She collapsed backward on the bed, spent. She was covered in sweat and tears, her face red from the exertion. “I can’t!” she cried.
Grant looked closer at the room they were in. It was sparse but tidy, and he realized this was very likely a military hospital room.
“Yes, you can!” the man replied, squeezing her hand harder. “You’re strong.”
She opened her eyes and a flash of love and gratitude crossed her features before the pain of childbirth consumed her again, and she squeezed her eyes shut and bore down hard.
“Come on, just think about the baby . . . Our little girl’s brother or sister is counting on you!” the man coached his wife.
She pushed harder, and with two more pushes, an older man wearing a surgical mask and sitting at the far end of the gurney announced, “It’s a boy!”
The woman fell back onto the bed again and released her clenched muscles. She even began to laugh as the sounds of a baby’s cry suddenly filled the room.
“Here we go,” said the doctor kindly, handing the baby off to a nurse. The nurse carried the screaming infant to the next room over, where he would be wiped off and swaddled before returning him to his mother.
“Go,” the mother said softly to her husband, who was looking longingly in the direction of the other room yet still clutching his wife’s hand. “It’s okay. He needs you.”
The man smiled and gently kissed his wife on her forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
She smiled in reply and squeezed his hand once more before he left.
The doctor, who had lingered in the background, watched this scene unfold, and then once the husband was gone he removed his surgical mask.
In the darkness where he watched, Grant’s jaw tensed and he moved around the large box to get a look at the man from a different angle. He recognized the man at once, though he’d never known this person had ever been a doctor. His hair was already salt-and-pepper, but his face was full of charm and warmth. A stark contrast to the person Grant remembered.
Without a word, the doctor casually walked around to the side of the woman’s bed, withdrew a silenced sidearm from somewhere deep within the folds of his garments, and shot her through the head. It was so calculated, so casual, so unremarkable . . . Grant hadn’t had time to turn away from the image and had seen the whole thing.
He slowly closed his eyes, and ripples of fear and awe shuddered through his system.
She had died just like his sister. Just like her daughter.
A single bullet to the head.
When he opened them again, the scene had vanished and only the darkness and his mirrored companion remained.
“Well,” the other man said, “that was a defining moment, wasn’t it? One that would shape the fates of everyone in the world, as a matter of fact.”
Grant was in shock, struggling to put words together. “That . . . that man—the doctor who delivered me—that was . . . my grandfather?”
“Of course,” mirror Grant replied. “Maximilian Borrows murdered his daughter-in-law, right after delivering her son—his grandson. You.”
Grant could only shake his head. He was still quivering all over, fighting the urge to launch himself at his double for making him watch that. “I didn’t—I had no . . . I never knew,” he finally got out.
“That your grandfather conducted your delivery?” his doppelganger replied. “Surprising that you never deduced it. You knew he killed her immediately after your birth. How else could he have gained such easy access to her at that time?”
Grant continued shaking his head. “Why did you show me this?”
“You needed to see it,” the other man replied. “You’ve always wanted to. One choice by your grandfather set into motion every single thing that’s happened to you throughout your entire life. It made you into the man you are. A selfish, self-pitying whiner who grew up hating everyone, because his mommy died before he knew her.”
Grant was clenching his fists at his side. Through gritted teeth, he replied, “That’s not true.
I don’t hate people. Not anymore.”
Mirror Grant cocked his head sideways, watching him closely. “You hate me. And our time together has barely begun.”
Death.
It was everywhere Payton looked. It was Oblivion, living inside of Grant. It was Alex, whose every movement was an exercise in torture. It was visible on every surface their feet trod on this senseless forced march.
It was in the faces of those he’d just been forced to kill in Oblivion’s name.
Death to Oblivion. Death to Devlin. Death to every last member of the Secretum of Six. How he dreamed of it. Fantasized about dealing out death to everyone who deserved it.
And how he longed for it, for himself. But not before he’d killed Oblivion and the Secretum.
As the walking caravan continued on its eastern progression across the desert mountains of Turkey, his sword, sheathed within the scabbard on his hip, dripped with the blood of about two dozen innocents he’d been forced to slay. Two miles behind them lay a small, rural village that was now little more than a mausoleum for nine hundred and fifty-six corpses they’d left behind. The majority had been wiped out by Oblivion himself, with his terrible energy blast wave. Payton and a few of the others were sent to mop up the leftovers.
Women. Children. They’d spared none. Oblivion wouldn’t let them.
They were slaves. Machines with superpowers. Lifeless rag dolls to be put to use, played with, or cast aside at Oblivion’s whim.
The silent march continued through the darkened desert. Black earth, dark skies with fire licking the edges of the violent clouds, and incredible heat given off by Oblivion’s presence; this was the nature of the new reality created by Oblivion. Robotically, Payton’s feet shuffled beneath him, the soles of his boots already wearing thin and beginning to shred. He could only imagine what this was doing to Alex’s bare feet.
The Secretum members, including Devlin—curse him— had acquired a trio of Jeeps from the military base and were driving them slowly off to the side of Oblivion and his army. It seemed that their taste for following Oblivion on his relentless quest extended only as far as their own comfort could tolerate.
How Payton hated them. It was a sensation so strong, so much more than emotional or physical, he often wondered if they could feel it pouring off of him. He hoped so.
Hate was the only thing keeping him alive now. Hate was what made him refuse to block out any of the blood he was forced to spill in Oblivion’s name. He knew this was far from over, but he would sear the faces of his victims into his brain and never let one of them be forgotten. And he would make sure that, in the end, Oblivion and every person belonging to the Secretum understood the error of their ways in all that they had done to him.
How much better it would have been had he died in that cave-in so many years ago in France. And how fitting that it was another cave-in that birthed him into this wretched new existence. The warrior he had become from that experience, the lies he had been told by the Secretum in tricking him to hunt down Grant Borrows—all in an attempt to . . . what? To unleash Grant’s powers? To further him on this path to becoming Oblivion?
Is that why they made him into this deadly assassin, revered all over the world as “the Thresher”? Was it merely a part of their machinations for Grant’s destiny? Was his destiny to always be a fist to be used by others—first by the Secretum, and now Oblivion?
His feet burning and aching and bleeding upon the hot black ash, he vowed upon the blood of all those he had been forced to kill and his own immortal soul that his hatred would become their end.
“What we know,” read the newscaster into the camera, “is that a military coalition forged between Turkey and many of her allies descended upon the central Turkish desert to muster an attack that will attempt to repel what officials are calling an ‘invading army.’ Very little is known about this group.
No one has yet managed to get close enough to the intruders to identify any members of the group.” The newscaster was a handsome black man, with a full voice that resonated with authority. His was a face that the British trusted.
Trevor had returned to watching television the moment Ethan had left, and now as the others gathered their possessions, he watched with rapt obsession. Live helicopter footage videoed high above the Turkish desert was replayed for the third time since he’d stopped on this station. Filmed hours earlier, the handheld video footage depicted a long line of individuals walking through the charred black landscape far below. At the head of the line was a man Trevor knew to resemble Grant Borrows, though the footage was too far away to make him out properly. On the upper edges of the screen could be seen the boiling black clouds rimmed with fire that bathed the entire nation in darkness.
Oblivion suddenly turned his head skyward and looked directly upon the helicopter. The chopper’s blades stopped spinning, the camera crew aboard cursed and screamed, and the vehicle fell from the sky like a rock.
The footage turned to static, and then the TV news station switched to a different set of file footage, this taken with a long-range scope lens that showed blurry images of the walking group from ground level. This footage showed the group entering an unidentified village in Turkey and destroying everything in their path. As he’d heard the newscaster put it earlier, it was as if the town refused to get out of this walking troupe’s way, so they simply annihilated it. He could just make out various members of Grant’s team using their abilities to lay waste to the town, leveling buildings, draining the life from its citizens, and leaving nothing but rubble and death in their wake. They never stopped marching the entire time.
Trevor’s thoughts began to wander as he realized he would probably be forced to join their ranks at some point, and something occurred to him that he hadn’t realized until this moment.
The newscaster’s booming voice rocketed him back to the present. “This military coalition includes, aside from almost the entire Turkish Armed Forces, military representatives from Israel, Greece, Serbia, Croatia, Bulgaria, Syria, Azerbaijan, and the United States. The Americans are strongly urging all members of NATO and the U.N. to get behind this attack, as the bizarre meteorological and ecological threat emanating from Turkey has already breached its borders and is currently spreading throughout Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Great Britain has pledged its forces to the fight, though the coalition is expected to act with great haste, and sources within Parliament have expressed doubt that Her Majesty’s Armed Forces will reach the battlefield in time for the initial strike . . .”
Trevor looked up as Daniel walked in front of the television set, blocking his view. “I called your name five times,” he said. He’d changed into a fresh set of clothes and was clutching his walking cane in one hand. A backpack was slung over his shoulder and a small luggage bag was in his other hand. “We need to get going, and you haven’t packed anything yet.”
Trevor hesitated. “I’m not coming with you.”
Lisa quickly appeared, and Daniel reached behind to turn off the television set. “What?”
“I can’t come with you,” Trevor said quietly, looking away.
Daniel looked to Lisa, but she had no help to offer. “Look, son,” he said, absentmindedly scratching at the back of his hand, “I know how you feel; this isn’t easy for Lisa or me either. But we have to at least
try
to find the Stone—”
“I’m not afraid!” Trevor said, suddenly defiant and looking up into their eyes. He held up his Ring for them to get a good look at. “Don’t you understand? This rotten thing is going to make me just like the rest of them—a zombie, enslaved to Oblivion’s will—and if I’m near you when that happens . . .”
Daniel and Lisa exchanged looks once more, understanding now. He was staying behind, separating himself from them to save their lives.
Daniel leaned over and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s very noble of you. But we don’t even know if it will take you like it did the others. Maybe it only happened to them because they were there, in the underground city, in close proximity to Grant, when Oblivion was born.”
Trevor shook his head. “I just worked it out. It’s the black storm—the changes to the earth are accompanying it. The world is dying, and it’s because of his influence, his touch. When the storm reaches here, so will Oblivion’s ability to control me.”
They seemed to hear the wisdom in his words. In its own way, it was logical.
“The storm isn’t far off,” he said, remaining rooted to his seat. “You had better go.”
Daniel looked down, set his shoulders, and then looked back up. “We’ll come back for you if we can.” He began making his way toward the tiny apartment’s front door. Lisa followed closely.
Trevor smiled without happiness. “Don’t, please. As I understand it, the Forging was an all-or-nothing deal, irreversible. Any attempt to rescue me—or any of the Ringwearers, for that matter—is suicide. And you know it.”
Daniel opened the door, and Lisa filed out, but he turned back to face his young friend. “You said yourself the planet’s dying. If we’re all doomed anyway, no one should have to face the end alone.”
Ferocious black clouds barely concealed the angry fire above it, casting a dark gray tone on the desert below. Neither night nor day, the empty countryside was shrouded in eternal twilight.
From a mountain peak not far above the distant battlefield, Ethan surveyed what was sure to be the place of engagement for the coming fight. He’d returned by Conveyor to a changed landscape, a world of ash and swirling black dust in which every green plant was dying. And would continue dying unless this spreading rot could be checked. Hot-wiring a battered Jeep from a tiny town below the mountains, he’d followed Oblivion’s all-too-obvious path of destruction leading east.
Facing almost exactly north from his current position, the dried-up Mediterranean Sea was at his back. The blue waters now all but gone, in its place lay muddy, drying black mushy ash. Seaweed, sponge, and other underwater wildlife were exposed and withering; all manner of fish, crabs, stars, and even a few larger creatures like whales and sharks—all a pitiful sight, either dead on their sides or taking their last gasps. Beached fishing boats and millionaires’ yachts mirrored the fish, exposing their curved undercarriages as they rested on the muddy ash on one side or the other.