For a Devil Has Fallen from the Sky

Chapter 3-3

And then there was a jolt and the entire bridge shuddered—just trembled as though stressed from some unimaginable weight—and they looked up in time to see an apatosaurus head (and neck); no, two—three! emerging slowly, teasingly, bobbing and weaving, from behind the curvature, at which they all looked at each other and shouted in perfect unison, “f**k!” and scrambled for their bikes.

Nor did they hesitate even as the great dinosaur herd bore down on them; but simply got a head start and barreled toward the ramps—hitting the boards like thunder; vaulting the pit like gazelles—crashing like chariots on the opposite side. Until the animals were gathered along the edge and gnashing their teeth—even the herbivores, for the Flashback was in their eyes—and the youths could only look back like Sodom, like Gomora, during which confusion Miles looked through the bodies—the raptors and the troodontids, the triceratops and the ceratosaurs—and thought he saw nano-allosauruses. Thought he saw Demon and Machine.

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“The glass statue of Michael has been shattered,” said Kent. “Destroyed by gunfire in the fighting. I—I thought you should know.”

Leif didn’t say anything, just watched the illuminated numbers count down. Five, four, three ...

“Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle,” quoted Severinsen. “He is my steadfast love and my fortress, my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield and He in whom I take refuge, who subdues people under me.”

Two, one ...

A bell dinged and the doors opened.

Leif looked at Kent. “Be on guard.”

And they moved out; out through the lobby and into the crowded Plaza; where glass lay shattered and fires burned, and three men (one of them in an orange flight suit—which was pretty hard to miss) stood dazedly on knee—bound, bloodied, humbled.

“Is this all of them? asked Leif, and was greeted by Aleister, his sergeant-at-arms, who was holding a rifle of the AR-15/M16 variety (in addition to his own sawed-off double barrel) and appeared haggard.

“It is, sir. All who survived, that is. They were armed only with knives—except the leader, who had this.” He handed Leif the AR-15. “Aircrew self-defense weapon—pretty standard issue for pilots and other airmen. But, ah, here’s where it gets interesting: Because his patches indicate he was part of the Astraeus Five Deep Space Mission.” He looked over his shoulder at the man. “The, ah, the Bluespace thing, sir. The one that went to Mars.”

Leif raised a brow and looked at Kent and Severinsen, who looked back.

“Also, his name is Hooper—Captain Glenn Hooper. It, ah, it says so right on his nametag.”

His name is Cain, hissed a voice—Leif was sure of it this time—a voice like the wind, like the rustle of reeds. He should be cut down where he kneels.

Leif paused, listening.

He is known to us; he has been marked, and will only bring woe. Just kill him and then crucify him; make of him a human sacrifice. Blood for blood is the way, the only way. The way to save your daughter.

He shook the voice away and nodded; guardedly, taciturnly. “Very good, Aleister. You’ve done well. Thank you. I’ll, ah, I’ll take it from here.”

Blood for blood. You know it’s true.

And he approached the prisoners.

“Well,” he began, after studying them for several moments, “Captain Hooper—may I call you Glenn? It looks as though you may have come a long way to be with us tonight. A long, long way. Is that correct?”

Hooper raised his lacerated head slowly and just looked at him, delirious from the blows he’d sustained, bewildered. “Why you’re just a child ...” He looked around the fountain area and the Plaza even as the blood seeped into his eyes and threatened to blind him. “All of you ... just children. What kind of camp is this?”

The crowd stirred; laughter and titters—as Leif tilted his head. “It’s the camp you attacked; to test our perimeter, I suppose.” He looked at the other men, who were in even worse shape than Hooper. “And what did you think? Of our humble perimeter? Was it satisfactory?”

Hooper just sneered, as if to say, touché. “You’re not going to get anything from me—or any of us—if that’s what you’re thinking.” He spat blood. “And that’s Doctor Hooper to you. Kid.”

“Doctor?” Leif felt as though he’d been slapped across the face. “Doctor.”

He thought of Fiona but didn’t say anything, only glanced at the crowd, the mob, which seemed anxious, anticipatory. Uneasy.

They want their pound of flesh, he thought, and frowned. Some kind of quid pro quo for Kruger and McKnight. Some kind of payback.

I want it too, rasped the voice—even as the breeze stirred, the hedgerows rustled. Quid pro quo. His life for your daughter’s.

Leif looked at all the broken glass.

“Doctor, you say ...” He leaned down and picked up one of the shards, a jagged, arrowhead-shaped piece about six inches in length. “On top of being an astronaut ... that’s impressive.” He circled the man slowly, deliberately, methodically. “What kind of doctor?”

“Doctor of Medicine,” said Hooper. “Pediatric hematology-oncology—endocrinology. Since before you were f*****g born.”

“Since before I was f*****g born ...” Leif fingered the shard gently—almost sensually. “So you’d know a thing or two about, say, pneumonia.”

He paused and looked down at the man, gripped the glass shard tighter.

“A thing or two, yes.” He gazed up at Leif. “I take it one of your flock is ill. One of these children—one of these babies.” He scanned the crowd calmly. “Well, I can help with that. I’ve got all the skills and experienced needed. I’ve even got antibiotics. For a price.”

Leif hesitated, looked at Severinsen and Kent—who shook his head.

“You would bargain with me, astronaut? When I’ve got a knife held fast to your neck?” He wrapped Hooper’s hair up in his left hand and held the shard to his throat. “When I could slit your nape like a lamb?”

Do it. Offer up his blood and soul. Do it for Fiona. For your tribe.

“I would if it would mean my life and the lives of my men, yes. So go ahead; kill me and let he who is sick die also—if that is your will. Just make it quick. I’ve got blood in my eyes and I have to piss.”

And Leif hissed and drew back the shard—but paused, but hesitated. Then he lowered the weapon and regarded him calmly, collectedly.

“I accept your bargain—Captain and Doctor Hooper. Both you and your people will be safe with us.” He turned to Kent, who could only look on in disbelief. “Take his men to the lower ward, where they will be given food and clean clothes. Hooper; come with me.”

And they all went.

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He was in that fugue state Rod Serling had called the Twilight Zone, that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness—just as northern Idaho was in the liminal space between night and day—when he first sensed it; someone or something rifling through their camp, sorting through their things, someone or something close by. Nor did he know with any certainty where they were at; only that he and Ank and Luna and Travis, the Marine, had stopped to rest somewhere near the Idaho/Montana border around 2 am, according to the moon, and must have fallen asleep shortly thereafter; which meant that whoever or whatever was in their midst had had hours, not minutes, to scope them out and pilfer them—which roused him at last even as someone vanished into the trees with their arms laden with supplies and their black hair flying.

“Hey!” he shouted—and to the others: “Someone’s in the wire! And they’ve got our bloody supplies!”

And then Will was up—up and reaching for his gun—even as Ank stood and shook himself and Travis sprung to his feet and Luna tossed and turned. Then they were pursuing the thief through the trees like banshees—like hounds on a scent—Ank thundering along behind them; until a gunshot echoed and something shot past: something which split the air itself, split reality—split sound, and everyone hit the dirt.

“Hold!” belted Will, even as he hid behind the dirt-caked root structure of a fallen pine tree. “They’ve taken a position and are going to try to pick us off—just hold tight, and use your sights.” He peered through the scope of his rifle. “Right there, I think. Behind those basalt columns. Do you see it? See the footprints?”

“I got nothing,” shouted Travis, “I’m too hedged in. It’s gotta be you.”

“Damn ...” Williams sighted the edge of the rocks, where he thought he saw a fall of black hair—it was difficult to tell in the early-morning twilight. “Now listen up; all we want is our supplies back, do you understand? There needs be no quarrel between us. We’ll even share, to the extent that we can. But first you’re going to have to—”

Crack! Ka-c***k!

He ducked as the bullets hit the stump and caused wood to explode outward. Jesus!

Whoever it was, they knew how to shoot—could shoot, in fact, as though they’d been trained by the best. He peered through the scope and waited.

And then it came: then the person leaned out to take a shot and Will fired—instantaneously, instinctually—hitting them in the neck, in the carotid artery, causing blood to spurt and spray. Then they were falling and dropping their rifle and Will and Travis were rushing up—rushing their attacker—kicking the person’s gun out of the way, rolling them over. Rolling them over to reveal a filthy but beautiful Asian woman that Will instantly recognized as his wife.

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And then it was done and Leif was alone, on the sky patio, with his Pesquet’s parrots and a potted apple tree, having watched Hooper make his diagnosis—bacterial pneumonia, probably—and sent him (along with Aleister and a security detail) to fetch the antibiotics (for they still had not heard from Race). Then he was watching as the sun crept over the horizon and the shadow of the apple tree lengthened across the tiles—lazily, languorously. As he looked out over the necropolis and finally back to the shadow —he wasn’t sure why—and realized it had become misshapen, malformed. That it had now taken the form of a man—however hulking, however distorted. And that the tree itself seemed to burn with a ghostly blaze.

Do not trust him, came the voice—like the scraping of cinders, the rustle of dry leaves. Hooper, that is—the Marked. Trust no one;

not even your closest advisors. Especially your closest advisors.

Leif looked at the shadow and back at the tree—suspiciously, skeptically. “If you would have me believe you exist—and are not just some ghost of my imagination—why don’t you show yourself? Who are you?”