The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (43 page)

Felon glared.

“Quickdraw? Like a cowboy!” The Devil flicked
a dirty hand in the air index finger out like a gun barrel. “Fast
on the draw...” His eyes flashed around. Lucifer smiled. “Everybody
talks about you.”

“Who?” Felon kept his gun up.

“Friends, Felon. Acquaintances...business
people…” He laughed. “Them what’s scared of ya, as your cowpoke
friend might say…” The Devil flicked his chin back down the tunnel.
Then his eyes went serious. “Don’t let’s play stupid.”

“Why the pretense?” Felon looked Lucifer’s
hobo costume over—he even had the fingers cut off his gloves.

“And you brought Kepheral!” He waved at the
Marquis who nodded. He dug dirty nails under the lid, opened it and
then picked a long flattened cigarette butt from the collection
within. Lucifer leaned in close to Felon. “Pissed in his own
bathwater this time.” He gestured with the can, offering him
one.

The assassin shook his head.

“Yes, pretense—no reason for pomp.” Lucifer
pinched the hand-rolled cigarette between his fingertips. “Sorry if
I disappoint but things have changed?” He shook his head. “You
can’t corrupt these people anymore. Declaration of Independence got
things rolling…didn’t need any more than that…uh, I guess science
had some impact, and Capitalism… The cult of the individual broke
the tribes up… spirituality fell out of favor in the west, the
real
stuff. Just crystals and mood rings now.” He started
coughing. The sound was wet and full of phlegm. He lit his
cigarette with a wooden match, smiled around the smoke. “Fads and
celebrities…people already put themselves before their brother and
god. So…what’s the Devil to do?” He squinted his eyes in the
lantern light. “But you didn’t come here for
this
.”

“Just an act.” Felon’s arm swept at Lucifer’s
shabby clothes. He bared his teeth like a dog.

“Your certainty reminds me of faith,” Lucifer
took another long drag on his cigarette. The smoke smelled like
burning manure. “Would make me proud if I believed in pride any
more.” He suddenly stood straighter. His posture slumped and he
started laughing. “What do you want?”

Felon gauged the Devil. It was hard to read
anything behind the full beard and rags. “Who set me up?”

“You haven’t figured that out?” Lucifer spit
out bits of tobacco.

“No, lies.” The assassin shook his head. He
gestured to the sewer walls and Lucifer’s shopping cart. “You
command legions.”

“Command?” Lucifer smirked.

“Thousands,” Felon growled.

“And where would I lead them?” Lucifer asked
with a grin. “My last little outing was not a screaming
success.”

“You’re their leader,” Felon hissed.

The Devil looked at him sideways. His dark
eyes gleamed. “You don’t get it.” He smiled. “It’s confusing, I
know. That fucker John was out of his depth describing the
revelation.” Lucifer shuffled over—his feet were wrapped in rope,
old shoe and dirty cloth. His body odor was overpowering. “See, it
was like a dream I guess, and he mixed the past events with the
future.”

Felon turned his nose up, and Lucifer smiled.
“Felon, I commanded legions in the Great Rebellion, but we lost.
All of my loyal followers were damned for it.” He shrugged. “That
kicked the shit out of my approval rating. I won’t lie to you, I
have power—but I couldn’t get volunteers for a pussy eating
contest.” Lucifer leveled his gaze. “I got them damned, Felon.”

“But you’ve continued your rebellion,” the
assassin snarled.

“Here on earth?” the Devil asked. “Sure, in
small ways but you know this isn’t Heaven, and tempting you
Second-born into evil is too easy for someone of my skills. First
thousand years or so, I really took it out on you. But, as your
fear of religion faded, so did the fun of fucking with your
immortal souls. People stopped talking about God and you can’t fall
from grace if you don’t know what grace is... I can’t broke what
ain’t fixed!” His eyes did an inward turn and then he smiled. “I
had some good times during the Inquisition.”

“This?” Felon gestured to the Devil’s rotten
clothing.

“I’m the King of Rebels, remember?” Lucifer
said matter-of-factly. “And tempting horny housewives to blow the
pool boy is a step or two beneath my station.” He shrugged. “Here’s
a bit of that divine awareness, for you: My contempt for you people
resulted in a contempt for their tormentor, moi!”

Felon turned away, his mind racing. He
whipped back. “You’re not involved?”

“No more than any rat on a sinking ship!”
Lucifer smiled and said, “Of course, I can be a spectator and enjoy
the irony. Michael always had a taste for you Nodlings.” He shook
his head. “He loved bouncing little Nephilim on his knee. I knew it
would get him in the end.”

“Nephilim?” Felon stabbed his face at
Lucifer. “Michael?”

“Nephilim are human-Angel hybrids. We’re
forbidden to create that way.” Lucifer started gathering his bags
together. “But that’s what you need to find out: who had the most
to gain from the fall of Archangel Michael?” He turned, a puzzled
look on his face as he studied Felon’s expression. “Wait.” He
pointed a tattered glove. “You didn’t know?” He punched one fist
into the other and laughed. “Ah kid you’re in the big leagues and
you didn’t even know.”

Felon’s mind traveled back to the scene. He
had walked up to Travers’ condominium. He knew something was wrong
the moment his mark let him in like he was expected, but it was too
late to break off the attack. The big man was well over six feet,
with good skin but was otherwise unremarkable. He asked: “What
twist of clay dares scold me? Damn them for making me meet you.”
The man had stepped up to Felon and whispered, “Love is not for
humanity alone.”

Felon drew and fired into his face. The man
changed with the first hit. As the bullets struck, his body
reformed. An Angel nine feet tall stood there—his wings spanning
twenty feet. He was wrapped in golden armor and swinging a flaming
sword. The being roared—and the house shook. Felon emptied the clip
into his face but the Angel completed his swing. The low roof
caught most of the force. Only the tip of the blade pierced the
assassin’s shoulder. Felon reloaded and fired into the Angel’s head
while drawing a big .44 magnum. The Angel howled again. Felon’s
blood caught fire, and flame shot back down the sword. The Angel
burst into a white blaze. After the thing evaporated the assassin
checked the kitchen. The woman was dead. A stray bullet took her
head off.

“You figure out who wanted Michael dead,” the
Devil said, pulling him from reverie, “and you’ve got your man, or
Angel, or Demon.

“Balg?” Felon’s spirit burned with anger.

“He’s powerful.” Lucifer nodded. “From the
old Pantheon and ambitious enough.”

“Working with the Marquis,” Felon
murmured.

“Also ambitious,” the Devil agreed. “And one
of Michael’s.”

“Two families,” Felon said with a sigh.
“Where’s God in all of this?”

“We don’t keep in touch.” Lucifer finished
repacking his shopping cart. He pushed it toward the far tunnel,
its wheels rattled.

Felon’s mind was ablaze with betrayal.

“I can’t say much more without putting myself
in the path of those guns of yours some day.” Lucifer studied
Felon. “I’d be dead already if I was connected. It’s possible
Michael was a dry run. They’re afraid of what would happen if I got
whacked.” He smoothed his rags and looked upward. “His favorite and
all.”

Felon shrugged.

Lucifer pushed his possessions deeper into
the tunnel when he paused.

“Salesman!” he shouted to Tiny. “Barter what
you have!” Then he turned back to Felon. “
He’s
ambitious
too.” As he pushed his cart past he said, “A bunch of us play chess
down at the waterfront.”

60 – Skirmish

The rough terrain northwest of the City of
Light made travel slow and painful. It was three o’clock. The army
had been marching for twenty-three hours and made excellent
progress. A force that did not tire assured it, but rolling hills
and winding roads were taking their toll. They had traveled sixty
miles and would soon reach the terrain that would give them their
first sight of the sprawling City.

The army was crawling through a valley south
of the wide expanse they had just crossed. The region was hilly,
and though the shortcut brought them back to the highway, detouring
around tall chunks of rock was wearing on all those feet. Dead skin
was as tough as leather once it dried, and could take the wear and
tear, but a forced march on asphalt was damaging. The minister had
met several in the ranks with feet worn right to the bone. They
claimed it gave them a better grip.

Stoneworthy sat on a chunk of granite to
examine his feet. Thoughts of erosion had begun to plague him. His
hands would wear through in time. Already, the palms felt flat, and
were clearly etched with drying ligaments and bone.
Heaven
preserve me
! He made a mental note to get gloves and to pay
special attention to his feet. Being newly dead was an experience
that could leave permanent damage during the adjustment period. His
thoughts drifted over the march.

The track had been arduous and the pace
punishing. They had to make room in supply trucks for dead whose
lower extremities had splintered or disintegrated. Still able to
make a contribution to the effort, Updike was unwilling to leave
them behind. But how long would that last? Stoneworthy shuddered at
the thought of leaving any of his dead comrades behind.

“War is extreme.” Updike had told him in an
effort to rouse his courage. “And we cannot flinch.” In
conversations with Oliver Purdue, Stoneworthy had determined that
their military leaders had built in contingency plans for the
eventuality that would force them to abandon soldiers. “We’ll leave
them with enough oil and water to stay hydrated, and return if we
can.”

But Stoneworthy understood the plan’s flaw.
The area they traveled was home to wild animals, and pets abandoned
after the Change. After domesticated animals turned on people,
humanity was forced to destroy those they could. But the numbers of
feral pets was staggering, as the wilderness grew. The result was a
landscape that teamed with roving packs of wolf-like dogs,
bloodthirsty cats and murderous bears. The Change had reversed
man’s dominion over the animals.

Attacks had been reported. Four hours into
the march, a dead soldier plummeted to his destruction when harried
by flock of birds. Shortly after, a dead medic was dragged into the
woods and dismembered by unidentified animals—her head was never
found. Two hours before, advance scouts ran afoul of a group of
wild pigs. Three soldiers were lost before their firepower could be
brought to bear.

“Extremity breeds courage,” Updike had said,
“Brother, we will do what we can, but this war, win or lose will
end it all.”

Those difficulties aside, Stoneworthy
struggled with their greater losses. The southernmost army had been
decimated and scattered by the Prime’s nuclear weapon. Tens of
thousands perished in the blast and thousands more in the
firestorm. The high temperatures ignited oil-soaked corpses far
from ground zero. General Lorenzo was trying to rally his
forces.

General Carstairs and the southwestern force
were downwind of the blast. They were digging up Geiger counters to
monitor radiation levels. Stoneworthy felt the weight of doom
overhead as they marched in the open. City Defense reconnaissance
aircraft sent waves of panic when they passed.

General Bolton and his officers insisted that
the City Defense force’s use of nuclear weapons this close to home
was doomed to fail. A random wind, mixed with the Change’s
incessant rainfall would leave the City open to eventual
self-contamination—and it was the last City in Westprime. Bolton
said that was the reason for building the Army of God this close to
the City in the first place. A forced march would put them on their
doorstep before they considered sustained use of nuclear
weapons.

The force that marched from the south was at
risk because of its greater distance. Though the loss was horrible
it proved the point. The City was reluctant to bring nukes into
operation. Bolton assured Updike that the blast was a warning. And
he insisted nuclear weapons were the least of their problems. A
wide variety of conventional weapons could cause as much and more
damage.

Whatever the tactical message of the blast,
Stoneworthy felt it too deeply to ever pass it off as less than
holocaust. As thousands of his brothers were vaporized, a deep pain
ripped through him. He had never felt so violated. It seemed that
the rest of the force had experienced it—a shared terror as the
dead were consumed by nuclear fire. He’d never forget the moments
that followed the flash. There was a lull in movement—a palpable
loss of all direction. A hush fell over the army as the realization
sank in.

Dead eyes had looked desperately around then
rose to the heavens. A quiet rustling filled the night that grew in
pitch until it fell in upon the listener like an avalanche. A
howling sound rose up from thousands of dead throats. Desiccated
mouths dropped open, ragged lips drew back, and a deep, horrible
cry rose up against the leaden sky. Stoneworthy felt it, shared it
with the other dead. The power of its sounding would have torn his
heart in two had it been a living organ.

After it, Updike had retreated to his jeep.
He sat there, his round face white, his eyes hollow, as though the
sound, and the vision of so many thousand dead men and women
howling were too much even for his powerful faith. He wore a look
of confusion, of frustration that was distorting his thoughts to
apocalyptic proportions. His hands were fists.

As the howls’ reverberations died to a
terrible background radiation of its own, Stoneworthy had crossed
the camp to talk to his friend. Updike was there, holding his hand
over his left eye, his skin was gray, his open eye streaked with
red. He struggled to smile, produced a crippled grin. The preacher
forced himself upright, climbed out of the jeep.