The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (17 page)

“Master Balg has instructed me to inform you
that he is most pleased with your work. Further, he apologizes for
changing the mode of payment. The remainder of the
ingots
is
here, with a bonus I might add. Master Balg has further employment
opportunities that he would like to discuss with you in person.” He
opened the door gesturing to the lighted hall beyond. “After
you.”

Felon scowled and twitched his chin at the
door.

Passport smiled, pointing at his own chest.
“After
me
. As you wish.”

The assassin followed the angular form
through the door and down a curving stairway. Music floated
wraithlike from below. At the bottom of the stair Passport paused
by a set of massive gilt doors. “My Master’s Games Room.” And he
swung the doors wide. “Offered for your comfort.”

Felon was hit with a wave of hot air that
reeked of cigarette smoke, body odor and brimstone. The music,
haunting before, became discordant. It was lost, and commingled
with mad laughter and screams, and a distant chorus of human voices
moaning. The sounds pealed and swung between terror and glee.

The Games Room ran away from him some forty
feet. The floor was covered in an enormous Persian carpet; its
surface depicted Judgment Day. Against one wall, a fifteen-foot
wide Jacuzzi steamed. In it, bodies writhed. Six people—men and
women—thrashed and howled in water that rolled and steamed like it
was boiling. Any of the bathers who could blindly thrash his way to
the side was bullwhipped back under the surface by one of four
deformed Eyesores that guarded the perimeter.

Opposite this were three steel crosses. A man
in black leather cowl was crucified upon each, fastened in place
with barbed wire. Felon watched as four naked women tore at their
flesh with pincers, taunted them, and applied hot iron staves to
blistered parts of their anatomy. The assassin felt Passport’s gaze
upon him. He growled.

His guide led him across the room. Further
along were six tables upon which an equal number of men and women
were strapped. They screamed and wept as Eyesores performed sexual
and violent tortures upon them. The trolls gleefully raped, and
thumb-screwed their victims, flat eyes shining with liberating
malice.

Felon followed Passport to a long bar that
ran the width of the ship. A topless woman stood behind it. Both of
her breasts were pierced with long shards of rusted iron and her
midriff was run through with a pair of gardening shears. She was in
obvious pain, and moving slowly about her tasks. When she reached
Felon and Passport she asked matter-of-factly, “What will you
have?”

“Club soda,” Felon said, tossing his dead
cigarette into an ashtray. Passport gave her a dismissive nod. His
face had burst into an excited smile upon entering the Games Room,
and he now turned this smile upon Felon.

“Threats?” Felon asked over the moans,
lighting a new cigarette.

Passport’s smile widened. “Threats? Mr.
Felon, what could you mean?” He followed the assassin’s gaze to the
scenes of torture. His eyes brightened, comprehending. “Our guests!
Oh, I understand. Mr. Felon, you misinterpret the activities. Each
and every one of these guests has paid to be here. They enjoy this
kind of thing, and we provide a service. Those you see here are
extremely important clients of Master Balg’s. They just desire the
luxury of surviving their particular kind of entertainment.”

“Threats don’t work on me.” Felon puffed a
cloud of smoke, snarling at the Games Room.

“Most certainly, it has never been the desire
of Master Balg to give such an impression. You must remember that
all points of view are not equal. To my Master this gaming room is
nothing more. Pleasure. Pain. Pain. Pleasure. It is just the firing
of nerve endings. Had I brought you to the Room of Concubines, I’m
certain you would think we were attempting to bribe you with
pleasure—if you’ll forgive me the jest.” Passport looked away from
Felon’s scowl. “I assure you these people
want
to be
here.”

The bartender returned with Felon’s drink. He
sipped from the glass, but found the acrid background stench
unpalatable. The assassin put the drink down.

“You would prefer something else?” Passport
had produced a long thin cigarette of his own, and gestured toward
Felon’s glass with it.

“Fucking cowards.” Felon felt the distant
power of a killing rage growing in him.

“Cowards?” Passport echoed, genuinely
amused.

The assassin grunted at the violations being
visited upon the bound people in front of him.

Passport smiled, nodding his head rapidly. “I
see. I see. And you would like to
show
them? You would like
to educate them about—how shall I say—
real
pain.”

Felon sneered around the room, and then
started toward the door. “I’ll wait on deck.”

Passport cleared his throat. Felon turned to
him, but saw that the Demon’s servant no longer occupied the space
by the bar. A voice behind him spun the assassin around.

“I’m sorry.” Passport stood there now. “I
didn’t mean to startle you. But it would be best to stay below
decks where it is more secure. We lost a pair of Eyesores to the
Swimmers last night. I’m certain you’ll understand that Master Balg
considers you too important a guest to risk topside.” He wrapped
both arms about his thin midsection and grinned. A little mischief
crossed his features and his eyes rolled. “If you’ll follow me to
Master Balg’s office, please? He has just returned.”

Passport walked back toward the entrance.
Felon ground his cigarette on the rug. A voice came from his
right—begging. Terror was in the woman’s eyes. She was tied to a
table. An Eyesore was working his deformed member in and out of
her. Felon bared his teeth with disgust and followed Passport.

23 - Powers

“No fun today,” Mr. Jay had told Dawn as he
gave her a list of duties he wanted her to complete while he was
away.

“But I thought we came to the City to
entertain
,” the forever child stamped a foot. She’d been
laying out her costume when he gave her the bad news.

“Yes,” the conjuror said, smiling weakly.
“But that was before I understood how much the City has changed.
It’s grown too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Dawn had thrown her things onto
the floor. Mr. Jay could tell she was performing, going through the
motions of being upset. He knew that she was secretly pleased at
his decision. “How will we earn money?”

“Yes,” Mr. Jay said, putting his list down
and motioning her to the table. “I mentioned having friends here,
well it is my intention to contact one that owes me a considerable
sum of money. That should provide us enough to head north.”

“To Nurserywood!” Dawn had exclaimed and
leapt into his arms.

“Yes,” Mr. Jay returned the hug. “But I’ll
have to go out in the day, and quietly—so I can’t have Mojo along.”
Dawn pulled away looking sad. “So I’ll depend on you to follow the
rules and wait for me here.”

Dawn nodded dejectedly. “I wish I could
help.”

“You can,” he said, chucking her chin, “as
soon as we get out of the City. And you will be helping me now by
letting me to go about my errands without worrying.”

“All right,” Dawn had sighed, and then
frowned at the list. A chubby index finger whipped out. “Clean the
cooking pots!” Her eyebrows formed serious line. “Without
water!”

“We have leftover drinking, and scouring
pads,” Mr. Jay said, rising to his feet. “And cleanser and rags.”
He had crossed to his pack, threw it over his shoulder. “And that’s
just one of the chores, my dear.” The conjuror knelt in front of
her. “So please try to have them completed when I return so we can
get away quickly.” He gripped her shoulder then. “And DO NOT leave
the hideout.”

“I promise, Mr. Jay. Never. Never. Never!”
Dawn had said, little tears suddenly appearing in her eyes. And he
had hugged her then.

Almost two hours had passed since he had left
her. He took public transit up one Level. The City’s Skyways were
roaring with traffic and the sidewalks crammed with people as he
exited the bus. Moving cautiously, Mr. Jay had kept a wary eye for
anyone following him, and for any sign of a trap ahead.

If the Prime were using Powers, he’d be
certain now that the magician was in the city. Any delay just
increased the danger for Dawn.

Mr. Jay hated leaving her in the hideout, but
he couldn’t risk getting her out of the City during the day and
they would need supplies. His intention was to visit a bank on
Level Three and make a withdrawal. He didn’t have an account there,
but he had a few tricks for just such a financial transaction. It
was easier to create a bank account than cash-on demand. He chose
Level Three because that was a couple Levels away from Dawn, if
this trick didn’t work and he had to make a run for it again.

He chuckled to himself, entertained by the
vagaries of fate.
A bank robber now
!
What next
? But
his humor disappeared when a chill ran through him. It was like the
air had changed, became suddenly harder, colder.
Powers
!
There were conflicting energies emanating from different sources in
the City. It had been a dull background radiation throughout his
stay. The Change was going into its final act. He paused in the
street and opened himself to the sensations. Old enemies were at
work. Always old enemies. And the conflict was coming, sooner than
later.

He thought about his plan of abandoning the
City and taking Dawn to the safety of Nurserywood. A wave of guilt
ran over him.

How can you give up on them now
?

“Fuck that argument,” Mr. Jay said aloud. A
man walking past him heard the comment and frowned. The magician
smiled and told said, “I’m not fighting
your
battles
anymore.” He started moving with the crowd.
No more
. The
bastards took everything before and learned nothing. Watched it,
participated. And learned nothing. That wasn’t going to happen
again. Already, in the limited time he’d spent among them he’d been
forced to draw upon his darker purpose, his own energies. If people
did not attract violence and harm, they created it. And then looked
for someone else to clean it up.
This time the responsibility is
theirs
.

And Mr. Jay suddenly cried out. Almost
stumbled. A sudden searing pain had shot up his leg, through his
right foot—felt like it tore his kneecap off. He gasped, bent over
as the pain subsided. People slowed on the sidewalk around him but
did not stop.

The magician looked up. The day was so dark
streetlights were on.
So what
?

Then he heard it. Quiet at first, but it was
there: a chant. Was it from behind? He turned to look, saw a steady
stream of citizens walking. They wore suits; they wore skirts. They
carried umbrellas against the drips and drizzle from the drains and
cracks in the Level above. He looked up. And turned, senses open,
listening. The chanting. There. Toward the City center. The Tower?
By the curious looks he was getting, he knew no one else could hear
it.

Chanting. Deep and sonorous. Gregorian? No,
just…

Another lighting bolt of pain shot up his
legs. He screamed, staggering back, bumping into a man who let him
fall.

A shiver ran through him as he lay on the
sidewalk. The chanting was stronger now. It was familiar: an old
language from an old world. Tears started rising in his eyes.
No
! A fire ran into his side. Pain burned his ribs and set
flame to his hands and feet. “Fuck!” Mr. Jay rolled onto his back.
His walking stick clattered out of his hand.

A man was kneeling by him. “You okay?” he
asked, and then saw Mr. Jay’s tears and he frowned.

“No.” Again a blade of pain twisted in his
ribs. “NO!” And now he sobbed, rolled into a ball. He couldn’t take
this. What was this? Where was everyone? Where are the others?

“Hey buddy,” the man beside him said, “it
ain’t that bad.”

Mr. Jay’s eyes glared blearily at him. He
touched the stranger’s arm and a jolt of pain ripped his palm.
“No!” And he collapsed in on himself, the day disappeared, the
street, the stranger. And he saw a dark room. And on the floor was
a pentacle drawn in blood. A circle of naked men and women knelt
around it. Their voices chanted—sang. In the pentangle center, a
dark-robed figure knelt. He was broad and bulky. In his hands, he
held a crucifix. And the pentangle pulsed lambent red in time to
the chanting. And the pulses echoed outward through the dark.
Through the City. Thumped against the sidewalk under him. Burned
along his nerves and out, to push forward.

He opened his eyes, and sat up. The stranger
was standing away from him now, looking worried and frightened.

The chanting was growing quiet. The
pulsations of power diminished. Mr. Jay pressed his palms against
the sidewalk, followed the energy on hands and knees. There it was,
a stain…a mark. Gone! People stopped to watch him.

Power had been unleashed. He cast around the
sidewalk, snatched up his walking stick. Dark and dangerous things
had been set loose in the City. He’d only felt their passing.
Quickly they were burning through the City’s levels toward
Dawn!

24 - Disclosure

“I called you last night.”

Karen broke from her afternoon nap at the
sound of Juanita’s voice. She leaned forward in her seat, almost
lost her balance—steadied herself. Her mouth tasted of ashes.
Juanita stood across from her at the door.

“Are you okay?”

Sister Cawood pushed sleep from her eyes
smiling weakly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You look like shit.” Juanita closed the door
behind her and leaned there.

“Oh.” It took her a moment to get her
bearings. “I was working with Jane. I haven’t been feeling well.
And I took a little catnap.” She smirked trying to insert a little
humor. “Don’t tell her I’m awake. She’ll have me signing papers
again.” She feigned a sore wrist rubbing it. Juanita’s dark eyes
remained sad. Cawood sat up gesturing at the chair across from her.
“Come in, what is it?” Juanita crossed the carpet, her shoulders
slumped and her expression unreadable.