The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (33 page)

“I will need someone from maintenance for
clean up,” he said into the box. “And, Mrs. Camp, please summon a
worker from Dormitory Five to escort Dawn back to her quarters.”
While he spoke he produced a notepad and wrote something on it.

Frances’ body staggered close to him, and he
politely pushed past it, like she was just a strange woman in a
crowded room.

“Think about what you’ve done.” He pulled
Dawn off her chair. Her little slippers slid over Frances’
forehead. Her stomach turned.

“You have an appointment with the Doctor
tomorrow,” he said folding the note and handing it to her. “Give
him this.” He nodded his chin at the door. “Wait outside for your
escort.”

Dawn’s ears were roaring as she hurried from
the room. She passed the outer office and Mrs. Camp who was working
there. She sat in a chair by the door. The forever girl opened the
fold of paper with shaking hands and read a single letter, the
number “1.”

45 – Double Cross

Felon raced away from Bloody, pistol in one
hand full clip in the other. He still didn’t know how important the
nun was. She might be the best clue to identifying who betrayed
him. He needed the leverage.

He dropped on his face when he caught a
movement at the top of the stair. An Eyesore with a single eye and
a beak like an owl glanced out, with an AK-47 in hand. The gun
burped into life, tearing at the space Felon had occupied a second
before. The assassin fired five bullets into the thing’s face
before he hit the carpet. Its head exploded in a cloud of gore.

One bullet left in the chamber. Felon ejected
the clip, slipped it into his pocket—pushed another home. The
Eyesore’s body wedged the oak-paneled door open. Beyond, there was
a set of fourteen steps circling clockwise to the basement. A door
to the driveway opened off of them. There was a large wine cellar
at the bottom. He had locked the woman in a room up against the
stone foundation about forty feet past tall wine racks and piled
kegs. The cellar ran away from the stair the entire length of the
basement. A hard sprint with a wary eye should take him
through.

Gun in hand; Felon crept to the top of the
stairs, crawled over the Eyesore’s body. The stench was incredible
and made it impossible to detect any of the creatures waiting
below. The floor squeaked behind him. His peripheral vision had
shown him Bloody advancing, making a big target of his upright
body.

He looked up at the dead man and put a finger
over his lips.

The stairs were dark. The wooden steps had
creaked when he used them before so he slid his shoes along the
trim that edged them and started down silently. Distantly, he heard
the sound of muffled voices. He hoped the sporadic gunfire behind
him would cover any sounds he might make.

When he reached the fourth step he heard a
metallic click. He’d forgotten a beam crossed over the stairs,
bracing the floors above. It created a little alcove that held
cleaning fluids and tools. Now it held a small Eyesore, maybe two
feet tall. It held a sawed off shotgun in its oversized hands. Its
misshapen face showed brown teeth.

Felon jumped down five stairs, glancing
heavily off the banister, then dove outward with all his strength.
He landed hard on the stone floor. The breath went out of him.
Dizzy, he tried to roll. There was a flash of gunfire up the
stairs. Bloody’s gun roared and something squealed.

A big, clawed hand hooked his waist and
flipped him over. Felon looked into the face of a huge Eyesore. It
was four feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds—a walking tree
stump. Its mouth was big enough to hold a football, was lined with
long sharp teeth. The two large eyes glared with animal
intelligence. Short squat hippo legs propelled it over him, while
long muscular arms whipped his chest.

His gun was knocked away and the thing was on
him. Felon drove a fist into its left eye, but the lid and muscle
around it contracted around his wrist—started sucking at his
forearm. He pulled but could not free it. The Eyesore pummeled him
with both fists, thumping with a caliper motion at Felon’s ribs,
knocking his breath out.

The assassin tightened his shoulders, and
twisted. He used all his strength to keep its snapping teeth away
from his abdomen—already the fangs had slashed his shirt. Drool
poured out of the toothy maw and soaked him. Felon was an expert at
several martial arts. But those skills were designed for fighting
human—or at least human-shaped opponents.

It pounded on his chest and stamped on his
ribs, pushing upward—turning against Felon’s strength.

The assassin couldn’t find a weak spot, and
there was no sign of genitalia to pulverize. Burning yellow mucus
seeped out of the thing’s eye socket where it gripped his hand, but
instead of lubricating his escape, it caught the wrist like glue.
Felon’s stomach twisted with revulsion as the Eyesore’s lips pulled
back revealing ripping teeth and black gums. The jaws slid forward
as they opened—inching out toward his face.

Felon’s Derringer was wedged against the
floor in its holster between his shoulders—if he could brace the
thing’s teeth a way from him with his knees.

An explosion and flash detonated in the
confined cellar space. The Eyesore’s eyes flipped wide in
astonishment. Another explosion and the top of its head sprayed a
plume of dark red and bone. Felon’s hand came free of its eye
socket with a
pop
!

He shoved the thing off of him and rolled,
completing the action by pulling his Derringer free. He came up
with the gun pointed directly at Bloody. The dead gunman stood on
the bottom stair. Smoke or steam wafted up from his dead head.
Sunglasses still covered his eyes. Small rips and wounds peppered
his cheeks. He turned his head from the dead Eyesore toward Felon.
The stench of burned meat filled the air.

Felon wiped the mucous from his red and
blistered hand and grabbed his .9 mm where it laid at the base of
the closest wine rack. He pocketed the Derringer and shook his
head, every muscle aching. “Cover me!”

Felon ran to the door. Light etched its
perimeter. The bedroom inside was small. Bloody was ten feet behind
him, giant pistol up and cocked. The assassin raised a finger to
his lips. Voices.

The Marquis said: “Hurry and be gone. This is
not the plan.”

Felon raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t upset yourself,” said another voice.
“The fighting has stopped. We must hurry if the assassin is to
die.”

“He wanted the God-wife Cawood. That was
the
plan,” the Marquis whined.

“Stop your crying! Give her to me and slay
Felon.”

“But…” The Marquis choked on tears.

“You are his superior.” There was a pause.
“You fought in the war. Give her now!”

“But she is my only protection!” the Marquis
wailed.

“Give her!” the second voice insisted.

Felon looked at Bloody, stepped back and
kicked the door open.

Inside, the Marquis stood against the bed.
Tears had dragged the mascara down his powdered face. In his thin
old arms he held the nun. She was unconscious. Felon’s lips drew
back. The other voice belonged to Balg’s assistant. Passport’s
long-fingered hand was wrapped around the sleeping nun’s wrist. He
flashed long teeth.

Felon raised his gun. The Marquis pointed a
finger at Passport. “He was kidnapping her!”

“Shut up!” Felon barked. He glanced. She was
breathing.

“A sleep charm.” Passport noticed his look.
He released the nun, dropped his thin hand to his side. The Marquis
struggled to hold the sleeping woman.

The Demon’s assistant then crouched against
the far wall beneath the barred window. He hissed and faded into
the stone.

Felon grabbed the woman’s arm, pulled her
from the Marquis’ grasp and flung her onto the bed.

Felon glared into the Marquis’ faded blue
eyes. “Talk.”

“Felon, you must understand, it’s not how it
looks.” The assassin grabbed a fist full of the dandy’s lacy
collar. “Please. Think of all the times I’ve helped you out.”

“I am.” Felon spat on the floor. “You sold me
out!” He was still tense from all the action—he wanted violence.
Felon pounded the old Marquis against the wall.

“Whoa! Hey there!” Felon glanced to see
Driver and Tiny join Bloody at the bedroom door. The Texan made a
calming gesture. “He won’t be able to explain nothin’ if you tear
his throat out.”

Felon pulled the Marquis closer. He pressed
the mouth of his gun against the gangster’s blue-veined temple.
“Talk!”

“This yer girl, then?” Driver muttered. “Good
looker. I don’t mean to criticize, but I ain’t a fan of all that
black.”

“A nun.” Felon rasped, pushing the Marquis
against the doorframe.

“Shit. Well there you are.” The Texan checked
the action on his gun. He pointed it at the Marquis.

“Felon.” The Marquis patted the assassin’s
chest with his wrinkled hands. “You must understand the whole
story.”

“You betrayed me!” Felon pulled the trigger
half way.

“No!” the Marquis shrieked.

“You fought in the war,” Felon spat. “You’re
one of them!”

“What war?” Driver pointed his other gun at
the Marquis’ belly.

“In Heaven,” Felon snarled at the old
face.

“What?” Tiny gestured back along the wine
rack toward the dead Eyesore. “Is he one of those things?”

“Different.” Felon felt his killing rage
slipping away.

“Entirely different, Felon.” The Marquis’
face suddenly took on an intangible sturdiness, as though some
power was feeding him.

“Don’t try to slip away.” Felon could feel
the old flesh shiver beneath his grip. That’s how they did it.
“Can’t surprise me.”

“Oh I wouldn’t think of it.” The Marquis was
recovering his dignity. His voice had changed slightly, losing some
of its lilting tones. “
You
are in charge.”

“Slip away?” Driver growled. “He got a whole
firin’ squad on him”

“Tell him.” Felon flicked his head toward
Driver.

“The Compact prohibits…” An imperious tone
entered the Marquis’ voice.

Felon snarled at the old face. He wanted to
kill.

The Marquis’ voice gasped.

“Felon?” Driver piped up. “Any fool can see
he’s an old faggot in women’s clothes.” He looked seriously at the
Tiny. “I thought we was playin’ that part down, but if the gloves
are off, a horse is a horse.”

“He’s an Angel,” Felon snarled the
unbelievable words. “He hid it well.”

“An
Angel
? Come on!” Driver laughed.
“
He
ain’t no Angel I ever heard of back at Catholic
school.”

“The scent.” Felon felt a killing rage
growing in him again. “Don’t know what side he’s on.”

“What scent? I can’t never smell nothin’
around him, except all that toilet water he soaks in.” Driver
turned to Tiny, shrugged.

“They stink of cinnamon.” Felon slipped his
arm across the Marquis’ throat and started to choke him.

46 – Sophie

Conan was placing packs around the open
manhole when the hair stood up on the back of his neck like one of
those spinner spiders had creep and sneaked into his helmet. The
prickly sensation made him spin on his heel, the blades of the
death-flower blooming glimmer-sharp.

A slim form in black stood there, leaning
into the shadow, in filmy dress and slip-on shoes doing a spook
show in the grim. Unmoving, she floated in the shadow-stuffed
entrance to a tunnel that led to the sleep and yawn chambers. A
white face framed by long black hair hung on the breeze like a
spirit. The face was plastic, a mask of a little girl’s smile: the
lips pink, the cheeks red, with thin arching eyebrows. The head
tilted left then right asking questions. It was Sophie.

Conan looked out at her from his own mask,
though his was of metal and looked like the grill of an old-time
motorcar, something the older boys found and threw down some stairs
to make it cling-clang-bang. But the little fighter had the finger
on it ever since. Just the same he got his point across to her
quick with a shift and shake of his head.
No, Sophie
!

But Sophie shook her mask back at him like
she was a mirror, and pointed at her chest as if she knew better.
The skin on her bare arms and calves was as white as her mask or
the snow the kid-books yakked about.

Conan just shook his head again and twitched
the sharp fingers on his murder-glove. Why couldn’t she understand?
Mr. Jay didn’t want a creepy dead girl on a mission as important as
this one. As it was he picked Conan, the Quinlan boys and Liz, the
girl who led the first mission to save the stupid-Squeaker. There
would be no place for a spook—with “no” all in capital letters.

But Sophie stepped lightly, cautiously
forward. She nodded and pointed at herself again. One of the eyes
on her mask was taped shut and gray. A dark brown eye gleamed and
glared from the other.

Conan just shook his head like it was all he
had to do and even tisk-tisked like the gramps in the old movies
did. Then he made a
go-get-the-fuck-off-it
gesture with his
hands. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Sophie; he liked her,
in fact—but not in a kissing-hug-me-baby kind of way because he was
done with that.

But on more than one occasion he’d watched
her
hush-hush
secretly when he found her quietly dancing in
a glimmer-beam of light that somehow made it through Zero into the
Maze. And at other times he’d seen her sitting stooped, nodding her
head and moving her hands like she was talking to a crowd of people
with questions and microphones. That was okay with Conan, since he
liked the gentle moves she made as she danced. In some way it
reminded him of his mom and even got his sniffer sniffling.

But most of all he liked her because he’d
heard her story many, many times told at chirp-slurp and supper and
at night as the sleep and nightmares came on, or at other times
with other boys on watch who knew the yak, and told it to keep
their peepers open and wide.