Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) (28 page)

“But it’s not an explanation,” Val continues, fearfully.  “Things just happened ‘cause we
thought
they did?  Products magically appeared from factories we don’t have?”

“Is it such a difficult extension of Cycle?”

He stops and really asks himself the question.  If he could see the fearful look on his face, he would know the answer.

“It’s a
terrifying
explanation… but no less plausible for being so.”

There is a pause as everyone grapples with the idea.  Bull takes in a breath through his nose, filling himself with resolve.  He is fueled by pragmatism and direction.  He might not be able to wrap his mind around everything that’s just been said, but that’s not what matters to him.  “How does this relate to the Theta Contingency?” he asks.

“Well, the problem is that even though Cynthecorp hasn’t gotten to the point in Theta where they turn the systems off – with the exception of the failed test – the systems are nevertheless shutting down.”

“But couldn’t that be because of the
physical disturbance of the riots?” Sabetha asks.

“Not on the level we’re seeing.  Gothica’s daily functions are decomposing on a much more fundamental level than simply people missing work.  People who are still doing what they’ve always done, in places very sheltered from the riots, are experiencing very strange happenings.  Storehouses in North Gothica are inexplicably empty.  Trucks start out fully loaded but arrive at destinations without any cargo.  Pipes are bursting all over West Gothica.  North Gothica is having power outages that are getting longer and longer.”

“Because of the cycle,” Sabetha says to herself.

I correct her, “because of its
absence
.” 

“So does this means there’s no more food or water?”  Val asks.

“Not enough for all the people who need it.  Soon it will be up to our actions – and not our perceptions – to sustain the city.”

“Holy shit,” Val drapes his head in his hands.

Sabetha looks from the floor to me, “What do we do?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.  Without
Cycle, a lot of people are going to die.  We’ve taken for granted certain things for too long, and in a short while, they’ll be gone.  We’re gonna have to shift our tactics.”

“A new plan,” Bullworth agrees.

Val throws up his hands. “I don’t even know what the
old
plan was.”

“We’re gonna have to start readying people,” Sabetha says.

“Things just got a lot harder for us.”  I look at Sabetha, and though the others don’t understand, she knows what I am asking of her.  “We can’t do this alone.” 

“We meet with local leaders then,” Bullworth states.

I sigh and gesture in agreement. 

“Excuse me guys,” Val interrupts, “but how do you think you’re going to convince us humans to live peacefully with chyldrin and gazers?”

Sabetha nods, “Ooo, he’s right – we eat them.”  They all look to me for an answer.

“I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to tell
anyone
.  I guess it’s up to you all.  A representative from each species stands before me.”

All eyes slowly shift to Val. 

He suddenly becomes aware of the fact.  “What?”

“
A
re you sure you’re up for this?” I ask Val.

“If I say no, will you let me stay here?” he asks back, looking back at me.

“No.”

“Then I guess I’m ready.”  He takes one last drag of a cigarette, tosses it on the ground, steps on it, and turns on his heel. 

“And Val.”

“And what?”

“Watch out for the red beard in the  skullcap.  He’s hanging around the next block over.  Seems a little agitated.”

“Human?”

“Yeah.  But he might be armed.” 

Val nods and then rounds the corner and heads towards the road block in the distance.  It cuts off access to the widest street running through the neighborhood.  Old cars were
towed to this choke point of two brick buildings and then debris, sandbags and razor wire were added to create a decent barricade.  There is a solid metal gate that slides sideways a shoulders width, revealing a holding pen and another gate.  Beyond that is the most well protected ilk neighborhood in the city.  They have community gardens and a small green house, welded manhole covers, a few generators, but mostly oil lamps, and rain catchers for water.  They’re well outfitted and look in good shape to withstand the apocalypse. Naturally, lots of people want in – their roadblocks are used more against hungry ilk than supernaturals – and that’s why we’re here.  We hope to get Val inside to possibly exert some influence or at the very least, keep me informed on such a successful movement.

Twenty-nine men and three women are gathered hoping to be let in through the gates, guarded by the least threatening looking people imaginable.  People who led painfully normal lives up until this point.  Now they wield hunting rifles, pistols, and even crossbows, scanning the crowd, ready to kill to protect their homes.

Val walks into the crowd, which has a general clamor but not as much as when it first arrived.  They’ve been in line for a couple hours by this point.  From what I observed yesterday evening, the families have already been let in and examined.  Those that remain outside are mostly men, a few women, and a few senior citizens.  Supposedly, Reverend Jones, the leader of the neighborhood is going to make an appearance soon, or so I had overheard from some of the people on the barricade.

Val is immediately picked up as a target, a lone male with a confident walk.  He wears boot-cut jeans over calf-high cowboy boots – steel toed points – and a clean, white, short-sleeve, button down shirt, tucked in.  I went for a bucolic motif when picking out his clothes to make him seem more approachable, like the “every-man’s man.”

The crowd sees the overt suspicion of the guards and makes room around Val.  As he gets closer, he holds up his hands at his sides casually.  “I’m unarmed.  Just lookin' for some food,” he announces.  “I can work.”

“Turn around,” yells a man in a red plaid shirt holding a pump shotgun to his shoulder.

Val obeys and slowly turns around in a circle.

Half satisfied, the man lowers the shotgun from his shoulder and says, “You’ll wait with the others.”

Val looks around like the new kid on the playground and sticks his fingers in his pockets.  The others still keep their distance.  Three and a half minutes later a car approaches from deeper inside the neighborhood and stops behind the barricade.  Four men hop out of the car, half servants, half body-guards judging by the way they move, and open the door for who I assume is Reverend Jones.  He’s bald, wearing a black felt fedora hat, a double breasted, tan, wool trench coat and a very expensive ivory and gold suit underneath.  His hands have three large gold rings on them with an emerald and two rubies on them.  He doesn’t look so dissimilar from a pimp.  Most of these mega-church guys don’t.

He approaches the barricade from behind and holds up a hand to let the guards know not to trouble themselves.  The temporary distraction is ill timed though.  By dumb luck the red beard in the skull cap, has finally worked himself up enough to make his move and heads straight for the barricade.  His intentions are written all over him from his gait to his eyes.  He might as well scream
banzai
as he charges, it’s so obvious.

I peep around the corner and see him approaching the crowd.  They too are distracted by the arrival of a car and the guards stiffening at an important person.  Even Val is slow to react.  Red Beard walks right up to a woman and gets a knife around her neck in a normal untrained hostage taking position, forearm across her chest, knife point in the jugular, and other arm around her torso, just under the breasts. 

Val notices but doesn’t let it show with any big movements.  He slowly slips away from the crowd which takes a collective step back upon realizing what has happened.  They form a semi-circle around him, trapped between this new development and the barricade.  After the third gasp, the guards look sharp and point their guns, suddenly erupting in commands, everyone yelling orders over each other.  Val moves up behind Red Beard confidently and begins a third-party intervention move. 

He puts his left hand on Red Beards neck and pushes right, and at the same time uses his right hand on Red Bears knife arm, on the tricep, and pushes left.  The result is like squeezing a clothespin, the knife point moving away from the woman’s jugular and Red Beard forced into a position where he can’t take a breath without sniffing his own armpit.  A knee to the tailbone from Val arches Red Beard’s back and he pushes his own hostage away with his pelvis.  She slips under his forearm to the ground.  Val then reverses his hands’ pushing to a pull, wringing Red Beard’s head by the chin in the opposite direction
and pulling his knife arm away.  Val stretches the man painfully across his hip, spraining his neck, and lays him down on the street on his face, where he is disarmed of the knife.  Everyone is speechless as Val casually sits on the man with a knee is his back and his arm twisted behind while his legs squirm furiously.

“What do you want me to do with him?” Val asks the guards at the barricade.  They all look to the Reverend.  “Let him go!” he says with a hint of condemnation.  Val takes the Reverend’s tone to heart and jumps to his feet.  He even helps Red Beard to his feet with an apologetic pat on the shoulder.

“Shoot him,” the Revered says softly to one of the guards.  Val’s white shirt is suddenly splattered with blood.  The rifle bullet cut through Red Beard’s upper arm, shattering the humerus, severing the brachial artery and radial nerve, passing between the 5
th
and 6
th
rib and stopping in the wall of the second lung, having missed the heart by only a centimeter or two.

Red Beard drops to the ground, bleeding profusely from his arm that he clutches in his death throws.  Blood is pouring out of his mouth and down his chest.  He’ll die in the next ten to twenty seconds.  The crowd is horrified.  Val’s blood-speckled face turns to look at the barricade, wondering if he’s next.  His muscles tense, ready to respond but it takes half a century of hard fighting before that deer-in-headlights second goes away.  For the moment, he’s an easy target.

“Be ready,” Jones whispers to the man next to him, the one with the smoking rifle.  “You are very brave to save that woman!” he yells at Val with a commanding voice.

“I did what you would have,” replies Val.

“But not as well I suspect!”

“I’ve had training.”

“
Evidently!
”

There is a murmur from those on the barricade.  A hopeful exchange passes between pairs of guards.  This is just the kind of person they need.  Someone with training – with experience.  A man to lead them on the walls.  What a blessing!  But who is he?  Every one’s estimation of Val improves from vagabond, parasite, opportunist, or rapist to the level of Hero, savior even.

The Reverend hears this too.  He says nothing for several seconds.

“My name is Val.”

“I know who you are,” says Jones.

Shit
.  I turn on the hand-held spot light and aim it across the street at an angle so the source is hidden from view but the beam shows on the brick building to the side of the barricade.  It appears in Val’s peripheral vision but no one else’s.  This is the signal to get the fuck out of there.

“I’ve seen you before.”  Jones says to Val with surprising conviction – considering he’s lying.  For a split second he even knows
he’s lying to himself, but the lie becomes truth immediately after.  Much of his life has been this way.  The epitome of mediocre all through childhood and his aspirations frustrated by high school’s end, he began to convince himself of his greatness, despite it never having manifested in any way.  Through one of a thousand avenues, probably an over-active imagination mixed with an unhealthy predilection for narcissistic reasoning, he found people responded favorably when he evoked God.  It’s even less unique from there to his current position.  I’ve dealt with enough of these guys to know how they work.  His leadership is threatened by Val, his control put in jeopardy his paranoia about outsiders swells.  He has to stamp this out quickly.  “Oh yes.  I have seen you before, demon.”

Contrary to popular belief there are very often dissenting thoughts and actions among members of a cult.  Everyone on the barricade is disheartened at hearing the Reverend’s indictment.  They, on a very intuitive, subconscious level, know what has just happened, even if they could not articulate it.  The control comes when they chastise themselves for their initial reaction. 

When Jones commands, “Kill him,” the man with the rifle is already prepared to carry out the task, but hesitates in feigned disbelief.  It’s a micro-form of autonomy, of rebellion against the leader and his tyranny.  A glimpse of compassion – not weakness – in the man, who hopes the poor bastard in his sights will run away.  In the instance of the shooter’s askance, Val begins to run.  Jones swells up with fury and screams again, “Kill him!  Kill the demon!”