The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (52 page)

Volunteers in horrific states of decay were
selected for the mission. They were camouflaged and attached to
explosive packages before moving by stealth toward the barricade.
It was be a pitiful thing to watch with many of them little more
than ribcages with arms. Their decrepitude slowed them, but it
helped them stay unnoticed as they navigated the ditches and fields
in the rain and darkness. Their job was simple: get as close as
they could to the barricade and detonate their explosive packs when
the signal was given. This plan had been initiated days before when
the barricade’s construction was first observed. The volunteers
were rushed to the location under cover of night, and had been
closing with the rampart ever since.

Stoneworthy had received some information
from Updike—adrift again in pain and near delirium—and General
Bolton was too tight-lipped to leak his plans in full. He finally
filled Stoneworthy in on the basics, and the Reverend was impressed
by the zeal of the volunteers.

The Army of God was ordered into attack
formation one mile from the barricade when Bolton sounded a
powerful horn. Before the City Defenders could fire a shell, huge
sections of the barricade exploded sending chunks of concrete,
equipment and bodies flying.

Four advance attack groups of infantry burst
out of the Army’s ranks and headed for the gaps in the barricade
and the City Defenders beyond. Gunfire scorched the night air, and
many were destroyed. General Bolton had decided to employ his
infantry feeling certain that the City Defenders would make the way
impassible for vehicles with mines and worse. And he needed those
vehicles in the days to come. Stoneworthy knew that the General had
deployed six mobile cannons a half-mile behind them to provide
artillery cover against a mechanized force that Bolton expected
sooner or later.

The destruction of the barricades, and the
approaching horde of the dead were too much for the City
Defenders—who
living
had apparent immortality to lose. They
ran. Only a few remained to hold the barricades—and the Army of God
soon added them to their ranks.

As the smoke cleared Stoneworthy joined
Bolton in the wreckage. From their new vantage point, the road
dropped gradually for eight miles before heading toward the City
over relatively flat and open ground for twenty more.

“That won’t be easy to cross,” Bolton
remarked.

As if to prove this, a squadron of
jetfighters flew the City’s perimeter. Their contrails could be
seen against the metropolis’ mountainous glow, the distant jet
engines roaring defiance. The City Defenders’ technological angels
might lack Divine power—but they would provide a destructive force
that the Army of God would have difficulty answering in the open
terrain before them.

After a moment studying the landscape, Bolton
gave his binoculars to Stoneworthy.

“Down there. You can see where the road drops
over that hill—there’s a valley to the south. I’ve seen diesel
plumes.” The minister scanned the area. The valley ran north to
south for about five miles. Stoneworthy knew it well. A small river
ran through it, little more than a stream before the Change it now
swelled occasionally to flood levels. The depression that it ran
through was shallow—but wide, and could easily hide a large
force.

“Let’s hope Gabriel lives up to his word.”
Bolton studied the distant valley. “There could be a three-hundred
tanks in there!” He left Stoneworthy to recall his cannon
emplacements.

The minister looked around. The ruined
barricade would have to be cleared before any of the Army’s
mechanized units could negotiate the ruins. Luckily, things had
happened too fast for the City Defenders to build anything more
substantial or come up with a better defensive plan. Already, dead
crews were hauling stone from the road. Stoneworthy looked across
the distance. Archangel Tower reared through the City’s hulking
levels—stabbing into the constant overcast like a flaming sword.
How beautiful
!

The minister’s soul was a seizure of
conflict. He had worked so hard. Karen had worked so hard to build
it, and such great works were done within it and through its
combined ministries. Slowly, it had grown in stature to outstrip
the Vatican. But all of that could be lost. The war was just; and
it was a pity that destruction was a key to its success—but a
necessary evil? He wondered if he could stand to see the Tower
fall. Such lofty ideals had gone into its construction—such faith.
Only to see it destroyed? And yet, what was the Tower when set
against the will of God?

Stoneworthy and Updike had demanded that the
City’s wealth be shared. And wealthy men had refused the demand.
What of the people who needed such help—people who had already been
cut out of their share? Had
they
refused Updike’s ultimatum?
Had they even heard it? It was possible that after hearing the good
intentions and noble aspirations of the Army of God that the City’s
denizens could be convinced to join them in their mission and
renounce the Gods of money and greed.

But how to convince them? Perhaps an emissary
could bring an appeal for peace. The killing would stop the moment
people knew that there was no need for it. As always the wealthy
and powerful would be spinning lies to gain the support of the
populace. But things were different. Perhaps the Change—one hundred
years of its effect would make people—the living—more accepting of
the truth.

If Stoneworthy could stop the killing before
the destruction of the City was necessary perhaps repentance could
buy the sinners a chance on Judgment Day? Forgiveness need only be
asked. He resisted the urge to attempt Gabriel’s direct aid. The
Angel’s appearance could do much to convince the unconverted and
yet, Stoneworthy knew that this would be wrong. God did not put on
displays to gain faith.

Yet faith was required. Faith. And that could
only be gained through understanding. Stoneworthy knew that
understanding grew from knowledge. And knowledge of God was
contained in His
Word
.

A determined smile grew on the minister’s
face. Parley was part of every war. Would the City Defenders
recognize the white flag? Resolve hardened in him. Parley was the
only thing that would make the Army of God clean. They had to offer
the cheek to strike before they could exact the harsh judgment that
Stoneworthy knew was coming. God’s Word was best heard coming from
men, not the mouth of a cannon. He could not watch more killing and
destruction go unopposed.
It had to stop
!

73 – The Watcher

Felon barely had time to focus on the
creature before it attacked. Its body was covered with shimmering
blue-green scales. The Watcher had a dinosaur torso with long rear
legs and broad leathery wings. Its teeth were wide tapered plates
of some flint-like material, and its snaky red tongue was white and
red-veined. Great cheekbones anchored jaw muscles over a ridge of
bone where the eyes should be but were not. It had a long
serpentine tail that cracked the air like a whip and thick muscular
arms like an ape’s. Its rear legs were as tall as Felon—tapering to
a pair of splayed bird’s feet with four toes. These were jointed in
several places like spider’s legs and two feet long.

The Watcher slashed these jointed spikes at
him but Felon shifted out of the way, opened fire. His gun blazed
until the metal burned in his hand. Most of the bullets bounced off
the monster’s scales—only those traveling at perfect trajectories
would penetrate its body. The Watcher screamed, slashed at Felon
again. This time one of the spiky toes tore through the assassin’s
overcoat, sunk into the wooden engine housing beneath him. Felon
rolled, but the thing’s claw had him.

Its mouth opened and the Watcher screamed.
The creature’s rotting breath rippled Felon’s hair and his ears
were pushed to a pitch where all sound turned to a buzz. A heavy
hand grabbed Felon’s right wrist, pushed it aside with ease. The
assassin slid his left knee under the Watcher’s chin, forced it
back as far as he could. He flipped the empty .9 mm from his right
hand and snagged the .44 out of its holster with his left. He
pressed its mouth against the creature’s forearm and fired once.
The thing shrieked as bone and flesh dissolved and it leapt back
with a beat of its wings.

Felon glanced at Passport and would have shot
him but the Watcher attacked again. One powerful beat of its wings
knocked the assassin into the oil drums before he could gain his
feet. The Watcher kicked out, and Felon’s left leg went numb. Blood
sprayed across the boat. The assassin reached up to his belt,
yanked on the big buckle, and pulled a short stabbing knife free in
time to deflect the Watcher’s bite with a slash under its chin. It
shrieked again, but Felon pressed, managed a shallow cut along its
throat. It turned quickly, smashing the assassin across the hips
with its tail, throwing him into the short rail that ran around the
top of the gunnels. Felon dropped to the deck, raised his .44 and
fired a shot at its face. A chunk of scales came off the thick bone
on its forehead.

Felon howled at the creature, slashed with
his knife. He fired the .44 again but was swept into the drums by
the Watcher’s tail. Before he could get to his feet its claws sunk
into his waist and tore into his shoulder. It shrieked, and pulled
him off the deck.

Growling for escape, Felon was lifted between
tall brick walls that formed the channel. The boat dropped away.
Constricted as he was, Felon gritted his teeth against the pain,
cursed as his knife fell out of his hand. He jammed the .44’s
barrel into the Watcher’s groin and fired it empty. The Watcher
screamed, raked its jaws at Felon—but its abdomen was torn and
spilling a hot deluge on its prey. The Watcher threw its head back,
jaws working, throat constricted around a scream. It struck at the
assassin like a snake—to sink its fangs into Felon’s throat and
face.

Felon ducked—but his temple struck against
bone. Electric shock jumped over his vision as they fell. The
assassin saw the crowd of Swimmers bloated, white against the black
water now—arms reaching upward. Hundreds crowded the trawler as the
water came up hard. It was like a wall of ice when he hit.

74 – The Dream

Updike was dreaming. Lying on a bed of
flowers he exulted—the aroma of nature penetrated every pore of
him. The yellow sun blazed down. Its rays warmed his face with
prickly heat. High, high above, clouds scuttled by in long straight
lines of haze—Stratus Nimbus clouds—he thought—or was it Nimbus
Stratus? The clouds swept by bound for distant lands. He smiled. It
had been so long that his bunching cheek muscles felt
alien—unnatural. He took a deep breath, tasted the musty, damp
pollen on the breeze. Alive. He rolled on his side giggling. A
valley swept away from him for many miles, the vista of flowers and
grass alive with color shimmered in the heat. Daisies waggled their
windswept manes—bluebells grew in the grass like sapphire stars.
His body buzzed with sensation. Oh God! He ran his hands over his
skin.

Then Updike turned with a start, forced
himself up on his hands and knees. What was that? A voice? No,
there was something else—a distant thump or bang—a noise like
something heavy had fallen and an echo when it hit the ground.
Perhaps a crane had dropped a chunk of iron or steel. But there
were no engine noises, so—and there it was again. Slightly louder,
and being ready for it—he concentrated on the sound. No, not
metallic at all. A thump, like a tree would make after a lumberjack
cried: timber! There it was again, a thump.

A strange anxiety crept into his peaceful
state—slowly, subtly. It first showed itself in the unclenching of
his jaws, and the disappearance of his smile. He looked to where he
had lain in the grass—a strip of green was parted and flattened.
But, as he watched, as if by magic the grass thinned and dirt began
to show through—black dirt turning to mud that oozed between the
blades. Again the thump.

It startled him—his eyes flashed
up—left—right—the distance had closed in with a wall of gray—like
fog or cloud.
What now
? No valley. A cool wind blew about
him—he struggled a moment, pulled his coat tight.
Thump
! His
brow knitted, his lips pushed forward in a frown.

A gust blew across the flowers—their faces
dull like faded paint. Updike looked skyward, but the sun had gone.
Thump
. Heavy gray clouds covered all. He looked down—the
grass was withering, brown appeared at its edges and ate its way to
the center.
Thump
. A heavy scent of rot reached his nose, he
sniffled, saw the black earth had extruded great leaves of darkness
like dung. White worms wiggled through its surface.
Thump
.
Thump
. Twice now the sound. What’s this?

The flowers had changed. The bluebells had
turned to hardened ebony orbs, the daisies to white lacquered
balls.
Thump
.
Thump
.
Thump
! Before his eyes
the blossoms changed—cheekbones appeared—black eye sockets—grinning
brown teeth.
Thump
!
Thump
! The miniature skulls
bobbed on their thin white necks—their mouths moved.

“Eavesdropper!” they hissed like adders.
“Eavesdropper!”

Thump
. Pressure grew.
Thump
.
His ears felt like molten plastic.
Thump
!

“Updike!” An itching as hot and urgent as a
stroke ran through his brain. He looked at his hands. They were
black and crawling with maggots. Yellow finger bones ripped through
the rotting flesh like lily shoots.

“Jack!” His name pulled him from sleep. His
pain was waiting to throttle the scream in his throat. Moaning, he
clutched his forehead with both hands, kicked his blankets
away.