from him for many miles, the vista of flowers and grass alive with color shimmered in the heat. Daisies waggled their windswept manes-bluebells grew in the grass like sapphire stars. His body buzzed with sensation. Oh God! He ran his hands over his skin.
Then Updike turned with a start, forced himself up on his hands and knees. What was that? A voice? No, there was something else-a distant thump or bang-a noise like something heavy had fallen and an echo when it hit the ground. Perhaps a crane had dropped a chunk of iron or steel. But there were no engine noises, so-and there it was again. Slightly louder, and being ready for it-he concentrated on the sound. No, not metallic at all. A thump, like a tree would make after a lumberjack cried: timber! There it was again, a thump.
A strange anxiety crept into his peaceful state-slowly, subtly. It first showed itself in the unclenching of his jaws, and the disappearance of his smile. He looked to where he had lain in the grass-a strip of green was parted and flattened. But, as he watched, as if by magic the grass thinned and dirt began to show through-black dirt turning to mud that oozed between the blades. Again the thump.
It startled him-his eyes flashed up-left-right-the distance had closed in with a wall of gray-like fog or cloud. What now? No valley. A cool wind blew about him-he struggled a moment, pulled his coat tight. Thump! His brow knitted, his lips pushed forward in a frown.
A gust blew across the flowers-their faces dull like faded paint. Updike looked skyward, but the sun had gone. Thump. Heavy gray clouds covered all. He looked down-the grass was withering, brown appeared at its edges and ate its way to the center. Thump. A heavy scent of rot reached his nose, he sniffled, saw the black earth had extruded great leaves of darkness like dung. White worms wiggled through its surface. Thump. Thump. Twice now the sound. What’s this?
The flowers had changed. The bluebells had turned to hardened ebony orbs, the daisies to white lacquered balls. Thump. Thump. Thump! Before his eyes the blossoms changed-cheekbones appeared-black eye sockets- grinning brown teeth. Thump! Thump! The miniature skulls bobbed on their thin white necks-their mouths moved.
“Eavesdropper!” they hissed like adders. “Eavesdropper!”
Thump. Pressure grew. Thump. His ears felt like molten plastic. Thump!
“Updike!” An itching as hot and urgent as a stroke ran through his brain. He looked at his hands. They were black and crawling with maggots. Yellow finger bones ripped through the rotting flesh like lily shoots.
“Jack!” His name pulled him from sleep. His pain was waiting to throttle the scream in his throat. Moaning, he clutched his forehead with both hands, kicked his blankets away.
“Jack?” The voice was Oliver’s.
“No.” Updike could say nothing more. Pain hammered a hot nail into his eye. He was lying on his back. His bed was moving, bouncing. A thin pillow did not help him. It felt like his skull was shattering. He was in a transport. Where were they going?
“It’s me Jack!” Oliver knelt over him.
“Yes.” Updike searched, found the proper answer and repeated it again. “Yes.”
“It’s a dream. A bad dream.” Oliver pulled a bottle of painkillers from Updike’s pack and fidgeted with a canteen. Water spilled on the preacher’s chest. “How many have you-oh Jack!”
“No! Don’t be ridiculous!” His voice was brittle. “I’m sorry, Oliver. You’re right. I’ve been pushing myself too hard!” He kept one hand pressed against his left eye, levered himself into a sitting position with the other. Yes, he was in his transport. He’d climbed in when General Bolton ordered the transports and mechanized units to take as many soldiers toward the plains as possible. City Defenders were falling back-likely to other poorly prepared defenses.
Bolton wanted to take the momentum forward. The rest of the infantry could make their best time and arrive in a second wave over the next few hours. General Carstair’s force would be in position by sunrise. Lorenzo had managed to rally his people and would arrive the following day with 110,000 infantry.
“Jack.” Oliver whispered, the transport lurched and he steadied himself against the bed. “You’re not getting any better.”
“I’ll be fine.” He picked up a bottle, quickly read the label. “Damn things give me nightmares.” He saw that his statement did nothing to reassure so he changed the topic. “Almost there?”
“I’ve got bad news.” Oliver’s dead face held vital sadness.
“What?” His friend’s urgency was a silent shout.
“Able is missing.” Moisture clouded the dead man’s eyes.
“Missing?” Updike echoed. Then, an image-a memory floated across his mind’s eye-a scene: Stoneworthy stood by his transport just after the battle. The dead minister looked too vulnerable, too small despite his height to carry the heroic legend others had bestowed upon him. The battle had left his suit in tatters. Stoneworthy had come to him with anxious expectations. He had said that he couldn’t keep killing. Army of God they may be, but their most vital weapon was the Word. And the City Defenders deserved to hear it.
Updike had declined Stoneworthy’s request to parley with the City under a flag of truce. The time for talk was over. The moneylenders chose to fight God’s rule, and He had sent an army to punish them. Stoneworthy had seemed to acquiesce-perhaps. Updike had been in too much pain to argue his point more finely. The minister saw this, and Updike thought he relented. Stoneworthy had smiled, nodded his head, and gave his blessing before leaving the tent. And now he was missing.
“Damn it let this end!” Updike groaned as the transport slowed. His discomfort settled on him like old age.
75 – Return to the Tower
The visors on the Authority Enforcers’ helmets bore little resemblance to the gothic iron masks that dominated the first fifty years after the Change. Those were molded into likenesses of human faces to protect the wearer’s identity and intimidate any they approached. These new versions were plain shovel blades of polished steel-their surfaces broken by a thin eye-slit of bulletproof glass. An Enforcer sat on either side of him. Their protective body armor wedged him uncomfortably into place. His hands were cuffed in his lap. The transport was lightly armored and offered windows on either side. The drivers were hidden away behind a heavy door.
Stoneworthy had stolen away from the Army of God about an hour before. His heart was sick with guilt at ignoring Updike’s assertion that it was too late for parley. But the minister could not ignore the lessons he had learned in battle. War was too easy-and the doubt in the faces of the men he had killed begged discussion. Sinners they were; animals they were not. Men of God had to allow their enemies time to repent. They could die later if need be.
Fifteen minutes had passed since his capture. The darkness had provided him cover from his own advance scouts after slipping into the shadow while thousands of tireless workers cleared the highway. The infantry and mechanized units would move forward soon after.
Stoneworthy found his walk immensely fulfilling. There were few sounds: wind pulled at the odd tree, ruffled grass; rain pattered in fits and starts. The relative silence encouraged a contemplative state in him and he remembered his time in the wilderness so long ago, when he learned of his mission to build the Tower. Even though he had been naked against the night, the time seemed somehow simpler.
He knew he was doing the right thing. Gabriel had commanded an Old Testament style Holy War, and Stoneworthy believed in the cause, but he could not entirely set aside the teachings of the New Testament. Truly just men could not forget the lessons of Christ.
City Defender scouts had called out to him before he stumbled upon their position. They were frightened and Stoneworthy hoped he had not underestimated their terror. They jammed their gun barrels into his face and brutally pushed him to the ground, the whole time bolstering their courage with the derogatory names: “Fucking zombie!” They kicked him numerous times. “Coming after our brains!” The soldiers laughed and dragged him to his feet before knocking him to the ground again. “It ain’t your world no more bone-bag!”
They delivered him to a forward command post where a surprised Colonel Menedez recognized him from police reports. “It is a pity, Reverend Stoneworthy. You have done so much for this City.” A military man, Menedez could not forget his fallen comrades. “But you picked the wrong fucking side!”
