Tesla's Revenge

by Renee Sebastian

  Since we had the mist to conceal us, we chose to stay in the middle of the streets as we traversed across the brick roads. One never knew when something most unsavory may decide to pounce on you from a nearby window or door.

  After about five minutes of walking, a groan came from up ahead. I readied my Widow. Dorian tipped his head over to the left, and I followed his line of sight to a toppled over vegetable stand. We swiftly took cover and I removed my hoodwinks. We paused and everything seemed to stand still, almost like time had stopped.

  A shuffling noise clicked across the brick road ahead of us and we heard a wailing moan. I slowed my breath, steadied my arm, and readied my Widow. The dart's black feather topped off the slender tube whose other end held the needle tip, its tungsten cap awaited my attention. I slipped it off and then he was before us, a man in a bloodied straight coat and a bowler hat. Bits of flesh hung from his hide, revealing bloody tissue and the fatty underlay of his skin. He was barefoot and shuffled amazingly slowly, even for a revenant. He stumbled about ten feet from us and then fell down in front of us. It appeared that his kneecaps exploded when they hit the pavement. A splat of pus and gore burst outward before him. Gargled noises escaped his throat. He wasn't going to be able to help us. I had seen enough of this show.

  I leveled the sight on the Widow and blew. It stuck in his neck and the poison seemed to work instantaneously, since I heard his last exhale almost instantaneously occur with the injection. I could have sworn that I heard him say thanks just before he died, but knew I must have been mistaken.

  We left the stand and examined the dead man. Dorian took his cane in hand and I heard the telltale click that released an interior blade that was housed within it. Once revealed, I examined the saber of the most unusual color and quality. It wasn't smooth, but rather it was completely engraved with intricate designs, which appeared to be overlapping runes. It was also of an iridescent red color that I imagined was spectacular in the sunlight and reminded me of the odd scale on a red koi. It was a treasure that was worthy of being hid well and always kept close at hand.

  Dorian noticed my covetous looks and commented, “It was made by a mad, Arabian sorcerer about three centuries ago. He died shortly after he perfected his craft. Mark these words, if ever you must choose between saving the sword or me, I would rather you leave me behind to take my chances and you take my sword to safety. I will always recover, but recovering the sword might prove impossible.”

  I nodded my agreement, because that is what one agent would do for another, but secretly I wouldn't mind one bit adding such a unique weapon to my personal arsenal. He then returned his attention to the revenant and flicked the edge of it against the skin of the dead man's neck. Red blood leaked and dripped down out of the wound to pool on the road.

  Normally, the dead's blood congeals upon first death, so when you kill one as a zombie, at best, only a thick and blackened blood would ooze out of the wound. At least his death had been one of mercy.

  “Neither a Revenant nor a Deader,” I commented with dismay.

  “I think not,” Dorian replied. He then slid his blade back into its sheath.

  He did not wipe it clean, even though he had a perfectly fine kerchief peeking out of his pocket. Didn't he know that there could be a strange new contagion on it? Even though I could live forever, a year was too long to live if I was deathly ill. At least, I would eventually recover when I next visited Neverland, if I didn't die the true death between now and then.

  It agitated to such an extent, that I asked, “Aren’t you afraid of catching a new and exotic plague, even if it isn't the resurrected variety?”

  “No, this blade eats everything it scores.”

  “It does? It just absorbs the blood?”

  “Yes, but let's not linger here; the center is only about a block away.”

  As we walked, I asked, “What happens if you nick your own skin?”

  “It will simply consume whatever it touches, including my blood, as well. But feeding it my blood is precarious at best.”

  Then it struck me. This was a blood sword of legend. It not only ate the blood of the victims, but it actually required the occasional feeding from its owner to keep it compliant. I had also heard that a blood sword had indeed been known to kill its owner on occasion. I eyed it more speculatively. It must accept its owner, who must slowly take ownership through many repeated and cautious bloodlettings. Myth had it, that even if I were able to take possession of it, it would probably turn on me and drain me dry, so long as it had bonded with its true owner. This was a one-person sword. So, I wouldn't be adding this one to my arsenal, then. Pity.

  Dorian had gotten ahead of me, so I had to walk briskly to catch up with him. The road quickly deteriorated the further we walked. It was littered with bricks and glass from the collapsed buildings that were just out of view, hidden in the mist. The road had also opened up with cracks and holes that appeared to have no bottom. As we drew closer to the epicenter, some of the mist had finally started to lift with the heat of nearby fires that sprang forth from buildings' gaping windows and doorways. Of course, the mist was replaced with the brown smoke of burning debris. Brilliant. The air would have been difficult to breathe, if not for our resplugs.

  From up ahead, the soft sound of a woman's muffled crying carried across the abandoned streets, stopping our progression.

  I asked, “Do you hear that?”

  He stopped for a moment and listened, “Yes.”

  Revenants were beyond emotions and Deaders were beyond the deeper ones like love and sadness, so I asked, “Let's ask for a firsthand account.”

  “Agreed.” We subtly modified our direction.

  We turned a corner and saw a woman kneeling in the street swaddling a silent baby against her chest. She was rocking it back and forth, sobbing in despair. Her clothes were rotten strips hanging off her decimated form. Sores were oozing all over her body and her brown hair was sparse and patchy.

  As we drew closer, we heard a man call out, “Over here, Captain!”

  We dashed into a storefront facade that had lost its roof, but fortunately was not aflame. Three men approached the woman. Two were armed government soldiers and the other was their Captain, easily recognized by not only his red uniform, trimmed in gold, but also by his lack of firearms. This captain was a User, since Ordinaries could only serve in the President's militia as soldiers, whereas officers were almost always Users. The only exception to this was Werewolves who worked their own brand of magic, but they were rare and usually reserved for the personal guard of the President, his family, and cabinet members.

  The woman looked up at the men approaching her and cried out, “Please... please, help me,” she sobbed, “My baby... my baby is not breathing.” Her voice faltered and broke at the end.

  The captain looked to one of the soldiers and said, “Do it.”

  The soldier had already raised his gun before the captain finished his order. So it was only split second until the shot broke the quiet. That bullet stole the woman's last breath. The other soldier moved in, kicked the woman's bleeding body out of the way and examined the baby by way of poking the bayonet end of his rifle into its soft belly. The infant didn't even flinch, let alone cry in response to being gutted. He said, “Looks like the baby is dead, Captain.”

  The Captain replied, “Save the bullet for the next one, then.” With that said, they began roving the streets at a fast clip for their next mark.

  Once they had cleared off far enough for us to leave our cover, Dorian and I exchanged meaningful glances. I asked, “None of these people are zombies at all, are they?”

  “It would appear not.”

  “How far are we from the coordinates?”

  “Too close to abandon our mission now, I fear.”

  “Well, let's examine the sight of the quake, the quicker we can get to the bottom of this, the quicker we can report to S.O.A.R. and get some real help for these survivors.”

  “It should be just o
ver there.” He pointed to an area devoid of all signs of life and human touch.

  As we approached, my resplug began quietly beeping inside my nose. They were set to go off when they malfunctioned. Fortunately, they only beep about once per minute, and they were so quiet only the wearer could hear it, so it was never terribly distracting. Dorian turned to look at me and I noticed he was not wearing his resplug anymore. Why should he? According to him, he can't die. He didn't even believe that he could get hurt.

  He said, “Your light. It's blue.”

  I had forgotten, that once it started beeping, it would also indicate by colored lights what the problem was with the resplug. Blue meant radiation. These people had radiation sickness. It seemed obvious now that the radiation was emanating from the center. The real question was what kind of radiation. Dorian consequently took out his Strutt meter and started to investigate the area.

  The ground had turned mushy, most likely from a mix of overturned soil, pulverized debris, due to the shaker, and the heavy mist that had settled over this land early in the morning. We treaded through the streets with increased effort. Only the foundations of buildings remained here, and only a few of those were obvious, since most were covered in a thick, powdery dust. What was left of the mist drifted in the air like forgotten yellowed specters. I looked up and even the sun appeared as a hazy ghost in the sky above us.

  Something on the Strutt meter must have been interesting, because he stopped looking at it and looked at the ground below us.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It's off the meter.”

  We were taught that off the meter meant impossible, unless you were hovering directly over the earth's core or on a comet. I suspected I had my answer now as to whether this was BIG or not.

  “Thoughts?” I asked.

  He looked at me, and I could have sworn that he was a shade paler than normal. “None, as of right now.” He began recording information into the memory tape in the Strutt.

  I scrutinized the area. At best, I surmised that I was standing in the middle of a residential area, based on the previous area's block layout. I began scraping my boots through the dust, just to see if it might be hiding any secrets. I circled Dorian until my boot hit a dip. Based on the footings along the perimeter of the area we were investigating, it shouldn't have hit anything but a smooth cement sub floor.

  I knelt down and ran my hand along the dusty ground. I wanted to make sure that it wasn't the odd nail. It wasn't. It was part of an engraved groove in the earth. Engraved grooves meant only one thing in this severe radiation wasteland. Magic had been used, but in what manner? The owner of this house could have engraved it for summoning purposes, but only revealing it would tell its tale. I took off one of my gloves and touched my finger to the groove; the resulting shock blew me onto my backside.

  Dorian rushed over and asked, “What happened?”

  “I touched raw magic. There is some sort of a magical mark in the cement... there,” I said as I indicated the groove. I tried to not appear as shaken as I felt.

  He extended his hand and said, “Then we will have to see what this is.” I took it and he helped me up.

  We looked at the spot, until he said, “I shall get started. Time is precious. Prepare yourself.” He put away the Strutt meter and then he removed a pad of paper and a pen from a coat pocket. He sat down cross-legged next to the groove and tore off four pieces of paper. He then took out a calligraphy pen and proceeded to stab his forearm with it. He held the tip of the pen to the edge of the wound and collected the blood within it. He then drew a different cryptic rune on each of the four pieces of paper with his blood. So he was a Hemomage, or someone who worked magic using their blood. I used a touch of my blood to help kindle the magic in my potions, but by itself, it would do less than tick stuck on a dog.

  He replaced the pen and pad back into his coat pocket, and then stood and said to me, “You may want to stand back; it will get quite windy in a moment.” Without waiting for my compliance, he thrust each piece of paper into the air, one for each compass direction. All four papers drifted in the air for a few seconds, meandering their path to the ground. With a suddenness that stole my breath, all four touched the earth, and a gale force wind abruptly swirled around us in a violent maelstrom. I slipped down my hoodwinks as the wind kicked up sand that pelted our faces like stinging flies. For the second time today, I was grateful I wore pants.

  After about three minutes, the wind died down and we lifted our dust-covered goggles. What stood before me was amazing. Certainly, there were indeed a series of grooves carved into the cement; their design, however, was not the telltale drawn circle that low level Users utilized. It was one of the most complicated casting circles that I had ever seen. With three overlapping triangles inlaid with four interlocking squares, their overlapping points created a perfect circle.

  I knew enough to know it was a high-level protection ward, one that locked whatever was on the inside away from the outside. In the middle of the triangles was a four-foot diameter scorch mark scarring the earth and within it was a most peculiar device laying on its side. It was amazing that so much rubble had managed to bury it so deeply in such a short time.

  Before me, sticking up out of the ground was a three-foot long cylindrical canister. On it, there appeared to have been small lights that ran laterally up the spear of metal, but were now winked out. I might even presume that it resembled a blown-out bombshell with certain sections blackened and torn, revealing a profusion of electronic wires. Upon closer inspection, it even appeared to have had a drill head of some sort. Perhaps that enabled it to bore through the cement in order to attach itself more firmly to it.

  “So, do you think it is a bomb?” Dorian asked, while peering closely at its top.

  I walked over and saw a series of levers and buttons at the top. “Possibly, but what do you make of this ward surrounding it?”

  “I suspect that someone wanted protection from something outside of their casting area.”

  I flipped it by saying, “Or wanted to keep something from escaping it.” I tentatively touched the canister. No spark or force of magic greeted me this time. I then reached for one of the grooves again, and even though I wasn't knocked back onto my arse again, I still felt an almost painful vibration pulsing out from the defunct ward. I had some natural immunity to wards, due to my unique blood heritage, but if this impressive ward were active, even I doubted that I would have been able to walk over it.

  A sparkle gleamed in Dorian's eyes when he asked, “Do you think that Tesla succeeded in creating his Earthquake Machine?”

  I hadn’t considered that. It was almost lost in the annals of history now, that Tesla, late in life, had supposedly created a machine that could topple buildings. His lab mysteriously caught fire shortly after, and if that wasn’t bad enough, upon his death the government confiscated all his plans and documents.

  “It would appear so, but what concerns me more is this ward. Why would there be one here at all, if this device is purely mechanical in nature?”

  Before he could respond, we heard two shots fired not too far off to our right. I said, “It is a shame that we can't haul it all back to S.O.A.R.”

  He replied, “I don’t think I would like to get that through New Amsterdam’s customs. Let's leave this place. I prefer to not have to explain our passes so soon into our venture.” Certainly, at the least we would have been delayed indefinitely. “Getting apprehended would not help any of these poor people. Besides, being found so close to this device might imply some association with it.”

  As we walked back the way we came, I leaned in close to Dorian and in a hushed voice, to avoid unwanted ears from listening, I said, “It looks like we have ascertained the shaker’s epicenter and within it was some sort of arcane magic has been used in connection to a mysterious mechanical device. We need to report our findings back to S.O.A.R., and let them instruct us on our next move.”

  I took out the map and as I e
xamined the city grid, I said, “I see on the map that Abraham is the next nearest town. We'll have to swing by the brownstone to pick up my bags before we travel there. It would be nice to not have to walk all the way there, since it is some considerable miles away from our present location. Let's keep a lookout for some unaffected horses or a mechcarriage that might still be serviceable.”

  “I’d prefer a living horse. They are quieter. I'll also keep a look out for a pigeon coop along the way, as well. I agree that S.O.A.R. needs this information without delay. There might still be a healthy homing pigeon somewhere in this god’s forsaken place. I seriously doubt we could find a working Hertzian or a phone under these conditions,” he said, as he traded his Strutt meter for his compass.

  I heard a shout call out from about a hundred yards away. What with the demise of the city's industrialization and its resulting noxious chemical clouds, the occasional shaft of light allowed the sun's heat to begin the slow burn off of fog and with it our cover.

  I said, “Let's push onward to the Brownstone and stay there until nightfall. It'll be safer to travel then.”

  “I couldn't agree more with you on that. Look, I have our new bearings, let's go.” That was good, because there was still enough smoke from the burning buildings, that even I might have even lost my bearings back to the brownstone.

  Chapter 6

  Brownstones

  “What is absurd? Believing that you could rehabilitate a zombie or believing that even if you could, it would make no difference in this world, whatsoever.”

  -Harriet Laughton, On the Absurdist Way of Thinking, 2189.

  From Dorian's Journal of Memorable Quotes to Live By

  The Brownstone was actually very accommodating during our daylight vigil, even though the electricity was out. After clearing the house, I retired to a servant's quarters that were most likely a governess's room, to collect my thoughts and rest. I methodically laid out my weapons on a battered chiffonier, but left my Iver Johnson's strapped on. I sat down on the small bed, the only other piece of furniture in the room and wished I could trade my copy of The Metamorphosis for a copy of Casting of the Circles: Arcane Edition, Vol. IV. However, I probably wouldn't even know what it would mean, even if I could find the exact diagram.