The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (29 page)

40 – Call to Arms

During his flight to the City, the Angels
whispered again.
A dead brother bears the word
. This contact
surprised Updike. The Angels had never been so direct with him
before. Past messages arrived—sometimes garbled—usually forming one
or two words or short phrases: heal, fortitude, patience, speak the
word—little more. He was quite pleased with this new communication.
Nothing was left to interpretation. He had lots of time to think
about it. With connections, transfers and delays the trip to the
City took over twenty hours.

After the big twin-prop DC-10000 landed, he
moved quickly through customs, his notoriety smoothing the way for
him. When he traveled he often met living or dead people who felt
they owed him a debt—he had
freed
a wife, a brother, a
friend. Liberating the dead had caused many problems, but it had
also mended many fences. The truth was, the dead generally accepted
their lot. They had to. In order to enjoy any meaningful afterlife:
death and the dead status of the body had to be embraced.

Otherwise, a person came apart, and the mind
with it. For this reason, Updike compared the dead to
Lepers—individuals whose existence depended upon a stark
realization of one’s disease. Death, like leprosy, was never going
to go away. Updike was sure that the dead kept to themselves for
this reason. Too much association with the living, made the dead
forget.

A limousine was waiting for him. He gathered
his luggage at the carousel, and waited by the front right fender
as a tall man of Arabian origin loaded the baggage into the trunk.
Updike paced a few yards along the loading area watching people
come and go. They retained the pre-Change expressions of travelers
and Updike felt a genuine affection for them. Humans were so
adaptable. He knew they were unable to accept their own defeat
despite all the signs. He had to admire that foolish optimism. And
he understood why the Lord called them “favorite.” The preacher
felt anxious, wondering whether they could adapt to the change he
was going to bring.

A man approached. He was a mess and quite
dead, it was obvious from his horrific injuries. His appearance
left no doubt that the movement from life to death had been recent
and violent. He wore a black suit over a long lean frame. His arms
were angled awkwardly out to the side like a tightrope walker’s.
The front of his shirt and priest’s collar were torn and stained a
dark crimson. Updike’s stomach churned as he studied the extent of
the wounds.

Bone protruded from holes in the shirt just
above the sternum, and flesh around the punctures splayed outward
like the petals of some hellish flower. A coppery odor hung in the
air and it was everything the preacher could do to keep from
stepping away from the man’s sour aura. But empathy softened
Updike’s dismay at last and he allowed his feelings to touch the
sorrow of this dead man—it was terrible.

The limousine driver walked threateningly
toward the dead stranger. “Go on! Get!”

The stranger did not yield at the big man’s
approach. Updike needed no more evidence to the fellow’s recent
demise, for the dead, once adjusted to their new existence were a
fidgety and nervous lot—especially if the there was a threat of
violence.

“Wait driver!” Updike interjected remembering
the Angelic message. “This brother is here for me.” He moved past
the driver toward the walking corpse, steadying himself against the
instinctive repulsion he felt.

“My poor brother. How terrible has been this
change for you!” Updike spread his arms to accept the corpse’s
horrific embrace. He looked into the sad, wise face as he
approached—at the gray skin and yellowed eyes. And there was a tug
of recognition. Updike recognized something of the living man
remaining in the lifeless gaze. A great knowledge lurked there,
like the promise of food in the husk of a seed.

“My way is long, brother.” The dead man’s
voice was thin and reedy.

“The
road
is long.” Updike admired the
man’s spirit. He was speaking to one of his own—a shepherd.

“I have heard the word of the Lord. And with
the word was a command that the righteous should hear.” Again,
Updike felt great sympathy for the man. He could hear the deep
current of passion that throbbed behind the sad face of death.

“
Hallelujah
!” Updike squeezed the hard
dead shoulders. “Speak this command to me and I shall bear the
burden come what may, even in death.” The flesh beneath his fingers
was plastic, but pliant—it stayed the way his hands kneaded it.

“I heard the Lord’s voice just moments after
my…” he said and paused, for a second of acceptance or emotion,
“translation.” The dead man’s eyes were bright and rheumy. Blinking
mechanically, he continued, “I knew not what the message was upon
my learning of it, but as I look upon you, the words crowd my
tongue, and so I shall speak it.” With that, a power entered the
dead man’s voice—an echo of life, and he said:

“Corrupt men have gone out from among you and
enticed the inhabitants of their city, saying, ‘let us go and serve
other gods,’ gods whom you have not known, then you shall inquire,
search out, and ask diligently. And if it is indeed true and
certain that such an abomination was committed among you, you shall
surely strike the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the
sword—utterly destroying it, all that is in it and its livestock,
with the edge of the sword. And you shall gather all its plunder
into the middle of the street, and completely burn with fire the
city and all its plunder, for the Lord your God; and it shall be a
heap forever. It shall not be built again. So none of the accursed
things shall remain in your hand, that the Lord may turn from the
fierceness of His anger and show you mercy, have compassion on you
and multiply you, just as He swore to your fathers. Do what is
right in the eyes of your Lord.”

Updike knew the words, Deuteronomy 13:13-17.
He had pondered their power in the past. So fierce was the God of
Moses’ time—so decisive. So exacting in His worship. The words were
spoken long ago when the time of Holy War was upon them—and to hear
them spoken again when the final war foretold in the Bible
approached. The preacher had both feared and relished the day when
the bugles would sound.

“My brother!” Updike drew the dead man close.
“Just as it has been foretold. We shall muster a holy army unknown
in all our history.”

“The flesh is corrupt,” the dead man said.
Updike was uncertain if he was speaking of the flesh in the human
context, or if he meant his own so he addressed both.

“We shall cleanse the flesh when we liberate
the soul!” Updike held the dead man at arm’s length. “But first my
brother, we must prepare you for the mission that lies ahead, for
all of His fine ministers must be duly anointed and cleansed. You
have been translated my brother, and now we must help you shed the
unclean burdens of your former life.” Updike led the dead man
toward the waiting limousine. The driver seemed nonplussed,
hesitating a moment before opening the door.

“Make way!” proclaimed Updike. “You are in
the company of God’s messenger.”

“But sir!” The driver seemed embarrassed.
“I’ll have to pay for—damages.” His dark eyes roved over the dead
man’s spattered attire.

“I understand,” Updike hesitated. He turned
to the dead man. “Your name, brother?”

The dead man’s face hung slack a moment, his
eyes glazed over looking inward. He seemed reluctant to pronounce
the name, as though his state would be made real with its
utterance. Finally, he said, “Able Stoneworthy.”

Updike’s mouth dropped open. “Able
Stoneworthy?” Almost unrecognizable under the stains and marks of
death, but it was him. “
The Tower Builder
?” He pushed his
teeth together. “Of course.” The former recognition came home to
him. They had met in the past, on several occasions, but briefly.
In those days Stoneworthy’s passions were focused on the Tower, and
the future it represented. He had been dismissive of Updike then,
but not unkind. The preacher knew that his preoccupation with the
past ran contrary to the minister’s.

“Yes,” the dead man mumbled—his strength was
on the wane. “I am Stoneworthy.”

“Then,” Updike shouted, slipped an arm around
the dead man’s shoulders and gestured to the driver with the other.
“Get a car blanket—get something, so that this fine Tower Builder
can travel in a manner that befits his stature.”

The driver opened the trunk of the limousine,
moved Updike’s luggage, and brought out a gray quilted blanket. He
spread this over the leather seat, and then held the door aside as
his passengers entered—concern a cloud on his dark features. Updike
set the dead man into a comfortable position, gently placing his
limbs before him.

“Rebirth Foundation,” the Captain ordered, as
he rubbed Stoneworthy’s cold hand. The airport dropped quickly
behind them as the limousine sped down a ramp and onto the Skyway.
The City’s jagged skyline loomed over them. Central to it,
Archangel Tower pointed at Heaven like a gleaming sword.

“You must be proud of your work, Reverend.”
Updike watched the dead man.

“We have sinned,” Stoneworthy said in
reply.

“Humanity has strayed from the Word of God.
Like an errant child, humanity must not be spared the rod.” The
preacher allowed himself that admission of punishment. His dead
companion said nothing. “You spoke to the Lord your God?” he asked,
finally.

“
He
spoke to me. He gave me the
message.” There was a mild injection of emotion in the dead man’s
voice, but it was not pride. “Because you are chosen.”

“
Hallelujah
! We must remind the world
of the Lord’s wrath.” Updike watched the Skyway pass. “For there is
sin in the City, and for the world to come under the watchful eye
of our Lord again, it must change utterly. We must clean the works
of man!”

The dead man nodded. Updike watched him for
signs of passion or feeling, but his wounded humanity had slipped
below the surface. Putting himself in the dead Reverend’s shoes,
Updike knew that there was a great test going on in the minister.
Men of God did not lightly speak of war.

“We shall triumph!” he reassured Stoneworthy.
“We shall put the sinners to the sword. And the hilt of our sword
shall be a holy cross. Hallelujah! But first, we must offer the
Lord’s pity. Only when that is refused shall all our actions be
righteous.”

The dead man nodded—relieved, his eyes
blinking slowly, as though he were falling asleep. His dead face
wrinkled in a grimace. Pain or acceptance worked molten inside his
skull.

“My poor brother.” Updike stroked the dead
man’s stained cheek. “Poor brother.”

41 – The Silo

The armored Authority Transport roared off
the road spraying tall wet tails from its six solid rubber tires.
It catapulted through the twenty-foot steel gate and rumbled up a
stone path toward the central complex. The wall around the compound
measured fifteen feet in height with spools of razor wire on top.
The protected area was roughly square, one mile on each side. In
the center was a brick office building beside a massive concrete
pad. Twenty-four steel hatches, thirty feet in diameter, evenly
divided the pad’s length. There was a well-armored machine gun nest
on top of the brick building and soldiers patrolled the grounds.
Most of the complex was hidden a half-mile underground, protected
by rock and blast-proof doors.

The security measures were overkill,
considering the setting, but essential. Since the Change, few
people traveled off major highways, and fewer still knew or cared
about the Westprime Air Defense Missile Station City One. War was
unheard of in a world where nature herself had turned on humanity.
And most thought that the Middle Eastern Nuclear Holocaust, and the
Asian War that followed on the heels of the Change was lesson
enough for all. So, few could dream such a defensive measure would
be necessary. Station One was situated twenty miles to the south of
the City, and formed the lower part of a triangle of such
facilities. Station Two described the inland point and Three
occupied the northernmost location.

Despite this misconception, the Prime knew
the security was essential. If anything could entice malcontents or
terrorists to cross the Landfill, tangle with undead bandits and
feral animals; it would be the chance to capture intercontinental
ballistic missiles.

The Prime collected them. There was something
familiar and even comforting about the old-fashioned form of
annihilation. True, the computerized versions were rendered
obsolete by the Change, but the world’s first versions of atomic
nightmares were developed in a simple cable and explosive
technological world. So, recreating their own arsenals post-Change
had been the first order of business for the surviving countries as
their populations teetered toward civil war and chaos.

Before the advance of an interconnected
governing Authority, these vestiges of civilizations considered
themselves vulnerable to external attack. And as those surviving
enclaves evolved into New Age countries with governments similar to
Westprime’s the smart ones had secretly elected to work on their
own weapons of mass destruction. The raw materials were there. They
just had to be retrofitted to a useable post-Change form.

Prime found the devices comforting because
they were a link to a time when death was dished out by human
hands, when Infernal and Divine interference was hidden or
negligible.

The Prime’s transport kicked up more mud as
it hurtled toward the central building. The Prime had ordered a
face-to-face with General Franklin Topp. He was in charge of the
base and the Prime owned his ass.

The General went for a bargain basement price
too. He was easily handled, purchased and wrapped. A large
paycheck, a Sunsight apartment in the Tower, and a lifetime supply
of young prostitutes kept him happy and loyal, if a little tired.
The Prime bugged the rooms and offices of all his subordinates and
kept round-the-clock surveillance on them. He’d taken great
interest in the General’s bedroom at the missile base after a
review of the photographs showed the military man killing one of
the prostitutes in his care, and paralyzing another with a bayonet.
The Landfill had come in handy in both cases.