“Ride!” he yells.
More fiery bolts slice through the air. What are they? They’re silent. They don’t explode upon impact, either. I hunker down and hold on tight to Katana, shouting orders to my men.
That’s when I realize that the bolts are arrows.
Mad Monks!
What is terrifying about this attack is that there is no noise. No yelling, no gunfire, no explosions, no vehicles. Nothing but the pounding of hooves against dirt and the occasional thud as a militiaman is knocked off his horse. Up ahead, Uriah is struck by a flaming arrow. He loses his balance and falls off Mach’s back, slamming against the dirt. He tumbles a few feet and then drops again, rolling. His coat is on fire.
My militiamen whirl around on their horses and return to help the fallen militiamen. I raise my rifle to my shoulder and snapshot a few rounds into the grass, following the trail of the arrows.
Uriah continues to roll. He tears off the jacket and throws it to the ground, crawling closer to his horse — which has now taken off into the night, spooked.
I pull back on Katana’s reins. I reach my hand out for Uriah. He grabs my wrist and swings himself behind me, gripping my waist. I spur Katana forward. We keep our bodies close to the saddle, trying to avoid making ourselves an easy target. But there is nowhere to go. There is nothing but open fields in every direction. No woods. No cover. And there are at least twenty figures emerging from the shadows. They’re silent as cats — and so are their weapons.
This isn’t the kind of warfare I’m used to.
“Whoa!” I scream, pulling Katana back. A group of men with bows drawn and silver arrowheads gleaming against the moonlight is blocking the trail up ahead. A ring of men is closing in around us. The horses rear up. Flaming arrows plunge through the sky, into the ground, forming a fiery ring around us. Uriah shouts, but I can’t make out what he says over the sound of the horses whinnying and snorting.
The monks — or whatever they are — approach us. Uriah draws his handgun and the bows come up. I stay his hand.
“Don’t,” I say.
He slowly holsters the gun, wincing in pain.
The monks close in. They’re wearing beaten clothing, long robes over combat fatigues and shirts. They carry bows. A quiver of arrows rests across their backs. I notice that they all sport the same shaved hairstyle. But they are not armed only with arrows. They’ve got guns, too.
“Do we run for it?” Vera hisses. Her horse is spinning around, rearing up. “Cassidy?”
No. Running for it would be…inadvisable.
Someone will be sacrificed in the process. I share a glance with Manny. He shakes his head. It’s no good. We’re boxed in. We’ve been trapped by the same techniques that we use on Omega.
“Who trespasses on this holy land?”
A particularly tall, dark-skinned monk yells at us. Two white, vertical streaks are painted under his eyes.
I shout, “Travelers! We’re just passing through.”
“What is your purpose?”
“We’re going into the city!”
“The City of Angels?” The tall monk pulls his hood back, revealing a scarred face. “It is now nothing more than the City of Demons. This is the first I’ve heard of anyone attempting to get into the city.”
“We have our reasons,” Vera snaps.
The fire is still crackling around us. The monks stand their ground. But the horses have calmed down a bit, and I am resting on Katana’s saddle, making eye contact with the tall monk.
“Are you Omega?” he asks.
“No.”
“Are you thieves or vandals?”
“We’re with the National Guard.”
The tall monk regards me with a look of total skepticism.
“Are you in charge here?” he says.
“Yes.” I look around the circle again, consciously checking to make sure all of my men are here. “Look, we’re not here to fight with you. We just want to get to the city.”
“What’s in the city that’s so important?”
I don’t answer his question. Instead I say,
“We have business there.”
He studies our uniforms.
“You’re not dressed like mercenaries,” he states.
“That’s because we’re not,” I reply. “We’re militia. We were with the National Guard, and we’re on a special mission into Los Angeles. Please, just let us go.”
The monk strokes his chin. He looks thoughtful.
“Your name?” he asks.
“I’m Commander Hart,” I answer. “We’re enemies of Omega, and if you are with them, you are our enemies, too.”
His lips twitch.
“Father.” A tall, thin Monk emerges from the circle of hooded men and approaches the man that I have been talking to. “This woman, she may be of the prophecy.”
Vera’s mouth drops. I give her a fierce warning look:
Say nothing. Let them be crazy.
“She is of the Guard, and she is traveling into the City of Demons,” the thin man continues. He is staring at me with electric, nearly possessed eyes. “Am I wrong, Father?”
“You are not wrong,” Father replies. A new emotion lights his features: curiosity? Amazement? I’m not sure. “And her hair…is flaming.”
I self-consciously touch the ends of my curly red hair.
Yes. Flaming. Whatever.
“Tell me, Commander,” Father says, “Do you go into the City of Demons to destroy the evil ones who infect our home?”
I blink. And then,
“Yes.”
I don’t even have to look at Vera to know that her mouth is still hanging open.
“If this is true, and you are of the prophecy, any enemies of Omega are friends of mine,” he replies. “I am called Father Kareem, and these are my men. We are the Monks of the Order of the Arrow.”
“What’s with the robes and the flaming arrows?” Uriah demands, keeping one arm around my waist.
“We are the true monks,” Father Kareem says calmly.
And apparently that’s supposed to explain everything.
“How far are we from the city limits?”
“Not far,” Father Kareem replies. “This is our territory, though. We can take you where you need to go, on the condition that you are discreet and pay proper homage to the Order.”
He smiles slightly.
Father Kareem gestures to the horses. “These are magnificent beasts,” he remarks.
I can’t disagree with that.
“So. Father Kareem,” Manny says, “can we get a move-on here? We’re on a tight schedule. Lives hang in the balance.”
If Father Kareem is annoyed with Manny’s bluntness, he doesn’t show it.
“Lives are always in the balance,” he says.
“We need to get to Toluca Lake,” I tell him. “Do you know the way?”
“I do.” He gestures to his men. They lower their bows and arrows. “We’ll be there by morning.”
I close my eyes for a brief second and thank God.
The monks are not our enemies.
For now.
Chapter Eight
“So this is Los Angeles?”
We rein our horses and stop to overlook the sprawling urban landscape below. Uriah is not impressed. Neither am I, to be honest. The last time I looked across the skyline of the grand city of Los Angeles, the EMP had turned the city into pure chaos. Airplanes fell from the sky and flames lit the boulevards. Civilians roamed the streets in mobs, looting and vandalizing.
This is different.
This is dead.
In the early morning sunlight, the skyscrapers are little more than empty husks. Many of them are burned and falling apart. Others are riddled with gaping holes. Giant, pockmarked monuments to a fallen civilization. There is no noise. The sound of aircraft flying overhead is gone. Traffic helicopters are nowhere in sight.