The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2) (5 page)

“Remember Jackson?” Garrison growled and Stetson cowered
back. “I ended his hysteria, and I don’t need a knife to end yours.”
Garrison gave the soldier a quick and yet comforting slap across the
cheek. “Pull yourself together, Private.”
The lieutenant returned to his corner as Stetson sank deeper into
his own. Steph scooted herself up beside me, laying her head upon
my shoulder. Garrison was cold and hard before, but now he invoked
fear into her, and for some reason she found comfort with me. None
of us said another word, and instead we waited in silence, waited for
our day in a juvenile court.

A young dark haired girl fetched us by morning, adorn in a handcrafted outfit of mismatched fabric and animal fur and carrying a
moose-maple spear that was twice as tall as her. She was maybe five
years of age, without any of the innocence that should embellish
such a young face. As we followed her out of the basement, two
older boys followed close behind, aiming our own weapons as us. I
could see it in all of our faces, the dumbfounded look of despair, the
soldiers expecting the worst, and Steph and I hoping for the best.

We exited the pub and stepped out into the brilliance of a new
dawning sun. The small ski-town was dotted with numerous beerjoints, restaurants, ski-shops and once overprice condos. Now all
crudely crafted into impenetrable fortresses, at least for the dead.
Rangeley was already bustling with activity too, and I estimated it
to be merely six in the morning. Children swept the streets with
brooms made of hemlock balms, they distributed breakfast and other
supplies, chopped wood, and even bathed immodestly in the street
with buckets of water. It was like something out of the twilight zone,
although befitting the overwhelming oddities of our new world.

As we followed Main Street I noticed a few of the older juveniles
plowing a field, or what was once someone’s front lawn, prepping
the soil for their next crop. But it was not the farmers that caught my
attention, it was the oxen used to pull the iron earth turners. In the
style of the survivor, I would have expected domesticated moose or
even a wild pig. But these demented children’s innovation was
sinister and carelessly dangerous.

Four
Necrotic’s, arms savagely cut away, and their mouths
secured tightly with what appeared to be duct-tape. They struggled
fiercely with the chains which secured them to the plow, and a young
boy standing mere feet away taunted and enticed their insatiable
hunger. But, the method exceeded effectiveness as the blades of the
equipment churned the earth like butter, almost faster than any farm
animal could. Although my amazement held firm, I shrugged off the
sight, and we continued followed the young girl.

“What is your name?” I asked.
“Mirai.” She whispered.
“Were you born here?”

“Yes.” She answered.
“Are all of you from this town?”
“Yes, some since before the darkening.” She said.
“Where are your parents?” I questioned further.
“No parents. Our elder, Mr. Davis, gave us protection from the

I didn’t
know which question to ask next as I was amazed at the
isolated history that has played out here. But as I scoured my brain
for further inquiries we came to a halt before a large brick building
towards the center of the small town. Once an old movie theatre that
played early works of entertainment, and in the window was a poster
of one of those classics, an old film that I myself adored as a child.
Bruce Cabot and Fay Wray as the lead cast of the black and white
version of King Kong. Its colors faded with time, the paper cracked
and brittle with age, but the cartoonish artworks of the mighty Kong
holding his gorgeous heartthrob clenched tightly in hand was still a
shining masterpiece.

Mirai bowed her head, and gracefully raised her spear upwards
towards the roof. There stood yet another boy, tall and slender,
maybe eighteen years of age, dressed in the same homemade
clothing as all the others. A sword, handcrafted from scrap metal
rested casually upon his left shoulder. And atop of his head, a crude
crown made of an old hub-cap and decorated with old coins. Silver
Dollars, dazzling Sacagawea Gold Dollars, and an assortment of
Quarters, Nickels and Dimes. I’d say it was a safe guess that the
boy’s circlet had a value of five to ten dollars in the old world.

“Why are you hear?” The boy called down to
us, his overgrown
brown hair violent blowing in the morning breeze.
“We are on a mission…” I began.
“Yes, Eeamon told me.” He interrupted.
“We are looking for a cure.” I answered.
“What is your name?” He asked casually.
“Patrick.” I answered, “Patrick Zimmerman, of the GFS.”
“Zimmerman?” He asked. “That is the word of a fool.”
“I assure you, I may be a fool, but my intentions are pure.”
The boy slowly reached down into a deer-hide pack hanging from
his waist, fumbling silently, before pulling out a crumpled and worn
piece of paper. Carefully he opened it up, straightening the edges,
and smoothing out the wrinkles before holding it out for us to see.
There was printed text upon it, but it was too high for us to read,
however, the unmistakable GFS insignia stamped in the corner told
me exactly what it was. Our call out to survivors, persuading them
to seek out our new society.
“Zimmerman called our elders away from us.” He said. “They
abandoned us, left us here alone because of your false promises!”
“Fuck…” I said under my breath. “My intentions were for them
to bring you along.” I pleaded.
“So that you could kill us too.” He added.
“NO!” I protested. “To protect you!”
“You failed.” He added. “Theynow rot up on the mountain. They
became the likes of you, bumbling fools.”
“I am so sorry.” Showing true remorse. “That is why I am here.
To undo all the carnage. To put an end to the devastation.” Slowly I
stepped forward, raising my hand towards the boy. “We can bring
you with us, show you the new world, a world without fear or
death.”
“The law of the Rise commands that you be sacrificed.” He
retorted.
“The rise?” I asked.
“Elders are forbidden. Like Mr. Reed and Mr. Wilks, or the vile
Mr. Davis. Your blood will become one with the land, and you will
become our everlasting guardians.”
“Wait!” I stammered. “You can’t kill all adults just because you
were abandoned!”
Urich knelt down towards the edge of the building, staring
fiercely into my eyes.
“Davis did not abandon us.” He said. “He and the others stayed
behind, ordered to care for us until the others returned with help.”
“They were your protectors?”
“They enslaved and raped.” He balked.
“As you can see, we are not them, we are of no threat, and I
respectfully request we be released at once.” I said, trying to change
the course of our conversation.
“You’re a doctor, are you not?
“Virologist, as well as my female companion.”
“She’s your wife?”
“No, just my assistant.”
“And this cure is nearby?” He asked and I nodded. “How do you
know this?”
“It’s a long story, but I have been in its presence - a missed
opportunity.”
“And if you find it?”
“Then mankind will get another chance.”
“A chance to violate their children some more?”
“No, the GFS does not permit such acts.”
The boy didn’t immediately respond, instead, he paced the
rooftop, contemplating my words. I knew there was nothing I could
say to gain his trust, but hopefully he would see what I am doing
here is important, and go against his own laws to see that we
succeed. On the other hand, his subjects could see such a decision
as heresy and revolt, sacrificing their own king for his disgrace. We
were amongst the offspring of the damned, guided by superstition
and hate, much like mankind’s ancient ancestors.
“These new demons, your cure will defeat them too?” He finally
asked.
“It is hopeful.”
“We have found that our defenses have done little to stop them.
It appears we can help each other.”
“Thank you.” I said.
“But,” He continued, “Eeamon guide you, he will protect you
until you find this cure, then he will return you to us.”
“Eeamon?” I questioned “I thank you again. But, the thought of
risking the life...” I paused a moment, choosing my word carefully.
“I have my own people for my protection.”
“Your soldiers will not be joining you.”
“No, wait!” I objected. “I need them!”
“No harm will come to,” He paused slightly. “Steph. She is ripe
and will make a good bride. She will stay, and you and Eeamon will
go find this cure.”
“Then you might as well kill me, I will not leave without them.”
Urich stared at me, perplexed, knowing all too well that this cure
was important to his people as well. He tapped the side of his sword
rapidly, contemplating my threat, thinking of a common interest to
benefit us both. And then, like a brilliant light from above, he
nodded at me with a smile.
“Steph may go with you on one condition.” He said, but I stood
silently, awaiting him to continue. “When you find it, Eeamon will
escort you back here, and then you leave this land, without Steph or
the cure.”
Diplomacy at work. I agreed, with no intent of fulfilling the vow,
especially knowing that the cure itself would take a fully operational
lab to produce. But the child-king, with his fierce heart, and naïve
mind, did not know this. Deceiving him was much simpler than I
would have expected, and I felt no guilt in taking advantage of such
an easily misguided mind. Even if that meant dangling a little snatch
before his hormonal urges, of course, Steph understood the ruse I
had set, and in character balked at the deal.
“And my soldiers?” I asked.
“Thelaw has already been fulfilled.” He sneered.
“NO!” I shouted at Urich, receiving a sinister chuckle in return.
Quickly I turned towards Garrison, but he was no longer there.
Neither was Stetson. Instead I found them being silently escorted
down the street and towards an old wooden stage once used for
community festivals. Their hands already bound with rope, and their
eyes covered with a blindfolds made from rags. They struggled
fiercely against their captors, but to no avail.
A large crowd had already massed around them, and slowly a
chorus of heckles arose from their juvenile voices, eventually fading
into a boisterous chant like savages from the wilds. Children as
young as five began to hurl rocks upon a wooden platform where
Garrison and Tellar were kicked to their knees before their heads
were positioned out over the edge of the stage and held in place with
the cold hard steel of rifle barrels against the backs of their heads. A
teenage girl, maybe sixteen, stood to their side holding a long pole
with a corroded steel spike secure to the end.
“STOP THEM!” Steph cried, and then another voice rang out
above the crowd.
“YOU’RE JUST KIDS!” Garrison protested in desperation.
But it was too late, without infantile rhetoric nor any type of
declaration, and without apprehension or remorse, the young female
executioner swiftlyjabbed the spike into Tellar’s jugular. The crowd
cheered with ravishment, and just as swiftly, the girl pulled the spear
away. The young soldiers face transitioned from fear to
heartbreaking astonishment as blood spurted with force from his
neck and splattered upon the soil below him. Frantically he
struggled with his binds in an instinctive effort to cover his wound,
and desperation bleeding through his pupils.
“LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE DOING!” Garrison cried out
again.
My instinct was to rush the stage, to cry out ‘STOP!’ But I
hesitated in shock. Just as Tellar’s struggle faded into lifelessness,
the executioner stuck Garrison in the same manner. But the
lieutenant did not panic, he did not fight it. My own personal guard
held his head high with honor, allowing the sight of his death be
clearly seen by these misguided children. Steph fell to her knees in
disbelief as the crowd’s cheers deafened all other sound.
“Tomorrow you will leave. To complete your mission.” Urich’s
voice muttered from behind me just as Garrison’s face rapidly
transitioned from pink to white, and a deep coldness clamped down
upon his stalling heart.
“You have condemned mymission, as you have condemned your
own people.” I stated coldly.

“The real war will never get into the books…” Steph mumbled.
I stared intently at her from across our cellar prison as we waited
for morning to rise and the rest of our futile journey to commence.
It took a few moment for her to feel my gaze, and returned it with a
sullen look of desperation. She was scared, and rightly so. We were
at the mercy of a bunch of juveniles, and as it would seem, mercy is
rarely given with these miscreants.

“Walt Whitman,” Steph spoke, a little louder this time. “I was
just thinking how his thoughts of the Civil War relates to The War
of the Dead.”

“It doesn’t.” I answered, and she looked at me with disagreement
in her eyes. “Whitman was referring to a war written by the
victorious. This war… Our war… Will be written by the survivors.
For there will be no victor, only the victims. The Survivor is the first
to document the Real War. Reutherford and Pollini have also
scratched down their own powerful accounts. The Real War will be
written about formany years, and not bycorrupt bureaucrats either.”

“Maybe, but who will be left to read them?” She asked.
“Our mission may seem bleak,” I said. “But it seemed that way
before we left Maribel. Nothing has changed, we just need to fight
a little harder now. One day, and I know this for sure, future
generations will be reading about what we did here. They will read
our accounts of The Real War. I swear it.”
My false confidence failed at brightening her spirits. She knew
that my promises were exaggerated and hollow, but Steph kept her
thoughts to herself. She found some comfort, as trivial as it was, in
my hopeful speech. I too could feel the solace of it all, but
scientifically it was unjust. We were mere inches from our doom,
and wishful thinking is all that drove us, the hope that a higher being
was watching out for us.
“You should sleep.” I suggested.
“I can’t.” She sniffled. “Garrison… I see his face still, the blood
draining, and his skin so pale.”
I scooted across the cell next to her and pulled her close,
comforting the lost and tortured soul. She was never ready for this,
she was a glistening pearl, protected and secured the whole while
Earth and society burned. I should have ordered her to stay,
demanded she returned to her home. But I didn’t, and tomorrow we
will be back out into the flames, and the look on her face can only
imply that she can already feel the blaze.