The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (51 page)

“Mr. Jay!” she cried, squeezing his hand. “I
have a friend…”

But something had changed in Mr. Jay. His
face was set in a grim mask as he made his way past the other set
of Dormitory doors.

“We’ll get her,” he groaned, with a slight
hesitation. A blush had entered his cheeks behind his beard and his
eyes rolled. “I had no idea.”

Dawn was unsettled by her friend’s dismay.
He’d usually always find something cheery to say. At least he had
in the past. All she could do to reassure him was squeeze his hand
as she hurried to match his pace.

“Up there I think, Mr. Jay,” she said and
pointed.

The magician directed the Nightcare fighters
toward the double doors and said, “We don’t have much time.” They
pushed the doors wide.

Inside, the rows and rows of beds held
sleeping forms.

Mr. Jay said, “Dawn, tell the others, your
friends, that we can show them a way out.” He shook head. “How much
more we can offer, I don’t know.” Then he leaned in whispering to
Dawn and the others. “We’ll only take those who want to come.
There’s no time to convince anyone.”

He stood by the door with Conan while Dawn
ran to her bed and Meg. She noticed with some irritation that the
dead girl, Sophie, had come along with her. The strange girl was
almost dancing as she hurried beside Dawn between the beds. Was she
enjoying this?

The Quinlan boys and Liz were going
row-to-row, shaking kids awake and explaining fast. This was where
the experience and strange maturity of forever children paid off.
These kids, all of them, had lived for over ten decades now, and
knew how to react without reacting like kids. Soon, the growing
noise of waking, washed over the dormitory in a wave, and got to
Meg’s cot the same time Dawn did. Her little friend was already
stirring.

“Dawn!” she cried and leapt out of bed to
embrace her. Then Meg saw the mysterious Sophie in the mask dance
by. She took Dawn’s shrug as an answer and then asked: “What’s
going on? Who are these people?” Then she noticed the bloodstains
on Dawn’s nightshirt and pressed her hands against her mouth, her
eyes wide.

“I can’t explain it yet,” Dawn patted her
shoulder. “But it’s my friend, Mr. Jay, and friends of his…” She
attention shifted as she watched Sophie with some irritation. The
dead girl had stooped and fished the dress box from under Dawn’s
bed. Sophie immediately set the box on the mattress and flipped it
open. The dead girl made a muffled sound of pleasure and pulled the
veil out—flipping it in the air like a bird and dancing. “That’s
not yours…” Dawn started and then gave her head a shake. She didn’t
want the thing.

“Come on, Meg,” Dawn tugged at her friend’s
arm.

The Dormitory was still dark and shapes were
running into shadows, lit as it was by only a few dim nightlights.
Dawn could already see that the other kids were up—their bleached
nightshirts made them look like birds ready for takeoff or ghosts
on the haunt. They were grouped around Mr. Jay and the Nightcare
fighters and he was talking.

“I’m ready,” Meg announced after a few
frantic seconds of digging under her mattress. She had collected a
small bundle of papers lashed with strips of cotton.

“Okay,” Dawn agreed and took a step to go but
hesitated to make sure that dead girl would follow. Weirdo or not,
Sophie was Mr. Jay’s friend. But when she toward her bed all she
could see was the empty dress box.

They hurried to the front of the Dormitory by
the doors and Dawn was pleased to see Mr. Jay’s look of
approval.

“It’s time,” he whispered giving a glance to
the Quinlan boys and Liz. They led a group of some sixty kids out
the doors and along the hallway to the right. He instructed Conan
to join him in the rearguard and protect stragglers. Dawn and Meg
kept close at hand as Mr. Jay hurried beside them.

“I had no idea Dawn,” he said, wringing his
hands. “You have to believe me.”

The group moved quietly along the hall, an
easy thing for forever kids to do—since they’d all lived life in
hiding. Dawn was already building fantasies of Nurserywood, and
thinking how much fun Meg and the others would have there when Mr.
Jay stopped at another set of Dormitory doors. He shook his head
and his shoulders drooped.

“There was no way to know,” he hissed to
himself. “Only a monster would imagine this.”

Then he called to Conan.

The little fighter hurried over. “You take
Dawn and Meg with the rest,” he said and then patted the boy’s
shoulder. Conan swelled with pride at the touch and the mission.
Then the magician turned to Dawn.

“Go with Conan.” He raised a finger to quiet
her protests. “I know we just found each other, but if we’re to
ever meet
again
, we cannot delay ourselves with arguments.”
He hugged her then.

Dawn felt tears suddenly starting, as she
drew away from him but all words of protest disappeared before she
could utter them. They were in danger, sure, but it was Mr. Jay’s
expression that silenced her. He didn’t look like the same man, in
fact, for a second he didn’t look like a man at all. His features
had become boyish and childlike. The sorrow in his eyes was
overwhelming.

“I can’t leave the others,” he wept and
kissed her forehead. Then he stood and straightened his hat. “I
will find you later. Go with Conan!”

Dawn stole another hug, wrapping both arms
around his legs. He kissed the top of her head and tears ran from
his cheeks into her hair.

“Remember,” he said, smiling. “Those who will
listen will follow.” He looked at Conan. “Keep the way open for the
others I send. And help the stragglers.”

Without another word, Mr. Jay twirled his
walking stick and turned on his heel. He pushed the doors open for
Dormitory Three.

Conan tugged on her arm and then pulled at
Meg’s nightshirt. They ran until Dawn could see small white figures
ahead.

71 – Return to the Sunken City

Something in Felon was out of control and he
no longer cared. He knew that he should have ignored the Swimmers,
ignored his own vengeful impulses, stolen a car and headed far away
from the City of Light. It was possible that disappearing would
save his life. Obviously, the powers he had been dealing with had
higher ambitions than the destruction of one assassin. He could
drop it and run. They still feared him. But he’d live the rest of
his life in hiding—with the Change that promised to be eternity. So
he decided it to bring the hunt to his adversaries. Rather than the
possibility of every turn holding an enemy, go to each enemy in
turn.

A paranoid moment struck him and he patted
his pockets again. Felon had managed to find two well-oiled clips
for his .9 mm in his coat; a reload for the .44 magnum and his
Derringer had not yet come into play. That didn’t arm him for a
war, but he could hurt the ones he hated.

What did Balg or Lucifer, or the Divine
powers really care about him? He was a dupe tricked into making a
kill beyond his wildest imaginings. Nothing more.

And what did the Swimmer really know? The
assassin wondered if he was that easy to predict. It did feel like
something was at work in him—something big that he could not
override. A dark passion was growing in him that was limitless in
its power to destroy. He wanted death around him. He wanted to be
an architect of the Apocalypse that was coming. Maybe he wanted to
do the only thing he could: derail the plans of the Powers that had
manipulated him. Felon was nobody’s plaything.

He had checked the docks and found the
trawler Wurn used to take him to the Sunken City. There was nobody
aboard. Its open cargo area contained crates and boxes covered with
a large sheet of weathered canvas. Felon dropped beneath the
covering. He positioned himself behind tall drums of fuel where he
could get a clear shot of anyone approaching. It was just after
eleven when he climbed aboard. Close to midnight, he heard a voice,
and footsteps.

Passport said: “Hurry!” There was the sound
of something being struck hard—a muted whimper. “Fithy
Eyesore!”

There were clambering sounds, part of the
canvas cover was thrown back, and a pair of heavy bags tumbled in.
The boat shifted as a pair of bodies climbed after.

“Careful with the Master’s property.
Fool!”

Felon heard the deep rumble of the engine; it
coughed powerfully to life, and then settled into a heavy groan.
The load shifted slightly when the boat pulled away from the dock
and Felon steadied himself against the drums until the trawler
found its trim. He was right on top of the engine, so its noise
made hearing anything difficult, but he did catch snippets of a
one-way conversation.

“Hurry!” Passport’s voice was acid—the engine
moaned. “…of the world, and you dawdle.”

Felon was tempted to come out with guns
blazing, but he had to kill Balg first. The Demon might be attuned
to Passport’s life—and would be tipped off. If he were lucky, he’d
kill Passport right after he turned Balg to
Ardor
. A rare
grin clenched his face as he imagined killing Wurn—he’d shoot the
troll in the guts—watch him squirm.

The boat skimmed recklessly over the waves.
Its heavy hull thudded against the choppy sea. The assassin knew
the trip would be short at this rate, but it would also be
dangerous. The waters between the City of Light and the Sunken City
were filled with submerged hazards. To occupy himself, Felon tried
to raise his body temperature by will alone—concentrating on those
parts of his body that felt frozen.

As he did, he thought of the Swimmers.
Worthless things! The scum were begging for death. He paused to
measure his dangerous actions of late, and wondered if he could
make any claim of superiority. He checked himself. He wasn’t tired
of the struggle—he would fight to the last breath. But Felon was
tired of the lies and manipulation. He wanted his power of pain
back. It was all he had.

The killing he had done in his life had not
even taken the edge off his hatred. The more he killed, the more he
wanted to kill. It was something similar to what his father might
have felt when he beat the shit out of him. The less he cried, the
less satisfaction his father got from beating him. So he beat him
harder until he did cry. Then Felon almost laughed. Psychological
bullshit was for people who didn’t know themselves.

Felon was a born killer, and killing Angels
just felt better than killing people. He received something akin to
release. He couldn’t stand their pretense, and superiority. Who did
they think they were? They weren’t even real—scum with wings.

The motor rumbled, dropped a gear and slowed
with a rocky motion.

“Careful here!” Passport’s voice had alien
intonations of fear. “The Watchers! I hear them.”

The Eyesore mumbled his stock reply, “The
Watchers watch.”

“And they
see
, little Wurn.” Felon’s
hands gripped his gun.

“Ah! One descends.” The assassin heard a
muffled screech that grew in volume and excitement. An enormous
whoosh
and rush of air pushed the canvas down—the assassin
rolled onto his back. A great leathery flap stroked the air, then
another. The boat rocked violently almost tipping an oil drum on
Felon.

“Say nothing, Wurn.” Passport’s voice had a
fluting singsong quality. “Watcher,” the Demon’s assistant spoke
cautiously. “What do you see?”

There was a bone-grating shriek, and then a
reptilian roar. A fetid odor of decay filtered through the canvas.
Another shriek followed, and the covering was hooked by enormous
claws, flipped upward and away. The assassin looked up into the
open jaws of the Watcher.

72 – Battle of the Highway

The western highway approaching the City was
well defended. Stoneworthy had been preoccupied by the skies as
they marched east, expecting a nuclear blast that would evaporate
their purpose at any moment. It appeared that General Bolton was
right because none came. The chance of poisoning their own homes
had stayed their hands.

The minister was on edge. Skirmishing troops
mercilessly harried and assailed the flanks of the Army of God
every mile that they had traveled, never forcing a full-scale
confrontation, just worrying away at them with frustrating
expertise.

City Defenders had erected an enormous
barricade of concrete slabs some thirty miles from the metropolis
where the western highway cut through rugged terrain. The highway’s
original builders had blasted a steep-walled trench through a high
promontory of granite. It provided the perfect location for the
City Defenders to build their breastworks. To the north of the
enormous barricade, barren rock climbed to a height level with the
top of the defensive structure. It provided the approaching army
with a tempting attack route, but was too dangerous for that
reason.

Its barren surface provided zero cover, and
one look at it told General Bolton that a force challenging the
barricade from that side would be cut to pieces. To the south, the
rains had turned an old wetland into a giant swamp that would slow
any effort to go around. To get to the City they had to go through
the barricade, and therefore through the worst that the City
Defenders could dish out.

“And if we get through that they’ll be
waiting to burn us on twenty miles of the flatlands beyond it,”
Bolton snarled melodramatically. “This will be a cake walk compared
to what they’ll have waiting.”

A fifty-foot wall encircled the City’s inland
perimeter. It was pierced in three places by multi-layered highways
leading north, west and south. The minister knew that all the
mammoth gates would be closed and difficult to pass. The City
Defenders had raised the barricade on the highway to bring the
fight to the approaching army, bog them down or stop them before
they got any closer to the City walls. General Bolton’s advance
scouts had reported the barricade’s rapid construction and had
designed a plan to use against it.