The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (30 page)

But the Prime knew the man’s passions were
his undoing, and he purchased the General’s mortal soul
outright.

Vibrations from the wheels made their way
through the transport’s solid body and awakened the Prime’s second
penis where it coiled uncomfortably under his leg. He gasped and
shifted in his seat. Lincoln Carter, his aide, smiled in a
good-natured way and asked if the Prime was well.

“No problem, Mr. Carter. These damned
transports are so uncomfortable,” he grumbled. Carter raised his
eyebrows before mopping the heavy sweat from his brow.

The second penis was a gift from one of his
Demon allies, or a
symptom
of the Union. It grew into place
weeks after the deal was inked, but had only recently begun to
exhibit a life of its own.
His
penis looked old and tired
where it hid behind the curve of his enormous belly. The extra
penis looked human, though it was as black as night and of gigantic
proportions.

“We’re here, Prime.” His aide brought him
from his reverie with the snap closure of his suitcase. He handed
the Prime a sealed leather folder.

“Thank you, Lincoln.” The Prime shifted into
business mode. “And remember our deal.” The transport had stopped
at the building’s main entrance. Carter held an umbrella in place
as the Prime climbed out of the transport. The leader of the
western world did not return the salute offered to him by the
guards at the doors.

Minutes later, the Prime left Carter in the
hall and walked into the General’s office. He looked around at the
decorations. A few pictures—long dead soldiers and patriots—a
tattered flag from the world before the Change. The General’s desk
was gray metal with a rubbery black top. On it were a clock, a pen
set, and a picture of the General with his wife.

The Prime threw the dossier onto the desk,
and then dropped into Topp’s hardwood chair. He opened the desk’s
lower left drawer and pulled out a bottle of Scotch whisky. There
were four small glasses. The Prime took two, filled both. Just as
he tipped his glass, General Topp came in. He offered him a drink
as he refilled his own.

“Scotch, Topp?” It sounded like a question
but it was a command to drink.

“Yes, Sir.” The General shook hands before
taking it.

The Prime studied his property. Topp was
about a pre-Change sixty years old, but wore it well. His body was
in good shape, under six feet, and a little thick in the middle. He
wore a white peaked cap over a gray scrub brush of hair. His eyes
were old, and red rimmed. The bags under them, and the scarlet
veins that squirreled over his nose spoke of many late nights, too
many for a man pushing 163.

“General, I want you to remember one thing!”
The Prime injected enough strength to menace Topp. “You’re
comfortable here because I own you. I don’t mind cleaning up your
minor indiscretions—we’re both men of the world. I know how it is.
I know this International peace can feel confining. A wolf
surrounded by lambs. I am even acquainted with the urge that drives
some of us to tie a prostitute to our bed and beat her to death
with a hammer. But I will not suffer incompetence!” Having drained
the second drink, the Prime slammed his glass down.

“Prime?” The General was uncomfortable with
his own evil. The Prime enjoyed his lackey’s look of dismay.

“You’re pushing your luck.” The Prime rose
and stalked around the desk. He glared at Topp. “Do you know what I
see when I look at you?”

“No, sir.” Topp’s eyes rolled. He leaned away
from the Prime’s bulk.

“I see a worthless sex-starved drunk,” the
Prime snarled. “You have to be sharp. Do you know how dangerous it
is to work for me? I want obedience. The moment I see otherwise,
I’ll shoot you myself.” He paused, rubbed fat knuckles across the
edge of the desk. “I want you sharp.” The Prime’s nose brushed the
General’s. “So quit fucking around with the prostitutes!”

“Yes, sir.” The General had assumed
attention. Sweat trickled from his brow.

The Prime hissed, “I will not write this
order down. I will give it verbally, and I expect it to be carried
out without hesitation.” The Prime smelled booze from his General.
“You will program twelve of our missiles for coordinates that are
marked ‘A’ group and another twelve targeted for coordinates marked
‘B’ group.” The Prime gestured toward the dossier on the desk. “You
will comply,” he growled.

The General broke the seals on the dossier,
opened it. Inside were a list of attack coordinates and a targeting
map. Topp scanned the numbers, looked at the map—double-checked
them—then looked up.

“Prime, ‘A’ group indicates targets inside
Westprime territory.” A look of disbelief washed across his face.
He compared the coordinates and map again. “Christ, they’re pointed
right at the City!”

“An acceptable risk, Topp.” The Prime allowed
a shade of a threat to color his tone. “Do you have a problem with
the orders?” He looked Topp up and down for signs of weakness. When
the first came, a minor twitch of the left eye, the Prime resisted
the urge to break out laughing.

“I can’t do this!” The General shrank from
the Prime’s exposed canines.

Topp was a jaded old vulture indeed. The
missiles targeted a heavily populated city he was paid to protect
and all he could think of was his own culpability. Where was the
outrage at the proposal?

“You’ll follow my orders.” The Prime pushed
his bulk toward Topp. “I am responsible. You will obey any orders
that are issued, unfailingly. Any hesitation and I’ll make you wish
you were strapped to one of the fucking things.”

“Why?” The General dropped his head to hide
the dismay that was bound to come. It was one thing to work out his
hungers on defenseless women, another to attack whole
populations.

“I will not negotiate with terrorists.” The
Prime gave the General his politician’s smile. “And I have evidence
suggesting political groups inside the City are about to stage a
coup.” He walked behind Topp and started pacing. “I will not
surrender the freedoms of the good people of the City of Light to
any invading force.” He gestured to the coordinates. “
This
is the ultimate response to an aggressor. By this we will be
saying: Do not fight us, because we would rather die than live as
slaves.” The Prime cleared his throat. “Also, I have reason to
believe that Eastprime and Afriprime are considering a first strike
option. They fear our strength and so the coordinates in ‘B’
group.” The Prime flipped the sheets in the dossier to show another
list of targets.

“You expect invasion?” Topp was mildly
relieved by the new coordinates.

“I expect Apocalypse,” the Prime snapped at
him. “Do you think I would make such a terrible decision for
anything less!”

“Who?” Topp looked at the map, as though a
study of it would reveal lurking enemies. “I see targets in
Eastprime, Afriprime…”

“The military mind perceives the threat. I
judge them. And the threat I see, I judge worthy of this form of
brinkmanship.” He continued to pace, glancing casually at the flag
from the pre-Change world. Stars and stripes
forever
—the
Prime stifled a smile. “Let us hope it does not come to that, but
you will launch on my command. Do you understand?”

“Do we evacuate?” Topp’s face was like a
child’s.

“Hardly a threat then… I must be able to
trust you to follow my order.” The Prime moved his bulk close to
the General’s back.

Topp snapped to attention. “I can. I
will”

“Topp—I order this base to full alert
effective immediately. Central Operatives have informed me that
events will unfold quickly.” He neglected to mention that most of
the information came from his supernatural operatives. “I will keep
you apprised of all developments.” He began to walk to the doors.
“Program them yourself. I’ll leave my man, Lincoln Carter, here to
assist.”

“We’ll be ready, Prime.” The General’s head
did not turn. His shoulders drooped at mention of Carter.

“Be ready!” The Prime couldn’t resist the
urge to bully. He opened the door. The leader of Westprime walked
out pleased with the process, pausing only to wink at Carter. He
had arranged for the possession of his aide by a Demon who would
not scruple about marking millions of people for death, or who
never hesitate to kill Topp at the first sign of
insubordination.

42 - Sister

Karen Cawood sat up. Her head still hurt to
the touch, but it stopped aching. She saw the same small sparsely
furnished room. The walls were papered with a busy pink and yellow
floral pattern. There was a bed, a small desk and a lamp. There was
a door across from her, but it was locked. A narrow barred window
was set high in the wall. The murderer brought her here the night
before.

He left her blindfolded and tied to the
steering wheel while he got out of the car. When he returned, he
led her across an open space and down a spiral of steps into a
damp, musty smelling place. She was pushed through cool air ahead
of him and shoved into a room where she was ordered to take her
blindfold off. The door closed.

And here she was, awake again with nothing to
do but wait. Her memories jumped over the last days.

Able was shot. She was knocked unconscious.
Then she woke up in the backseat of a car. Her vision was blurry.
Her head pounded. The engine was idling. She heard and felt the
trunk close. “
Run
!” Her mind screamed at her, but her body
was overcome with dizziness. The man might have fractured her
skull. He got back in the car and she lost consciousness.

Next came a harsh whisper. “Get up.” The
voice was cold. A powerful hand gripped her shoulder. She started
to fake unconsciousness, but the hand slapped her face until her
skull ached.

“Okay!” Cawood cried, raising her arms to
fend him off. She crawled to a sitting position. The murderer
stared at her from the front seat of Able’s car. His eyes were
black.

“Pupils weren’t moving,” he said, his voice
flat. His arm was draped casually over the seat. “Breathing was
normal. No sleep. No coma. Try that again and I’ll kill you.” He
shifted his position; the strange light cut dangerous crescents on
his cheeks. The man was wounded and tired. “Up here.
Over
the seat.”

She remembered it was dark. Light came from
the dashboard’s neon green glow. Karen straightened her clothes.
She patted her hair, couldn’t find her coif.

“You telegraph, Sister,” the man said.
“Pregnant pauses.” She saw the cold glint on a gun barrel gesture.
“
Over
the seat.”

As she climbed over, the man talked. Sweat
beaded his brow.

“Fake emotion. None is best.” He grabbed one
of her ankles as she climbed to keep her heel away from his face.
Did his fingers linger on the inside of her calf? “Blank face is a
gun. Don’t know if it’s loaded.” He sneered, “You’re full of
guilt.”

Cawood dropped into the seat beside him—head
throbbing—her eyes searching for his in the gloom. They were green
tinted and wet rimmed. The strain made him harder.

“Where’s Reverend Stoneworthy?” Her words
cracked.

“With God.” There was no emotion in his face.
“Try to escape or disobey—I will punish you the first time. The
second, you’ll die.” His unshaven lips gleamed in the greenish
light. “You’re only worth something to me if you’re controllable.”
He glanced down at his wounded shoulder and then up. His eyes fixed
on something through the window past her head. Sister Cawood turned
to look and something hit the back of her head. She dropped into
blackness.

Then he was ordering her to get up. Her head
hurt worse than before.

She looked across the front seat of the car;
saw him behind the wheel. It was still dark, but the sky had
lightened to a gloomy gray. They were out of the City parked under
a thick stand of pines. He wore a black cotton pullover. Rain
dripped on the car.

“Eat,” he ordered. She took the sandwich from
his muscular hand.

“Where are we…” she started, but he slapped
her on the temple. Light sparked across her vision.

“Shut up.” He bit into his own sandwich. “Now
ask,” he growled. The murderer snatched a can of cola from the
floor, threw it at her, and opened one for himself.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked,
handling her sandwich like it was a dead toad.

“To get even,” he hissed. “Want to know why
you set me up. And why you’d set up one of your own.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She
placed her sandwich on the dashboard. “Able and I were there on
business.”

“Wasn’t asking.” He looked away, opened the
door. The man climbed out, clutching the remnants of his sandwich.
She saw a dark stain at the top of the driver’s seat. The murderer
moved around the car and opened the trunk. He started pulling
things out of it. Taking that moment of distraction, Cawood
visually searched the car. The keys were gone. She tried to open
the glove compartment. It was locked. She reached under her seat,
and the driver’s—nothing. The nun looked into the back
seat—nothing. The only positive note was the growing light.
Somewhere behind the perpetual cloud the sun was rising.

He walked to the passenger side of the car
and opened the door. “Out.” His voice was heavy with threat. Karen
got out.

“Perhaps,” she started, her mind was racing.
“You should know my name. I’m Karen Cawood.”

“Don’t care.” He moved to the rear of the
car. She saw that he had piled his bloody clothes—her coif was
tangled there as well—about ten feet from the bumper. A two-gallon
gas tank stood beside them. He had set a dark blue duffel bag,
about four feet long, at the rear wheel of the car. The trunk was
open. Nausea twisted her stomach when she saw the pool of blood
inside.
Able
!

“These trees are nice.” She looked around at
the tall pines. Her heart hammered with terror, fearful she would
set him off. The trees were especially ugly against the brooding
sky. The smell of their sap was strong. “We had a type of pine near
my home. That was South Africa—where I grew up. Menlo Park. I had a
pet lizard.”