The Apostates (68 page)

Burke would read the headlines about these
wars and watch news reports on television about the rise to prominence of John
H.P. Schrubb and his ilk: first in a fairly uneventful, but influential
congressional career, then a Senate run, for his state of Texas. Burke
would also catch the farewell address of President Dwight D. Eisenhower:
warning the public of the rise of the Military-Industrial Complex, and its
undue influence on government policy, an address that would haunt him for some
time, especially after reading articles about all the exclusive contracts that
Wynham Industries was winning to provide the government with state-of-the-art
weapon systems. But, then the grind of daily life robbed him of the energy
required to raise awareness for these sorts of issues, and time waits for no one.
So, after several years the concern receded to the back of Burke’s mind and he
continued to live his middle-class life.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Gale-Whirlwind’s force was now mobile. On their march north, after bypassing the capital they had come upon a Regime armory in Baltimore. Gale-Whirlwind and Angel-Seraphim drew up plans to overrun the armory. After a brief skirmish, the lightly-defended armory fell to the Apostate attack. From there on out they had free access to Regime A.P.C.s and weapons. Gale put the transportation to good use. She ordered the troops to load up in the captured vehicles and thus cut the time it would take to reach New York City. Gale rode in a separate A.P.C. from Angel-Seraphim for security purposes to make sure that one of them would survive if something happened to the other.

The column of A.P.C.s had reached the outskirts of Philadelphia, with no plan to stop. They needed to find the other Apostate force and link-up as soon as possible. Gale also knew that the Apostate fleet had withdrawn from the Chesapeake Bay and now sailed up the coast to rendezvous in New York with her force. She did not know what sort of defenses the largest city in New Megiddo had in place. Gale hoped that the combined Apostate forces would be enough to overcome whatever opposition they came up against.

And what of Hades-Perdition? Running off on his grand personal errand: who did he think he was? He was also convinced that Ravine would somehow, magically, stop whatever doom scenario the Church and Regime had cooked up for their followers. What if he conned them like the drug-addicted liar she thought him to be? For being a resistance movement against theocracy and superstition, they seemed to be relying on faith quite a bit for success. This bothered Gale to no end. Most of all she was mad at herself; mad for giving Ravine another chance. She was mad because she believed that he had reformed, and she fell for it. All he ended up doing was abandoning her again. In her mind, he was beyond redemption and he would cost them all dearly.

“Angel, how goes your progress?” Gale
messaged her via her neural implant.

“The column is making good time: no
resistance so far,” Angel reported in.

“Okay thank you,” Gale replied.

In the adjacent column Angel-Seraphim rode, where she sat silently and fiddled with the contracted plasma spear. She desired an end to this adventure in New Megiddo. It was not her home and if it wasn’t for her sense of honor, and the need to avenge her friend, Pale-Silence, she would have abandoned this quest long ago. After all, the supposedly committed Ravine-Gulch just disappeared without a trace. Did staying around to finish the battle make her a fool? Angel yearned to return home to defend her family and her homeland of Nicaragua. Angel wondered what Friar Francis was planning in Central America if she was still alive, and, Angel was fairly certain that she was still alive. It was too late now, though, the only thing she could do was see this crisis out to the end.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Inquisitor Rodrigo had no time to perform any careful surgery: he had gone through too much trouble to gather this trophy. She had put up a good fight, but the Inquisitor knew that it would only be a matter of time before she succumbed. Now, Kate Schrubb’s lifeless body lay ripe for the harvesting; he would need to collect her neural implant. Inquisitor Rodrigo moved about the ruin of the foyer of Kate Schrubb’s mansion. After a few moments of searching around, he located his lion-head cane, which had laid under broken shards of a vase. Inquisitor Rodrigo checked himself over and found he had several cuts that Kate had delivered to him with her combat knife. He deemed his wounds superficial.

So, the Inquisitor prepared to collect his grisly trophy: Kate Schrubb’s head. He extended the blade of his sword, and pulled Kate’s body up by her blonde hair, then, he brought the sword blade up to her throat to sever it.

“Of all the things I thought I would live to see you do, murdering your boss was not among them,” a voice called out from the other side of the trashed foyer. Inquisitor Rodrigo paused from his grisly task to look up, then he smirked at the sight of Hades-Perdition standing there. He let Kate Schrubb’s body fall to the floor once more and retracted his blade back into his cane. The Inquisitor noticed Hades-Perdition held two Ranger patches in his hand.

“Ah, Evan: I was wondering when you would
show yourself. There comes a time in every life when we must surpass the
master. You have proven the most slippery of queries. I was so very surprised
when your band of Apostates defeated my Rangers at the Great Lake,” Inquisitor
Rodrigo marveled, supporting himself against his cane.

“With all due respect: I believe that our
success had less to do with our merits, as it did with your inept leadership.
Maybe if you had overseen the operation personally you could have nailed us.
But, what’s even more unbelievable is that it seems the Church of New Megiddo
didn’t have faith in your organization either,” Hades mocked the
Inquisitor, and tried to provoke him to do something brash.

“Why Evan: whatever do you mean the Church did not have faith in my organization?” the Inquisitor asked while he sized up Hades-Perdition.

“You don’t know? It’s the reason why your
Rangers failed in their attack: the Church had sent their own agent; a Prelate.
She took out a good majority of your Rangers herself, then attacked us. And,
shit, let me tell you, she came closer to wiping us out than L.O.V.E ever did.”
Hades had a smile on his face. The Inquisitor took a deep breath, suppressing
an urge to curse.

“The Church sent the Prelate Inoguchi?
Well, no wonder my Rangers had failed. It’s true: I have made grave errors in my
leadership. But, it matters little, because after all is said and done we still
find each other here, standing over the dead body of your informant.” The
Inquisitor awaited Hades response with his evergreen smirk.

“You can’t be serious? You think Kate
Schrubb was our informant? She would never betray her father. Now, Keir Schrubb
would be a different story. But still, I’m confused: why did you torture Graham
Wynham into a coma if you did not know who the informant was?” Hades was hoping
his questions would insinuate the truth in Rodrigo’s mind. The smirk melted
away from Inquisitor Rodrigo’s face.

“So, you mean to say—” Hades cut the
Inquisitor off.

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean to say: you had the informant in your custody this entire time. All you had to have done was remove his implant sooner and you would have had the truth. Which, I saw you were in the process of doing before I raided your headquarters. I read in the L.O.V.E archives that you suspected Cardinal Zhukov as the mole—holy hell—were you way off. Graham Wynham was the catalyst. The Apostate movement was his vision: he financed it, he selected its members based on their abilities, and he devised our overall strategy. The one thing he miscalculated on was how easy it would be to sway Keir Schrubb to turn on the Regime.” Hades almost laughed when he saw the look on Rodrigo’s face.

“Yes, it appears that I have been duped,
and the rivalries between the Regime and the Church hamstrung my efforts to
stop your group. And yet: here we are.” The
Inquisitor depressed the small trigger on his lion-head cane, forming his
blade.

“Yes, indeed: Here we are.” Hades unsheathed his claymore and held it at the ready.

“The only thing left to do is kill you, so
that I can redeem myself,” Rodrigo announced, as his smirk returned to his face.

“You’re welcome to try.” Hades brought his
sword up to a guard position. The two men squared off to search for a line of
attack.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Because Arch-Deacon von Manstein had fled, the B.A.G. would have to be presided over by Vice-Deacon Paulus. There wasn’t really much to it: little more than going out onto the venue stage during the opening ceremonies, to lead initial prayers. This would be followed by reading off a list of those citizens who have been deemed Virtuous by the Church. This would be the last time any citizens would be able to join the ranks of the Saved. The Vice-Deacon would then oversee a bit of sport: the public execution of individuals branded Apostates by the Church. After this spectacle, his only other responsibility would be to introduce the Reverend Wilhelm, who would deliver a powerful sermon designed to whip the congregation into a religious fervor. Then while the mood was high the Reverend would usher in the Second Coming, and everyone would be carried to the Afterlife, where they would spend eternity basking in God’s light. At least that is how it was supposed to go. With all the chaos in the New Megiddo City and elsewhere in the country, he had no idea what would happen.

“Come on, Vice-Deacon, holiness! We are
late getting to R.F.K. Stadium. The people are agitated having spent too much
time in the camps!” A Ranger loaned to the Church, to provide security for its
remaining leadership, urged the Vice-Deacon to hurry.

“Yes, yes! I know what is at stake!” the Vice-Deacon complained. He was escorted into the parking garage level of the Church of New Megiddo Central Authority building. An A.P.C. sat waiting for his arrival. The Rangers urged him on, faster than his fragile legs would carry him without joint pain. The group of three Rangers, which surrounded the Vice-Deacon corralled him into the A.P.C. The vehicle then sped up the ramps leading to street level, and then out a security door, that slowly retracted to close. It was at that moment when a blanket-clad, filth-covered, Ravine-Gulch rushed through the door before it closed.

Ravine-Gulch wandered around the parking garage level, staggering from the after-effects of the ‘Database’ use. He had no idea what he was looking for. He struggled through the garage, and found nothing but empty spaces and the sound of ventilation fans humming. At long last he came to an elevator, and the door opened for him. Within the chrome-plated elevator, by the door, was a keypad for denoting level input. Underneath the keypad was hand scanner and a small friction pad, which scrapped off a small portion of skin for D.N.A. analysis. Ravine-Gulch put that much together: he figured out how the system worked, and gave his hand scan, and skin sample. He proceeded to press “level one”: nothing happened. He tried other number combinations and the elevator remained stationary. He became frustrated and pounded wild combinations with no results. At that point when he was about to give up, he noticed the “B” key on the pad. Ravine tried different combinations of basement levels. Finally, he inputted “B7”. This selection yielded a result. He sighed with relief when the elevator began to descend.

Further the elevator dropped into the bowels of the Central Authority building. Finally, the elevator doors opened. When he stepped out a near-blinding light, and the sound of a church choir belting out a tune, met him. He put his hand up to block the light from his eyes. When his eyes did adjust he could make out high-vaulted ceilings, and walls constructed of roughly-cut stone, with stained-glass windows at regular intervals, which projected artificial light through them, due to being situated so far underground. Large, wooden pews flanked a central isle. At the front of the space he could barely make out a massive digital display, the size of a cinema screen, projecting fourth the blinding light. Ravine could distinguish a vague figure, silhouetted against the images on the screen. The feed on the screen came into focus: it displayed a live feed from the Born Again Gathering.

“Welcome home, Marco! Please come and join me,” a familiar voice was heard calling from near of the screen. He had heard that voice before. He squinted to get a better look. He could see the figure better now: the Man was standing in front of some sort of a massive computing device, with cables emanating from its core. He wore an expensive designer suit; pinstriped. The Man was tall and slender, but something wasn’t right about him: he looked unnaturally old. The Man was shriveled and thin-skinned, with visible veins that crisscrossed his skin. Ravine-Gulch recognized the man to be President John W. Schrubb.

“Come now. I have been waiting for you to
show for quite a while. We can’t keep the people waiting.” The President
beckoned him with a welcoming hand.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Pride-Swarm’s militia had left Route Seventy-six and had split off to the old Four Hundred Forty; eastbound. His advance was so rapid that he reached the shores of the Arthur Kill overlooking Staten Island in just a few hours, even with such a massive force. There had been no traffic: due to the war and the potential extinction-level event that could occur, and the fact that many of the citizens who were not deemed Virtuous stayed in hiding for fear of being executed. These factors contributed to the lack of traffic on the highways. Pride-Swarm had read somewhere historical accounts of the pre-war commutes that workers had faced in this region. To him, it had sounded like hell-on-earth. The current situation was in stark contrast to those bygone days.

He arrayed his militia atop a ridge overlooking the bridge into Staten Island. They occupied an old park, which featured a tight canopy of trees. The park gave them a commanding view of the beat-up the toll crossing bridge. Pride was waiting, and gathered intelligence before he attempted to cross the bridge, as he did not want to repeat the situation at Harrisburg. The militia sat in silence. That’s when Pride heard a strange hum in the distance: it sounded like traffic. It seemed to be a motorcade of some sort, and it was coming from the south. Pride had spotters with field-glasses and rifles scopes observing the scene.

They caught sight of an armored column approaching from the south, and they traveled along Route Thirty-five, which wound its way behind their current position. Worse still: Pride’s militia had parked their armored vehicles along Route Thirty-five: they would be found out in minutes. Pride ordered the retreat back to their A.P.C.s to make an escape if time allowed or make a defensive stand if needed. The militia abandoned their positions and rushed back toward their armored vehicles, lugging their gear in tow. Pride-Swarm hoofed it as fast as his feet could carry him back to the vehicles. The armored column that approached from the south drew closer. The militia men and women reached their own armored vehicles and began to load up. Militia raced to man the turrets atop the A.P.C.s, rotating their weaponry to engage the unidentified column.