The Apostates (35 page)

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Ravine had made his way back to the Iowa and had climbed up the superstructure to the perch under the RADAR tower. From that vantage point he had a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the fleet sprawled about the surrounding waters. It was a clear afternoon. The weather was hot and humid. He could see the coast of Mexico off on the horizon. Ravine had never been south of the New Megiddo border. He had always heard the rhetoric from the Regime: that Mexico was a corrupt narco-state, and that the cartels, which ruled it were hell-bent on flooding New Megiddo with ‘Database’ and other drugs. They used the drugs as a pretext to upgrade existing border barricades into the Border Fortress that now stretches from the Pacific to the Gulf Coast. Once they had completed that, the Regime had even extended the wall twenty nautical miles out into the Pacific and into the Gulf of Mexico. Although, Ravine had thought that it had more to do with keeping New Megiddo citizens in than keeping drugs out. He wondered what the country and its people were like. He knew that the cartels were powerful in Latin America, but there were many of them, vying for control and many areas were still autonomous. Angel-Seraphim had mentioned to him in passing that she was originally from Central America. He reasoned that she had been through Mexico, and even found a way through the Border Fortress. Ravine thought he would ask her about it sometime.

Everything was peaceful way up above all the chaos. High in the superstructure he didn’t even have the urge to do any ‘Base’. Of course he had not wanted to start using again, but it was part of Wynham’s plot, so he followed orders, and now he was getting chastised for it. And worst of all he couldn’t tell the truth. Was he at fault for Aqua’s death because he was following orders? He had saved her once, and now it was for nothing. He hoped that Aqua had not suffered. Ravine wished the assassin would show his or her cowardly face so that he could extract revenge. He also could not believe that their search had turned up nothing.

Ravine pulled a half-crushed cigarette
from a crumpled pack. He lit it with a match and inhaled. The calm
waters made the superstructure sway from side to side subtly. Far off to the
south he could see towering thunderheads forming up in a traffic jam across the
sky. Every now and again one of the clouds would flash with
internal lightning strikes. The weather in the tropics felt epic, like the
skies one would view in a renaissance painting of a Biblical scene. He thought
it was fitting weather for the coming Apocalypse.

Ravine could hear someone ascending the metal ladder leading to the perch he sat on. He looked back and saw Gale-Whirlwind appear on the catwalk. She waved at him as she approached.

“What the fuck does she want from me now?”
Ravine thought to himself. He watched her intently.

“There you are. I’ve been looking around
for you. What are you doing up here?” Gale asked him, as she sat beside him on the
edge of the platform.

“It’s a good place to be alone and think.”
Ravine tried to make the message clear, albeit a bit passive-aggressively.

“Yeah, it’s fairly peaceful up here. Nice
view, too. You can get away from the smell of burning fuel and grease here,”
Gale observed, shading her eyes from the sun’s rays.

“Yeah, it’s not too bad. Listen, why did
you come up here? Certainly it ain’t to spend time with me in idle chatter.”
She was caught off guard by his frankness.

“Shit, Ravine. Okay. I—We need you
to stop doing ‘Base. You’re putting the whole operation and lives at risk
because of the habit.” Gale went straight to the point.

“Jesus, you people just don’t get it.
It’s something that I need to do. I have to see it out to the end. You just
have to trust me on it.” Ravine had to be vague. He thought they would never
understand.

“What do we have to—What do I have
to do to get you to stop this?” She pleaded with him.

“Gale—Greta, let’s get the hell out of here. Let’s take one of the motorboats and make for land. See that right there?” He pointed to the coast of Mexico, “Let’s make for one of those autonomous regions of Mexico and build a little homestead. Just you and I. You speak Spanish—you can teach me!” Ravine fantasized about leaving it all behind and letting the Regime, the Church, and the Apostates all go to hell.

“Ah, Ravine. You know that can’t happen.
What do you think—they would just let us walk away? We would be hunted by the
Apostates if that happened. Besides, we’ve gone this far with the group. The
mission has a chance of succeeding.” Gale sobered him up with that line.

“Well, okay, you speak of seeing the
mission through to the end. So do I. If you want the mission to succeed then I
have to continue using the ‘Database’ for that to happen.” Ravine tried telling
her the crazy truth.

“Ravine, please! Just stop doing that
shit. It’s going to kill you this time for real!” She embraced him, hoping the
physical contact would prove to him that she really cared about his wellbeing.
He turned to her and kissed her. For a moment everything was as it had been:
they were in love, both were alive, and history melted away. But then, reality hit
Gale. She pulled away.

“No. This can’t happen!” she said briskly.
Gale looked the other way, “You can make any excuse you want. Nothing is going
to legitimize your use of that shit. Do you even realize that Hades was talking
about killing you because you’re putting people at risk?” Gale warned him,
trying to break through in some way.

“He wouldn’t do that. I’m integral to the electronics systems of the battleships and especially the Iowa.” Ravine and Gale both realized this fact. Ravine might have been an overly-sensitive, drug-addled, depressive, but he did know his strengths when it came to technology. His technical expertise was the only thing keeping the house of cards from collapsing—that and Wynham’s money. Ravine also made the observation that no one could learn the technology on such a constrained timeline.

“I don’t know what else to do with you. I
don’t want you two killing each other,” Gale said worriedly.

“He ain’t going to kill anyone. And I’m not
trying to harm anyone. I’m trying to help you all, but in the only way I know
how. You’ll just have to trust me.” Ravine was getting frustrated and
it could be heard in his voice.

“Fine, fuck it. Really, I don’t know what
to do about you. You’re going to end up dead.” She got up from the edge of the
platform and walked toward the ladder.

“Baby, I’m dead either way.” He turned back to the vast stretch of coastline splayed out in front of him. She descended the ladder without saying anything else.

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Pale-Silence had been searching the
battleship New Jersey for signs of the mysterious assassin. He fantasized about
everything he would do to the assassin if he caught the individual. Pale had an
entire torture Regimen worked out in his head, which would begin with the
forced listening of early Twenty-first century “rap-metal” played on repeat for
hours. The last half of the Regimen involved more conventional, and ancient
forms of torture. As a Prelate for the Church he had used such methods,
and his demonic look to great effect in his trade. Even though he
was now operating against the Church, he still missed his old profession.

The fact that he had chosen to have
himself surgically altered to look demonic did not come without costs. With the
exception of the rare individual who had a demon fetish, he generally went
without contact from the opposite sex. It didn’t help that the Church had
branded him an Apostate, now it was a sin to be involved with him. Once, long
ago, when Angel-Seraphim had first joined his Apostate group, he had made a
pass at her and was flat out turned down. Not only did his look scare her but
he was also twice her age. His advance was doomed to fail from the get go. Sometimes he
felt the loneliness creep in, but he considered it a blessing. Pale would use
the angst of loneliness to be more effective at being creepy. The detachment
also made it easier to commit barbaric acts during his torture sessions.

There had been a lack of torture
candidates being at sea with the Apostates for the last while. In Long Beach he
had plenty to keep him busy with Church and Regime officials in the city.
Graham Wynham had presented him with “intelligence” on targets when they had
visited the city. His group of Apostates had often ambushed and kidnapped Regime
targets, then he had got on with his grim business. Indeed the “Demon of Los
Angeles” struck a special kind of fear into the hearts of Church and Regime
officials. He considered this time in his life a “golden age”.

But, now he was here: searching a
battleship for a phantom. He moved to the bridge of the New Jersey to check in
the with the Captain. Captain O’Leary was at the Conn, and she had been monitoring
her crew’s progress on the ship search. Captain O’Leary noticed Pale-Silence
had entered bridge. She was a large woman, but all her weight came from a thick
muscle mass. She wore a plaid shirt with suspenders and pants that were pulled up
past her waist.

“Captain O’Leary, it’s a fine evening.
Wouldn’t you agree?” Pale-Silence asked her.

“Damn straight, Pale. The sea’s a mean
she-beast. But she’s givenus a pass this evening,” Captain O’Leary growled.

“That she is. It would be a picture
perfect evening tonight if we could only manifest a resolution to our current
predicament. Then we could resume our journey,” Pale complained, while he peered out
the observation window.

“Hate to burst your bubble, but we need to
be underway, or we’ll be caught by one of these tropical cyclones brewing on
the horizon,” the Captain barked with authority, folding her thick, trunk-like
arms.

“I suppose you may be right. I am inclined to think that this search of our’s is an ill-fated venture. The challenge is how to convince our counterparts of that point,” Pale contemplated, looking out toward the far off storms.

“How did you get so intimately acquainted
with the sea, Captain? You seem to possess keen insight,” Pale inquired.

“Hell, my daddy was a mangy sea-dog. He fished the waters of the China Autonomous Zone of Alaska all his life. Made a good living too. The Chinese got a thing for salmon. He used to take me out on runs since the time I could walk. Toughened the shit outta me. A five-year-old, out in a squall with nothin’ but a poncho and her daddy!” O’Leary reveled in the nostalgia.

“Incredible you lived in China? How did
you get away,” Pale asked with intrigue.

“Well shit, after my daddy died I figured
I needed something new. I just sailed away: south. Unfortunately, what I found
was worse than what I had left: New Megiddo. Once you leave China you can’t
come back,” O’Leary seemed a bit saddened but all the gruffness disguised it.

“Very fascinating, Captain. But why did
you link up with the Apostates?”

“Ain’t it obvious, Pale? There’s no place for the likes of me among the Virtuous! Shit, they want all their women to be dainty, god fearin’, homemakers. I knew how it would shake out: be branded an Apostate anyhow. That’s why I found your operation in Long Beach,” O’Leary forced the speech out. This was more conversing than she was used to.

“Well, I am pleased to have you among our ranks. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Pale got sentimental on her. She made a disapproving growl at the statement.

“Yeah, well, anyway. Someone better tell the brass that the fleet’s gotta vacate, stat!” Captain O’Leary shut down the conversation and went back to her duties.

“I’ll see what I can do to get our voyage
back on track. Thank you for sharing your very intriguing back story with me,
Captain!” Pale was the picture of courtesy.

“Yeah, yeah. Hey listen, me and the other
captains get together sometimes for poker games. Feel free to drop on by and
join!” Captain O’Leary said with her signature gravely voice.

“Perhaps, I shall take you up on your
offer, Captain.” He made a casual salute gesture and took his leave, and exited
the bridge. Once out on the weather deck he peered out to the towering storm
clouds that had gathered in the south. He thought that he would have to get the
fleet moving again. Their search for the assassin had turned up nothing and it
wasted precious time.

Pale-Silence liked Captain O’Leary: she represented the type of cavalier spirit that came out of the banned stories of Old World. The type of character which was a restless spirit, not tied to any material wealth, striking out for the sake of adventure. It reminded him of a distant relative of his, who had been a revered musician. He had been a traveling bard of sorts, apparently hopping on trains that in those days traveled cross-country. His relative’s name did not come to him, even though he tried to conjure it up. As a child, Pale had dabbled in music. His parents wanted him to join a tabernacle church band, but that did not interest him. As a teenager, he had gotten a hold of a particular strain of ‘Database’ encoding with a strange and visceral type of banned music, from previous centuries. It was called “Black Metal”. The music featured fast tempos, shrieking vocals like that of an androgynous banshee, and heavily distorted guitars. It was something that he had never heard before: music from some frozen, dark, purgatory. It had changed his life, slowly but surely he would become the character who was in the present day: a demonic force of retribution.

Pale-Silence shelved the thoughts of the
past. He sent out a hail
via his neural implant to all the core members of the Apostates. Pale told them
that they would need to meet to discuss the group’s next move, and so they all
agreed to make their way to the flagship, Iowa. Pale was glad that they all
agreed to the meeting. He was getting stir crazy, sitting dead in the water, and
searching ships to no avail. Pale was also feeling like his combat skills were
getting rusty. He had a case full of custom made tomahawks that he hadn’t
utilized since before the fleet left port. Pale was getting antsy for torture
or a fight; one of the two, it didn’t matter. Pale made his way to a motorboat
that would ferry him to the Iowa.