The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (62 page)

The assassin got to his feet and limped
across the room. There was a deep ache in his hips. His neck and
shoulder throbbed. He touched rows of punctures there.

His clothes hung in an open closet at the
foot of the bed. They were damp and smelled of the sea. He pulled
them on. A quick check showed him that his secrets had been
plundered. The clothes were purged of hidden weapons. Felon decided
that death was coming. He just hoped to take a few people with
him.

He pulled his jacket on, pausing to finger
the ripped fabric. The door swung open. Passport stood there with
Wurn. The troll had an autoshotgun in his over-sized hands. Those
weapons fired 12 gauge plugs or pellets from bulky clips at a rate
of one per second. The clips held thirty rounds. Properly applied,
they could demolish a building.

“Mr. Felon.” The assistant to the Demon
fawned. “Master Balg awaits.”

“
You
pull me out?” Felon snarled.

“Yes.” Passport grinned. “The Swimmers
wouldn’t touch you.”

“You’ll regret it.” The assassin shrugged
into his jacket and limped after Passport. Wurn fell in behind; his
hands steady on the weapon.

They turned up the twisting stair from a
doorway opposite the Games Room. The Watcher’s death scream still
rang in Felon’s ears. They crossed the companionway to Balg’s
office. Passport held the door aside and gestured for Felon to
enter. The Eyesore came after him stinking like shit in the
sun.

Balg sat behind the desk, eyes radiating
dangerous power. His horns were longer, curling down over his face
like a ram’s. He wore a loose navy blue suit. His features had
changed, were more bestial. His lower fangs hooked up over his lip.
The nose was wide and wet like a bull’s. It gave him a stupid,
bovine look.

“Felon, old friend. Sit down.” Balg’s
movements were muscle-bound, fake parodies of human. His shoulders
had swollen grotesquely, bunching and grinding under his jacket.
His hairy hands hung past his cufflinks like apish imitations.
“Have a cigar!” Balg knocked over a candle as he grabbed the cigar
box with awkward hands.

“How are you?” Balg watched Felon take a
one.

The assassin glared at the Demon then lit the
cigar with a candle from the desk. A whiff of brimstone was coming
from Balg—livestock too. Things were slipping—the show was winding
up for the final act. Balg’s voice had changed too. His words
echoed with grunts and growls.

“You have done well, Felon.” Long fangs
garbled the words. “There is a matter of payment.”

“No,” Felon growled. The Eyesore breathed
raggedly a yard behind him. He hadn’t sensed Passport enter the
room.

“You fulfilled the contract.” The Demon
looked like a gorilla in a suit. “Payment is due.”

Felon stared at the Demon’s glowing eyes—an
unsteady fire flickering in them.

“I apologize for any little irregularities
that have occurred over the past few days.” He shrugged his
shoulders. “But that’s business—market fluctuations, acquisitions
and fallout from a change in the board of directors. My partners
insisted that I acquire your nun to work a deal with the Prime. Our
intention was to set up an Anti-Rome ruled by a coalition of
Angels, Demons and some Fallen. Humans were essential, of course,
and the Prime was willing.”

“Truth!” Felon’s lips curled back.

“But Felon, I’ll pay you as arranged. I need
you.” The Demon smiled weakly. “We can win this thing.”

“You’ve lost.” He drew in on the cigar.

“Hardly.” Balg shook hooked claws. “Minor
betrayals have changed the game, but it is still playing out. Now
that the treason is understood, we can modify our plans. A war for
domination instead of partnerships.” Balg reached for the cigars,
accidentally cut one in half with his claws. He growled, lips
wrinkling around yellow fangs. “Michael had to be put out of the
way. He got too powerful. You understand?”

“He was in on it?” Felon’s senses were on
Wurn. The stench gave the troll away.

“It was
his
idea.
He
convinced
Gabriel. See, Michael defended Heaven in the war against Lucifer,
but he was never happy with God’s plan regarding the adoration of
man. And after Judgment Day man would be brought up to sit
beside
Angels.” Balg’s voice quavered and grunted. “Michael
told Gabriel he would never sit equal to man. He would rather set
up his own business. Since Gabriel had read Revelations too, and
saw that Michael was serious, he joined him.”

“A second rebellion.” Felon could tell that
the story was drawing Wurn in. The Eyesore had moved six inches
closer.

“Yes.” Balg leaned forward. “But they
couldn’t do it alone. Other Angels were recruited—Michael and
Gabriel had their own gangs, right? Neutrals had to be
convinced.”

“And Demons?” The assassin shifted in his
chair.

“We got involved right after Michael and
Gabriel talked to Lucifer. Nick wasn’t interested. He thinks you
can’t beat God in a turf war, and didn’t trust the other Firstborn.
Some ambitious Fallen joined up, but most stayed neutral.” Balg
summoned up some of his old bravado. “I heard about this and called
them up. In the Pit we’re older families with different rules. And
Demons were never forced to adore man. Instead, most of us got
whacked out by the One God and his boys and stuffed in the Pit in
the first place. But, I could see the sense in a coalition. If
there was a second rebellion in the works, and rules were loosening
up I wanted in. So lots of meetings and meals and we had a
deal.”

“The Change?” Felon knew he could reach Wurn
with his left hand.

“Michael gave the animals dominion over man,
started the rain and stopped the aging process in the living.
Gabriel’s the Angel of Death, so he quit calling souls to
judgment—and he did something to the biology to keep the bodies
from rotting out, since he thought an army of the dead might come
in handy. I was stupid and didn’t realize it would be his
personal
muscle. He’s turned it against you people and now
he’s turned it on me.” Balg tried to take another cigar—gave up
frustrated.

“We worked in secret because nobody wanted to
wake God. But as time passed we took more liberties—started to blur
the lines of the Divine and Infernal Compacts. Once the Change
came, all the rules loosened up. Look what
you
do for a
living, for Christ’s sake. And that’s how Michael got whacked. He
was out of control and mating with humans.” Balg looked longingly
at Felon’s cigar. “Michael was the most powerful of the Celestial
Choir and if anything was going to wake the One God, it would be
him fucking around with humans”

“
You
trick me into killing him?” Felon
sneered.

“Gabriel’s idea. He knew I employed you from
time to time.” Balg’s fangs showed in a smile.

“
You
tricked me,” Felon growled. “And
now
you’ve
been betrayed and want help.”

“After Gabriel tricked
me
. He wanted
Michael whacked for his own reasons. When I saw his dead army, I
knew he’d come gunning for me so I worked a deal with the Prime.
See he’s got dreams of ruling the world—wants to make his own super
race. Word on the street, he’s looking for this Cawood broad. The
Marquis was from Michael’s group. I arranged through him to snatch
her from you. The Marquis would tell you that Gabriel put the
finger on her and we hoped you’d go gunning for Gabriel. Since I
knew you’d come gunning for someone.” Balg stared back at Felon.
“But you caught Passport and the Marquis sang like a canary.” Balg
looked momentarily downcast. “The Prime and me are going to war
against Gabriel’s boys and the Army of the Dead. The plan is the
Prime will lead the human world, and I’ll run the Demon,” he
sniggered.

“
You
told the Marquis to kill me.”
Felon spat the words.

“That’s not true,” Balg said, shifting
uncomfortably. “I need you to whack Gabriel.”

“You’re no good at this,” the assassin
snarled. Wurn’s clothing rustled right beside Felon. “Lucifer’s
crime was being too human. Yours is not being human enough.”

Felon’s left arm lashed out and grabbed the
barrel of Wurn’s autoshotgun. Adrenaline strength and speed pulled
the startled Eyesore forward. He elbowed Wurn in the face. There
was a crack—a grunt. Felon gripped the autoshotgun and fired at
Balg’s chest. The Demon vomited fire at the first impact, his body
immediately transmuted to a larger more powerful shape. Gigantic
bat’s wings wedged against the roof, beat against the walls.

The Eyesore’s teeth ripped at the assassin,
but he couldn’t feel them. As he fired into Balg, flame poured from
the wounds.

The Demon blocked the barrage with a muscled
forearm but it was eaten away and severed at the elbow. Bullets
splintered enamel and bone from his teeth. The Demon tried to
vanish, but the rounds pounded his flesh back to reality. The gun
smoked in Felon’s hands, but he kept firing.

Wurn’s teeth dug into his wounds, and Felon
heaved off his chair pulling the Eyesore forward. Upright, he
rammed the freak into the doorjamb— focusing his mind and tortured
muscles on a steady line of fire. The Eyesore’s breath exploded and
he released his hold on the gun.

Balg’s body was trapped in the physical.
Chunks of flesh flew. Fire scorched the floor under him. He
screamed. Scarlet fluid pumped out of his chest. There was a flash
as it ignited and his whole body boiled with flame. Felon fired
until the clip was empty. Through the blaze of treasures, he could
see Balg writhing on the floor. The bestial skeleton exposed, his
cloven feet beat the deck as he steamed to
Ardor
.

Felon spun around to kill Wurn, but long thin
hands closed on his throat. Passport’s teeth were exposed in a
carnivorous smile. Felon shoved the hot gun barrel into the narrow
face. Their impetus took them through the office doors and across
the open companionway. They wrestled, struggling onto the yacht’s
deck. The rail shuddered when they struck it.

Below, the water was thick with Swimmers.
Their waxy bodies pressed against the yacht’s hull and choked the
sunken street. Their lifeless eyes glimmered as they surged upward.
Their hands clawed the air.

Thin lines of blood ran from Passport’s
temple but his confident smile remained. Fury fired Felon’s mind.
The assassin craved murder. He heaved back and pounded his forehead
into Passport’s face. The Demon’s assistant frowned when the first
blow crunched home. Felon rammed his skull into Passport’s face
again and again, until the thin cheekbones collapsed and blood
welled from the raw wound of his nose and mouth. Passport’s eyes
crossed and Felon dropped him over the rail. The Swimmers pushed
upward on the waves, claws catching the Demon’s assistant before he
hit the water. They tore him to pieces.

Felon staggered back, dizzy. He looked down;
saw his left pants leg was slick with blood. The stitches had
ripped open. He had to tie it off or risk passing out. He had no
idea how much blood he’d already lost.

He turned. Lucifer was standing there. Black
smoke from Balg’s immolation curled out of the doorway behind
him.

“You’re my favorite!” the Devil said and
smiled.

89 – The End of the Wild Bunch

Driver thrashed awake. He coughed on a lung
full of smoke. The room was dark. He pushed himself upright. The
action brought a gasp of pain from him. With trembling hands he
felt the wound in his thigh. It was ugly. The bullet must have
snuck past his bulletproof greave, and mushroomed on impact. It had
torn a hole three inches wide, ricocheted off the femur and
mutilated the delicate venous system. He was fucked. Blood was
seeping out. He pulled his belt off, tied it tightly around his
upper thigh. If he was lucky, the Texan knew he’d just lose the
leg.

He focused on the mind techniques that Tiny
and he had learned so long ago. Breathe. Calm. Breathe. Calm. He
had to push the anxiety away. The pain was terrible, but it
wouldn’t kill him—panic would. Driver saw one of his .9 mm’s on the
floor where he fell. He picked it up, pulled the clip and yanked a
fresh one from his vest to replace it. He had to get out. There was
moaning all around him. A few feet away he saw the dead minister’s
smoldering shoes. The fire had ravaged the fellow.

To his immediate right he saw Bloody. The
impact of the heavy caliber bullets had exposed most of the upper
right section of his ribcage, and had torn the right arm off. It
hung from a few useless pieces of muscle that twisted like little
worms. The dead man looked at him. His sunglasses had been knocked
aside—the glass was pitted and scorched.

“Over,” the dead man said.

Driver stifled an angry curse. He had little
strength left. “Where’s Tiny?”

Bloody turned his head along the length of
the bar. Driver could just make out the salesman’s legs in a tangle
of bar stools.

“Dead,” Bloody said, focused on the
distance.

Driver dragged himself through his own blood
toward his fallen friend. The Texan clutched at his chest when he
got to him. The salesman’s eyes were wide, looking into nothing. He
was in Blacktime.

“Well, goddamn, Tiny you bought it,” the
Texan whispered, as he probed the salesman’s wounds with his
fingers. He had misjudged before. The two bullets had struck Tiny
in the stomach, but a third had knocked a hole in his
sternum—stopped his heart.

“So, I guess you’ll know how Bloody feels,
then.” For promise his immediate emotions grabbed onto the
potential of Tiny’s walking death. “The king is gone but he’s not
forgotten…”
But it’s not over yet
. “You’re goin’ to be hell
to live with.” Driver had to survive the next few minutes—just long
enough to get some help for his leg. He couldn’t imagine the three
of them walking around zombies.