“I can’t leave the others,” he wept and kissed her forehead. Then he stood and straightened his hat. “I will find you later. Go with Conan!”
Dawn stole another hug, wrapping both arms around his legs. He kissed the top of her head and tears ran from his cheeks into her hair.
“Remember,” he said, smiling. “Those who will listen will follow.” He looked at Conan. “Keep the way open for the others I send. And help the stragglers.”
Without another word, Mr. Jay twirled his walking stick and turned on his heel. He pushed the doors open for Dormitory Three.
Conan tugged on her arm and then pulled at Meg’s nightshirt. They ran until Dawn could see small white figures ahead.
71 – Return to the Sunken City
Something in Felon was out of control and he no longer cared. He knew that he should have ignored the Swimmers, ignored his own vengeful impulses, stolen a car and headed far away from the City of Light. It was possible that disappearing would save his life. Obviously, the powers he had been dealing with had higher ambitions than the destruction of one assassin. He could drop it and run. They still feared him. But he’d live the rest of his life in hiding-with the Change that promised to be eternity. So he decided it to bring the hunt to his adversaries. Rather than the possibility of every turn holding an enemy, go to each enemy in turn.
A paranoid moment struck him and he patted his pockets again. Felon had managed to find two well-oiled clips for his. 9 mm in his coat; a reload for the. 44 magnum and his Derringer had not yet come into play. That didn’t arm him for a war, but he could hurt the ones he hated.
What did Balg or Lucifer, or the Divine powers really care about him? He was a dupe tricked into making a kill beyond his wildest imaginings. Nothing more.
And what did the Swimmer really know? The assassin wondered if he was that easy to predict. It did feel like something was at work in him-something big that he could not override. A dark passion was growing in him that was limitless in its power to destroy. He wanted death around him. He wanted to be an architect of the Apocalypse that was coming. Maybe he wanted to do the only thing he could: derail the plans of the Powers that had manipulated him. Felon was nobody’s plaything.
He had checked the docks and found the trawler Wurn used to take him to the Sunken City. There was nobody aboard. Its open cargo area contained crates and boxes covered with a large sheet of weathered canvas. Felon dropped beneath the covering. He positioned himself behind tall drums of fuel where he could get a clear shot of anyone approaching. It was just after eleven when he climbed aboard. Close to midnight, he heard a voice, and footsteps.
Passport said: “Hurry!” There was the sound of something being struck hard-a muted whimper. “Fithy Eyesore!”
There were clambering sounds, part of the canvas cover was thrown back, and a pair of heavy bags tumbled in. The boat shifted as a pair of bodies climbed after.
“Careful with the Master’s property. Fool!”
Felon heard the deep rumble of the engine; it coughed powerfully to life, and then settled into a heavy groan. The load shifted slightly when the boat pulled away from the dock and Felon steadied himself against the drums until the trawler found its trim. He was right on top of the engine, so its noise made hearing anything difficult, but he did catch snippets of a one-way conversation.
“Hurry!” Passport’s voice was acid-the engine moaned. “…of the world, and you dawdle.”
Felon was tempted to come out with guns blazing, but he had to kill Balg first. The Demon might be attuned to Passport’s life-and would be tipped off. If he were lucky, he’d kill Passport right after he turned Balg to Ardor. A rare grin clenched his face as he imagined killing Wurn-he’d shoot the troll in the guts-watch him squirm.
The boat skimmed recklessly over the waves. Its heavy hull thudded against the choppy sea. The assassin knew the trip would be short at this rate, but it would also be dangerous. The waters between the City of Light and the Sunken City were filled with submerged hazards. To occupy himself, Felon tried to raise his body temperature by will alone-concentrating on those parts of his body that felt frozen.
As he did, he thought of the Swimmers. Worthless things! The scum were begging for death. He paused to measure his dangerous actions of late, and wondered if he could make any claim of superiority. He checked himself. He wasn’t tired of the struggle-he would fight to the last breath. But Felon was tired of the lies and manipulation. He wanted his power of pain back. It was all he had.
The killing he had done in his life had not even taken the edge off his hatred. The more he killed, the more he wanted to kill. It was something similar to what his father might have felt when he beat the shit out of him. The less he cried, the less satisfaction his father got from beating him. So he beat him harder until he did cry. Then Felon almost laughed. Psychological bullshit was for people who didn’t know themselves.
Felon was a born killer, and killing Angels just felt better than killing people. He received something akin to release. He couldn’t stand their pretense, and superiority. Who did they think they were? They weren’t even real-scum with wings.
The motor rumbled, dropped a gear and slowed with a rocky motion.
“Careful here!” Passport’s voice had alien intonations of fear. “The Watchers! I hear them.”
The Eyesore mumbled his stock reply, “The Watchers watch.”
“And they see, little Wurn.” Felon’s hands gripped his gun.
“Ah! One descends.” The assassin heard a muffled screech that grew in volume and excitement. An enormous whoosh and rush of air pushed the canvas down-the assassin rolled onto his back. A great leathery flap stroked the air, then another. The boat rocked violently almost tipping an oil drum on Felon.
“Say nothing, Wurn.” Passport’s voice had a fluting singsong quality. “Watcher,” the Demon’s assistant spoke cautiously. “What do you see?”
There was a bone-grating shriek, and then a reptilian roar. A fetid odor of decay filtered through the canvas. Another shriek followed, and the covering was hooked by enormous claws, flipped upward and away. The assassin looked up into the open jaws of the Watcher.
72 – Battle of the Highway
The western highway approaching the City was well defended. Stoneworthy had been preoccupied by the skies as they marched east, expecting a nuclear blast that would evaporate their purpose at any moment. It appeared that General Bolton was right because none came. The chance of poisoning their own homes had stayed their hands.
The minister was on edge. Skirmishing troops mercilessly harried and assailed the flanks of the Army of God every mile that they had traveled, never forcing a full-scale confrontation, just worrying away at them with frustrating expertise.
City Defenders had erected an enormous barricade of concrete slabs some thirty miles from the metropolis where the western highway cut through rugged terrain. The highway’s original builders had blasted a steep-walled trench through a high promontory of granite. It provided the perfect location for the City Defenders to build their breastworks. To the north of the enormous barricade, barren rock climbed to a height level with the top of the defensive structure. It provided the approaching army with a tempting attack route, but was too dangerous for that reason.
Its barren surface provided zero cover, and one look at it told General Bolton that a force challenging the barricade from that side would be cut to pieces. To the south, the rains had turned an old wetland into a giant swamp that would slow any effort to go around. To get to the City they had to go through the barricade, and therefore through the worst that the City Defenders could dish out.