The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (48 page)

Stoneworthy corrected himself. Heathens
worshipped other gods in complete opposition to God’s commandments.
Christianity had done great evil in its enthusiasm to do good, and
missionaries usually only slightly preceded colonization. The truth
was, Stoneworthy had always had difficulty with the Crusades. The
ends could not justify the means. This line of thought did nothing
to relieve his frustration and guilt. God had commanded him to
action.

A dead woman’s approach pulled him from his
thoughts. She looked to be a pre-Change forty years, and would have
looked more at home carrying a briefcase than an assault rifle. Her
hair was scarlet and emphasized the paleness of her skin. Her left
eye was shriveled and had sunken into the skull. Stoneworthy
recognized Corporal Milton.

“Sir,” she said, her voice flat. “Captain
Updike has called a halt. His officers have compiled a list of
casualties and equipment he wishes to discuss with you.”

“I’ll be along shortly.” He fell silent. His
mind had just begun to wander down self-blaming corridors when he
noticed something. A pale light had cast the dead woman’s face in
shadow. It took him some moments to realize what he was looking at.
It had been so long. A murmur filled the air over the army as other
marchers stopped and noticed it too. Turning quickly, Stoneworthy
looked up into the thick blanket of cloud.

The moon! It was half full, but it shone with
rare brilliance. The image blurred quickly before Stoneworthy
noticed the distortion was due to his tears. It rode a frosted hole
in the cloud like a sail—tall billowing cumulus forms marked its
progress.

“The Moon!” a haggard cry went up. “The
moon!” A chorus of voices followed. Indeed it was the
moon—Stoneworthy stumbled away from Corporal Milton walking as if
in a dream. Over and over he heard his own voice groaning, “The
Moon!”

“That’s the sign,” he said, like a prophet.
The moon had disappeared over a hundred years before only to be
glimpsed from the Tower’s highest floors. Yet there it was, riding
over the landscape as it had so long ago. “The Moon!”

He ran toward Updike’s transport. The
preacher would be pleased. Perhaps this would undo the pain that
bound him. He hurried by the gathered throng. The army was fast
breaking up into weeping chattering groups. “The Moon!” The words
flew toward the sky from a thousand jubilant throats. Stoneworthy
stumbled many times loathing the possibility that he could lose
sight of the moon.

Oliver Purdue was the first to meet him. The
dead man’s face was a shining white mask of hope. “Oh brother!” he
yelled, and broke free of the figures that stood by Updike’s truck.
Purdue threw his arms around Stoneworthy.

“Oh brother!” The minister returned the
embrace, pushed past his self-control to passion.

“Oliver!” He held Purdue at arm’s length. “Do
you think it is a sign that the Lord approves?”

“Yes!” Oliver laughed exuberantly. “Why else
could God peel away this eternal blanket of night? And look!”
Oliver pointed with a bandaged arm toward the east. “It lights our
way. It shows the path to righteousness.”

Indeed, as Stoneworthy followed Oliver’s
gesture he saw the winding shimmer—a sparkling ribbon wound its way
through the hills toward the City of Light.

“We are not far!” Stoneworthy smiled. “And
the Lord points the way.” He clutched Oliver’s dead fingers. “He
heard us brother! He listened to our hearts in this tragic time
when we have been forced to embrace the darkness of war. He has
shown us His heart to lift our own!” He dropped to his knees. “We
must pray! Kneel here beside me.”

“Yes brother!” Purdue muttered dropping,
overcome by tears. “Oh God in Heaven…”

Stoneworthy concentrated for a moment on his
guilt, on the painful memories of death that had walked with him
that day. He let it fill his heart until his eyes grew heavy in his
head. Tears fell down his cheeks.

“Oh Lord!” he pleaded with the sky. “Oh
Father, I have sinned this day!” Beside him, Purdue wept. Around
them, Stoneworthy heard the supplication of his comrades. Not
daring to look away, he imagined the army, still streaked with
battle grime, dropping to their knees and praying, praying for a
break in their long hopeless deaths, praying for forgiveness for
their sins that day, for their sins in life.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be
Thy name…” The prayer rose up unrehearsed, pulled from the army by
the moon. Stoneworthy compiled his long sad list of sins—called
from his memory all the deeds of his life.

“Oh Father!” He was stricken with a profound
sadness. How he hoped Karen could see this. “Oh Lord protect her.
Oh God, give her this sign too. Protect her…” His emotions ran from
the depths, flooding upwards to a pale point of light that burned
into his eyes. “Save her!” He wept. The minister could not escape
his guilt. True he had died too quickly to help Karen, but he
should not have convinced her to go with him in the first place.
She already had too much to bear.

And since his resurrection what had he done?
He had joined an army of the dead bent on destroying the corrupt
rulers of the world. And where was she? And why had he not acted?
What had the flames that burned upon the garbage bags but not
consumed them said? “
With this army shall you strike at the
heart of Evil
!” That was the only way to save her—the only
direction he could take for salvation.

How strange that at this time, before the
blazing light of God, after this terrible day of war, how strange
that he would think of her. Except that his mind was not occupied
by the destruction of his life. And now, as the Lord’s love lifted
his sins from him, after he had washed his hands in the blood of
God’s enemies, he could feel his loss.

“Oh Karen!” he blurted, his eyes adrift in
tears. “I’m so sorry!”

The minister felt a hand on his shoulder. He
wiped at his eyes, looked at his friend Oliver.

“I couldn’t save her!” Stoneworthy’s voice
cracked. “I couldn’t!” A shudder ran through him. Deep and hollow
as emptiness his sorrow welled up and began to drown him. And as he
dropped his head on Oliver’s shoulder he understood what had
happened to him in the battle. Deep inside him, his pain had
festered. His guilt had grown horns and poisonous fangs. Every man
that he had murdered with his own dead hands had died as payment
for his pain. The City Defenders protected corruption, and
corruption had killed Karen. And it had killed him. It had killed
him!

I don’t want to die
!

“Cry Able,” Oliver whispered, smoothing his
hair. “You are waking up. Your pain has grown in you. It has fed
your doubt. We do the Lord’s work.” Another pat. “But you are full
of sorrow because you have died, weep my friend.”

All around him, Stoneworthy could hear the
sorrow of many thousands. Others had accumulated their pain. Others
had fed their doubt with guilt. Only by releasing it could they
restore their faith. Only with faith could they bring righteousness
to the City.

“Look!” A voice rose up excited.

“Look! There!” came another.

Stoneworthy’s head rested on Oliver’s chest.
He heard his friend’s voice. “Oh dear God, Able. Look! Look! Here
is your sign!”

And Stoneworthy looked up, blinking tears
away. He looked to the moon’s opalescent crescent in the sky. There
was movement against its radiance. Two black shapes flickered
across its surface, whirled over the moon’s face like birds—and
then descended—spiraling downward over the heads of the army.

“Look Able!” Oliver’s words burst from his
chest.

“I see!” Stoneworthy watched the shapes drop
lower and he saw wings. The minister leapt to his feet, Oliver rose
too—arms still clasped about him.

“Angels!” A chorus of shouts rose.

“Angels!” Stoneworthy shouted. “You see,
Oliver. Angels of God!” He drew Purdue closer. “Come, let us get
Updike. He will need our strength.”

They ran toward Updike and his gathered
Generals who had dropped to their knees. General Bolton and
another, Trung Mac knelt to either side of the Captain. Their eyes
were locked on the heavens. Oliver and Stoneworthy threw their arms
around the preacher. Stoneworthy saw that pain still clenched
Updike’s features, but his face flushed with hope.

“I heard them!” he laughed, one hand
instinctively rising to his left eye. “Just before the moon showed
itself I heard them singing.”

Overcome with joy Stoneworthy pressed his
lips against Updike’s. He had heard the preacher’s stories, and
believed them.

“Make room!” Updike shouted, as the Angels
circled fifty feet overhead. The gathering parted. The Angels,
seeing this, turned gracefully, and with a gentle flap of wings
alighted. Around them, the army fell to its knees.

“Praise the Lord!” Updike bellowed.

“Praise the Lord!” the army echoed.
Stoneworthy had only seen the Angels for a moment before
prostrating himself. One was golden-haired with wings of pure
white—the other had silver hair and gray-white wings. That one held
a long golden horn.
That one
, Stoneworthy knew. Both were
large—standing nine feet or ten.

“Arise! Servants of God!” said the Angel with
the horn. The minister recognized the voice.

Stoneworthy lifted his eyes. There the Angel
stood, just as he had in his office—just as he had in the apartment
of sin so long ago.

“I am Archangel Gabriel!” The Angel’s voice
carried across the throng without losing strength. “Commander of
the Army of God!” Updike sputtered something, but was overpowered
by his pain. The Archangel’s eyes drilled into Stoneworthy’s—held
them. “You have come far, servants of God.”

67 - Swimmers

Felon cursed his recklessness. If he hadn’t
indulged his anger and killed the Angel, he’d never have been
surprised. But the Marquis had talked too much. He’d said: “I know
you.” And Felon started shooting. He wanted to knock the look of
satisfaction off the bastard’s face. And he did.

He was dragged through the cold and darkness.
Eventually, numb he realized that escaping his captors would kill
him. So he had focused on his limbs, forced them to curl inward,
and accept the powerful hands that drove him on. He allowed his
brain to relax—to focus on a calming memory:
The sun was shining
on a boy by a lake. His face was warm. The sun was warm. A breeze
turned the leaves overhead
.

Finally, Felon felt the hands on him release
their hold—he thrashed sputtering from the water. A faint orange
light, like candles, burned his eyes—the cold pulled at his numb
limbs, made them shake like palsy. His arms were dead. Numb, flying
water was his only indication of movement. He coughed, gasped,
fell—shoveled black sand into his mouth—spat. Felon shook his head
to clear his eyes of water—his long hair whipped his cheeks like
icicles.

He sprinted for control. Every second put him
closer to death. Why he lived now was inconsequential, he had to
remain so. Though blinded by the pulse hammering in his skull—his
retinas throbbed with gray destruction—he detected shapes and
movement. Felon raised a frozen hand to wipe water from his eyes,
pistol-whipping himself in the process. He had retained his grip on
the .9 mm though his hand felt as cold and dead as the metal. There
was no strength to pull the trigger.

He dragged himself shivering from the water.
Hypothermia was setting in. He needed warmth.

Shapes moved around him. He flopped onto his
back snarling, threatening the darkness with his teeth. Death was
near. He could taste it—had already rolled it in his mouth. A
crackle reached his ears—an echoing crunch of flames. Orange light
flickered on his nose. He rolled, levered himself painfully onto
his knees.

A fire.

It etched the mortar and lines of bricks—a
wall, and a doorway. At its base, a clutter of tiles led toward
him—broken and fragmented memories of order. Three yards away on
white and ruby tiles was a fire. A chair and broken table burned.
Beside it, prostrate, a naked man. The feet that pointed at the
assassin were white and swollen, the legs warped and twisted. The
body slid away from him and was obscured by the flames. A head
moved over the fire—a small crescent was all he could see. It was
shiny, the skin white—the forehead flawless and porcelain.

“Warm yourself.” Dead cold words whispered
through the darkness. A hand bloated and flipper flat beckoned
beside the flames. Felon’s urge to murder conflicted briefly with
his will to live—he crawled forward—skin prickling with new
warmth.

“Fire,” the voice said—quietly. It was flat,
nasal and devoid of inflection. The speaker did not speak often.
“Fear not.”

Felon’s hand ached, screamed at him to throw
the frozen weapon away, but the gun was all he had left.

“We are Swimmers.” It dragged itself across
the tiles. Pale despite the warming light, the Swimmer arm-walked
around the flame. Its chest was powerfully built, and shone as
though molded of plastic. The head, mounted on a slim and flexible
neck was oval in shape—thick hair was plastered to it with water.
The face was human, covered in a skin like white wax. Mild
discoloration beneath it showed jaw muscle and bone. The creature
seemed to have neither eyelids nor irises. The pupils covered a
quarter of the eye’s surface.

“Fire.” The creature slithered past Felon.
“We are Swimmers and have no need of heat.” The Swimmer’s weight
grated against the broken tile and sand until it moved into the
water. Following its action, Felon saw that others—his
abductors—waited in the icy water. Their foreheads and eyes
protruded from the blackness like frogs’. The Swimmer who spoke to
Felon propped itself on its forearms in the shallows.

“Fire,” it repeated, splashing water under
its chin. “We must talk.”