Conan was cross-fingered ready to step out of hiding when the lights in the room flickered, once, twice and dimmed.
A mist began to form around the room along wall, even drape-hanging across the space where Conan hid. It was close enough to give him a chill like dew-drop-rain. And as he watched it this mist thickened-spooks and ghosts, and grew heavy and soon made dark shapes of at least a hundred. Tall and massive and muscular, Conan recognized the upright bodies and strange black hats of the Toffers. And mixed in with them the glowing flame-licked spheres, the Sheps, monster beach balls full of teeth-all without their man-skins.
And there was a blinding flash, and screaming like sirens they rushed in at the magician and knocked him down. Conan heard the thunderous impacts of a hundred bodies smashing into the magician and shattering the floor. Roiling flames licked up from the Sheps as they heated the air like sun-fire and bomb-blast. It lit the Toffers and filled the room with devil-light.
And there were the sounds of breaking rocks and crushing bones. The floor shook under Conan’s feet, and for an eye-blink a cold rush of fear filled the boy. And the floor shook again. There was a wail of agony-a man’s cry and another blast of power shook the room. But still the Toffers poured their dark strength and flame into the magician.
And Conan could stand no more of it. He flicked out of his hiding place, kill-flower flashing. The boy sprinted into the forest of muscular legs and roil and started slashing.
Heat prickled his skin as he moved and weird energy snapped and popped in the air-flickered on his helmet and danced over his blades. His hair stood on end and started to smoke.
The heat grew more and more and almost plucked the breath from his little lungs but he fought on. Swing-dodge-cut-jump! His anger blinded him to his fear and pain. The Toffers’ towering legs and stamping feet moved around him, some shifting to man-skin, others monstrous, pushing forward, clawing at the tiles for grip and blood.
But Conan danced among them, smiling-blind to danger. The Toffers and Sheps moved quickly but none fast enough to catch the little Nightcare fighter who was a sharp whirling weapon of murder and death. As they turned, he slashed. As they leapt back, he jabbed. And as their numbers merged they could not move away from his cuts and rips. No sooner would he slash a crotch than he would hamstring a twisted leg, then he moved in close to open up a belly. The blades of the die-flower were singing and streaming ribbons of blood. And Conan smiled and smiled like Christmas.
He kept slashing and jabbing and cutting all the while dancing a step ahead of the defense. All the while his breath coming in hot gasps on the sulfurous wind that blew around the beasts. His body was running with sweat as he blood-stroked a deadly storm upon the monsters.
And then a misstep, a second hesitation and a giant foot came down on Conan’s ankle. Pain blinded him as he tumbled on the tiles. Still stabbing he rolled, the murder blade flickering. He leapt and cut, wove and stabbed as the beasts began to seek him out with their teeth. Smelling his sudden weakness they desired a kill.
And another searing pain flashed up his spine as a twisting claw found a mark and tore his armor open up the back. The momentum pushed him down and sent him flying. He staggered, fell to his knees and only got his kill-flower up in time to fend off a yellow-clawed hand.
The air grew hotter-the hair on his head was burning. Talons grabbed his arms and swung him, another set of claws grabbed at his legs and started pulling. Conan’s body stretched and wrenched with pain. His spine burned.
And then he heard a man shout and he was flung to the floor. So loud was the sound that it hurt his ears and caused the walls around the battle to buckle and crack with deep boulder sounds. There was a horrible animal scream in return and the monsters charged in toward the center where a white flame had suddenly appeared. A circular blasting ring of white fire and power rippled its way outward, tearing the Toffers and Sheps to pieces when it touched them. And a great bellowing rang out, as the killing began. Conan rolled into shadow, his body numb as he watched the creatures run wild in madness-trample each other as they were devoured by flame.
And as the fire approached, Conan wondered if it would hurt when it killed him.
77 – Parley
The Prime felt the concussion through his chair. His visitor sat blankly unaware or was too nervous to notice, but definitely; the Prime had just felt the whole Tower shake. It shook from time to time-there were vibrations. It was connected to the City on several levels and all those millions of cars and thousands of miles of Skyway could cause a ripple effect. The hurricane winds of Killing rains caused it to sway and shudder when they came in late summer and fall. But the Prime had never felt something like he’d just experienced.
It was unlikely the work of terrorists and Updike’s forces were too far away to work any treachery ahead of the coming battle. The City was in a state of high-security and Archangel Tower had been in lockdown for days. Powers were loose but he went to considerable effort and expense to have allies and soldiers and functionaries for security around things like that. The Prime warned himself about such micromanaging blinding him to the big picture. He would be alerted if his attention were required.
At the moment, he was having fun.
The dead traitor’s lungs labored. His ribcage heaved. The corpse was behaving like he truly needed air and his discomfort couldn’t have made the Prime happier. Stoneworthy had spent the first few minutes after his arrival looking around the Prime’s office. He reached out with gray fingers to stroke the wall, then a windowsill, as though the architecture was the body of a long lost lover. The minister closed his eyes, and dipped his chin in silent prayer before taking a chair opposite the Prime’s. The dead man’s chest continued to convulse.
“Are you quite all right?” The Prime hoped he wasn’t quite. Stoneworthy and the grave robber Updike had caused him nothing but trouble over the last forty-eight hours: loss of life, equipment and the bottom line, dollars, lots of dollars spent on public relations and advertising to convince the City’s populace that fighting the army of the walking dead was their only option. All while he could have just…
Little did the bastards know that for the last twenty-four hours they were one order away from nuclear annihilation. The Prime had decided against it in the end. Two things: his Final Solution was ready. On his word everything for fifty square miles around the city would burn; and he knew it was just a matter of time before the Powers got involved. Nuking the southern zombie force was enough of a demonstration of his commitment- that was for competing Prime’s overseas. Look what I can do. But that was war; that was foreign affairs.
His Final Solution was in place if he ran out of options. If he were losing the coming battle, he’d scorch the earth. And that would only work if the Angelic and Demonic hordes were in range when the rockets flew. He wouldn’t waste more nukes on zombies alone. Perish the thought. His Final Solution ended all the games. And, he’d pop up some fifty miles away with food, money and an all-girl crew.
He looked back to Stoneworthy, who continued to struggle. Typically, it would be better to force the minister to open the discussion-he was the traitor begging forgiveness after all-but the Prime was pressed for time. He had a civil war to win and an international war to start.
The minister blinked-wiped a cold hand against his brow.
“I’m sorry.” Stoneworthy’s voice had grown hollow in death. “I had at times determined that my new state was a curse. But I see, it has given me one last opportunity to see-to touch a project that so shaped the life I lived.” He looked over at the Prime. “Please forgive me.”