The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (26 page)

“Max?” the man asked the darkness. “I’m not
like the others.”

And terror gripped Conan because the stranger
had just used his mommy-only name and not his fighter name that he
got from a movie. Nobody knew the mommy-only name but one or two in
all the Nightcare and they knew better than to say it.

“Max?” the man continued. “Those men were
evil. What they did to you in the Bad house was wrong.”

And a wild idea ran through Conan’s head. Did
this stranger know his mommy? Was it possible that she sent him? He
had not seen her since the Change, but Conan remembered her
beautiful blue eyes and her big white smile and curly golden halo
hair. She was lost with the old world. And the men in the Bad house
caught him before he could help her.

“Max?” the man said softly. “I’m here to help
you.”

Now Conan tensed his body. He noticed the man
had stepped into the crossroads a pace or two. Just the way we like
it, here we go…

“What those men did,” the stranger’s voice
filled with emotion, “
they
deserved death for it.”

Conan prepared himself. The man had taken
another step. And his yakking was getting a lot of bad not-yakking
going in the forever boy’s head.

“But not all men are evil,” the man
whispered. “Not all. And it is not right to kill those who did you
no wrong.” He kept talking. “You’ve killed too many. Their blood
stains you.”

Conan leapt through the air. The man must
have guessed his position because he quickly caught the death-petal
blades on his stick and slid past. Conan landed on the ground
panting.

The man turned to him. The metal stick in his
hands glowed brightly. “Your mother loves you,” he said, his eyes
wide and feeling.

Conan slashed the air with his lethal
fist.

“And she will always love you,” the man
suddenly spread his arms and the metal stick fell to the grating
with a clang. “
I
love you, Max.”

And Conan roared and ran at the stranger, the
kill-flower open and slashing. He swung at the man who raised a
hand defensively, and Conan saw streaks of blood appear.

But the man kept watching, tears in his eyes
now. “You’re just a little boy!”

And Conan slashed again—eyes blurring—saw the
blade rip the man’s uninjured leg. This time the stranger let out a
shout of pain and dropped to his knees.

Conan stood in front of him. The man’s face
was awash with sadness. He was weeping. But it was like he didn’t
feel the cuts, like instead he saw the cuts in Conan—and they made
him cry. He looked right at the deep down ones that the Bad house
put in there. The stranger showed him Max in the shadows. And Conan
felt his own eyes start to fill with tears.

“Your mother loves you, Max,” the man said,
crying openly. “Please let me help you. You’re just a boy.” He
spread his arms. “I’m so sorry that these things happened to
you.”

And Conan ran at him, fist-kill ready but
fell against the stranger’s breast and was awash with sorrow. He
wept until his little spirit felt clean.

36 – Sacrifice

The Prime read the report. It was
straightforward enough. His Operative,
Vanguard
, had
compiled his preliminary findings and sent them up by armed
courier. It was times like that the leader of the western world
missed fax machines and Internet the most. A combination of
persistent cloud cover and the strange anomalies that had affected
electricity rendered the satellite system of the pre-Change world
inoperative. Signals that were beamed through them were distorted
beyond usefulness. Authority communications technicians had been
troubleshooting the problem for almost a century. Nothing
electrical worked worth a damn. Even phones on landlines had good
days and bad.

The Prime blamed the extinction of
real
children for humanity’s inability to figure out the
technical problems plaguing the world—
real
children in the
sense that they were conceived and grew to maturity. Linked to that
was the loss of childhood invention and problem solving, and
creativity was dealt a blow from which it could not recover.

The Prime theorized that invention depended
upon successive generations of scientists and technicians. Out with
the old, in with the new. New ideas relied on new viewpoints. He
had read volumes about the Change that described the death of
creativity as a response to the more philosophical aspects of the
phenomena. Since science could not explain the Change, it was
considered untrustworthy, and so doubt had eroded the scientific
community’s faith in its own dogma. Stagnation occurred. But the
Prime felt the answer was not so esoteric. He preferred taking a
little from column ‘A’ and a little from column ‘B.’ The pre-Change
view of the world was too narrow and now people struggled to catch
up. However, since everyone had been born pre-Change,
preconceptions were hardwired.

The loss of invention permeated the World of
Change. Art, literature and music were repetition based on old
forms. The same went for social policy. The majority of politicians
looked for the future in the past.

A sense of confusion went along with it. The
Prime believed that humanity had never properly grieved for the
generation stillborn. It had not wanted to accept what the
inconceivable loss of children meant to their futures. The end
needed no more description than that, and there were no more
children. The end.

The Prime had never loved or hated children,
so he didn’t miss
real
ones. He lusted after them, and that
was how the forever children phenomena worked in his favor. Babies
alive when the Change came grew to their relative fifth year. Any
children older than that, and teens as well, remained so without
physical aging or maturing.

It took much of the guilt away when
exercising his passions to know that the soul in the child’s body
he desired was inconceivably old. Oh he missed the wide-eyed terror
of innocence, but the upside was that the World of Change liberated
all of his inhibitions. He was free to experiment.

Adults aged, but they did so at a rate that
made it almost invisible. For a moment he marveled at the amount of
time it would take him to look old—and he wanted to find out. He
was thirty-seven at the time of the Change, and now one hundred
years had passed.

But there wouldn’t be a future if he didn’t
decipher his Operative’s message. It bore an origin code for the
Central Authority offices at Archangel Tower. It was sent an hour
ago. He had been in seclusion at the time chanting over a bloody
pentangle. The report read:

Eyes Only:
Prime

Reporting:
Vanguard

- 232 Towerview Terrace to be examined.

- City Authority Enforcement cooperative.

The Prime scanned the sheet. Two City
Enforcement inspectors were called to 232 Towerview Terrace, the
afternoon of February 17, 107 New Age. The Prime’s enhanced
abilities allowed him to quickly absorb the report. The gist of it
was simple enough.

Neighbors heard gunshots
and called
City Authority. Inspectors arrived at approximately 12:45 p.m. They
found large a quantity of blood on the steps. (It was later typed
to two individuals.) Inspectors called in reinforcements. They
entered the house, reported heat damage to door and interior. They
found the body of Margaret Travers, cause of death: large caliber
bullet wound to brain. (Unreliable to Question.) Corpse repeats:
“An angel. An angel.” Central Authority lab techs want to examine
the body. Might be more playback in time.

- 10:40 a.m. One witness, Najat Sunjab, 235
Towerview Terrace, saw a man approach the home of Margaret Travers:
temp secretary for the Tower offices, who was employed by the
Divine and Fair Law Firm. The witness speculated it was Ms.
Travers’ boyfriend who had been seen on a number of occasions.

- 10:40 a.m. Second witness, Ivan Wheatley,
1070 Seaside Apartments, saw a man in black approach the house.
This witness is a telephone repairman rewiring the house of Nathan
and Susan Bradley, 228 Towerview Terrace.

- 10:55 a.m. The same witness (Ivan Wheatley)
saw a man and a woman pull up in a green car. Witness thought
nothing of it. Later commented that both wore black.

- 11:00 a.m. A third witness called
Authority. Muriel Drane, 234 Towerview Terrace, heard 4-5 shots
fired. Ran to front window saw man in black placing something large
in the trunk of green mid-sized car.

- Fourth witness, Alexander Washington, 231
Towerview Terrace, shared west wall of Travers’ residence heard ten
or twelve shots fired. A loud sound followed—roar was heard. Other
shots, perhaps 6 were heard outside. Witness was too frightened to
investigate.

- Home sharing east wall with Travers’ (232
Towerview Terrace) was unoccupied. Tenants do shift-work at City
International Publishing. Did not return home until 10:30 p.m.

- Door to door canvas of area turned up
various witnesses who heard noises but saw nothing.

- Fifth Witness, Bernie Ohls marketing
director for New Age Diet Drinks, 248 Towerview Terrace, saw green
mid-sized Pontiac or Chevy pull up to black car parked in front of
244 Towerview Terrace. Man in black retrieved bag from trunk and
something from glove compartment, then drove away in green car.
Black ‘79 Pontiac Deluxe Cruiser impounded by City Authority.
Dusting and search of rental car yielded nothing.

- Rental agent, Barry Stevens, described man.
Caucasian male, pre-Change 40, dark hair, heavy build, quiet. Paid
cash. Authority sketch artists working on composite.

- February 18, 10:20 a.m. Received call from
Judy Gordon 412 5th Ave. West. Secretary for Catholic offices at
Archangel Tower saw report on news about Towerview shooting. She
confirmed Sister Karen Cawood might have been at the scene. Cawood
mentioned visit to Towerview Terrace address in the company of Rev.
Able Stoneworthy. Cawood has not reported for work. She could not
be contacted at home. Report of green mid-sized Pontiac matched
description of Reverend Able Stoneworthy’s vehicle.

- Reverend Able Stoneworthy’s office
contacted. Stoneworthy has not reported to work for two days. He
could not be contacted at home. Local City Authority treating the
disappearance as possible foul play.
Returning to 232 Towerview
Terrace to investigate scene.

The Prime’s mind was alive with conspiracy.
The Travers woman talked of an Angel, and the Tower Builders were
involved somehow. Intriguing. Certainly suggested Divine
interference of some kind. He couldn’t have such interference in
his plans. That wouldn’t do. He’d have to pump his Infernal friends
for information. If families were making moves, he had to know it.
This was not a game that rewarded second best. And he would do
anything to win.

The Prime wondered how much humanity was
willing to give up for salvation. He took great pride in his
self-knowledge and understood that despite his power and wealth he
was still a human being. How far would
he
go? He would
sacrifice every soul in the City if it came to that.

In order to be ready to make such a
sacrifice, he had to keep on top of things. To be on top of things
he had to use his resources. And his resources were many. He
commanded the vast Defense system of Westprime. On his order he
could muster thousands of troops and unleash terrible military
machinery. He controlled the nuclear arsenal of the defunct United
States of America. But he couldn’t do anything, yet.

There were other Primes in the world, and
other Cities. Other arsenals too, so the Prime had to be cautious
about using so overt an action before his knowledge of Divine and
Infernal Powers was complete. It was too dangerous.

He would make a move soon enough; but for the
time being, he wanted to know just how dangerous the threat was
from above. The Prime had made an intensive study of the Bible in
his century since the Change. His Demon Ally had assured him that
the One God sleeps, but the Prime was not about to trust that
information.

True, looking back on the history of man
since biblical times it did indeed look as though God was
quiescent, perhaps content to await the Judgment Day foretold in
the Revelations he gave to John. For the time being—barring Divine
intervention—the Prime would continue to form a plan that would
guarantee his survival.

He had his bomb shelter. It was deep in the
bedrock below the level of his captive’s cell. Engineers had
assured the Prime that the shelter, along with the City’s mass
would protect him from any nuclear or conventional weapon in the
world. And there was his escape tunnel. An electric car would take
him fifty miles inland to a waiting shelter—also underground.

He had tortured his captive again. It hadn’t
found the
First-mother’s
guardian yet, and the Prime
suspected collusion. The creature was reluctant, to say more, but
the Prime broke it. After all that screaming the creature’s voice
was soft as a breeze. “The rebellion approaches Apocalypse.”

The Prime reviewed his options and found them
bland and pale. After Vanguard’s report he occupied himself by
looking for clues in the many messages his office received.
Europrime was posturing. The British Isles of the Dead had
burned—why would the Princess burn them? Eastprime was laying
low.

Afriprime sent a conciliatory note.
His
ally had been eaten by Westprime’s, and that left the
former witch doctor with his back against the thatch. That
continent was steaming for rebellion. A well-situated Demonic
possession could tip the balance. The Prime tore through the pile
of papers and notes and threw them aside, then entered the armored
tomb behind his office to rest. If Apocalypse was approaching, the
Prime hated to think it might start without him.