wall.

  “You will pay for this you bastard.”

  The Sheriff’s eyes were filled with homicidal rage. He swung at the old man’s face with all his might, fully intending to remove every single one of the unnaturally white teeth from the man’s mouth.

  His fist was stopped in mid-flight. To the Sheriff’s shock, the seemingly frail old Prospector held the fist firm. The Sheriff tried to free his hand. He couldn’t. The Prospector’s grip was like a vice.

  “We’ll deal with your anger later,” the Prospector said. “You need to see him.”

  “Him?” the Sheriff said. He looked back. There, in the middle of the cul de sac the two men were in was a rock and metal statue shaped like a man. It stared up at the Moon. “You mean that statue? Are you insane?”

  “You won’t think so in a couple of minutes,” the Prospector said. “There was a reason I needed you here, Sheriff. You and no one else. You know what the nations of this world are capable of doing to each other.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You were in the Great War,” the Prospector said. He calmly released the Sheriff’s hand. “There isn’t anyone within five hundred miles who knows what you do.”

  The Sheriff massaged his hand. His fury gave way to pity. The Prospector was indeed crazy. How else to explain the note he left for him, claiming he kidnapped the Sheriff’s daughter and demanding he go to the Blue Mountains, to this desolate spot, to search for her? The fact that his daughter was not here and, according to the Prospector, was still safe in town didn’t matter. The old man’s actions were cruel and beyond criminal. Despite this, the Sheriff realized the Prospector needed much more than time in jail. He needed help.

  The Sheriff took a step back.

  “What is it that I know?” he asked.

  “The world’s military might,” the Prospector replied.

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “Touch him,” the Prospector insisted. “Just touch him.”

  The Sheriff took another step back. Without meaning to, he faced the sculpture. Behind him, the Prospector remained perfectly still. He said nothing more, for he said all he needed to.

  Memories stirred in the Sheriff’s mind. He faced many horrors during the Great War, from mustard gas to tanks to bullets and bombs hurled down on him from the skies. The Prospector was right: There wasn’t anyone within hundreds of miles who knew the military might of the world powers like he did.

  Why did that matter? Why bring him to this statue?

  Because he’s crazy.

  The Sheriff grimaced. Despite his anger, despite his certainty the old man’s mind was fried from his time in the hot Arizona deserts, the Sheriff could not deny a growing sense of…curiosity. The Prospector showed ingenuity in getting him to the Blue Mountains. Could someone that crazy also be this…clever?

  What could possibly be so damn urgent about seeing –about touching– the statue before him? As much as he hated to admit it, the Sheriff was intrigued.

  You’re here, a voice deep in his mind told him. What harm is there in doing what the old ba
stard wants? Touch the damn thing and get it over with.

  The Sheriff shook his head.

  Now I’m the one that’s thinking crazy.

  He needed to get back to his family. He needed to check on his daughter, to make sure she was unhurt. He had to.

  Yet he knew –he knew– he’d return to town only after doing what the old man asked.

  Let’s not waste any more time.

  As if he were in a dream, the Sheriff relented. He approached the statue until he stood directly before it. He gazed at it for a few seconds, appraising it. The light of the Moon revealed the statue’s featureless face. Blank eyes stared up and away at the stars. The figure’s mouth was open, as if in mid-scream. The statue’s face reminded the Sheriff of the old and weathered Roman and Greek statues he admired in museums back in New York. A very large patch of metal was exposed on the figure’s lower left arm. It seemed like the outer rock sediment was hardened skin, the metal bone. At the statue’s base, more rock formations surrounded and encased the figures’ legs. Though the Sheriff didn’t know all that much about geology, he knew enough about the formation of this rock to estimate the statue stood here for many, many thousands of years.

  His eyes came up and again settled on that very large patch of metal. The Sheriff was transfixed by this sight. The metal glowed in the Moon’s light.

  So shiny. So very shiny.

  The Sheriff swallowed. Whatever logic he still possessed managed one last, pointless protest.

  Why aren’t you on your way home to see your family? To see your daughter? What are you still doing here with this insane old man?

  That protest was duly noted and allowed to drift away.

  The Sheriff reached out and, with only slight hesitancy, touched the exposed metal.

  He felt nothing. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Still nothing. The Sheriff felt like a damned fool. After a couple of seconds passed, he thought he would burst out laughing at the absurdity of this situation.

  What exactly did you expect? You’re dealing with a person that should be locked up and—

  The Sheriff felt heat at the tips of his fingers. He looked down at the exposed metal and to his eyes, it appeared to…glow. But it couldn’t. It was just a statue. It was metal and rock. How could it…?

  Fear gripped the Sheriff.

  What have I done?

  His eyes moved from the metal he still touched and to the statue’s eyes. They were wide open and looked up at the night sky. And then, very, very slightly…they moved. They moved until the statue was looking directly at him.

  The Sheriff’s fear turned to panic. He wanted to pull away and run with all his might. The heat at his fingertips was red hot. It burned. He needed to run. He couldn’t. He was frozen in place.

  He felt a jolt of pain. It emanated from his fingertips and radiated through his hand, then his arm, then his entire body. He felt like he was on fire. The Sheriff tried to scream, to move, to do something, but he couldn’t. He stared at the statue and the statue’s eyes looked deep into his…

  …and, as the Prospector promised, all was revealed.

  2

  300 Years Later…

  The troops on the ground at the McArthur Military Airport checked and re-checked their weapons.

  Their transport vehicles were arranged in a wide circle around a massive Global Master Air Transport. Every one of the soldiers was hidden behind their vehicles and out of view of the aircraft itself. The plane lay on its belly, its front landing gear having collapsed when the plane skidded off the tarmac runway and plowed into the muddy field beside it.

  The Globe Master was capable of hauling the equivalent of a small town worth of equipment and personnel. Few such aircraft remained in use, and those that were transported their cargo of equipment and personnel between the home Continent and Arabia. The war in Arabia was in its fifth year, and that grind was wearing on the homeland citizens, both in terms of lost lives and national treasure. Worse, the environment, already suffering from over industrialization and the aftereffects of other, smaller wars, was beyond crippled. Desert sands drifted with the winds, blowing across every continent while crops withered and died. Fresh water was in greater and greater demand and there were fears among environmentalists that the Earth had long passed its tipping point. The world population, growing every year for millennia, was dropping precipitously.

  To the troops on the ground before the aircraft, however, those issues were the farthest things on their minds.

  This particular Globe Master flew in from the Arabian war zone twice each week. It often carried wounded soldiers or spent, damaged, or unnecessary cargo. While in the Big City, it loaded up on fresh supplies and troops before returning to Arabia.

  This particular flight appeared routine. The crew and passengers encountered no difficulties while traversing the receding oceans. Even as the aircraft approached McArthur Airport, all was fine. The pilots asked about ground conditions, the weather, and, finally, requested authorization to land.

  All was good.

  But as the aircraft came in for its landing, a burst of frantic communications emanated from within the Globe Master. The pilots were in a panic. Between shouts and incoherent hysteria, they reported an onboard emergency. The nature of the emergency was unclear as their shouts turned even more frantic.

  Weapon fire was reported on board.

  When the aircraft touched down, its wheels skidded on the steamy tarmac and sent plumes of smoke. More messages were relayed to the control tower. The aircraft’s brakes locked and it skidded off the tarmac. When it came to a stop, thick black smoke emerged from the airplane’s belly. More shots were fired and screams were heard over the radio.

  And then all was silent.

  In less than two minutes security forces circled the stricken Globe Master. The soldiers in the vehicles used bullhorns in an attempt to communicate with those inside the aircraft. They received no reply.

  Behind the troops came a team of snipers. They too stationed themselves around the aircraft and made sure no hostiles attempted to escape. They watched from far behind the troop lines, their eyes peering through their rifle’s telescopic sights.

  Only minutes after setting themselves up, three of the snipers were picked off. Despite their distance from the craft and cover, they were hit with exactly one bullet each. The skill level of the hostile –or hostiles– aboard the aircraft bordered on the supernatural.

  The troops around the aircraft and much closer to the line of fire hunkered down. For their part, the snipers fell back behind the thick concrete barriers at the far end of the airport. After a few minutes, one of them built up enough courage to peer at the target. The moment he did, another shot rang out.

  The sniper fell.

  Lieutenant Stewart, the man in charge of the troops surrounding the aircraft, lay on the muddy field and behind his vehicle. Sitting beside him was Sergeant Atkins, a no nonsense twenty year veteran of the military and one of the toughest soldiers he knew. In the brief time they worked together as Airport Security, they developed a deep loathing for each other. To Lieutenant Stewart, Sergeant Atkins was a pain in the ass. To Sergeant Atkins, the Lieutenant was a stuck up son-of-a-bitch that lived under the old world mentality that females shouldn’t be in the forces, much less rise to the rank of Sergeant. Beside Sergeant Atkins sat Private Ben Edwards. Private Edwards was as green as they came and was there more by accident than design.

  After that last shot was fired from the aircraft, Lieutenant Stewart swore and gripped his radio.

  “For the Gods’ sake, keep covered!” he yelled.

  Lieutenant Stewart set the radio down. In his youth he witnessed plenty of battlefield action and figured there wasn’t any situation he couldn’t handle. Yet he was alarmed by these developments. Along with all his other soldiers, he was caught in a no man’s land hunkered behind one of the military transport trucks surrounding the aircraft. Only now did it dawn on the Lieutenant that the shoo
ter, or shooters, in the aircraft allowed his men to take up their positions while focusing on the snipers behind them. The Lieutenant and his soldiers were effectively trapped. Any attempt to fall back would be met with bloodshed.

  If they can take out our snipers who are stationed so far behind us, they most certainly can get us.

  Lieutenant Steward frowned. Given the shooter’s accuracy and the lack of Intel regarding how many hostiles were aboard the craft, he had few options. His soldiers could rush the aircraft and blast anything that stood in their way. But, how would they tell friend from foe? The result could be a massacre, both for his men and for the sixty three people on board the aircraft.

  “Control, do you have any updates?” he barked into his radio transmitter.

  The people overseeing the operation were stationed in a hanger at the far end of the runway and well out of range of sniper fire. From that safe distance they watched everything happening on the airport’s tarmac through high powered telescopes and real time satellite imagery.

  “Stand by,” was his reply.

  There was fire in Lieutenant Stewart’s eyes.

  “Come on, Control,” he yelled. “We’re sitting ducks.”

  “We are evaluating the situation, Lieutenant. Until we do, I won’t have any information to offer.”

  Lieutenant Stewart let out a deep breath. Sgt. Atkins showed no emotion while Private Edwards looked like he might stain himself.

  “Easy,” Lieutenant Stewart told him. “They’ll figure it out. Right, Sergeant?”

  “They always do,” Sgt. Atkins replied, though the tone of her voice suggested the exact opposite.

  Yes sir, the Lieutenant thought. You’re a real pain in my ass.

  Lieutenant Stewart looked up and away, at the truck’s side mirror.

  “Frankly, I’m jealous,” he said.

  “About what, sir?” Sgt. Atkins replied.