“No. Stop. I’m here to help.” Naomi stared at Warren lying on the ground. Blood smeared his upper lip and he jerked in convulsions. “He needs help. Get out of my way.”
The zombies and demons maintained their holding positions. Naomi turned the assault rifle on them and would have shot them if she’d been certain she wouldn’t have accidentally hit Warren.
Frustrated, she stepped back. Only then did she realize that the sounds of the battle had lessened. Stunned, she gazed around at all the dead covering the ground and realized that they’d won the battle.
Not won it, she told herself as she caught sight of the few humans left alive. Most of them were wounded. We survived it.
Now all that remained to be seen was if this group of demons was the only one.
FOURTEEN
Despite the fatigue that filled his body and the yawning black hole created by dreamless sleep, Simon roused. He wanted to sleep more. His body craved it. Over the past four years, he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep unless he’d come in wounded and had been made to sleep by the Templar healers.
As a child, he hadn’t slept much most nights. Usually he’d stayed in bed no more than five or six hours. That hadn’t always been a good thing. His father had enjoyed his own sleep, and raising Simon by himself hadn’t helped that.
The painful absence of his father filled Simon then as he lay still. The feeling haunted him often. When he was younger, he’d been restless to be away from his father, to get out and see the world for himself.
Thomas Cross had had too many rules. The Templar had had too many rules. Some days Simon had felt like he was growing up inside a straitjacket. That sensation had been unbearable. As a result, he’d often fought with his father. Even when Simon was railing against Templar rules, he’d fought against his father.
Thomas Cross had always been there.
Now he wasn’t.
And Simon had never needed his father more than he needed him now.
Through training and experience, Simon pushed the panic and fear away. There was no going back. He couldn’t undo his father’s death at the hands of the demons any more than he could undo the arrival of the Hellgate. He didn’t accept that, though. He merely denied any other alternatives.
Templar training didn’t include wishful thinking or berating the world for being unfair. That had been strictly the purview of the rebellious teenager and younger man he’d been. Neither of those two traits helped him now.
Wearily, knowing he wouldn’t get back to sleep, Simon threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed. His body ached from everything he’d suffered the previous night. Discolorations showed red and angry beneath his skin. In a few days, he knew from experience, he’d have riotously colored bruises.
He pushed himself up from the rack, grateful that it was his turn for the lower bed. The concrete floor felt cold underfoot. Although it was a blessing, the redoubt hadn’t been set up with long-term living in mind. It had been designed as a waystop during emergencies.
Only a soft incandescence lit the room. Bright lights weren’t allowed in the sleeping rooms unless there was an alert going on. Most of the other beds held sleeping Templar of both sexes. That told Simon that it was still “night.”
Naked, because Templar didn’t worry about nudity since the armor had to be worn that way, Simon took two steps away from the bed and began a series of tai chi exercises to oxygenate his blood and loosen up cramped and bruised muscles. After a few moments, the kinks unwound and he felt physically more prepared.
He stepped into the armored legs and felt the suit’s AI automatically cinch him up. He pulled on the upper armor, and it sealed seamlessly. The helmet attached to his hip through covalent bonding, held at a subatomic level. Until the AI told the helmet it was a separate piece of equipment, it would remain immovable.
His weapons were already clean. He’d taken care of that before he’d gone to bed. His father had trained him to do that, and he kept up the practice not only for the good of the weapons, but to have a touchstone to his father as well. At the end of every day, before he went to bed, cleaning the weapons reminded him that he was grateful to be alive, and grateful to his father for training him to keep himself that way.
Ready for the day, Simon headed out of the sleeping quarters to find breakfast.
Seated at a breakfast table that had required new seating because it hadn’t been designed with armored Templar in mind, Simon stared at his helmet on the table before him. The wireless connection between the helmet and the suit allowed them to interface. The faceshield also served as a computer monitor.
Simon didn’t speak because he didn’t have to. Small movements of his free hand brought up simple reports regarding the redoubt and the supplies they had. He ate with his other hand, absently spooning oatmeal into his mouth.
Oatmeal had grown old for breakfast. With supplies diminished and the hydroponics labs nowhere near ready to produce for so many people, breakfast had been limited. At least this morning’s menu included deer steaks. After they’d defeated the demons, they’d gone back to claim their kills.
“You’re not smiling.”
Simon looked up as Nathan Singh sat down across from him.
Nathan pointed his spoon at Simon’s helmet. “The reports must be bad.” He spoke quietly so that the other Templar in the room couldn’t hear.
A table in the corner held a group of small boys and girls that talked and whispered even under the stern gaze of their teachers. Demons loose in the world or not, Simon knew that kids acted like kids.
“The reports aren’t good,” Simon agreed. His oatmeal had grown cold while
