Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) (23 page)

“Not ground ops?” Smoke asked, genuinely surprised. “My recommendation was for tact
ical support in the
field
.”

“As
...effective...as you, admittedly, are, operative Smoke...” Wright straightened, staring disrespectfully out at the soldiers; clearly of the opinion that they were, at best, a means to an end and, therefore, utterly expendable: “In the areas of tactical deployment, threat assessment and mitigation, and...
ahem
...rigour of ‘follow-through’, you are, unsurprisingly,
lacking
. So whilst your advice was taken under advisement – as advice so often is, in this day and age – clearer heads have prevailed in the matter of which placements the eminent merit of our new colleagues’ credentials demanded. I genuinely hope you do not feel slighted, or in any way offended by this decision. Or, for that matter, the decision to, for the time being, ‘redistribute’ your skill-set to a more...tangibly productive range of activities.”

“You’re reassigning
me
?” She scoffed. “How does Galt feel about that?”

“It was, primarily, Galt’s
decision.” Wright claimed; his narrowed eyes and telling smirk, however, weaving a different tapestry entirely. “You could even consider it a promotion. If...that is...you choose to view the situation through an optimistic lens. John Galt no longer requires your...
skills
...in the area of ‘policy implementation’.” He sneered, his voice excreting sarcasm. It filled Smoke’s ears: as thick, and slimy, and repugnant as butter – turned rancid – settling on the tongue. In the same way, it overpowered her senses: first one and then all...provoking the formation of a knot of child-like horror that sat low in her gut. The immense heft of that horror – dense and weighty – dragged down her heart...which beat faster in response...and her brain: which moved, slow and sluggish, over the contours of Wright's deep, unsettling – and, so far as she could see; utterly unreasonable – loathing for her. “Sede Imperiali will now directly administer the Seven Hills, with each of ‘The Seven’ providing guidance as is appropriate to their rightful, subordinate stations. My superior understanding of the needs of The See leave you free to cater to the needs of Galt’s subordinates: plural or singular, dependant on their need of you. You will now answer directly to Basilisk, in a similar role to the one that you, until now, have been performing for Galt. Allow me, if I may, to simplify the parameters of your newfound role: You will implement policy. You will receive and follow instructions. You will serve Palatine Hill...on your knees...as is your
place
.” Smoke’s lip edged up at the side, exposing a vicious swathe of white, sparkling canine and molar.

“You motherfucking, low
-life, piece-of-shit bastard...” Smoke managed to hiss out.

“
Language, operative Smoke, if you please...” Wright sighed with an air of profound boredom.

“Oh, you want
language
? I’ll show you some fucking language, you cock-sucking prick,”

“Homophobia?” Wright smirked. “Well
, now...there’s a refreshing deviation from your characteristic repertoire of unnecessarily crass turns of phrase.” Smoke’s face reddened.

“Basilisk is a fucking
psychopath, Wright.”

“Aren’t we all?” Wright mused, apparently rhetorically.

“This is about Kayla Donohue, isn’t it?” She snarled. Wright snapped to attention, eyes simmering with hate. “I’m...I’m
sorry
, Wright. I was out of line. I was disrespectful.” Yvonne’s eyes went to Smoke. The blonde woman’s anger was still there; as was the core strength of her. But something else...something ancillary but crucial...had given way in Smoke. Yvonne felt it. She felt it snap and shrivel away. The feeling manifested as an empathic twitch, provoked by witnessing, in front of her eyes, the primal – primordial – desecration of something in Smoke – mirrored in herself – that she cherished beyond her understanding of why, or what it was.

In the simplest terms possible; the only ones she could find to adequately
express her emotions at the time: Yvonne’s heart broke as she watched a woman that she loved plead with –
beg
– a man that she hated.

“The two of you should have a lot to talk about, then.” Wright nodded simply. “Basilisk’s reputation precedes him. He is, you will find
...singularly adept in the art of...‘adjusting’...recalcitrant behaviour in his underlings. I’m certain that the two of you will get along splendidly.”

“I won’t do it.” Smoke spat. “I won’t fucking do it. I want to speak to Galt.”

“Do you, now?” Wright considered. “I find that request to be somewhat...perplexing, given that, until now...you’ve been positively blissful in the degree of distance you’ve maintained between yourself and John Galt; not to mention ‘The Seven’. You deal with the underlings and the lickspittles...the plebeians and the poseurs. One suspects – and I do apologise if one’s suppositions are erroneous in this regard – that your comfort with doing unsavoury work resides in a lack of connectivity between that work and the true nature of those who commission it. Thoughts? Comments?”

“I
– ” Smoke choked over the syllable as though her voice was trying to force its way
past
, and squeeze its way
around
, an object lodged partway down her throat.

“Nothing? No snappy rejoinder? I
see.” He snarled. There was a note of victorious self-applause, there. More than a note. More like a
concerto
. “‘Speechless’ is an unfamiliar look for you...though I feel that, had it been one with which you’d acquainted me sooner, we’d both have been the better for it. No matter. Live and learn, as they say. Well...for now, at least.”

“Wright
– ”

“
– And I’m sure that, in time, Galt will respond to your enquiry. In the same manner, naturally, that you’ve received his communications and commands until this point. That is to say...through augury and intermediary; modes of discourse designed to remind you – lest you
forget
– of your
place
. And those orders you’ve so unquestioningly followed? You have followed them admirably...despite your inherent tendency towards the manifestly chaotic and purposeless. This history of providing value – particularly against the inclinations of your abject character – may work in your favour. Lenience may be afforded. But until such a time as Galt deigns to contact you...you will be answering – directly – to the Lord of Palatine Hill. Expect him to be a lot more...how should I put this? Hands
on
...than you’re used to.” Smoke took a moment to collect herself. And then another. And then, finally, another. Her breathing slowed. Her heart rate calmed. All of the emotion drained from her eyes, and the tension from her limbs. The only thing left in her – or so her eyes claimed – was rage: cold and hard; sharp and deadly.

“Fuck
this, and fuck you.” She spat venomously – and then literally – provoking a patronising, chastising leer from Wright. “I’ll see you in Hell, you dickless piece of shit.” Smoke stormed off, followed by an equally upset but far more restrained Yvonne. Dio moved to follow, but Wright held him back with a light hand pressed down on his shoulder.

“I
am
a dick; I
imbibe
dick; I don’t
have
a dick...” Wright summarised. “It’s the lack of decisiveness that bothers me, Dio. My father taught me, early on, to use only the words necessary to convey a desired meaning. That girl uses
far
too many words.” Dio shivered. It was true, so far as he could see. Wright’s commentary on himself, at least. Wright only spoke when he had something to say...and – despite often using more words than most would – the ones he usedgenerally hit precisely the intended marks.

Dio felt almost as if he had just witnessed the needless demolition of a hitherto proud and powerful structure: a demolition achieved by Wright
– or so it seemed – with words more than with their content. Dio wished he still knew Wright as he once had: as a man who rarely spoke at all. That – he thought to himself – would have been better. Then, at least, it would have been possible to pretend that the man was something other than what he openly admitted to being.

“You have to admire it: I’ll say
that much.” Wright commented.

“Admire what?” Dio, lacking a better option, responded.

“Her ability to state the blindingly obvious.”

“What?” Dio was, for the thousandth time that day, confused.

“I simply mean...” Wright smiled at Dio, shadows appearing in his eyes; glazing the edges and creeping inwards: “Of course she’ll see me in Hell. After all...that’s where we are, now. That’s simply the nature of the world in which we live.”

§§§

“No one knows much about ‘The Seven’. Not really.” Smoke explained. “There are rumours, though. Reports. Names. I know enough to know what is and isn’t true about them. Even if only a tenth of the things I’d mark as ‘true’...are, in fact, true? Basilisk? He’s...inhuman. And I mean that in every possible sense of the word.” Her throat was sore and dry. She couldn’t remember when she’s lost the ability to cry, but her inability made her desperately wish that she’d appreciated it when she’d still been able to. Because the desire to cry – the feelings and physical sensations leading up to the act of crying – still ran their course. But as those very particular, very specific muscles in her throat and chest convulsed...and as that rush of impending catharsis buffeted and battered her like gusting wind...she already knew that, ultimately, it would all come to naught. The moment passed; the physical faded...but the feelings trudged tirelessly on.

“Everything will be
fine...” Yvonne murmured, cradling Smoke’s head with her hands and lap. It made Smoke feel weak. Weak...pathetic...stupid...dependant.

Warm. Protected. Calm.
Loved.

“You don’t have
any idea what the fuck you’re talking about...” Smoke replied. Yvonne looked past the harshness of her words without comment. “Whatever you’re imagining? It’s worse.” She trailed off. “I can’t. I fucking
can’t
. I would rather...fucking...
die
.” Yvonne laughed sadly to herself.

“I was kind of
hoping you’d say something like that. Because we’re probably going to.” Smoke looked up, meeting her eyes.

“You made a choice?” Yvonne shrugged.

“Sort of. ‘All the fucking way’, right?” Smoke raised an eyebrow; a thin smile spreading across her face.

“You were
waiting for me.” Smoke murmured.

“Yes.” Yvonne affirmed.

“If I’d wanted to stay, you’d have stayed?” Yvonne held out her hand, planing it back and forth: trying to keep herself from smiling.

“Umm
...maybe not. But Wright just made the decision a lot easier for both of us.” Smoke sighed.

“Yeah. You’re not wrong.” Yvonne inclined her head downward, pressing her lips against the crown of Smoke’s head.

“So – ” The ground rumbled beneath them. And then a deep, rippling rumble crackled like thunder from somewhere directly above.

“What the
fuck was
that
?” Smoke hissed, sitting bolt upright; on alert.

“I have no idea. We should find out.”

“No...” Smoke objected: “No, I think we should get the fuck out of here while we still can. Do you want to find Dio?” Yvonne shook her head sadly.

“
He stayed with Wright.” Yvonne noted. “I think he’s made
his
decision, too.”

§§§

“Of course she’ll see me in Hell.” Wright had said. “After all...that’s where we are now. That’s simply the nature of the world in which we live.”

But Dio didn’t believe that.

Dio didn’t believe in Hell; only the Place of Forgetting...where punishment and reward were meted by the self, according to self-estimation

Dio didn’t
believe in Heaven; only the Place of Forgetting...where punishment and reward were meted by the self, according to self-estimation

Dio didn’t believe in a distinction between the responsibility for death and the taking of life
; though he did understand that, where the two intersected, examples of the former – more often than not – presupposed the inevitability of the latter.

Dio
did
believe in ‘good’.

Dio
did
believe in ‘evil’.

And, believing those things that he believed
...Dio realised that he had to get as far away from Palatine Hill as was humanly possible. He and Yvonne, both.

But Yvonne was nowhere to be found.

XVII – The Collapse

~ Kayla ~

01/12/2023

By nightfall, Colorado was a memory.

The sinkhole was spreading; expanding steadily in all directions. The formula for survival remained the same as it had been from the start: the faster you could move, the longer you’d last. Beyond that...we hadn’t really thought about it. Hit a border? Keep driving. Find the coast? Steal a boat. No boat to steal? Start...fucking...
swimming
. Something. Anything. Just keep moving.

On the radio, there’d been panicked bursts of information that had bled into whimsy and conjecture as the day wore on; growing more and more erratic, with channels dropping like flies. The last coherent report we’d heard had the sinkhole spilling over the border into Kansas and Nebraska.

Naithe and I hadn’t gone back. We knew that by the time we got there – going by my suspicions, which Naithe trusted implicitly – whatever was going to happen already would have. Pueblo was the epicentre. ‘Ground zero’. The very heart of, already, the largest crater that Human eyes had ever beheld.

§§§

The first thing we’d tried was to head for the airport in Phoenix, hoping to get on a flight before the panic started. I’d fully expected to be attacked as we made our way through the airport; expected some kind of punishment waiting for Naithe and I. Retribution for disobeying Ambrose’ instructions. And, in a way, there was. Though it was more of a leash than anything else. It was something I probably should have expected.

Asking for two tickets to Melbourne
– on whichever flight was the next possible – we got as far as payment. Our cards weren’t working. No guns...no high-speed car chases...nothing but polite apologies and deactivated credit cards. Naithe had twenty dollars in cash, and I had a little over five. There was nothing else for it: we sullenly refuelled the car on the way out of Phoenix, and headed south. Somehow, it was worse than the confrontation I’d expected. We were insects, to them. Nothing more. That much was clear.

Soon after leaving the airport, the phones had stopped working. We kept checking
– over and over – but there was no reception anywhere. Somewhere around five in the afternoon, my phone had chirped to life with a call from Meg...but the reception tapped out in seconds, and there hadn’t been any follow-up. Either the networks were so totally overloaded that nothing was getting through, or...something else. Something worse. But speculation was pointless, and relative to our situation – so far as I was concerned – ‘worse’ couldn’t be noticeably worse than things already were.

§§§

“Naithe.” I murmured.

“Kayla.” He replied. We sat in the car. A cigarette burned quietly between my lips. Cool, fresh breeze blew in through the windows. The radio was just white noise, now. Static.

“What do we do?”

“Head for Mexico?” He shrugged.

“What’s the point? The border’s gonna be fucked.” he nodded. We sat there for a few minutes, saying nothing. “Look, I need to tell you what happened.”

“What are we talking about?”

“My parents. I know it’s stupid. But...we could die. At this point, it seems like the most likely scenario. And I don’t want to die without you knowing why I’m...like this.”

“Like what?” I sighed.

Funny.
I thought.
Funny: how one tiny coping mechanism can throw such a long shadow over the way you see yourself.

I mean
...it was nothing sinister. It was just something I’d started doing.

The thing is
...when you tell people that your parents died in a car accident, the response is always the same. Shock. Surprise. A lot of sympathy and a lot of apologies, and always with those sad, sad fucking eyes, no matter how long ago it was. But, more than anything, what I always notice is that little barely perceptible shift behind the eyes.

We never really consider the vast range of situations that cause our fight
-or-flight reflexes kick into gear – even just a little; even just for a second or two – but the next time you have to divulge some priceless chunk of agony from the deepest, darkest months of your developmental years, I suggest you pay close attention. For science or whatever. Because I’d bet everything I have that unless you just started dating the person you’re telling, and you’re in the process of fucking each other’s serotonin levels into orbit...there’s gonna be a shift. A twitch. And then you’ll know: they’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, than standing or sitting there...with you...and having that conversation.

And then you’ll understand
– perhaps – how quickly the idea of explaining the rest – and the worst – of the events surrounding my parents’ death became completely unbearable, and stayed that way. How it changed me, knowing that, as much as people tried to understand me, they couldn’t. Because they were always missing a fundamental chapter of the overall story.

“I was in the car when my parents crashed.” I quietly admitted. I dropped the almost
-finished cigarette out the window – avoiding eye contact – and fumbled for another, lighting it...staring out into the darkening emptiness. “I think they both wanted it that way. Maybe that’s bullshit, but it’s how it feels, thinking back. It wasn’t planned, but once it started...I think they both knew how it was going to end. I was ten.” I stopped. My throat felt itchy. He just waited, patiently, for me to continue. “If we’re gonna die today, or tomorrow...you need to die knowing that your parents loved you. It’s important.” He nodded. I could see him doing it in my peripheral vision. “Say it. Please.”

“I know my parents love me.” I twitched at the present tense, but didn’t call attention to it.
Too soon. Far too soon.

“Good. I’m glad that you never had to think any different.” I sighed. “A lot of people do. That’s the impression I get: that a lot of people live with this awareness that, for whatever reason,
they’re not loved by the people who are meant to love them. The reason Ambrose relates to me is that...when he was little, his father killed his mother. It wasn’t a crime of passion: it was methodical. Precise. Vindictive. His father was never arrested, or charged. Years after, his mother’s murder was pinned to his father but...that evil fuck was long dead by then. Justice isn’t meant to be punitive, but...it still feels kinda meaningless if the person’s not around to be punished. At least...it’s always seemed like that to me. It wasn’t just that, though. His father, for years after that...did things to him. The kinds of things that you never forget. The kinds of things that a person wouldn’t do to you unless they never wanted you to forget. Ambrose eventually killed him. Bullet to the temple –
bang
– and that was that.”

“Fuck.” Naithe murmured.

“The bastard had it coming,” I continued. “But...the rest of his family put it all on him, like his father was a fucking saint or something. I’ve never been quite clear on what happened next, but he must have gotten past the charges somehow. He was underage, and he was clever.
Really
clever. You can kind of see how it might have happened. Regardless of what his family had to say, Ambrose would’ve had...marks. Scars. Physical ones. The kinds of marks that would’ve conveyed a pretty detailed narrative for anyone who managed to get a look at them. I’m guessing that someone did, and that was enough to get him out of being charged for murder as an adult. So there’s a gap, and a few years pass where there’s literally nothing to be found...and then he’s out of Greece and living in America with a fifth cousin or something. From there, it’s rags-to-riches...relatively speaking. Eventually, he winds up working as the Director of Restorations at Weisbrod and consulting for Manus Incorporated.”

“That’s an Australian company, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Headquartered in Brisbane. Always in some sort of beef with Lilum Multinational; their CEO – Michael Manus – just stepped down to run for the Senate earlier this year. It was a big deal...if you follow Australian news, that is”

“Right.”

“Anyway...it’s all there. Hidden, but...not hidden well enough. Anyone who was working his story would have found it, just like I did. And the story would’ve sold if I could’ve brought myself to tell it. It would have sold well, even if it is a bit...sensationalist for my tastes. It would’ve been a very good career move for me. But I couldn’t do it.”

“You sound like you think you
should have.” He observed. There was no judgement. It was just an observation. I sighed.

“You go through something like
what Ambrose went through, and things are never quite the same. You lose some options. You’re never going to be a person like everyone else is a person. I should have thought about it more. I should have considered what it could have turned him into. No one likes to admit it – it isn’t ‘politically correct’; it isn’t fair or right – but monsters make monsters. They do.”

“But they don’t
always. In fact, usually they don’t.”

“And you’d know that, because
...” I trailed off, my right hand raised, palm angled upwards...like a request. It was a request. He couldn’t know. It wasn’t his world.

“Statistics, mostly.”

“Statistics lie. Take rape, for example. Underreporting is endemic. Unreported cases could even be the majority. It’s not outside the realm of possibility. That’s true for a lot of things.”

“What’s the point, Kay? If you’re trying to argue that the world’s
fucked; that people are fucked...” He looked pointedly out through the windscreen, holding up his hands as if to indicate ‘exhibit A’: “You’re not gonna get an argument, here. But if you’re trying to argue that people who’ve been through hell should be nailed to the wall, just because there’s...what? A ‘statistically significant correlation’ – ” I almost laughed at his imitation of my voice and accent: “ – between having been a victim and becoming a perpetrator...then you’re full of shit and you know it. You’re just trying to find a justifiable reason to blame yourself for not targeting someone who – as it only just turned out – possibly deserved to be targeted.”

“Probably.” I sighed. “That’s probably part of it.”

“So what about your story?” I looked back out the car window, weighing up how best to begin. It was difficult to know. After all: I hadn’t told anyone the full story since it had actually happened. That was a full seventeen years ago. Eventually, I just took a deep breath, and started talking.

“It’s not like our stories are similar. For me, it was very different
...but a little bit the same. Just enough for him to be able to feel like we’d shared something.” And, honestly, just enough for me to feel that way, as well. “My parents – like his – should never have been together. In a way, they never really were. My mother was in love with someone, once. That person left. She took comfort in my father because he was there. She got pregnant.”

“And that was you?”

“Yeah. I was a mistake.” I nodded. I fought back a wave of irritation as his brow furrowed inward with concern. “You’re about to say something dumb, Naithe. Don’t say it. Honestly, if I had to be a product of two broken, fucked up morons...I’d much rather it have been as a mistake than on purpose.”

“Penicillin was – ”

“Dear Christ, no. Don’t.” I warned. “Sperm. Egg. Gestation. Birth. Please don’t overthink it. They were both...weak. Weak, hopeless, and fundamentally lacking in self-awareness. That’s why I’ve worked to hard to know myself; to be strong; to have goals and ambitions. I can’t expect you to understand this – I don’t expect you to – but that’s the only
thing my parents ever gave me: a solid blueprint of who not to be. It’s why I never let myself be weak until I found someone I could trust.” I smiled sadly at him. “That’d be you.”

“I’ve
never seen you weak.” He reached out to brush his fingers gently over my cheek.

“I’ve been weak for you since we met.” I admitted. “Every second.”

“Then I think you and I have different definitions for the word ‘weak’.” I shrugged.

“Sure. I’m
sure that’s true. I mean...you’ve never seen a person completely destroy another person by using their love against them. It’s weakness, Naithe. Loving you is weakness. Love is never
not
weakness, when you let it control you. I never thought I’d trust someone enough to be as fucking weak with them as I am with you. But I do.” We fell back into silence for a minute, just looking at each other.

“Do you want to go on?” He reached over, squeezing my shoulder. I nodded.

“My parents were weak, but not for each other. They were weak for the past. Maybe it could have been different. Maybe they could have loved each other. Maybe they could have found love elsewhere. Maybe they could have even loved
me
...though I really sort of doubt it. But they didn’t do any of those things. They just...held on to the love they’d felt in the past – for people long gone from their lives – until they bled and broke for it. By themselves. With each other. With me. They held on to the love that they’d lost, and they used it to slowly...systematically...infect, pollute, and destroy everything that might have been, for any of us; chipping and scraping and peeling it back until nothing was left. Blaming the present for the past.” Naithe looked confused.