The Apostates (45 page)

He came to and found himself in a crater filled with sun-bleached bones. The impact of his body had shattered a pile of skeletons. He dragged himself out of the crater and was confronted with the surrounding scenery. It was that of an old, dilapidated, pioneer church. A constant stream of blood poured down from the cross atop its steeple, down the slope of the roof, trickling off the walls and seeping into the soil of the cemetery that surrounded the structure. There was a dead tree by the church, and its fruit was hanged corpses. He felt compelled to enter the church; drawn to its front door. He walked toward it, unwillingly. He clasped the door handle, wet with ethereal blood. He yanked the door open and passed through the threshold of cascading bodily fluids.

He entered the main hall of the church and
found a strange sight in front of him. There were rows of desks, and he estimated around thirty-three in mumber. He stepped deeper into the
room and among the rows of desks. He gazed upon the children that sat at the
school desks. There were boys and girls, all around the age of thirteen. Atop
the children’s heads were rusted, iron braces that appeared to have been
crudely bolted into the sides of their heads. The brace was connected to the
seat back of the chairs they sat in. Two arms extended out from each side of
the brace to the front of each child. The arms supported an ancient flat-screen
monitor; it was abuzz with snow and interference. But, he could spy a depiction
of an image he was familiar with: the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright, who was in the middle of a sermon. He tried to grab a child’s attention, to no
avail. He looked deep into the child’s eyes, but there was nothing there
except pupils that watched the Reverend’s every move. He shook the child, then
another, but they all featured the same blank expression.

He gazed to the front of the hall, which previously was shrouded in darkness, but now became illuminated from non-existent lights. At the pulpit was the Reverend Wilhelm, mirroring what the children watched on their monitors. Ravine looked down at his hand. He felt himself suddenly holding something; he opened his hand. It was a rusted, ancient syringe, made of brass and glass. The glass was stained with use, and the chamber contained a fluid that was a mystery to him. The fluid had a brownish tint to it. He brandished the syringe and felt compelled to approach the pulpit, walking slowly down the central aisle between the desks. The Reverend did not take notice of Ravine’s approach. Closer, he drew until he reached the steps to the raised pulpit.

The Reverend finally took notice of Ravine. He looked down from the pulpit with warmth and gladness in his eyes and extended a hand.

“Welcome home, Child of God! Welcome
home.” The Reverend teared up as he spoke. He embraced Ravine like a long,
lost relative. Ravine recoiled at the touch; it was not that of a human’s
touch. It was cold, distant, otherworldly, and charged with static. Ravine
wrenched his arm holding the syringe free from the overwhelming grasp that
began to push the air from his lungs. He felt his spine crack, then, he felt a
sharp pain in his side. Ravine felt certain that a rib had fractured. He drew the syringe up overhand and drove it deep
into the Reverend’s neck. He depressed the plunger, injecting the sludgy fluid
into the Reverend’s body.

“Thank you, Lord!” the Reverend exclaimed to him. He looked Ravine in the eye, and they turned black and trickled with a tar-like substance. The sludge poured out of every orifice, and down his brow. His body began to discorporate in Ravine’s arms. Ravine let go and what was left of the Reverend spasmed and bubbled into a black mass on the floor of the pulpit. The children started to stir, then they screamed in unison and tore at the bolted braces on their heads. They cried and wailed, pulling and scratching. Each child wrenched the rusty braces from their heads, leaving open holes where the bolts had been. They jumped up from the desks and ran for the door of the bloody church. The doors were cast open and the thirty-three children ran away, out into the void of the realm. Ravine felt a peaceful feeling settle over the building, like an evil had been vanquished. Then he experienced a blinding flash of white light.

“Ravine, Ravine! Wake up, damnit!” He heard a voice calling him. He opened his eyes to fuzzy, unfocused vision. He could vaguely make out the head of red hair, but no detail came to him. Where was he? For a moment, he did not know who he was, or where he was. Then he remembered one name: Blaze-Scorch.

“Ravine, I’m glad you’re coming around.
Can you hear me; see me? It’s Blaze!” She shined a light into his eyes, and he
winced from sensitivity.

“Blaze? I remember it all,” he told her.

“Remember what? You were tossing around
violently, so I restrained you for your safety. You were also mumbling
incoherently. You said something about “a pentagram”,” she reported to him,
unbuckling the straps that restrained him. He grabbed his wrist; the skin had
been rubbed raw.

“Yes, a pentagram! I don’t know, it was an obstacle of some sort, barring us from the
Reverend. I have no clue what it means,” Ravine was almost hysterical.

“Just take it easy, and don’t strain
yourself too much right now. You won’t be thinking correctly right now. You
know, Angel had mentioned something about people she knew in Nicaragua: she
said they wear a pentagram sigil. Think it’s related?” she asked,
while handing him some water. He took a few sips from a metal
canteen.

“Not sure. I just need to know what this
means. I’m fairly certain I understand the last part of the vision, though,”
Ravine said confidently.

“So, what does it mean then?” Blaze
asked in a state of confusion. She removed an I.V. solution from his arm that
kept him hydrated during his ‘Database’ use.

“Well, Graham sent me a package ages ago. When I opened the package it contained four strains of ‘Database’. At the time, I didn’t know if it was a sick joke on his part. But now it makes sense.” Ravine smiled with the realization.

“You’re telling me that Graham wanted you
to do ‘Database’ four times and you’d have some sort of revelation? What is
that?” Blaze was still puzzled.

“No, three for me and one for the
Reverend.” It made sense to him.

“What the hell? He wants you to do ‘Base
with the Reverend Wilhelm, of the Church of New Megiddo? What kind stupid plan
is that?” Blaze was now extremely perplexed. She was about to give up hope on
Ravine. She folded her arms and shot him a look of disappointment.

“No, no. I think it’s some sort of [Virtue-net] virus. It disrupts something, but not sure what yet. I’m still trying to put the pieces together,” Ravine told her.

“You got all of that just from a ‘Base
trip, but not the whole story? Why didn’t he just send you a goddamn note? He’s putting your life at risk.”
Blaze’s voice cracked with concern.

“It’s really difficult to explain. It’s a type of deep, subconscious encryption that only the human brain can grasp. It is presented to our subconscious like a dream or nightmare. The data is contained within, of course, open to interpretation like a dream. If a computer was to analyze it there would be nothing to dis-cypher because it’s all illogical,” Ravine did the best he could to explain something that even he did not fully understand.

“Interesting. I had heard rumors in medical circles of a special strain of ‘Base the Regime used in interrogations,” Blaze recollected.

“Yes, precisely. It’s like a variant of
the weaponized ‘Base they use. Graham must have leveraged his company
to produce it and encode it with the secrets he’s trying to pass to me,” Ravine
theorized in a mental state of haze.

“Okay, these are the doctor’s orders: you
stay away from that last fucking dose of ‘Base until we get closer to the
capital and you absolutely have to do it. You need to rest and recover because
you are no good to us in this state,” Blaze was adamant. She blotted his
forehead with a towel to soak up some sweat.

“Alright doc. You’re worse than my
mother!” Ravine teased.

“Hey, shut up! I just spotted you so you
could be a junkie. You’re going to follow my orders, dammit!” She punched him
in the shoulder.

“Ah, careful. I’m still all fragile,”
Ravine jested.

“Yeah, well, you need to rest up. Listen: just hang tight here, I need to run and gather some supplies and to eat something.” Blaze waved to him and hurried out the door. A haze of confusion washed over Ravine that lasted several minutes. He was having trouble willing himself to move. He figured that he better try to sleep the effects of the ‘Base off, so he struggled to turn over and he closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he drifted off to sleep, with dreams that were infected with residual imagery from his trip.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The U.S.S. Iowa steamed at the vanguard of
the Mothball fleet. The other battleships followed up in a chevron formation
that screened the cargo and medical vessels. The fleet had entered the Bay of
Panama and was within visual range of the entrance to the Strait. On the north
bank of the Strait could be seen the skyline of La Chorrera. They had reached
their destination at long last. Gale-Whirlwind, Hades-Perdition,
Angel-Seraphim, and Pale-Silence were present on the bridge of the Iowa, along
with Captain Eldridge. They all stared intently out the observation window
toward the Strait off in the distance. They had been smiling to one another,
and there was a celebratory mood within the bridge.

“Well folks, looks like we all made it
without being killed in our sleep!” the Captain exclaimed. He had a way
somewhat dampening the mood, but they were happy all the same.

The Apostates embraced one another. The
Captain barked out orders to slow their speed and to relay the order to the
rest of the fleet. Personnel jumped to attention and carried out the orders.

“I’m going to head out to the spotter’s tower to try to get a better look up ahead,” Hades-Perdition announced. He exited the bridge onto the weather deck and began to ascend a series staircases and ladders to reach the gunnery spotter’s perch. He had his choice M82 sniper rifle with him and propped it up on the parapet. Hades gazed through the scope at the mouth of the Strait and then to the skyline of La Chorrera. He made out the town shanties and stately houses in rows. He could see a few apartment buildings that rose several stories above every other buildings around. Then he caught a glimpse of a sizable fortification. He focused in on that structure: banners hung on all sides. From what he could see it seemed the banners were white, with crudely drawn black, encircled pentagrams. He also spied a series of gun emplacements: artillery pieces that were fully primed and ready to fire.

“Captain Eldridge! Order all battleships
to prepare their batteries to fire. The fortress up at the mouth of the Panama
Strait is fully-equipped with cannon. We need to hail the fort, and try
to talk to them!” Hades-Perdition sent the message to the Captain via his
neural implant.

“Hades, do they look like they are
hostile? Are they mobilizing for an attack?” Eldridge responded.

“Negative. They don’t seem to be
scrambling for an attack. But, it could be a trap to draw us in. It’s why we
need to try to raise them,” Hades insisted. He continued to scan the fort for
signs of hostility. It seemed to him like the defenders were too relaxed.

On the bridge, the Captain relayed orders
to the other battleships in the screening formation to prepare to fire and to
remain on high alert. The communications personnel used antiquated radio
equipment to hail the town and the fort. They tried for nearly ten minutes
before they received a response. The answer back came back.

“Captain, sir, the fortress has responded
to our hails. They request that we hold our position. They want to meet with us
in person before they let us through the Strait,” the radioman relayed.

“Very well, let them know we will honor
the request. Tell them to prepare to receive our emissaries,” the Captain
confirmed.

“Hades, We are going to hold the fleet at
our current position. The leadership of the town would like to meet with
representatives of our fleet before they let us through,” the Captain relayed
the plan to Hades. Hades-Perdition climbed back down from the spotter’s perch
and rejoined the group on the bridge. Blaze-Scorch also reached the bridge at
the same time; she had just exited a motorboat that had ferried her over to the
Iowa from the Hermes.

“Hades, what is your assessment of
situation up ahead?” Pale-Silence inquired.

“It’s tough to say. They seem like the
entity that is responsible for taxing trade around the Strait—seems pretty
legitimate since they are well provisioned and armed. I say we meet with them—they probably want a toll for the fleet,” Hades theorized.

“That seems like a rather prudent course of action, as oppose to going in with all guns blazing,” Pale-Silence concurred with his assessment.

“I guess the question is: who will go on
this excursion?” Angel-Seraphim had chimed in with a very concise question that
reflected her many hours studying and conversing in English with Blaze-Scorch.
She no longer spoke in a broken English, which shocked most of the crewmembers
because none had mastered a second language as fast as Angel-Seraphim.

“I’m definitely going. I need to get a
feel for what we are dealing with. Hey, where’s Ravine?” Hades noticed that he
was not present.

“Oh, he’s actually helping organize some things for me on the Hermes. The hospital ward was quite a mess,” Blaze offered.

“Okay. Well, that’s nice of him,” Gale said suspiciously.

“I shall accompany you to the shore,
Hades. I have a strong desire to stretch my legs on solid ground!” Pale-Silence
confessed to the group.

“Count me in as well. I haven’t been to La
Chorrera or the Strait since I was a child,” Angel-Seraphim announced.

“You’ve been to this town before?
Definitely, you should come along,” Hades concluded.

“It’s been ages, but yes. Merchant
families run the town. My father used to take us walking through the Merchant
quarter to see all the stately homes of the Families,” Angel reminisced for a
moment of a bygone period of her life.