Armageddon’s Children

EIGHTEEN

HE CROUCHES WITH the others in the concealing shadows of a skeletal forest and peers through the hazy darkness of the moonless night at the Midline Slave Camp. The Midline sits squarely on the border of what used to be the states of Indiana and Illinois, just bebw Lake Michigan. A hundred yards of open ground surrounds the camp, land cleared by the once–men as a precaution against what is about to happen. Watch fires burn in pits along the barbed–wire fences surrounding the camp, and torches flicker at its heavy gates. It is a slave camp like all other slave camps, and yet it is something more. It is the one slave camp that Michael Poole has steadfastly avoided attacking, the one camp he has said it would take an army to break into.

Nevertheless, here they are, preparing to do what he has sworn they would not.

There is no reason for them to do this. There are other, easier compounds against which they could mount an assault. The Midline is formidable. Three buildings that were once steel mills form the compound— huge, cavernous structures built of corrugated steel sheets and surrounded by double rows of mesh steel fencing strung with concertina wire. Ditches deep enough to swallow Michael's Lightning S-150 pockmark the open ground outside the fences in all directions. The buildings are tightly sealed, their doors and windows barred and shuttered. The slaves of the once–men who come here are taken inside and do not come out again until they are carried out. The work that is done here is infamous. It is widely regarded as the most impenetrable of the slave camps.

Michael says it doesn't matter, that it is an abomination and must be destroyed. Michael says they have put off doing so long enough.

Logan looks at the camp, assessing its defenses and its sheer size, and shakes his head slowly. This is suicide, he thinks.

But Michael has decided, and once he has done so, that is the end of the matter. Even Grayling, who isn't afraid of anything, won't cross Michael Poole.

Michael is a legend. He is a living talisman; nothing can kill him. He has survived against impossible odds. He has led his men on successful attacks again and again. He has never failed.

No one thinks he will fail tonight, either.

Still, Michael is not the same man since Fresh died. It took something out of him when he lost Fresh, and while most had not noticed, Logan could tell. It was an accident, a truck's hand brake giving out, and the truck rolling slowly downhill, gathering speed, and finally crushing Fresh against a wall. There was blood everywhere. Fresh had taken two days to die. There was nothing anyone could do; the injuries were too extensive. Michael had kept vigil the entire time, even when Fresh lapsed into a coma and no longer knew who he was.

Michael told the driver of the truck afterward that it wasn't his fault.

Accidents happen. He told the driver he bore him no grudge and thought no less of him. Logan was there and heard what he said and how he said it. Another wouldn't have recognized the rage Michael was hiding. But no one knows Michael better than he does. Michael is so tightly controlled that he never lets anything show that might reveal or compromise him. Still, he gives himself away through small gestures and an emphasis on certain words. He saw the telltale signs during Michael's conversation with the driver and knew instinctively what it meant. The driver was a dead man. Logan almost told him as much, and then decided it was too dangerous.

A week later, the driver disappeared while foraging and was never seen again.

Fresh might have tried to do something about it. But Logan is not Fresh.

He is not Michael's equal. He is Michael's adopted child. Even though he has just turned eighteen years old and is technically a man, that is the position to which Michael has relegated him. It is odd to feel so close to someone and at the same time so distant. They share so much that no one else shares, and yet there are boundaries that Logan knows he cannot cross.

Questioning the wisdom of tonight's assault is one. He knows he should say something because on the face of things the attack is foolish and because it is clear to him that Michael has changed. He thinks the change began before the death of Fresh, but it has evolved into something dangerous since. Michael has grown reckless in his efforts to destroy the once–men and their camps. He seems increasingly heedless of the dangers into which he leads them. His leadership decisions are uncomfortably spontaneous and made with less and less consideration for the consequences. So far, he has gotten away with it. So far, his aura of invincibility and his luck have carried him over the rough spots.

But Logan knows that sooner or later even these will fail. If that happens before Michael recovers himself, the consequences will be disastrous. But what is he to do? No one will listen to a boy barely turned a man. No one wants to believe that Michael is no longer invincible.

Nor will he be the one to run from what the rest of them go willingly to face. Michael saved his life. Michael gave him everything he has. He will never abandon Michael, even if it means his death.

He tries to push such thoughts out of his mind as he stares at the compound and waits for Michael to give the order to attack. But the thoughts will not be banished; the thoughts persist.

"Logan," Michael says to him suddenly, turning around so that he can see the other's face. Michael's expression is chilling, alive with a terrifying wildness. "I want you to lead the assault on the right wing, on the first building. If you can't handle it, tell me now."

Logan would never tell him that, and Michael knows it. He nods without speaking.

"Just remember what you've been taught. Wilson, you take the left.

Grayling, you stay with me. The center building will be the most heavily guarded. The experiments are carried out there."

On the children, Logan thinks. On the old and sick and helpless.

There are demons in residence here, two of them at least. But Michael's information tells them that the demons are absent this night, gone on a hunt that will keep them away until the end of the week. Michael's information has never been wrong. Logan hopes it is right tonight. Once, he would not have thought to question it. But Michael is not the same, and Logan can no longer be certain that anything he does is well considered.

He feels an unexpected sense of despair. How did this happen? When did Michael lose his way? He understands how it could happen, given the terrible work they do. Live long enough in a madhouse, and you risk going mad yourself.

But he had always believed Michael could rise above it. Michael is the penultimate warrior, hardened to everything, strong enough to withstand the horrors they encountered no matter how often or how terrible. Even losing Fresh shouldn't have been enough to change him.

Yet something did. Somewhere along the way he failed to recognize that he was slipping away, that an erosion of his soul was taking place.

Logan looks down at the Scattershot he has carried since Michael gave it to him on his first raid. If it can happen to Michael, it can happen to him.

Will he recognize it if it does? Will he know enough to do something about it?

He realizes suddenly that Michael is talking to him, and his gaze shifts quickly. "Boy, are you with us or should I find someone to take your place?"

Michael snaps. "You look like you've got your head in the clouds. Pay attention when I am talking to you!"

"I'm listening," he says quickly.

Michael sneers. "Then there is no need for me to repeat myself, is there?

You know what to do. So be sure and do it. Don't run from it if things get tough. I hate cowards, Logan."

He turns away dismissively, and Logan says nothing. A year ago, Michael would never have spoken to him like this. I should have seen it coming, he thinks. I should have done something to stop it. His eyes close, and he vows that as soon as the opportunity presents itself, he will.

"All right, let's go," Michael says suddenly, and they are off.

They spread out through the trees toward the waiting vehicles, trucks modified with snowplow rams and thick protective shields to get them safely through the gates. The trucks are modified four–tons, big and heavy, and not even gates as strong as those of Midline Slave Camp will stop them once they gain sufficient momentum. Heavy automatic weapons are mounted on the cabs and in the truck beds, each capable of firing hundreds of rounds in seconds. They are better prepared than they have ever been, and Logan feels a rush of excitement at the prospect of what it will mean to destroy this camp.

He climbs into the cab through the passenger's door and sits next to Jena.

She is tight–faced and focused, ten years older than he, more experienced and better trained. By rights, she should be the one leading and he the one driving.

But she doesn't say anything. She just looks straight ahead, waiting for the signal.

When it comes, a flare from the middle truck, she engages the clutch and the truck lurches forward through the trees and onto the flats. She whips the heavy vehicle left and right, dodging the pits and the traps, closing quickly on the fence. Weapons fire sounds from the walls ahead, and bullets ricochet off the shields. He peers through the spiderwebbed windshield to find dozens of once–men lining the fences, all of them with weapons, all of them firing.

All we need is a little luck, he thinks.

Then everything goes wrong at once. To his left, past Jena's tense face and the hurtling bulk of Michael's vehicle, the truck driven by Wilson misjudges and runs into one of the ditches. Its front wheels catch, its momentum flips it end–over–end, and it explodes. Shards of twisted metal and shattered glass rain down everywhere. Bodies tumble from the truck onto the ground, but only a few.

The rest remain trapped inside.

There is no time for him to think about it because they have reached the fence and are tearing through the heavy wire. The once–men scatter, but only far enough to turn and try to shoot at them through the cab windows. The men hunkered down in the truck bed shoot back, and bodies fall all across the compound yard.

"Logan!" Jena yells in warning.

An explosion rocks their truck, sending Logan sliding into her with such force that she cries out. The gates of the south building loom directly in front of them, and they struggle frantically to untangle as they careen toward a collision. Locked together, they steer the truck into the gap between the heavy doors, and as the ram strikes them the doors explode inward with a shriek of metal tearing free. The truck lurches to a stop, and the attackers tumble out, firing into the defenders that come at them.

Too many and too organized, Logan realizes suddenly. They have been waiting for us. It is a trap.

He fights with a ferocity he does not know he possesses, lost in a haze of smoke and ash, in the staccato rip of automatic weapons fire, and the harsh scream of his own desperation. He shoots at everything that moves and at the same time keeps moving himself. He does not know how long the fighting continues, but it seems endless. Twice he is wounded, but neither injury stops him. At one point a rush of once–men overwhelms him, and he loses losing his grip on the Scattershot as he fights to break free. Someone–he never discovers who–comes to his aid and tears them away. Even so, he is left dazed and battered and weaponless. He scrambles about on his hands and knees, searching for the Scattershot, for any weapon at all. He thinks that this is the end. He thinks that this is the day he will die.

Then suddenly everything quiets. The shooting is all distant now, off in the other buildings and outside. Low moans and cries for help reach out to him from close at hand, but the smoke trapped inside the building is so thick he cannot find anyone. His ears ring from the weapons fire and bomb concussions, and he feels disoriented and weak. He stumbles about, still searching for the Scattershot, needing to feel a weapon in his hands. He finds it finally, lying not five feet away. When he picks it up, the barrel is so hot that the heat radiates down through the wood grips of the stock.

He gropes his way through the smoke. Where is everyone?

Then he trips over Jena, lying face up on the floor, her eyes open and staring. He finds most of the others close by, all dead. There is no one left, he thinks. He has lost them all.

The moans and cries continue, and he makes his way blindly toward the sounds. He comes up against a cage, and inside the cage are dozens of imprisoned humans, a part of Midline's slave population. Faces press up against the steel mesh, eyes and mouths beseeching, begging. He pulls away from the hands and fingers that seek to hold him and gropes his way along the mesh in search of the cage door. The smoke is beginning to thin now, and outside the shooting has quieted to a few distant discharges punctuated by shouts and cries. The battle is ending. He must hurry.

He finds the door secured with a heavy chain. He looks around for something he can use to break the lock. He locates a metal bar that will snap the chain–and suddenly Michael appears through the smoke. "What's happened?" he demands. "Where are the others?"

He is bloodied from head to foot, a walking nightmare, a corpse come out of the grave. It is impossible for Logan to tell if the blood is Michael's or not. One arm hangs limp, the sleeve of his heavy jacket shredded. He carries his Ronin Flechette cradled in the other, smoke curling out of its short, wicked black barrel.

"Did you hear me?" he snaps at Logan, angry now.

"All dead, I think," Logan answers. "I'm not sure. I haven't had time to check."

Michael shrugs. There is a dangerous glint in his eye. "Wilson's group is gone, too. Mine is hacked to pieces. They really made a mess of us." He looks at the prisoners, shakes his head, and mutters something unintelligible. Taking it as an indication he should continue with his efforts, Logan places the iron bar back inside the chain loop and starts to apply pressure. "Leave them!" Michael orders instantly.

Logan turns, not sure he has heard correctly. "But they — "

"Leave them!" Michael roars. He flings his injured arm toward the cage with such force that droplets of blood fly everywhere. "Leave them where they are. Leave them to rot!"

Logan shakes his head in disbelief. "But they're caged."

The other stares at him blankly, and then starts to laugh. "Don't you get it? They're where they deserve to be!" The laughter dies into something that might be a sob. "All we do for them, all we give up, and for what? So that they can run like sheep to be gathered up again? So that they can go back to being stupid and helpless? Look at them! They make me sick!"

"Michael, it's not their fault — "

"Shut up!" Michael screams at him, and all of a sudden the Ronin is pointing at his midsection. "Don't defend them! They killed your friends, your comrades, all the people who made a difference in your life! They killed them just as surely as if they pulled the trigger!"

Logan doesn't know what to do–except that he knows not to make any sudden moves with the Ronin pointing at him. He could argue that it is Michael who has chosen to attack Midline. He could point out that they all came here willingly, knowing the risk. But Michael's face tells him that he isn't going to listen to those arguments. He is barely listening to anything at this point.

"All right, Michael," he says gently, lifting one hand just a fraction of an inch in a placating gesture. "Let's just go. Let's gather everybody up and get out of here. We can talk about it later."

But Michael shakes his head slowly, and the madness reflected in his eyes is bright and ungovernable. "No, it all ends here, Logan. It all ends tonight.

This is as far as we go." He shakes his head, and the Ronin dips slightly. "I've had enough, boy. I don't want to live another day in this damned world. I don't want to endure one more moment of it. I should have killed us both years ago for all the difference it's made."

Logan feels a chill in the pit of his stomach. "Michael, that's crazy!

Listen to what you're saying!"

"I saved your life; I can take it away." The Ronin is pointing directly at him again; Michael's arm is steady as he aims it. "Think about it. Think about how hopeless it is! We've lost everything tonight–people, weapons, machines, all of it. Look at me; I probably won't live another day, and if I do I'll never be the same. If we don't end it here, we'll be caught and thrown into the camps.

We'll end up just like that!" He gestures again toward the prisoners in the cage. "I made up my mind a long time ago that I wouldn't let that happen."

"But these people need our help] What about all the others like them?"

Michael shakes his head once more. "I don't care about them. What happens to them doesn't matter. What happens to us does. You and me, now that Fresh is gone. I have to protect us. I promised you I would, when you were still a boy.

We've had a good run, but the time has come to step out of the race."

Logan is holding the Scattershot down by his side. Michael is going to kill him, and there isn't a chance in the world he will be able to raise his weapon and fire it in time to save himself. He catches glimpses of the prisoners huddling at the back of the cages, eyes wild with fear. No help there. He watches the smoke of battle ebb and flow through the building's deep interior, but nothing else moves. No help there, either.

"Michael, don't do this," he begs. "Put down the weapon and talk to me.

Think it through. There has to be another way."

"There is no other way!" Michael screams.

Logan doesn't stop to think after that. He simply acts. He shifts his gaze past Michael's left shoulder, as if catching sight of something, and says in a hushed voice, "Demon."

Acting instinctively, Michael wheels and fires, the Ronin spraying bullets everywhere. Logan does not hesitate. He brings up the Scattershot and levels it.

Michael is already turning back, realizing he has been tricked, when the Scattershot discharges its load into his chest. The force of the blow throws him back half a dozen feet and leaves him sprawled on the concrete floor.

For a moment, Logan cannot move. He cannot believe what he has done. The echoes of gunfire and the moaning of the prisoners waft through the building.

"Michael," he whispers.

Maybe there is still time to help him. Maybe he can still be saved.

But by the time Logan reaches him, Michael is already dead.

IN THE AFTERMATH, it feels to him as if he has lost everything. Unable to make himself leave, he kneels next to Michael's body for much longer than is safe. Finally, hearing shots in the distance, he regains sufficient presence of mind to realize that he needs to flee. Then he remembers the prisoners still locked in the cages, still trapped and helpless. Using the iron bar, he snaps the chains, flings open the doors, and watches them flee. When the last of them disappears, he slings Michael's body over his shoulder, picks up the Scattershot and the Ronin, and walks through the drifting smoke and the bodies of the dead into the night.

He finds Grayling outside, another man hanging on to him for support, the two of them working their way toward the only truck still intact. Grayling looks at him, sees whom he is carrying, and stops. When Logan gets close enough, the big man asks him where he is going. Away, he answers. It's over. And keeps walking as the other calls after him, Good luck.

He finds the Lightning parked back in the trees where Michael has left it.

Michael always drives it on these raids, to the attacks and then back, his own personal transport. Sometimes he lets Logan ride with him–more often than not since losing Fresh. Once or twice, he has even told Logan that one day the Lightning will be his. One day, it seems, has arrived. Logan knows the codes that release the locks and disarm the security system, and he uses that knowledge now. Then he puts Michael in the back and drives away.

When he is far enough out in the middle of nowhere–so far out that he doesn't know for sure where he is–he parks, takes out a shovel, digs a grave that is both deep and wide, and lays Michael within. After he has covered up the body, he sits by the grave site and tries to think things through.

Had it really been necessary to kill Michael? He asks himself this question over and over. He agonizes over the possibility that there might have been another way, a way he should have found, a way that would have kept the one person he cared about alive. But it happened so fast, and at the time he had been so sure. If he didn't kill Michael, Michael was going to kill him. Michael had gone native; he had gone over the wall and into the wilderness, and he wasn't coming out. His mind had snapped for reasons that Logan could only guess at, and nothing he did on that night–and perhaps for many nights before then–had been rational.

Logan would have done anything to save Michael. Anything. But he failed to act quickly enough, and so Michael is gone. He cries, thinking of it. It seems unfair, wrong. Michael did so much for others, for all those men, women, and children consigned to a living hell in the camps, to lives of slavery and worse.

Only Michael tried to do anything to help them, to give them a chance at life.

Someone should have done something for him in return.

No, not someone, he corrects quickly. Himself. He should have done something for Michael. But he didn't. Didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to do it. And now it is too late.

When dawn breaks in a thin leaden line across a sky so overcast it feels as if it is pressing down against the earth like the hand of judgment, he is forced to confront his future. With Michael dead and his followers dead or scattered, Logan has nowhere to go. He doesn't even know what to do, for that matter. Carry on Michael's work? Attacking the slave camps seems endless and ultimately not enough to make a difference. One man is not enough to attack the slave camps in any case. One man is not enough to do anything in this world.

So he wanders for weeks, driving aimlessly, until finally the Lady appears to tell him what it is that he is needed to do.

THE MEMORY CAME and went like the passing of a cloud's shadow across the earth, and Logan Tom found himself staring once more at the wall of rock that blocked the pass. A gust of wind blew sharp and chill against his face, and the deep silence of the mountains pressed close in the wake of the memory's passing.

He stood where he was for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then turned away.

Memories could take you outside yourself, but they couldn't keep you there for long. He walked back to the Lightning, climbed inside, and started the engine.

In minutes, he was winding his way back down the mountainside. His mouth tightened against his thoughts. One thing he had learned that Michael had not.

No matter how bad things looked, there was always another way.

He descended out of the pass, traveling east back down through the foothills toward the flats. He drove as swiftly as the condition of the highway would allow, watching the daylight begin to fail with nighttime's approach. He would have to decide soon whether to turn north or south to find a way through the mountains. He knew there were several major passes that led over, but not which ones were still accessible.

When he reached what appeared to be a major crossroads, he stopped and threw the finger bones once more. The bones writhed and wriggled on the square of black cloth and formed themselves into fingers that by compass reckoning pointed northwest. He put the bones away and turned the Lightning north. This road was smaller, its surface badly eroded by time and weather. He had to travel more slowly as a consequence, and the light soon faded to a thick, hazy gray, leaving behind a world of shadows and furtive movements.

He had almost decided that he had gone as far as it was possible to go without unnecessary risk when the road ahead turned into a morass of dark obstacles that forced him to slow to a crawl. Old vehicles, pieces of fencing and farm equipment littered a road surface already pocked and cracked. There was room to get around, but only barely.

Then there was no room at all, as dozens of dark, furtive figures materialized out of the dark to surround him.