Tumultus (41 page)

The Great Consulate rose up to his full height, his jaw jutting out defiantly as he had done so often years ago when the world willingly bowed at his feet.

“The seekers are mine, and mine alone.”

The adviser laughed shrilly, then suddenly stopped as she jabbed a finger at him.

“You have NOTHING that is not given to you by me.  And I only give what the Saudis and others deem acceptable.  The seeker program was developed with New United Nations funding. The seekers’ movements are closely monitored by our surveillance teams across the country.  You have no claim to them, just as you have no claim to anything.  Everything, including yourself, is government property.

You may stay here, for now.  Live in this filth.  I will continue to see your cigarettes and your candy corns and your human toys delivered per your requests just as I have always done for you all of these years.  Know this though, the time is coming when I will have you removed from this place.  Your existence is proving increasingly tedious.  You long ago became a burden to us rather than the asset you once were.  That change has been your doing.  Continue to monitor the seekers yourself, if you find some entertainment in that.  That is no concern of mine. What is my concern is destroying the rebellion in Texas and elsewhere.  As I told you earlier, the Muslims are already preparing to attack Alaska.  That is mere days away.  First they will take out that pathetic outpost called Wilfrid.  From there we drone bomb Juneau and let the Muslims sweep across every city and town and do with them what they will.  Within days the Alaskans will be begging for us to save them.”

The Great Consulate looked outside at a drone passing directly in front of his window.

“And what about the Dominatus survivors? The ones who left Alaska?”

The adviser smirked, her eyes also following the path of the nearby drone.

“I’m certain they think they have some plan.  Perhaps another silly radio message?  Or maybe they are simply escaping to somewhere else they think themselves safe.  It’s not a priority, merely an annoyance, as they have always been to us.”

It was the Great Consulate’s turn to smirk as his heavy lidded eyes looked back at the adviser.

“We underestimated them before, and they destroyed many of our drones.”

The adviser was already making her way toward the exit door.  Without looking back at him, she responded to the Great Consulate’s concerns.

“That won’t happen again.  You sent all of your seekers after them, right?  I’m certain they’ll eliminate them once and for all.  And if they don’t I will have all the time in the world to take care of it myself.”

Just before reaching the door, the adviser paused, and again without looking back, she addressed the Great Consulate.

“Oh, and if you had any intentions of accessing the blocked silo codes, don’t bother.  You can’t.  Those codes were made obsolete and the warheads were dismantled almost ten years ago.  The Saudis have always preferred more conventional forms of global disruption.”

She was gone, leaving the Great Consulate alone once again, just as he preferred it.

“You should have killed her!  She will kill you first!  How could you be so stupid!  And she knew about your plans for the silo codes already?”

Ah, the voice had finally returned to him.  The voice was right of course, the adviser certainly did appear ready to eliminate him at some point in the near future.  The Great Consulate was certain his seekers killing the Dominatus survivors would impress the Saudis just enough though, to allow him more time to deal with the adviser. 

“She treats you like a dog!  Like a child!  You must fight back!”

The Great Consulate lit yet another cigarette and stared out the window as night fell over the city, the New United Nations building casting a massive shadow over the tiny figures that scurried in the streets far below.  He would fight back.  And soon.  First though, his seekers would destroy all of them on that silly train.  Did they think themselves safe as they travelled to wherever they intended to go?  Idiots.  Kill the Dominatus survivors, regain the favor of the Saudis, and find himself returned to his rightful place of glory, a god among the pathetic creatures of this world.

XXXIX.

The godfather watched as the Muslims entered Wilfrid.  Hundreds of them drove or walked down the streets of what the welcome sign read as “the last real hometown on earth”, breaking windows, stealing food, looking for residents.  They would find none though – they had been sent off to an encampment nearly five miles north of Wilfrid where they had been ordered to remain until he contacted them to say it was ok to return.

For weeks his security forces had indicated an uptick in Muslim bandit activity.  The arrival of Mac and the others from Dominatus confirmed this activity after they too had been attacked so close to Wilfrid.  In years past, such attacks only took place much further to the south.

It would seem the Vancouver warlord had been given both ammunition and permission to move a large Muslim force into parts of Alaska – Wilfrid was no doubt intended to be a nice little snack on their way to that much larger prize.

The godfather had made other plans though, plans that would no doubt inflict an incredible price against these Muslim scum he had spent so much of his life fighting against.  These radicalized animals who raped and beheaded women and children at every given opportunity.  They would not have the opportunity now though.  Not today.  The godfather, as always, was prepared.

He counted at least four hundred who had already entered Wilfrid in the last twenty minutes, with handfuls more still straggling in.  Military trucks, groups of heavily armed men, and even an old Vietnam era M113 armored assault vehicle.  Reports had been coming in over the last forty eight hours of movements on the main roads from Vancouver up to Kitimat, and from there on the secondary roads toward Wilfrid.

A message from the Russian’s wife confirmed the Dominatus survivors and Yakov had departed almost a full day earlier on their way toward Manitoba by the time the Muslim bandits began converging just outside Wilfrid.  That would likely put them well past Terrace by now.  From there the godfather knew the speed at which the train could take them toward Manitoba would keep them well away from the trouble now visiting Wilfrid, trouble he intended to take care of very soon.

The godfather placed a microphone directly in front of him and powered it on, waiting a moment to confirm the intercom system was operating.  He could hear his breathing bouncing back and forth between the numerous speakers that were hidden throughout Wilfrid.  Some of the Muslim bandits were already looking up, wondering where the noise was coming from.

“Hello there you, sick bastards.  You think you can come to my home and threaten my people?  My family?  My friends?  This is Wilfrid, you pathetic assholes!  I’m the one they call the godfather, and I’m about to unleash a real big can of whoop-ass on the lot of you.  Every last one.  But before I do that, I’m gonna give you just one last little piece of heaven on earth.  Enjoy it while it lasts, because once the music ends, you’ll all be dead.  Every…last…one of you.”

The Dean Martin song
You’re Nobody Until Somebody Loves You
blared from the many hidden speakers and upon the ears of the Muslim bandits, as the godfather happily sang along to the lyrics inside of his private office on the second floor of his self-titled nightclub.  He smiled widely as he watched bandits yelling and pointing to where they believed the music to be coming from.

The first explosion rocked the main entrance into Wilfrid, ripping apart the bodies of several armed Muslim bandits who were standing guard. The godfather leaned into his microphone, his voice coming in over the loudly playing song.

“That’s just the first of many, boys.  It’s boom time in little old Wilfrid, courtesy of yours truly.”

A second and third explosion erupted from portions of Main Street, lifting the armored vehicle onto its side and killing everyone inside of it.  Bandits were running down sidewalks and into empty buildings hoping to avoid the next blast.

Multiple blasts shook nearly every segment of Wilfrid as Dean Martin happily sang of the need for love and acceptance.  The Muslims left alive were screaming in terror, trying to make their way back outside the town’s protective wall.  A military jeep sped down a side road no more than a hundred yards from the godfather’s nightclub.  Another explosion left the vehicle engulfed in flame, its occupants momentarily screaming from inside before going silent, their bodies already burnt beyond recognition.

Twenty more explosions tore through Wilfrid over the course of the next two minutes, as the same Dean Martin song repeated itself on the intercom system.  The buildings along Main Street were nearly gone, the street lamps obliterated.  The library and school buildings were half destroyed, as were many of the private homes throughout the town.  The monitors showed only a fraction of the Muslims who had so recently entered Wilfrid remained alive – perhaps as many as twenty of them.

“Ok then, those of you left…here I come!”

The godfather looked to his right where Marcini stood silently near the desk.

“The boys ready to go?”

Marcini gave the godfather a short nod.

“Yes, godfather.  They’re all downstairs, just waiting for your word.”

Looking back at his monitors showing the surviving Muslims were now gathering at the far end of what was left of Main Street, nearest the town’s entrance.

“Well then, Marcini – go tell them interlopers hello for me.  To the last one, Marcini…to the last one.”

Marcini nodded again and then made his way downstairs.  The godfather leaned back in his dark brown leather chair as the images of six of his men, all heavily armed, filled one of the monitors.  These six began walking down the street toward the area where the remaining Muslim bandits stood.  There were just eighteen of them, and many of those appeared already injured.

It took his men no more than ten minutes to make the walk from the nightclub to the end of Main Street.  When they were just two hundred yards from the remaining Muslims, the godfather watched as his men, each carrying fully loaded AR15s, opened fire.  Those bandits who were still able, immediately began running from the gunfire, but were the first to be shot dead.  The others who remained, lay down their weapons and pleaded for their lives.  Those too were shot dead until but a few Muslim bandits were left standing.

One of those few was a man that looked very familiar to the godfather.  He zoomed in on the monitor image – a bandit with a long scar that ran along his face.  The godfather called Marcini’s communicator.

“Marcini, don’t kill the tall one there.  We know him.  We know him very well.  Wait for my arrival, I’m coming to you. Give me about fifteen minutes.”

The godfather pulled up the same video he had shown the Dominatus survivors the day of their departure from Wilfrid, the footage of the killing of the Wilkinson family at the hands of the Muslims, particularly a Muslim with a very particular scar.

The images of the murder flashed across the godfather’s screen – the cutting off of Gerald Wilkinson’s head, the gouging out of Kate Wilkinson’s eyes, and the promise of enslavement and certain death of the Wilkinson children.  Now the godfather had at least one of the perpetrators of those killings just a short walk from his office.  Some said revenge didn’t make one feel better.  The godfather had never subscribed to that way of thinking.  Revenge ALWAYS made him feel better.

Standing up from his desk, the godfather put on his custom tailored jacket, running his hands along the sharp lines of the suit.  He took a moment to make certain his hair was neatly combed back from his forehead, looked down to ensure his leather shoes held the proper shine on them, and then reached down below his desk and brought out the classic Mossberg 500 shotgun he always kept loaded and hidden under there.

It was but a moment later he was making the walk down the just bombed Main Street sidewalks to where Marcini and his men were holding the last surviving Muslim invaders.  When he arrived, he stood in front of the three men.  The tallest of the three, the one with the facial scar, stood in the middle.