torg 01 - Storm Knights (16 page)

Death and destruction would be on a scale not experienced since the dinosaurs were wiped out sixty-five million years ago. And, like the dinosaurs before them, Forkner had no idea what humanity could do to save itself.

49

Bryce stared at the turquoise and crimson flower, totally absorbed by the incongruity of its presence. He remembered Wendy Miller when her ferocity carried Bryce backward, tumbling him, Alder and the doctor to the floor. Beeps and buzzers began sounding as the wires connecting Miller to the machines that had been monitoring her were pulled loose. Glass crashed and fluids flooded across the tiled floor as the stainless steel standards holding glucose bottles toppled and fell. As he was hurled to the floor, face to face with the crazed woman, a small part of his mind wrestled with the fact that the doctor had declared her dead, that the monitors had flatlined, and then she had opened her eyes. A larger part of his mind, the part that had always acted as his personal Devil's Advocate and caused him to question his faith, began to squirm and gather arguments against Bryce's beginning thoughts of the woman's return from death.

As Bryce struggled with Miller, trying to restrain her without hurting her, the doctor and Alder grabbed her from behind and tried to pull her off the priest. Ignoring them, the woman flung one leg over Bryce's body and straddled his waist as he lay with his back pressed to the floor. Her thumbs sought his windpipe, pushing his head backward. His spine arched as Miller's arms straightened with the force of her effort. The cross that Bryce wore on a chain around his neck slid upward toward the hollow of his throat, between the hands of the woman. Her eyes opened wide as she saw the cross. Suddenly, she let go of Bryce. As she did, Alder and the doctor were able to pull her away.

Bryce rolled to his knees and stood up. Wendy Miller no longer struggled. She looked at Bryce and the now dangling cross, and said, "Dunad. Sintra vas Dunad?"

Her words were spoken slowly, and her mouth struggled in trying to sound out the syllables.

"What language is that?" Alder asked.

Bryce shrugged and shook his head. Then he turned his attention fully to the woman. She held her face and her body calmly now, but he saw confusion in her eyes. He spoke to her, slowly, trying to make her understand. "Miss Miller, do you speak English?"

The woman raised her head and looked up at Bryce, and at his cross. Without struggling, so as to indicate that her intentions were peaceful, she tried to free one of her arms from Alder's grip. Bryce nodded to the police officer to let the woman go.

When her arm was free, she slowly reached up to take Bryce's cross in her hand and carefully, as if speaking an alien tongue, said, "Dunad. I have been sent to Dunad."

Then, as if weakened from her struggles, the woman collapsed into Alder's arms.

"Let's get her back onto the table so that I can examine her," the doctor said. "Nurse, clean up this mess and help me get the monitors and fluids hooked back up." Gently, Bryce pried Miller's fingers loose from their grip on his cross. Then he stepped back as Alder and the doctor lifted her onto the table. While they had her in a standing position, Bryce realized that the woman was taller than he was, by at least three inches. And from their brief struggle, he knew she was stronger than he. The doctor knocked the flower off the table as he rested Wendy Miller upon it. Bryce bent and picked up the flower, carefully examining its strange coloration. He had never seen anything like it before. It had a strong aroma that reminded the priest of a clear spring day.

As the doctor and nurse worked, Alder came to stand next to the priest. He saw the flower, and his eyes

met Bryce's. "What happened here, Father?" Alder asked.

"I don't know, Rick. I wish I did, but I just don't know."

The doctor walked over to the pair. He looked haggard, confused. "Her pulse is strong and steady, her respiration is regular, and her eyes seem normal and reactive," the doctor explained. "But she was dead, for a few brief seconds, that young woman was gone. And now most of the major damage she had sustained has disappeared, and what remains is healing rapidly. I honestly don't know what to make of it, except ."

And here the doctor paused, seemingly embarrassed by his own thoughts.

"Except what, doctor?" Bryce asked.

"Except that maybe she heard you calling her, Father. Maybe your prayers were answered."

Alder retrieved the young woman's wallet from where it fell when Bryce dropped it. He opened it to examine her license, just as Bryce had done earlier. "You know something? They made a mistake on her driver's license," Alder said. "It lists Wendy Miller as having brown eyes, and this young lady has the most intense green eyes I've ever seen."

Bryce was suddenly very afraid. He needed to know if his prayers had had anything to do with Wendy Miller's miraculous return to life, or with anything at all. He needed to know if he did truly bear Christ, not only in the wafers he handed out but also in himself. He pushed past Alder and the doctor to stand beside the operating table. The young woman was awake, her green eyes moving to meet his own.

"Wendy, Miss Miller, how are you feeling?" he asked. He needed to touch her, to feel the life in her veins, in the warmth of her skin. He placed his hand on her right forearm. As he did, he felt ridged scars beneath the palm of his hand. He didn't remember seeing those scars earlier, but he could have missed them in the confusion.

"Dunad," she said. Her voice had an accent that the priest couldn't place. "The words are a war in my head. For everything I hear and for everything I want to say, two words rush to do battle. Great gaps have been torn in the walls of my memory. I remember very little. Darkness clawing at me, a brilliant light, a beautiful crys flower ."

Bryce handed her the flower.

"Thank you, Dunad," she said, "for returning one of my memories. Will you return the others?"

"Miss Miller," Bryce said, pulling his hand away from her arm. As she spoke, he had been leaning forward, feeling himself drawn into her oddly green eyes, eyes that were like the color of dark green grass after a rainstorm. He needed to pull back, to distance himself from this woman who had died and come back to life in front of his eyes. "My name is not Dunad," he said, but part of him wished it were. She spoke the name in a familiar, loving manner, as if she were speaking to someone who had known her all her life, someone who knew her as she knew him, closely, intimately. "My name is Christopher Bryce."

"Oh," she said. Her eyes glanced at his cross where it lay silver against the blackness of his shirt. "But then you are a follower of Dunad."

"No," he said, "I am a Jesuit priest, of the Society of Jesus." He held up his cross. "This is the symbol of the cross upon which Our Lord Jesus Christ was crucified. I'm sorry, Miss Miller, but I have never heard of Dunad."

"Why, Christopher Bryce of the Society of Jesus, do you call me Miss Miller?"

Startled, Bryce stammered for a moment and said, "But that's your name. Your driver's license was found with you."

"It also says she has brown eyes, Father," Alder added.

"No. I do not have many memories left, but of this I am certain — my name is Tolwyn, Tolwyn of House Tancred."

Bryce stared at her, felt himself pressed hard against the wall of her conviction. He thought of the buzzing of the monitors as she had died, of the flower he had never seen before, of the scars on her arm that had not been there, of her green eyes. And he knew she spoke the truth.

She looked him in the eyes and asked, "Can you, Christopher Bryce who is not Dunad, give me back my memories?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"But you gave me my crys flower."

He remembered the flower falling from her hands as she had sat up.

"You brought that with you," he said.

Her eyes bore steadily into him as she asked, "From where, Christopher Bryce?"

50

Andrew Jackson Decker stood under the rotunda, listening to the heavy rain beat against the dome. He nervously tapped the fingers of his left hand against his leg in time with the rain drops. It was a habit he developed back in his days of high school baseball and perfected through college and pro ball. It calmed him down, helped him focus. It had become a ritual over the last nine days, and he was surprised he hadn't tapped little craters in his leg.

He had been in the White House before, of course, but never under such dire circumstances. How often was the United States invaded, after all. But something had happened in New York and was now spreading. If it wasn't contained, he had no idea what would be the final outcome. And so far, most containment methods had failed.

The door opened and a marine entered. He marched into the room, his polished black boots echoing loudly under the dome. "Congressman Decker, the President will see you now," he said.

Decker nodded and followed the young man. President, the congressman thought. That was the first time since the crisis began that Wells had let the staff use that title. That could mean anything, but Decker assumed it meant the Speaker of the House had received the confirmation he had been waiting for — and praying against. It also confirmed what most of the rest of Capitol Hill had been whispering about these past few days, and Decker dreaded. Rumor was that Jonathan Wells, previously Speaker of the House and now apparently President of the United States, was going to recommend Congressman Andrew Jackson Decker to be his Vice President. Why else call him up to the White House without notice?

The marine halted before a door. Decker paused as well, his fingers unconsciously tapping faster. Whatever the situation, he would find out in the next couple of minutes.

"You may go right in, sir," explained the marine.

Decker took a deep breath. He glanced sideways and caught the marine watching him. The congressman flashed his best smile, the one the press called boyishly innocent, noting the name tag sewn on the marine's uniform. "Thank you, Private Rider," he said in as friendly a tone as he could manage. "It's not everyday you get called to talk to the President."

"No, sir," the marine agreed, smiling himself. Then his expression went neutral again, and he resumed his watchful stance.

Decker reached out and opened the door.

"Listen, John, we need to do something. My proposal cannot just be ignored, and unless you can convince me of something better, than I must insist you give me your support."

Decker knew the voice before he saw the speaker. It was Senator Ellen Conners, affectionately referred to as Old Lady Medusa. It was said that her look could turn a reporter to stone, but Decker knew from experience that her words were even worse.

The senator stopped when Decker entered, turning to glare at him with her patented look. Decker swallowed, he hoped not too noticeably, and tried to shake off the feeling that his flesh was hardening.

Conners was standing beside a large, cluttered desk. Behind the desk, leaning back in a heavily-cushioned chair, sat John Wells. He looked older than the last time Decker spoke with him, older even than his sixty years warranted. How could he have aged so much in just a few days, Decker wondered. Finally, seated to Wells' left, was Dennis Quartermain, Secretary of Defense. Decker didn't like that man, but he respected his ability in a crisis. And this was a crisis.

"Ellen, Dennis, you both know Congressman Decker," said Wells as he leaned forward. His smile wiped away some of the added years from his face, but it could not bring back all of the youthful vigor. Decker was afraid that was gone forever. "How're you doing, Ace?"

Ace. That wasn't a name that many people called Decker anymore. It was a remnant of his baseball days, not dignified enough for a member of the United States Congress. But John Wells was never one for formalities.

"Mr. President, please ..." began Conners, but Wells shook her off.

"I've heard your proposal and I'll consider it," he said in a stern tone that surprised Decker. "For now, I've got something to discuss with Ace. Leave us now, Ellen, Dennis. And close the door on your way out."

The two left and Wells motioned for Decker to sit down. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you here, Ace," Wells began. He stood up and reached for the Mr. Coffee on the cabinet behind him. "Would you like a cup," he asked as he filled his own mug with dark brown liquid. "The Boss? Me? If You Say So" was printed on the mug, and Decker smiled at the message as he declined the offer.

"I've finally gotten confirmation, New York is lost," Wells said, his tone heavy and forlorn. "President Kent and Vice President Farrel were in the city to attend the United Nations conference on terrorism, along with other world leaders. They were to ratify and sign a history-making treaty, Ace. It was going to usher in a new age of peace and cooperation. Now I don't know what's going to happen. Some countries are offering us aid, others are claiming the entire invasion is some sort of trick and they are demanding the return of their countrymen. I wish to God it was a trick of some sort."

Wells paused to gulp some coffee before continuing. "The invaders have completely taken over New York and the surrounding area. Reports are that they have killed a large number of citizens. I ... I have no reason to believe that the President is still alive. Reluctantly, I am assuming the office of President for the remainder of Kent's term. I've asked Quartermain to serve as my Vice President. He has the skills and experience I need to salvage this situation, Ace, even if I can't stand the bastard."