Armageddon’s Children

SIX

AFTER HIS MEETING with Two Bears, Logan Tom climbed back into the Lightning AV and drove it out into the country to a spot off the road where the prairie stretched away in an unobstructed sweep on all sides. There he parked, set the perimeter alarm system, crawled into the back of the vehicle, and fell asleep. His sleep was deep and dreamless, and when he awoke at dawn he felt fresh and rested in a way he hadn't felt for weeks. He stripped naked outside the AV in the faint light of first dawn and took a sponge bath using water from the tank he carried in the back. The water was purified with tablets, clean enough for bathing if not for drinking. No one had drunk anything but bottled liquids in years, and when the stockpiles that remained were exhausted, it was probably over for them all.

Dressed, he ate a breakfast of canned fruit and dry cereal, sitting cross–legged on the ground and staring out across the empty fields, his back against the AV. On the horizon, the windows of the farmhouses and outbuildings were black holes and the trees barren sticks.

As he ate he thought about Two Bears, the task the Sinnissippi had given him to accomplish, and the impact of what it meant. In particular, he thought about something O'olish Amaneh had said and passed over so quickly there hadn't been time to take it in fully until now.

A fire is coming, huge and engulfing. When it ignites, most of what is left of humankind will perish. It will happen suddenly and quite soon.

Logan Tom stopped chewing and stared down at his hands. It wouldn't matter what any of them did after that, demons or humans. If he was to make a difference as a Knight of the Word–if anyone was to make a difference–it would have to happen before that conflagration consumed them all. That was what Two Bears was telling him; that was the warning he had been given. Find the gypsy morph and you find a way to save the remnants of humankind from what is coming.

He wasn't sure he believed that. He wasn't sure he knew what he believed.

It seemed to him that the world was already come to an end for all intents and purposes, that even a conflagration of the sort the Sinnissippi was foretelling couldn't make things worse. But he knew as soon as he thought this that it wasn't true. Things could always get worse, even in a world as riddled by madness as this one.

He finished his breakfast, took out the finger bones of Nest Freemark, and cast them on the black square of cloth in which they had been wrapped. The bones lay motionless for a moment, then began to wriggle into place, forming up as fingers. Creepy. He watched them shift until they were pointing west. He stared down at them for a few moments longer, then scooped them up and stuffed them back in his jacket pocket. He had his marching orders; he might as well get started.

He drove slowly through the early morning, following the bro–ken ribbon of highway across the remainder of the state under overcast and hazy skies. It was not yet midday when he reached the Mississippi River. The waters of the Mighty Miss flowed thick and sluggish between their defoliated banks, the waters clouded and gray and choked with debris. He could see the shells of old cars and trucks jammed up against the far bank. He could see parts of houses and fallen trees. He could see bodies. He could smell death and decay, a heavy sickening odor hanging in the windless air. He shifted his gaze to the bridge again, a broad concrete span stretching ahead into Iowa.

The bridge was littered with bodies.

The smell wasn't coming from the dead in the river; it was coming from up there.

He stared in disbelief for a moment, not sure that he was seeing things correctly. The makeshift crossing gate told him that this had been a checkpoint for the river, a place staffed by militia serving some local order or other. But the number of bodies and abandoned vehicles and accumulation of debris told him that everyone had been dead for a while now. It told him, as well, that the end had come suddenly.

He took a moment to scan his surroundings in all directions, cautious of what might be hidden there. Finding nothing, he eased the S-150 ahead in a crawl, weaving carefully through the makeshift obstacle course that blocked his path. On the bridge, nothing moved. He began to cross, passing bodies with arms and legs flung wide, fingers clutched in agony, heads thrown back and necks stretched taut. Then he saw the first of many faces turned black and leathery, and he knew.

Plague.

This strain was called Quick Drain for the speed with which it stole life from the body. It was carried on the air, a human–made recreation of what centuries earlier had been labeled the Black Death. It was chemically induced, contracted through the lungs, and fatal in less than an hour if you weren't inoculated against it beforehand or treated afterward at once. From the quickness with which it had obviously overtaken those on the bridge, it must have been a particularly virulent variety. It would have dissipated by now, its life span short once released. There was no way of knowing where it had come from, whether released on purpose or by accident, whether by attack or mistake.

It was deadly stuff; he had seen the results of its work several times before when he was still with Michael.

He drove on, trying not to breathe the air, even though he knew it didn't matter by now. He drove on, and as he did so his thoughts drifted to an earlier time.

HE LIES IN his bed, so hot he can barely stand his own body. Sweat coats his skin and dampens his sheets. Pain ratchets through his muscles in steady waves, causing him to jerk and twist like a puppet. He grits his teeth, praying for the agony to stop. He no longer cares if he lives or dies; he will accept either fate willingly if only to put an end to the pain.

His eyes are squeezed shut, but when they blink open momentarily he is still in darkness. He hears voices drift through the partially opened doorway from the adjoining room.

"… should be dead anyway … fever too high … can't understand what's keeping him …"

"… tougher than you … seven days now, when anyone else would …

just keep him warm and …"

One of them is Michael Poole, the other Michael's companion, Fresh. But which is which? He cannot tell. The fever clouds his thinking, and he can't

match the voices to the names. It is ridiculous. He knows Michael the way he knows himself, has been with him now for almost eight years. He knows Fresh almost as well as Michael. But the voices blend and the words shift so that they seem one and the same.

"… recovery from this doesn't happen … as you know better than most … better to let things take their course instead of flailing about with all these …"

The voice drones on, lost in the buzzing in his ears, in the hiss of his own breath through his clenched teeth, the in the sweep of his jumbled thoughts.

He has the plague. He doesn't know which strain and doesn't care. He has had it for days. He can't remember how he contracted it or what has happened since. He drifts in and out of consciousness, out of dreams and into reality and back again, always fighting for breath because his throat is so swollen that his windpipe has all but closed up. The pain keeps him breathing because it keeps him awake and fighting for his life. If he sleeps, he thinks, he will lose consciousness and die. He has never been so afraid.

"… have to move camp soon, . . dose, and no stopping them once they know …"

"… can't just leave him to die, damn it… know what they would do, animals …"

"… what do you expect us to do if things don't… sacrifices have to be made … one against the many …"

He hears only these snippets, but he gets the gist of the conversation nevertheless. They are arguing over what to do with him, still so sick, perhaps contagious to the others, a danger to them all. They need to move camp because they are threatened anew by the demons that track them, searching constantly for a way to trap them once and for all. One of them is arguing for leaving him behind, the way they have been forced to leave others–for the good of the whole.

One of them is arguing for waiting to see if his constitution is strong enough to pull him through. The argument is low–key and rational, not heated and intense. He finds it odd that the matter of his living or dying is being talked about so calmly. He wants to tell them how he feels about it. He wants to scream.

Suddenly there is silence. He squints through a tiny gap in his eyelids and sees that the light in the doorway is blocked. They are standing there, looking at him. He tries to speak, but the words become lodged in his throat and emerge as groans. The pain sheets through him, and he shudders violently.

"See?" says one.

"See what? He fights it."

"A losing fight. It consumes him."

"But hasn't yet overpowered him."

They move away, leaving him alone again, feeling abandoned and betrayed.

Which of the two wants to save him and which wants to leave him behind? They are his closest friends, but one of them argues for his death. His eyes sting with tears, and he is crying. This is what dying is like, he thinks. You do it alone.

You are debased by it. You are exposed to your own weaknesses and to the harsh reality of what it means.

He draws a deep, pain–filled breath that is mostly a sob and waits for his life to end.

BUT HE DIDN'T die that night. The fever broke, and by morning he could be moved. He was weak still, but he was healing. Michael and Fresh came to him and told him how encouraged they were by his recovery. They reassured him that everything would be all right. He still didn't know which of them had argued for leaving him behind–had given him up for dead. He told himself at the time that it must have been Fresh, that Michael would never abandon him. But he couldn't be sure. Especially now, knowing what he did about what would happen with Michael later.

It was odd, the way he felt about Michael. His parents would never have left him, not even if it had cost them their lives. Yet he remembered them only vaguely, more indistinctly with the passing of every day. He recalled his brother and sister even less well; their faces had become faint images, blurred around the edges and leached of color. Yet he remembered Michael as if he were still there–the strong features, the wide, sloped shoulders, the sound of his deep voice as clear as yesterday's meeting with Two Bears. Even now, Logan knowing what he did, Michael retained his larger–than–life image. He knew it had something to do with the amount of time he had spent with Michael, the impression Michael had made on him while he grew, and the impact of Michael's strong personality. Yet he had never loved Michael as he had his blood family.

He had never been as sure of Michael as he was of them. It didn't seem right that it should be this way, but there was no help for it.

The buildings of the city slipped away on either side of him. There were more bodies in the streets, and the smell of death was everywhere. There was no movement in the shadows of the buildings, no sign of life. According to his sensors even the feeders had departed, a sure sign that nothing remained. He scanned doorways and windows, alleyways and side streets as he made his way through, but the city was deserted.

He came out the other side at midday, the weather turned gloomy and the skies dark with heavy roiling clouds. Maybe it would rain today, although he doubted it. The skies frequently looked as if they might open up, but they seldom did.

He drove through the outskirts of the city, past endless dwellings, Past schools and churches. There was no one anywhere. When plague struck, you didn't take chances; you got out. Not that there was much of anywhere to go, but fleeing sickness and chemical attacks and armed strikes was pretty much instinctual. You ran because it was your last defense against things too overpowering to try to stand and face.

It wasn't always so. In the beginning, men had stood their ground, even in the face of certain destruction. It had been in their nature to stand and fight, to refuse to be intimidated, to give their lives for what they believed. Even when governments began to disintegrate or simply vanished altogether, the people stood fast. Their faith would protect them, they believed. Their courage was a shield against the worst of it. But they were wrong, and in the end most of them died. The ones who survived were the ones who understood that while faith and courage were necessary, they weren't enough. Good judgment and sound reasoning had to be exercised as well. When the world was collapsing around your ears, you had to know when to stand fast and when to turn and run. There was a time and a place for both.

Even for him. Even for a Knight of the Word.

He pulled off the road at the edge of the city into what had once been a small park and was now a barren stretch of ground with a few broken picnic tables and some rusted playground equipment. Parked with the hood of the Lightning facing west, he sat in the vehicle and ate his lunch. Eating no longer held much pleasure for him. The food was prepackaged and uninteresting. He ate to keep strong and to stay alive. It was the same with sleep, which was rough and troubled. He slept because he had to and wouldn't have otherwise because he hated the dreams that surfaced like phantoms, dreams of his past, reminders of the madness he had endured. But it did not matter what he wanted; the dreams were an unpleasant fact of his life.

As was so much, he thought. As was almost everything.

He was still eating when the men appeared from behind him. He had forgotten to set the perimeter alarms on the S-l50 and was lost in his thoughts when they materialized suddenly on either side of the vehicle, their weapons pointed at him. They had crept up on him like predators, careful to mask their approach and to take their time. It didn't hurt their efforts that he had been so self–absorbed, he'd failed to pay attention to his surroundings. They were a sorry–looking lot, soiled and ragged and smelling of sweat. They carried a mix of rifles and handguns, older weapons from before the rise of the once–men. They smiled as they surrounded him, satisfaction a bright gleam in their mad eyes.

They had caught him unprepared and they knew it.

Stupid, he chastised himself. Stupid and careless.

"Get out," the one standing next to him ordered, touching him on the shoulder with a long–barreled automatic.

He already had his right hand on his staff as he opened the door with his left and levered himself out of the Lightning, pretending that he needed the staff for support. He limped away from the vehicle, glancing from one man to the other, counting heads. There were four of them–hard–featured and wild–eyed, looters and thieves. They would shoot him without a second thought if he gave them even the slightest excuse. They would shoot their own mothers.

"We're confiscating your vehicle for official purposes," said the speaker, keeping the automatic leveled on him.

"Iowa militia?" he asked, backing away.

"Whatever," one of the others muttered, running his hands over the smooth surface of the AV.

The first man smiled and nodded. "Official business," he repeated. "We'll return your vehicle when we're finished."

He seemed to enjoy the charade, the man in charge, the leader, turning now to the others and motioning them to climb in. Logan stood watching as they did so, waiting. His hand tightened on the staff, and the slow build of the magic began to take hold deep inside, working its way through his body and limbs. He could feel its heat, could sense the impending adrenaline rush. He was suddenly eager for it, anticipating the satisfaction it would give him, his one small pleasure in an otherwise disappointing existence.

He took another step back. "What happened to the people here?"

They got sick," one answered.

'Real sick," said another.

"So sick they died," said the first, grinning.

"The lucky ones, anyway/' said the second.

The men were settling themselves in place, looking around with obvious admiration at their newfound acquisition. Kids in a candy store, they had gotten their hands on something better than they had ever imagined possible. But the driver was having trouble figuring out what to do with the controls, which were clearly unfamiliar to him.

He looked over, pointing the automatic at Logan. "Show me what to do," he ordered.

Logan came forward, leaning on the staff. "The lucky ones got sick, you say? What about the unlucky ones?"

"What do you care?" the driver snapped.

"Taken to the slave camps," another answered.

The driver gave him a look, but the other man just shrugged. Logan stopped several feet away and pointed to the AV's dash. "Punch that button to the right of those green levers. That turns her on."

The driver glanced down at the dash, located the button Logan had indicated, and pushed. Nothing happened. He pushed again. Still nothing. Angry now, he tried several more times without success. He looked up finally, glaring at Logan.

"Here, let me show you," Logan said, coming forward.

He reached into the cab, locked his fingers on the man's gun hand before he knew what was happening, tightened his grip until the gun dropped away, then yanked the man bodily from the vehicle and flung him a dozen feet into the air.

It cost almost no effort at all. The magic of his staff gave him the strength for this and much more. The other three stared in disbelief, but before they could react he swept the staff in front of them, the magic jetting forth in a blue sheet of fire that picked them up and flung them clear. In seconds, all four lay dazed on the ground. He walked over to them, took their weapons from their nerveless fingers, and smashed them against a light pole that had long since lost any other possible use.

"Shame on you," he said quietly. He yanked the leader into a sitting position and squatted before him. "Where is this slave camp?"

The man stared at him with a stunned expression, then shook his head.

"Don't know."

"Yes, you do. You probably helped those that were hunting them." He tightened his hand about the other's throat and squeezed. "Tell me where it is."

The man gasped frantically, fighting for breath. "West … somewhere.

Never … been … there!"

Logan nodded in response. "You should go sometime. It would do you a world of good." He flung the man down so hard that his head slammed against the hard earth. "If you're lying, I'll be back to show you the error of your ways. Do you understand me?"

The man nodded, eyes wide, swallowing hard. "I can't make my arms move. What did you do to me?"

Logan straightened. "I let you live. That's more than you deserve. If I were you, I'd find a way to make the best of my good fortune, you and these other animals." He stood up, looking down at the man. "If I ever come across you again, I'll not be so generous."

For just a moment, he considered the possibility of not being so generous right then and there. These men were the worst of their kind, the dregs of the humanity that the once–men preyed upon. They were little better than the once–men themselves, lacking only organization and a little deeper madness to qualify. That was what the world had come to, what civilization in its terrible collapse had birthed.

The man must have seen something of what he was thinking in his eyes.

"Don't hurt me," he said. "I'm just trying to stay alive like everyone else."

Logan stared down at him. Trying to stay alive for what? But it didn't bear thinking on. He turned away, climbed back in the AV, and started up the engine. With a final glance at the men on the ground, he drove from the park back onto the roadway and then west toward the midland flats.