Beyond Perdition, page 21
‘What is that?’ Logan asked, struggling to keep up with Mr Andes’s exaggerated strides.
‘A defectors centre’ Mr Andes replied, ‘A kind of desert prison built to house those who refuse to pledge allegiance to the fourth Reich.’
‘What the hell’s the fourth Reich? I’ve only heard of the third’ Daniel said from a few strides back.
‘The New World Order under the second Nero. Those who do not conform to the universal teachings of the Triple Sixers are detained in one of these prisons. I’m hoping we don’t come across any of the buses transporting prisoners there, it’s not a place we want to end up.’
It was strange to see an apprehensive look on Mr Andes face but there it was, swathing into his facial features as vividly as a frown or a genuine smile.
‘People are taken and tortured until they renounce any belief in God. Their allegiance is marked by the three sixes branded into their wrists. If we can meet up with the man I know, he will be able to supply us with forged identity papers which we can wave to anyone with the Triple Sixer’s insignia. Those who hold the 666 mark cannot enter Heaven for Lucifer has already claimed their souls.’
Logan shuddered as the stone outline of the detention centre took on new horrifying dimensions. This was not going to be like the world they had left. An incalculable amount of time had passed whilst they had been in the bowels of Hell and now Hell had followed them to the land of the Living like an insatiable stalker dogging their every step.
CHAPTER 17
HELL ON EARTH
1
The stifling humidity coupled with the lack of shade quickly sapped the traveller’s energy. Even Mr Andes, who had started out with confident strides, was beginning to waver, his long, purposeful steps now a weary pace. Even though many hours had passed, there was no change in the intense burgundy of the heavens nor in the menacing outlines of the detention centre. What had initially begun as a few squared buildings surrounding a stone silo were now a vast consortium of edifices, a ceaseless spread of limestone architecture extending towards the distant horizon.
Mr Andes suddenly stopped in his tracks and gestured back at the group in tow.
‘Quick Daniel, take the burial shroud, cover all of us, something approaches.’ The statement was almost simultaneously confirmed by a loud guttural engine sound and in an instant the appearance of a modified flatbed truck. On the front wind-deflector was the insignia of the Triple Sixers-a pentagram centred within an equilateral triangle with each corner marked by the number six. Above this, the exhaust stacks had been customised into decorative ram horns that matched the fanged graphic on the fender. Metal spikes had been soldered onto the front radiator grille and bumper. The windows to the driver’s cab were tainted black with further graphics stencilled onto the glass-like the decals of some overzealous boy racer. Strapped down on the flatbed were a number of bare-chested individuals. Their skin was home to a crisscrossing of deep welts. Many of them were shackled to the base of the flatbed by their wrists and ankles. Their skin was further affected by a mass of seething boils. Pulsing nodules which appeared to inflate and deflate rhythmically. Three men clad in NBC suits and holding AK-47’s were stood at the rear, pointing their weapons at the huddled masses.
Daniel had unfurled the burial shroud to form a makeshift tent. Mr Andes peered through a gap in the cloth and narrated the events.
‘They’ve let the defectors take the full brunt of the irradiated air, their skin is literally peeling off. It looks as if they have been whipped too, most likely whilst held up in the city’s internment camps. I don’t fancy their survival chances, but we could really do with a vehicle like that.’
Mason positioned himself in such a way that he could get a better view. In his left hand, he held Solomon’s quill feeling its warmth radiate through his skin. As he looked past the imposing tainted wind-shields and weaponised bumper, he caught a glimpse at the face of one of the detainees. The quill grew hot. ‘That man I see, it’s like I can read his thoughts. He’s imagining what fate awaits them at the prison complex. He can see himself and many of the other detainees being drafted to build the outward structure. It’s a continuing project and these are workers. Hold on, I see something else.’ He gazed upon a man who calls himself the Third Adam and leader of the Fourth Reich. A man surrounded by an army of staunch and loyal supporters. A man who bears the flag of a white horse and the triangular insignia of the Triples Sixers. He sits on a throne made of gold and there’s a table laid out in front of him. I can’t see anything more...’
The truck thundered passed. Mr Andes pulled the shroud to the ground and the group waited under the cloth with bated breath. Only when they were sure the danger had passed did they rise to their feet, weapons still at the ready.
‘What just happened? How come I could read that man’s mind?’ Mason asked, looking down at the red patch that had formed on the skin beneath the quill.
‘The quill has given you godly insight. Apparently, by looking at an individual, you will be able to read their thoughts, know their deeds and their intentions. This is going to prove very useful,’ Mr Andes replied, taking the lead once again.
2
The road itself was partially concealed by a dusting of sand and ash, and a broken-down Toyota Pickup lay across the highway, thick black tyre tracks in its wake. Its gas cap was wrenched open where someone had siphoned the remaining fuel. Its flatbed was covered in a green tarpaulin latched down by thick bungee cords.
‘Hold back’ Mr Andes warned, his sword still raised defensively, ‘This could be a trap’.
They approached the truck, weapons drawn. Mason clutched the quill hoping it would warn him if anything was amiss. Ten feet away and now a putrescent smell was emanating from beneath the covering. Mr Andes stalked forward, his forearm over his mouth. He signalled for the rest to follow. The odour was intense now, an unmistakable stench of rot and decay.
‘I think we should leave it’ Mason proffered, ‘anything smelling that bad is hardly worth our time’
‘Hold on’ Mr Andes said, as he disconnected one of the cords and lifted the tarpaulin across causing a flurry of green flies to spiral into the air. Lying on its side, was a large white-collar wolf with a gaping maggot-infested wound. Its fur was matted with dried blood. Its tongue lolled lifelessly. The white maggots moved mercilessly between the tufted hair and exposed innards, gorging on the giblets-like entrails sucking the coagulated fluids.
Some of the flies, those brazen enough to continue feeding on the visceral buffet, returned to pick at the carcass.
Mason took one look and hurled onto the ash-strewn highway. Mr Andes removed his right glove and held his hand aloft. Then, quite unexpectedly, he plunged his un-gloved hand into the wolf and began to speak in an unrecognisable tongue. As he spoke, the surface-dwelling maggots began to disperse. The green flies took off once again and the wound began closing in around his wrist. He continued to chant, removing his hand and watching as the congealed blood faded and fresh hair sprouted up in its place. After a few seconds, he stopped and put on his glove replaced his glove.
‘We shall eat well tonight, God has surely provided.’
The group exchanged glances, unable to comprehend what they had just seen, who was this man they were following who could heal the dead with just a touch?
Mr Andes dragged the wolf off the truck and lay it down on the side of the road. Then taking a handful of ash, he threw the flakes into the air. As they fell, they ignited, landing on the ground and creating a perfectly contained bonfire.
‘Skin the pelt, then we roast it, it could be a while until we eat again, let’s make the most of it’
As Mason who had recovered quickly on seeing the miraculous events worked to remove the fur using the blade of his sword, Logan began to speak.
‘That was pretty awesome, I mean, what is that? Some kind of black magic?’
Mr Andes removed his tricorn hat and for the first time, his raven black hair cascaded over his face.
‘I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed than you can say to that mountain move and it will be so’
Daniel nodded, ‘Matthew 17:20’
‘Indeed, and yet no one ever takes full advantage of this fact. There is no room for doubt in this life. God will work through those who let him. I have been his servant for centuries here on Earth. I am privy to his ways. Like Elijah, I walk with the Lord daily, that is why nothing is impossible.’
‘So how come you’re still on Earth, I mean the righteous were meant to be raptured, no?’
Mr Andes replaced his hat and for a second said nothing, then, ‘The Lord is not slow but it is his wish that everyone may come to repentance, my time shall come, but my destiny is still here on Earth, fulfilling the final wishes of my Father.’
Having eaten their fill and drunk from their canteens, the group lay down and slept, concealing themselves beneath the burial shroud. When they awoke, the air was marginally cooler and a gentle wind was swirling the ash flurries over the dunes. They pressed on in relative silence until they reached a gas station forecourt. A dilapidated sign indicated the prices of gas and diesel. Two empty jerry cans lay lopsided by the base of a damaged pump. To the rear of the forecourt, a smashed display window gave sight to a mini-mart, the interior mottled in shadow.
Mr Andes stalked forward, sword drawn; the others followed. The window’s glass lay in a glittering puddle alongside several crumpled magazines and crushed polystyrene cups. The till had been jacked open and the proceeds removed. A half-finished soda can attracted more of those pesky green flies, like wildebeest to a watering hole. A trail of sandy boot-prints crossed over the tiling and disappeared behind the toppled shelving. Those shelves that remained upright still contained some unlabelled cans, a pack of men’s razors and a bottle of Grey Goose vodka from France. Logan was quick to remove that before the others noticed. A rat scurried over a mess of rotten cabbage leaves, vanishing under a broken ice-cream freezer.
‘I think someone’s beat us here’ Mason said, finding a can of spam stuffed into an opened cereal box, ‘what you reckon?’
‘Place has been plundered’ Mr Andes replied, ‘there was a time of great panic after the bombs when those still alive needed to stock up on supplies and move underground. It’s likely most of the stuff in this shop is furnishing one of the bunkers, come we won’t find anything here.’
There was an inexplicable sadness to the place which the entire group felt. A kind of teasing reminder of life past, a relic of the old world. Mason thought of his daughter and how she’d often want to push the shopping cart around and pretend she was driving a bus. He could see her zooming down the aisles. Suddenly this deserted shop was the last place any of them wanted to be...
Back on the road, Logan sneaked a few swigs of the Grey Goose before concealing the bottle. Although it was warm, it took him back to the simpler times. They were not always good times but at least they made sense, at least there was somewhat clear reasoning behind his actions. Now the world seemed like a distant alien planet, inhospitable, uninhabitable, a shell of its former self.
Mr Andes stopped suddenly. ‘We’re close’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The bunker, it’s close, keep your eyes and ears peeled, it’s easy to miss its entrance.’
Indeed, Mr Andes was right. The bunker entrance had been cleverly concealed by a sand coloured manhole cover. Logan’s foot had felt something a little different to the soft carpet of ash and alerted the group to its existence.
3
The bunker walls were made with limestone lined with lead panelling. Low wattage light shone from a sequence of caged bulbs housed between a network of iron piping. For at least a minute, they were met by no one, then as the stone passage sloped down, they arrived at what at first glance appeared to be a set of heavy blast doors. There was a numeric code access panel to the side. Unperturbed Mr Andes typed in a code and stood back, letting the whirring interior mechanisms click and clank until the door shuddered open.
What met them, was a vast din-filled hall. Stalls, tables and stands were placed like an open-air market. People rushed between vendors and merchants, sellers and buyers. There were tables of cloth and fine linen, carpets and rugs, others with frozen fruit and veg. Cuts of meat, pork loin and steak, strings of sausage and lamb joints hung as if in a butcher’s shop window. Stalls of jewellery, chains and bangles, watches and necklaces ran seamlessly into tables of leather-bound books, some still containing the dust jackets, others looking worse for wear. Further along still, behind reams of jeans and skirts, vests and gilets, was a stall containing tech items: Laptops, tablets and keyboards all assembled in technological mounds, loose cables dangling from the rent casings.
‘What is this place?’ Logan asked.
‘The black market, well, one of them anyway. It’s where we need to be if we’re going to get forged documents.’
Mr Andes appeared to be looking for someone in particular. His eyes moved between the crowds until he sighted his target. He strode over to a nondescript table just right of the tech stall. A boy, no older than sixteen sat in a fold-out deckchair, his feet resting casually on the table. A roughly scribbled sign on a laminated piece of card read: ‘Birth certificates, passports, clearance papers, licenses, insurance documents, etc. etc.’
The boy noticed their interest and removed his feet from the table. Smoothing down his auburn cowlick he said ‘Can I interest you gentleman in anything, price is, of course, negotiable but I’m a sucker for a good can of coke, just saying.’ He smiled cheekily.
‘We need papers to cross the city border’, Mr Andes said, ‘ I can offer canteens of fresh water, one per document.’
‘Why on Earth would I want water, my brother ships the stuff, no you’ll have to do better than that.’
‘Pass me one of the canteens’ Mr Andes said, pointing at Daniel.
‘As Jesus turned water to wine, I shall turn it to coke.’
‘Well I don’t know who this Jesus fellow is, but that would be quite the trick. You fill just one canteen with coke, I’ll do all your papers.’
Mr Andes held the flask in the air and spoke in that same unintelligible tongue he had the night before.
As everyone watched, he handed the canteen over to the boy and instructed him to drink.
The boy looking a little unconvinced took a sip, swirling it around his mouth.
‘My God it’s coke, I can’t bloody believe it, how da hell you do that?’
‘The papers, I need them done before we leave, I’ll be back to check on them in a few hours.’
The boy nodded, still smiling. He took another swig of the coke. ‘ Before you go, I gotta take your pictures, it’s all photo ID these days.’
4
The group threaded their way between the stalls, dodging between the frantic flow of people. Most were trading in food items, some swapping for items of apparent equal value. The sound of haggling rose above the chatter. Deals for bedding were being made by a family with three small kids. The merchant was offering to throw in the down pillows if they could meet his price. The mother was desperately placing an assortment of pearls and gold rings on the table but to no avail. Another man was arguing over the price of a turkey, the vendor not wanting to take the now redundant banknotes. As the group passed the tech table once again, a middle-aged gentleman dressed oddly in a pin-striped blazer began to demonstrate how each of the PC’s still contained enough battery life until a suitable charging port could be located. He was a shrewd salesman, talking about the advantages of the Mac computer and the resilience of the notebooks. He picked up a tablet, turned it on and demonstrated the 16-megapixel camera. He had taken shots from inside the city. Toppled architecture gleamed in ultra-high definition whilst a short video played depicting several defectors being burned in the city square. One woman was being doused in petrol whilst several soldiers threw their cigarettes at her in the hope that one would ignite.
‘You got any coco powder, I miss the coco powder, you get me that, you can have anything here.’
To the rear of the hall, behind a BBQ pit, where three men were grilling corn on the cob and beef patties, stood another nondescript stall. There was nothing on this one but a set of cards. A guy in greasy overalls was playing a game of solitaire. He didn’t look up when they approached.
‘You Jase?’ Mr Andes asked, his voice suddenly taking on a colloquial quality.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘I am’
‘Do I owe you money?’
‘No’
‘Then I’m Jase, what can I do you for?’
‘Me and my friends here are looking for a means to get into the city. It’s too far and way too dangerous on foot, I was hoping you might be able to offer some kind of...’
‘There’s four of ya, you’ll be wanting the Dodge caravan; I got my boy Rudy working on it at the moment but once he’s done, it’s yours, that is for the right price.’
Mason watched as the transaction unfolded, wondering what Mr Andes would offer.
‘Have you ever owned a Damascus blade?’
‘A what?’
‘A sword fashioned from the finest steel. It will cut through any material, even diamond.’ Mr Andes produced the sword and laid it across the cards on the table.
‘That’s quite a blade… and strong, you say?’
‘You bet’
The man seemed to be contemplating the exchange until finally, he said.
‘You got yourself a deal, follow me, I’ll show ya where we’re keeping the beauty.’
Jason stood by the silver Dodge, his hand running over the chrome paint.
‘Customised the engine, you’re looking at a 4.2 litre, nought to sixty in less than three seconds. Had to revamp the tread on the tyres to deal with the ash on the highway and look here.’ He moved around the vehicle and pointed out a large metallic plough attached to the front bumper.
