Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) (21 page)

“I don’t understand.” Dio admitted.

“And you won’t.” Wright admitted. “Not for some time, yet. All I ask is that you consider the possibility that the world could be...better. That the Human species could be something worth fighting for, as opposed to a constant impediment to their own aims and ambitions. Consider, Dio...the world’s population is now well over eight billion. Unchecked, we’re simply waiting to see which destroys us first; climate change and the myriad other systemic imbalances we have provoked through our collective hubris and greed...or competition amongst ourselves for finite and dwindling resources. If something isn’t done, we’ll wind up at each other’s throats – a shadow of what we were – killing one another on a barren, ruined husk of a world for a gallon of water here, or a sack of corn there. You can see it coming...and it draws ever closer to inevitable. Anyone with a mind to, can look out and see what we’re doing to this planet.” Dio shrugged out a pained acknowledgement. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t wrong, either.

“What happens tomorrow?”

“A new beginning, Dio. A new start.”

§§§

“So that’s the play. That’s how this goes down.” Smoke whispered in Yvonne’s ear as they eavesdropped on Dio and Wright’s conversation.

“How
what goes down? They aren’t saying anything.” Yvonne shivered, only half paying attention; far more focussed on Smoke’s body flush against her own from behind...hands on her hips; lips on her neck.

“Are you kidding me? You’ve
gotta stop thinking about Wright as being...y’know...just some guy. None of them are ‘just’ anything.” Smoke hissed, pulling Yvonne back and pushing her up against the wall. Smoke pressed herself against Yvonne, making sure she was speaking close enough to the Israeli’s ear that Dio and Wright wouldn’t hear the whispers: “Think about what he’s saying, and imagine that they: Wright’s bosses; my bosses: ‘The Seven’...have all the technology, all the manpower, and all the resources that they need to do whatever they want to – and I am definitely stressing the fuck out of the word: ‘whatever’, here – about the things that they think are wrong with the world. ‘Cause here’s the thing, Yvonne...they do.”

“What are you talking about? You’re going to have to spell it out. I’m not Dio: vague crap doesn’t just
– ” she mimed a snap of her fingers; aware of the need for minimal sound: “ – snap into place for me.” Smoke bit her top lip and looked off to the side; searching for a simple way to convey an extremely complex situation about which she, herself, knew far less than she’d have needed to in order to speak in anything approaching specific or definitive terms.

“You remember when I told you that there were fifty or so of those training camps above ground?” Yvonne nodded. After an expectant pause, Smoke fed her another clue: “How many
States...are there in America?” Realisation dawned.

“What the
fuck? What are you people planning?” Smoke pulled away from Yvonne, motioning for her to follow. Smoke walked ahead, with Yvonne trailing about half a metre behind her. Stepping through one of the back doors, they emerged into a small greenhouse – lit by long fluorescent tubing – adjoining the house. As they moved inside, Smoke held aside overhanging foliage to let Yvonne pass by. In better circumstances, Yvonne realised, the location would have been distinctly romantic.

But with circumstances as they were, the location was another thing entirely. The secon
dary back door that connected it to the house was the sole way in or out; the glass walls were thick, multilayered, and tinted white to prevent as much light from escaping into the perma-darkness of Palatine Hill as possible; and the foliage – as well as the shelving and racks that supported it – interrupted the passage of sound from the back of the greenhouse to the door at its front. Helpfully, they could monitor the door from the back: ascertaining any new presence with enough time to find some other topic of conversation. Yvonne admired the choice. It was as good a place to speak freely as they had the option of. Manoeuvring Yvonne to the very back, and sitting down with her on a small, slatted bench, Smoke continued.

“On my level? I have a high enough clearance to know that whatever’s coming is
big. That people are gonna die. Probably by the hundreds and thousands. But I mean...just from a common-sense perspective, why
else
would people like us be on board?”

“Military? Ops?” Yvonne guessed. Smoke nodded.

“Partly that, yeah. But what I was getting at, is...well...we all match for three incredibly important criteria: We’re people who’ve been pretty fucking decisively fucked over by the systems currently in place; we’re all people with, let’s face it, some pretty fucking bleak options when it comes to life outside of The Organisation; and we’re all people who’ve been trained...to kill. Let’s face it, gorgeous: we’re here...because we all have a motive for mass
destruction, and a vested interest in seeing this world burn. And hey...I’m damn sure that having been trained to follow orders and respect a regimented command structure was factored in
somewhere
.”

“Fuck.” Yvonne murmured. She blinked down; screwing her eyes shut for several seconds. When she
opened her eyes, Smoke was still standing there in front of her. They were still in Palatine Hill. She was awake. It wasn’t a dream. It was all...actually...happening. “
Fuck
...” She repeated, with feeling. Smoke continued:

“But, again
...when it comes to what’s actually coming? It could be almost anything. A coup d’état, assassinations – y’know, cut off the head and the body dies – or some sort of large-scale biological or chemical attack...” Smoke trailed off pointedly. “You remember the rumours, right?”

“After the Damascus Incidents
...”

“Yeah. They could be true. Who’s to say it
wasn’t just a dry run for something bigger?” Yvonne’s left eye twitched.

“And the lists we were making in Esquiline? The surveillance?”

“They’re part of it, yeah. Whatever ‘it’ is. It’s all part of it.” Smoke confirmed. “I’m fairly sure that those lists are to do with a final phase of The Disappearances. One that isn’t voluntary.”

“Disappearances?” Yvonne’s brow knitted with uncertainty.

“Have you been living under a...” She paused, considering. “Actually...I guess you have been.”

“Why would Wright be telling Dio and not me?” The thought occurred to Yvonne out of the blue. As soon as she said it, however, she knew that it was important to her that she knew. Smoke’s eyes darkened. For a moment, Yvonne was concerned that Smoke had mi
sinterpreted the question: that she was taking it to mean that Wright held some sort of control over her. As soon as she heard Smoke’s tone, though, she realised that the blonde woman had more faith in her than that:

“Something about that kid
– I don’t know what it is – is important.” Smoke sighed, shaking her head. “You can tell from the way Wright acts around him. I mean...he loves
you
...but that’s because you’re incredibly competent. It’s also probably because he fucking loathes me, and you’d be – easily – a frontrunner as my replacement. Dio? Nothing special that I can see.” Off Yvonne’s protective glare, she amended: “By ‘special’, I obviously mean ‘recognisably exceptional’.” Yvonne shrugged, nodding.

“You’re right. What could
possibly be important about
Dio
?”

“Like I said
...I don’t
know
.” Smoke’s eyes narrowed: “But...actually...I really fucking should. It’s definitely within the scope of my need-to-know. Unless it’s related to one of ‘The Seven’...or to Galt, himself...” Smoke trailed off, a species of mildly irritated concern creeping over her features. She shook it off: “But even so, Dio’s not remotely my biggest concern, here.”

“What’s your biggest concern?” Smoke rolled her eyes, before quietly admitting:

“You are.” Yvonne stifled a snort.

“Yeah, okay. You barely
know me.”

“Sure. Yeah. But I know I don’t want to live in a world that doesn’t have you
in it. Y’know?” Smoke turned leaning slightly toward Yvonne, who mirrored the gesture. Their noses were almost touching.

“A week ago
– ”

“
– Fuck...‘a week ago’, Yvonne. I need you to believe me when I say this: if you come down on the wrong side, here, they will fucking...kill...you. Do you get that?” Yvonne nodded slowly, her nose and Smoke’s bumping together at the tips. Their eyes meeting, Yvonne found herself staring into a smouldering blur of steel-blue-ice, maybe ten centimetres – if that – away from her.

“Yes. I
get that.” She almost whispered the words.

“So
...getting that – and believe me, putting this on you is something that I sincerely wish that I could avoid – I need you to make a decision.” Smoke told her.

“What decision?”

“Are you in? Or are you out? This thing is gonna happen, either way. There’s no getting around that. And I’m not like your BFF: I don’t do blind loyalty. I do respect. I do strength. I do the right thing by the people I think deserve to be done right by, and, currently? That list is pretty much you.”

“I thought
...”

“I know.
I’m meant to be important; a ‘player’. But it’s amazing how...no matter how high you rise, you’re still the same base-level intake to someone. Nothing ever feels different: the only thing that changes is the size of the crowd beneath you. The ones below you still think you know everything, when, really...the more you know, the less you fucking know. It’s cliques within cliques within cliques. That’s how they keep it all ticking away like clockwork: they make a shift to the side look like a shift upwards, but all you ever find are more questions; more fucking bullshit to work around. But I know what I know. I know – now at least – that Galt tells Wright more than he tells me, even though I’m meant to be Galt’s personal fucking enforcer. He’s probably even met him. I get instructions through...” She rolled her eyes, clearly unable to find a simple way to explain the system: “Never mind. It doesn’t even matter, in the end.  None of it does, because I know that Wright is one of them in a way I’ll never be. I’m just...one of the ‘lab-rats’, when all is said and done.” Yvonne reached up to touch Smoke’s cheek. Smoke shook her head, clasping her hand...the look in her eyes saying: ‘have you made a decision?’.

“
So what if I want in?” Yvonne murmured.

“Then I’ve got your back. All the way.” Smoke replied without hesitation.

“And what if I want out?” Smoke smiled sadly.

“Then we’re
out. You and me: all the fucking way.”

“Do I have some
time?” Smoke shook her head.

“Not really. Everything happe
ns tomorrow, apparently. If we’re leaving, we’ll want to be off and fucking running before things really kick into gear. But I can give you until whatever’s happening starts. I’m guessing it’ll be obvious. Down here in Palatine, at least. Dunno what it’ll look like, topside. But just remember: we don’t know when. We don’t know what. So don’t wait too long. The sooner, the fucking better.”

“Smoke and Eve.” Yvonne nodded. “Either way?”

“Either way. Smoke and Eve. Or...” Smoke hesitated: casting a small, uncharacteristically shy smile in Yvonne’s direction “Yvonne and Aviary.” Yvonne nodded; leaning into Smoke and softly kissing the shyness out of the smile that had invaded and re-shaped her lips.

“Aviary.” Yvonne pulled back from the kiss
...testing the newfound word; sounding it out...feeling it roll over her tongue. Her eyes fixed on the woman to whom the name belonged; the woman who she appeared to be – rapidly: frighteningly rapidly – falling for, and she decided that the name was beautiful, and that it suited Smoke perfectly.

She decided that she liked it very much.

She decided that, perhaps, she even loved it.

She decided, finally, that she’d wait until morning
...but, whatever she chose when morning came...the real decision – the important decision – had already been made.

“ Yvonne and Aviary,” She repeated back. “
‘All the fucking way’.”

Act 3

The Collapse

§

Shadows fall, grey-black

On silken skin.
Thunder rolls;

Time moves on her prey.

XV – Breach

~ Kayla ~

01/12/2023

“You haven’t said a word all morning,” Naithe observed, obviously concerned.

“Don’t really have much to say.” I mumbled. I hadn’t slept.

“Or else, you have
too
much to say.”

“Stop knowing me. I
hate that.”

“You
love that.”

“I
do love that.” I admitted. My voice cracked a little.

“Hey, hey
...” He sat down next to me, wrapping me up in his arms. “What is it?”

“
Fuck, Naithe...” I whispered. I had tears in my eyes and vodka on my breath. There was no point hiding it. “Ambrose made contact last night. Ambrose Portokolos.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Where
was he? Was he okay?” I fought back an angry, bitter laugh.

Was
he
okay? Yeah. Yeah,
he
was peachy fucking keen.

“I’m more worried about
us, honestly.”

“You and me?” I shook my head.

“All of us. Stars and stripes...blues, reds, and whites. Anyone poor, or tired, or huddled...” I stumbled to my feet, eyeing the mostly empty bottle of vodka still on the kitchenette counter. “If you happen to know any masses, I’m quite worried about them, too.” I got as far as the door-free doorframe before Naithe grabbed me around the midsection, pulling me close. I wriggled free, snatching up the bottle and necking a couple of painful mouthfuls before Naithe grabbed the bottle away from me.

“What the
fuck, Kayla?” He wasn’t angry, but he was definitely demanding an explanation. He had every right to one. Unfortunately for him – or so I suspected – the only one I had was a far cry from comprehensive or ideal.

“Ambrose wasn’t kidnapped.” I shrugged
...a hopeless, horrified little smile on my face. “None of them were.”

“Where are they, then?”

“
Fuck
knows.” I burped, surprising myself. “Sorry. I’m really drunk.”

“I can tell.” He deadpanned.

“Look. I don’t know where he was when we talked. Wherever he was, he’s probably still there.”

“Shouldn’t you
...call someone? The police? The FBI?”

“I don’t know. I have no clue what to do.
Something’s coming, Naithe. It’s coming now.”

“What do you mean?” He sat back a little, looking at me, deadly serious.

“He said...I mean...he implied that...fuck...” I was choking on my own breath, now. “An attack, or something
like
an attack? It’s going to be big. Huge. And it’s too late to stop it: it’s already happening.”

“If it hasn’t happened yet then it can’t be
‘too late’...” he reasoned. “Let’s get someone on the phone. They’ll understand. They’ll be able to
do
something.” I sniffled pathetically.

“If you’d
heard him, Naithe: that voice...” I breathed deeply, composing myself. “His fucking voice. He was too rational. Too certain that nothing could be done. And they’re all in on it. All of The Disappeared. Every...single...one. What do you imagine anyone could do to stop something that that group of people got together to make happen? Ambrose is just some guy, but the rest of them? Powerful people. Brilliant people. Some of the cleverest people on the fucking planet are on that goddamn list. What the fuck are they even thinking?”

“Maybe he was trying to
confess; to stop it...”

“No.” I said. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind about what I was saying. “If you’d heard his voice, Naithe, you’d know. You have to trust me on that.” And he did.
I wouldn’t have. But he did. Not that it made a difference, in the end.

“Why, then?”

“He was...he was trying to give me a way to get away from it. Just me.” I looked deep into his eyes. “Just...me. No telling; no bringing anyone along; no nothing. ‘Safe passage’, he called it. Good for one, and one only.”

“Why would he do that?”
Naithe’s brow furrowed. With anyone else – if they believed me, which was a huge ‘if’ – there would have been some kind of suspicion. I knew that. If I’d been in Naithe’s position, I would have been suspicious of me. I would have thought that maybe I’d been in contact with him before. That maybe I’d hidden something, or led Ambrose on, somehow. But Naithe knew me better than that.

“It’s because I didn’t tell his story.” I admitted. “All those articles
...there were things I talked around. I didn’t tell the world what his family did to him.” I shook my head. “I think he found me...relatable somehow.” I chose to leave out the other issue: that I had related to
him
.

“What do you mean? I thought
...” he paused, choosing his words carefully. I placed my hand on top of his, rubbing it reassuringly.

“I didn’t
lie.” I met his eyes, making sure he could see the truth, there. “My parents did die in a car crash. There was just a little more to it than I wanted to go into. It’s been driving me crazy for the last week or so.”

“Do you need to
...
want
to, I mean...”

“Yes.
But not now. We need to focus on
them
. Whatever they’re doing, it’s happening soon, and it’s going to affect the whole of North America.”

“That’s impossible, Kay
...you know it’s impossible.”

“If you’d heard his
voice...”

“Let’s think it through, sweetheart
...”

“I don’t know if there’s anything to
think through. What I do know is that we’re going to need to run. Or, more accurately, fly. And we’re going to have to do that before it starts, or we’ll have about as much chance of getting on a plane as an Arab guy called ‘Bin Laden’ on Christmas Eve, twenty-oh-one.” Naithe’s face was blank.

“What happened in twenty
-oh-one?” Naithe asked. I raised an eyebrow, my lips involuntarily forming around the words ‘for-fucks-sake-Naithe’. A stupid smile spread across his face. “Kidding?”

“Seriously?” I deadpanned. “
Given the situation, that’s really fucked up.”

“Oh come
on.” He rolled his eyes. I reached out, taking his face in my hands and looking him straight in the eyes:

“Fine, sweetie. It was fucking
...hilarious. Can we make a plan now, please?”

“Kayla, do you really
– ” Naithe was interrupted by the buzzing of my mobile phone. We both stared at it. “Ignore it.” He said: a pleading undertone to his voice.

“Baby,” my right eyebrow dipped, forming an empathetic
– if drunkenly exaggerated – little valley. “Ignoring it won’t make it go away. This is happening.” Naithe nodded mutely. I picked up the phone, my eyes not leaving his. My throat was dry.

“Yes? Darren, hi. Okay
...slow down. Darren, slow
down
. Darren...what do you mean: ‘a hole’? Yeah, right. No. We’ll see. Well, I’ll find out if that’s even true first, and then...yeah. If it’s true. Yeah. Yes, I am fucking...drunk: It’s my fucking honeymoon. No, it’s fine; sorry for being a bitch about it. Yeah, right. Okay, I’ll let you know.”

“What was it?” Naithe asked as I hung up.

“It was Darren. My Editor.”

“Yeah. I got that.” He acknowledged, motioning for me to continue.

“He says something’s happened in Pueblo. That there’s a hole.”

“What
kind of hole?” The space between Naithe’s eyebrows squeezed into a tight little ridge under his deeply furrowed brow.

“Like a
sink-hole. It’s getting bigger, though: he said that, from what he’s heard, it’s expanding. That something’s eating into the ground under Pueblo, and it’s speeding up.”