The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (3 page)

The assassin
used
the pain he absorbed
rather than shun it. Early on, he understood the importance of
making himself one with reality. His survival depended on that.
Life was pain
. He never tried to convince himself that as he
dealt out violence he dealt out knowledge. The power of pain was
different. His was a business that was unforgiving to men who
flinched. He had to be prepared to take a hit if he wanted to
survive long enough to kill his target. A heavy caliber bullet
snapping against a Kevlar vest and breaking the ribs beneath hurt,
but if he was not prepared to accept the pain—he might miss his own
shot, and his prey in turn would get the advantage and he would
die. That was the essential equation of his life. Pain punished
cowardice and rewarded conviction.

Distantly he could remember the face of his
father—the high priest of pain—howling with fury as he administered
this arcane knowledge with fists. But those earliest glimpses of
the power were so entwined with ancient anger and emotion that they
were dangerous, and so discarded. Regardless, the exquisite purity
of the pain inherent in those harsh lessons was an integral part of
the man he had become. It had survived his transition from the old
life to the new—from the world before the Change, into the world
that came after.

Before the Change he had made his money
killing wayward husbands and wives, faithless gangsters and
faithful policemen and politicians. The money was good in those
bygone days, and kills more gratifying. There was satisfaction in a
hunt that took skill and risk that finished with a corpse that
stayed dead. The power of pain made sense then and he had
luxuriated in its might. But the Change had altered that. With the
rising of the dead had come a change in business, and a loss of
control. Since he could no longer earn money killing as a
punishment or for silence he found that he could not exploit his
talent to the fullest and he sank slowly into a depression that his
darkest violence could not break.

He tried to pull himself from it. His killing
became more extravagant, more vicious and bloody with little
spiritual impact. A target could be silenced, but the process would
better suit a butcher than a professional gun. The Change seemed to
be more powerful than pain. And for a time he tried to combat this
growing impotence by taking greater chances with his work. Finally,
he was forced to peer into the dim recesses of himself—to try to
unlock the mystery of this power—this power that had seemingly
deserted him.

It was through this contemplative approach
that he had found the light—or it was the opposite of light—though
even that was a misnomer for it was not darkness either. His brain
simply lacked the sensory apparatus to explain or categorize what
he found. He responded with ambiguous descriptions that fell far
short of the truth. It was a black illumination—a full emptiness.
It was everywhere and nowhere. Finally, it was invisible until seen
from the darkest place in his soul—a place where there was no
language. Then, even as he applied his first inept words to the
paradox, he realized with some alarm that
it
had discovered
him
.

A force that transcended the power of
pain—and yet harmonized with it—pounced upon him and altered what
he was. Something changed inside his mind below the basement of him
where nightmares lurked in a dark eternal undercurrent. It was
obvious and anonymous, but something changed.

Its very intangible qualities made if
difficult to know how or where the alterations took place, but
sometimes the very lack of evidence proved they had occurred.
Despite this alien influence, his essential character had remained
unchanged, though it now had a direction. With the new power had
come a knowledge that he could not understand but felt
instinctively—a knowledge that the world now worked in paradoxes
that resisted explanation. The truth was different from his belief.
Life was pain. Pain was life.
But only to the living—only to
his race, the Second-born of the earth. And this realization had
taken him to the place in which he now resided.

His old life—much like his old name—became
outmoded, small and petty in comparison. He did not take pride in
what he now did; he was too old for that. But he knew that his
talents took him down a road that gave him greater rewards than
mere money. His job description had changed with the seeing of the
dark light. The power of pain held its greatest potency in its
relationship to divinity. He simply had to seek a better
prey—something worthy of the pain he could inflict.

The assassin climbed to his feet; sweat
running in rivulets over his swollen muscles. He looked at his
reflection in the mirror atop the dresser—took silent approval from
his expressionless face and emotionless eyes. He grabbed a towel
from the bed, slipped it around his taut waist. The sinews in his
chest and shoulders flexed powerfully under a skin crosshatched
with silver scars.

The walk into the City had done him good.
Felon had arrived just after sundown. Over a century of coming and
going had given him complete knowledge of all the City’s dark ways
and entry points. And he exploited its weaknesses to the fullest
avoiding the main gates by traveling through the Maze, a damp and
echoing labyrinth of ancient sewers and waterways that ran at odd
directions under the walls. They belonged to the mainland cities
and towns on whose bones the City now grew and grew. A ready
knowledge of them put him onto Zero, the City’s most anonymous
level without dampening a shoe. Soon after he had hailed a cab that
took him along the Third Skyway upward to Level Three before
depositing him on the sidewalk in front of the towering Coastview
Hotel.

The building’s design had its roots in a
happier, sunnier world and looked ridiculously optimistic where its
upper reaches poked through the Carapace and loomed against the
permanent gray cloud cover. The hotel was two blocks west of the
ocean, climbing some forty stories. He booked a room on its
thirtieth floor—just high enough that his balcony hung over the
black shape of the Carapace where it sloped toward the ocean from
the City’s Level Six. The protective materials undulated below as
it careened downward in a terrifying ellipse to the distant
beaches. Its eaves and ductwork channeled runoff to massive
hydroelectric plants dotting the shore. He could see the lights of
cars on the Skyway interchanges flickering through its
semi-transparent surfaces.

He had left instructions at the desk that he
not be disturbed then rode the elevator skyward. After a hot shower
and a shave—he dropped to the carpet to augment the day’s exertions
with a near endless series of pushups. He was as sharp and lethal
as a bayonet. The assassin snatched his cigarettes and lighter then
walked out onto the balcony. A mist of rain sent a chill over his
flesh.

Lights as red as hellfire glared in the
neighboring buildings, and below him sirens howled like the damned.
Felon’s lips twisted with spite as he lit a cigarette. How he hated
these regular experiments in sameness—these boring constructs of
humanity. Law made the streets straight but did not make them safe.
Instead, they created dark corners full of the unknown. He hated
it. The set of his full lips said as much where they tangled
beneath high cheekbones round and hard as beef-joints. His eyes
were black with flecks of silver—reflections of the blurred
cityscape around him. Jet-black hair fell to his shoulders from a
high brow and curled at the corded nape of his neck.

The city skyline stretched endlessly to north
and south but was lost to his vision in light pollution and the
upper Level Seven still under construction. The actual size of the
monstrous metropolis was hidden behind massive sheets of concrete
and steel. Through a tangled maze of supports and other load
bearing structures he could see to the south, jagged spires covered
with constellations of dim, winking lights. To the east, buried in
the hoary grayness of the rough sea he knew an old and sunken city
foundered, its walls shooting hundreds of feet above the waves. At
night it was invisible like the past—the monoliths obscured by dark
and cloud. But Felon knew they marched like ancient mysteries into
the distance. It was a dead place of the long ago. He had not been
there in years.

Some grim humor flickered behind his
features, and drew his lips back in an apocalyptic snarl. At least
he
had a purpose. Unlike the teeming maggots in the
skyscraper holes around him, he had a reason for being. And this
purpose had brought him here. The City of Light was a festering
sore, a gray running boil on the backside of human history. But
Felon had found cause for mirth.

5 – Mr. Jay

Dawn was in her cubbyhole. Mr. Jay had picked
an abandoned apartment building on Zero for their hideout. Most of
the ancient structure had been filled with concrete and stone to
form a pillar for the City’s upper levels but a few of its rooms
were still accessible. Her cubbyhole was inside an old chimney. For
her protection Mr. Jay had fashioned a door for it that she could
lock from the inside. She remembered him gleefully showing her how
the peephole worked—he was handy with tools. There was a little
mattress, snacks and bottled water in it in case she had to stay
there a while. When Mr. Jay was away, she was just supposed to stay
inside the building, and never stray from their hideout—if she ever
heard someone coming she was to return to her cubbyhole. She had
been so terrified by the trouble in the alley that she ran all the
way back to the old building and hid herself—lying there covered up
in her quilt—all her muscles quivering.

As the footsteps approached, she knew from
their sound that it was Mr. Jay. She had listened so many times for
him that she recognized his step as easily as his voice. This time
though, she did not run out to greet him. Her heart still ached
with guilt and fear.

“Dawn?” Mr. Jay’s voice was warm in the
darkness. The hideout was just a big brick room about twelve feet
on a side where they kept a little table, some cards and their
possessions. The sound of Mr. Jay’s movements drew near, urgent
now. Tears started to leak from her eyes.

The secret door jiggled, but did not open.
She had locked it. “Dawn.” Relief filled Mr. Jay’s voice. “So
you’re here.” She heard him slide down the wall and settle to the
right of the door. “Would you come out please?”

She pushed the quilt aside—her clothes still
damp from running through the rain—and unlatched the door. She slid
it open a crack, and saw Mr. Jay in the orange flame of a candle he
was lighting. His eyes turned. He grinned weakly then blew out the
match and set the candle on the floor. “Come out. Please.”

Dawn pushed the door open a little further,
and then opened it wide. Her chin drooped as she stepped out of the
darkness and crouched on the sill of her cubbyhole. Mr. Jay
regarded her in the half-light. The creases around his eyes and
over his forehead were wrinkled with concern. His bearded lips were
pursed in a frown. A purple lump distorted his left eyebrow.

“Are you all right?” His voice was even and
calm, just as it had been in the alley.

Dawn could not control her lips when she was
sad. The lower one curled out and down. Her cheeks were damp from
tears. She nodded.

Mr. Jay smiled a weary smile. “Good.”

Her lips were quivering again; Dawn fought
the urge to cry but was having difficulty.

Mr. Jay smiled again, and then waved with his
long slim hand. “Please come out, Dawn.”

She slid herself out of the darkness an inch
or two more, saw Mr. Jay frown, and then inched out until she was
bathed in the candlelight. Mr. Jay’s dark green eyes flitted over
her body—concern melting to relief.

“They didn’t hurt you?” His voice was
relaxing.

Dawn shook her head.

“That’s good.” He nodded and put a hand on
her shoulder. “Your shirt’s soaked!” He reached past her and pulled
her quilt out and wrapped it over her shoulders. “Dawn…” His voice
was tired. He shook his head.

Dawn clenched her jaws, her voice exploding
past pursed lips. “I’m sorry!” She looked at the welt over his eye.
“Did they hurt
you
?” Her lip trembled again.

“No,” Mr. Jay whispered, his white teeth
flashing through his short whiskers.

“I’m sorry I...” she said quickly—too quickly
for tears to escape.

“Dawn, we talked about this.” He shook his
head. “It’s very dangerous for you…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jay!” Tears burst past her
eyelashes and poured down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I just thought I
could go out and get something for us. Like the pocketknife, and
the other things I found before. I didn’t think…” She was shaken by
sobs.

“Dawn,” he sighed, setting a hand on her
shoulder. “It’s too dangerous…”

“Oh please, Mr. Jay. Don’t be angry. Please,
don’t be angry. I’ll be good.” Dawn was terrified. She saw the
dismay in his features—the thick emotion that made him stern.
“Please, I’ll never do it again. I just know I’m more than a little
girl! That’s all. I am and sometimes I think I can do things I
shouldn’t. But I’m sorry.”

“Dawn.” He rubbed her shoulder.

“Please, Mr. Jay. I’m sorry. I don’t want you
to go away. I’m sorry! I just wanted to help!” His hand squeezed
her shoulder. Through a blur of tears she watched his eyes grow
moist.

“Oh, Dawn.” He pulled her over, wrapped her
quilt tight around her—held her to his chest. “Don’t do that to me
again.” Mr. Jay’s voice broke with emotion. “I came back here, and
you were gone.” He hugged her tighter. “I thought you were
gone.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’ll never do it
again.”

“It’s okay, Dawn. You’re here now. And you’re
all right.” Dawn felt a hot tear strike her cheek. “You shouldn’t
be sorry. It’s not your fault we live in a world like this. Where a
little girl isn’t safe. Not even a little girl who’s big inside.”
She felt his hand stroke her hair. “I’m glad I found you.”