Armageddon's Children Part 19

Yet something did. Somewhere along the way he failed to recognize that he was slipping away, that an erosion of his soul was taking place.

Logan looks down at the Scattershot he has carried since Michael gave it to him on his first raid. If it can happen to Michael, it can happen to him.

Will he recognize it if it does? Will he know enough to do something about it?

He realizes suddenly that Michael is talking to him, and his gaze s.h.i.+fts quickly. "Boy, are you with us or should I find someone to take your place?"

Michael snaps. "You look like you've got your head in the clouds. Pay attention when I am talking to you!"

"I'm listening," he says quickly.

Michael sneers. "Then there is no need for me to repeat myself, is there?

You know what to do. So be sure and do it. Don't run from it if things get tough. I hate cowards, Logan."

He turns away dismissively, and Logan says nothing. A year ago, Michael would never have spoken to him like this. I should have seen it coming, he thinks. I should have done something to stop it. His eyes close, and he vows that as soon as the opportunity presents itself, he will.

"All right, let's go," Michael says suddenly, and they are off.

They spread out through the trees toward the waiting vehicles, trucks modified with snowplow rams and thick protective s.h.i.+elds to get them safely through the gates. The trucks are modified four-tons, big and heavy, and not even gates as strong as those of Midline Slave Camp will stop them once they gain sufficient momentum. Heavy automatic weapons are mounted on the cabs and in the truck beds, each capable of firing hundreds of rounds in seconds. They are better prepared than they have ever been, and Logan feels a rush of excitement at the prospect of what it will mean to destroy this camp.

He climbs into the cab through the pa.s.senger's door and sits next to Jena.

She is tight-faced and focused, ten years older than he, more experienced and better trained. By rights, she should be the one leading and he the one driving.

But she doesn't say anything. She just looks straight ahead, waiting for the signal.

When it comes, a flare from the middle truck, she engages the clutch and the truck lurches forward through the trees and onto the flats. She whips the heavy vehicle left and right, dodging the pits and the traps, closing quickly on the fence. Weapons fire sounds from the walls ahead, and bullets ricochet off the s.h.i.+elds. He peers through the spiderwebbed winds.h.i.+eld to find dozens of once-men lining the fences, all of them with weapons, all of them firing.

All we need is a little luck, he thinks.

Then everything goes wrong at once. To his left, past Jena's tense face and the hurtling bulk of Michael's vehicle, the truck driven by Wilson misjudges and runs into one of the ditches. Its front wheels catch, its momentum flips it end-over-end, and it explodes. Shards of twisted metal and shattered gla.s.s rain down everywhere. Bodies tumble from the truck onto the ground, but only a few.

The rest remain trapped inside.

There is no time for him to think about it because they have reached the fence and are tearing through the heavy wire. The once-men scatter, but only far enough to turn and try to shoot at them through the cab windows. The men hunkered down in the truck bed shoot back, and bodies fall all across the compound yard.

"Logan!" Jena yells in warning.

An explosion rocks their truck, sending Logan sliding into her with such force that she cries out. The gates of the south building loom directly in front of them, and they struggle frantically to untangle as they careen toward a collision. Locked together, they steer the truck into the gap between the heavy doors, and as the ram strikes them the doors explode inward with a shriek of metal tearing free. The truck lurches to a stop, and the attackers tumble out, firing into the defenders that come at them.

Too many and too organized, Logan realizes suddenly. They have been waiting for us. It is a trap.

He fights with a ferocity he does not know he possesses, lost in a haze of smoke and ash, in the staccato rip of automatic weapons fire, and the harsh scream of his own desperation. He shoots at everything that moves and at the same time keeps moving himself. He does not know how long the fighting continues, but it seems endless. Twice he is wounded, but neither injury stops him. At one point a rush of once-men overwhelms him, and he loses losing his grip on the Scattershot as he fights to break free. Someone-he never discovers who-comes to his aid and tears them away. Even so, he is left dazed and battered and weaponless. He scrambles about on his hands and knees, searching for the Scattershot, for any weapon at all. He thinks that this is the end. He thinks that this is the day he will die.

Then suddenly everything quiets. The shooting is all distant now, off in the other buildings and outside. Low moans and cries for help reach out to him from close at hand, but the smoke trapped inside the building is so thick he cannot find anyone. His ears ring from the weapons fire and bomb concussions, and he feels disoriented and weak. He stumbles about, still searching for the Scattershot, needing to feel a weapon in his hands. He finds it finally, lying not five feet away. When he picks it up, the barrel is so hot that the heat radiates down through the wood grips of the stock.

He gropes his way through the smoke. Where is everyone?

Then he trips over Jena, lying face up on the floor, her eyes open and staring. He finds most of the others close by, all dead. There is no one left, he thinks. He has lost them all.

The moans and cries continue, and he makes his way blindly toward the sounds. He comes up against a cage, and inside the cage are dozens of imprisoned humans, a part of Midline's slave population. Faces press up against the steel mesh, eyes and mouths beseeching, begging. He pulls away from the hands and fingers that seek to hold him and gropes his way along the mesh in search of the cage door. The smoke is beginning to thin now, and outside the shooting has quieted to a few distant discharges punctuated by shouts and cries. The battle is ending. He must hurry.

He finds the door secured with a heavy chain. He looks around for something he can use to break the lock. He locates a metal bar that will snap the chain-and suddenly Michael appears through the smoke. "What's happened?" he demands. "Where are the others?"

He is bloodied from head to foot, a walking nightmare, a corpse come out of the grave. It is impossible for Logan to tell if the blood is Michael's or not. One arm hangs limp, the sleeve of his heavy jacket shredded. He carries his Ronin Flechette cradled in the other, smoke curling out of its short, wicked black barrel.

"Did you hear me?" he snaps at Logan, angry now.

"All dead, I think," Logan answers. "I'm not sure. I haven't had time to check."

Michael shrugs. There is a dangerous glint in his eye. "Wilson's group is gone, too. Mine is hacked to pieces. They really made a mess of us." He looks at the prisoners, shakes his head, and mutters something unintelligible. Taking it as an indication he should continue with his efforts, Logan places the iron bar back inside the chain loop and starts to apply pressure. "Leave them!" Michael orders instantly.

Logan turns, not sure he has heard correctly. "But they-"

"Leave them!" Michael roars. He flings his injured arm toward the cage with such force that droplets of blood fly everywhere. "Leave them where they are. Leave them to rot!"

Logan shakes his head in disbelief. "But they're caged."

The other stares at him blankly, and then starts to laugh. "Don't you get it? They're where they deserve to be!" The laughter dies into something that might be a sob. "All we do for them, all we give up, and for what? So that they can run like sheep to be gathered up again? So that they can go back to being stupid and helpless? Look at them! They make me sick!"

"Michael, it's not their fault-"

"Shut up!" Michael screams at him, and all of a sudden the Ronin is pointing at his midsection. "Don't defend them! They killed your friends, your comrades, all the people who made a difference in your life! They killed them just as surely as if they pulled the trigger!"

Logan doesn't know what to do-except that he knows not to make any sudden moves with the Ronin pointing at him. He could argue that it is Michael who has chosen to attack Midline. He could point out that they all came here willingly, knowing the risk. But Michael's face tells him that he isn't going to listen to those arguments. He is barely listening to anything at this point.

"All right, Michael," he says gently, lifting one hand just a fraction of an inch in a placating gesture. "Let's just go. Let's gather everybody up and get out of here. We can talk about it later."

But Michael shakes his head slowly, and the madness reflected in his eyes is bright and ungovernable. "No, it all ends here, Logan. It all ends tonight.

This is as far as we go." He shakes his head, and the Ronin dips slightly. "I've had enough, boy. I don't want to live another day in this d.a.m.ned world. I don't want to endure one more moment of it. I should have killed us both years ago for all the difference it's made."

Logan feels a chill in the pit of his stomach. "Michael, that's crazy!

Listen to what you're saying!"

"I saved your life; I can take it away." The Ronin is pointing directly at him again; Michael's arm is steady as he aims it. "Think about it. Think about how hopeless it is! We've lost everything tonight-people, weapons, machines, all of it. Look at me; I probably won't live another day, and if I do I'll never be the same. If we don't end it here, we'll be caught and thrown into the camps.

We'll end up just like that!" He gestures again toward the prisoners in the cage. "I made up my mind a long time ago that I wouldn't let that happen."

"But these people need our help] What about all the others like them?"

Michael shakes his head once more. "I don't care about them. What happens to them doesn't matter. What happens to us does. You and me, now that Fresh is gone. I have to protect us. I promised you I would, when you were still a boy.

We've had a good run, but the time has come to step out of the race."

Logan is holding the Scattershot down by his side. Michael is going to kill him, and there isn't a chance in the world he will be able to raise his weapon and fire it in time to save himself. He catches glimpses of the prisoners huddling at the back of the cages, eyes wild with fear. No help there. He watches the smoke of battle ebb and flow through the building's deep interior, but nothing else moves. No help there, either.

"Michael, don't do this," he begs. "Put down the weapon and talk to me.

Think it through. There has to be another way."

"There is no other way!" Michael screams.

Logan doesn't stop to think after that. He simply acts. He s.h.i.+fts his gaze past Michael's left shoulder, as if catching sight of something, and says in a hushed voice, "Demon."

Acting instinctively, Michael wheels and fires, the Ronin spraying bullets everywhere. Logan does not hesitate. He brings up the Scattershot and levels it.

Michael is already turning back, realizing he has been tricked, when the Scattershot discharges its load into his chest. The force of the blow throws him back half a dozen feet and leaves him sprawled on the concrete floor.

For a moment, Logan cannot move. He cannot believe what he has done. The echoes of gunfire and the moaning of the prisoners waft through the building.

"Michael," he whispers.

Maybe there is still time to help him. Maybe he can still be saved.

But by the time Logan reaches him, Michael is already dead.

IN THE AFTERMATH, it feels to him as if he has lost everything. Unable to make himself leave, he kneels next to Michael's body for much longer than is safe. Finally, hearing shots in the distance, he regains sufficient presence of mind to realize that he needs to flee. Then he remembers the prisoners still locked in the cages, still trapped and helpless. Using the iron bar, he snaps the chains, flings open the doors, and watches them flee. When the last of them disappears, he slings Michael's body over his shoulder, picks up the Scattershot and the Ronin, and walks through the drifting smoke and the bodies of the dead into the night.

He finds Grayling outside, another man hanging on to him for support, the two of them working their way toward the only truck still intact. Grayling looks at him, sees whom he is carrying, and stops. When Logan gets close enough, the big man asks him where he is going. Away, he answers. It's over. And keeps walking as the other calls after him, Good luck.

He finds the Lightning parked back in the trees where Michael has left it.

Michael always drives it on these raids, to the attacks and then back, his own personal transport. Sometimes he lets Logan ride with him-more often than not since losing Fresh. Once or twice, he has even told Logan that one day the Lightning will be his. One day, it seems, has arrived. Logan knows the codes that release the locks and disarm the security system, and he uses that knowledge now. Then he puts Michael in the back and drives away.

When he is far enough out in the middle of nowhere-so far out that he doesn't know for sure where he is-he parks, takes out a shovel, digs a grave that is both deep and wide, and lays Michael within. After he has covered up the body, he sits by the grave site and tries to think things through.

Had it really been necessary to kill Michael? He asks himself this question over and over. He agonizes over the possibility that there might have been another way, a way he should have found, a way that would have kept the one person he cared about alive. But it happened so fast, and at the time he had been so sure. If he didn't kill Michael, Michael was going to kill him. Michael had gone native; he had gone over the wall and into the wilderness, and he wasn't coming out. His mind had snapped for reasons that Logan could only guess at, and nothing he did on that night-and perhaps for many nights before then-had been rational.

Logan would have done anything to save Michael. Anything. But he failed to act quickly enough, and so Michael is gone. He cries, thinking of it. It seems unfair, wrong. Michael did so much for others, for all those men, women, and children consigned to a living h.e.l.l in the camps, to lives of slavery and worse.

Only Michael tried to do anything to help them, to give them a chance at life.

Someone should have done something for him in return.

No, not someone, he corrects quickly. Himself. He should have done something for Michael. But he didn't. Didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to do it. And now it is too late.

When dawn breaks in a thin leaden line across a sky so overcast it feels as if it is pressing down against the earth like the hand of judgment, he is forced to confront his future. With Michael dead and his followers dead or scattered, Logan has nowhere to go. He doesn't even know what to do, for that matter. Carry on Michael's work? Attacking the slave camps seems endless and ultimately not enough to make a difference. One man is not enough to attack the slave camps in any case. One man is not enough to do anything in this world.

So he wanders for weeks, driving aimlessly, until finally the Lady appears to tell him what it is that he is needed to do.

THE MEMORY CAME and went like the pa.s.sing of a cloud's shadow across the earth, and Logan Tom found himself staring once more at the wall of rock that blocked the pa.s.s. A gust of wind blew sharp and chill against his face, and the deep silence of the mountains pressed close in the wake of the memory's pa.s.sing.

He stood where he was for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then turned away.

Memories could take you outside yourself, but they couldn't keep you there for long. He walked back to the Lightning, climbed inside, and started the engine.

In minutes, he was winding his way back down the mountainside. His mouth tightened against his thoughts. One thing he had learned that Michael had not.

No matter how bad things looked, there was always another way.

He descended out of the pa.s.s, traveling east back down through the foothills toward the flats. He drove as swiftly as the condition of the highway would allow, watching the daylight begin to fail with nighttime's approach. He would have to decide soon whether to turn north or south to find a way through the mountains. He knew there were several major pa.s.ses that led over, but not which ones were still accessible.

When he reached what appeared to be a major crossroads, he stopped and threw the finger bones once more. The bones writhed and wriggled on the square of black cloth and formed themselves into fingers that by compa.s.s reckoning pointed northwest. He put the bones away and turned the Lightning north. This road was smaller, its surface badly eroded by time and weather. He had to travel more slowly as a consequence, and the light soon faded to a thick, hazy gray, leaving behind a world of shadows and furtive movements.

He had almost decided that he had gone as far as it was possible to go without unnecessary risk when the road ahead turned into a mora.s.s of dark obstacles that forced him to slow to a crawl. Old vehicles, pieces of fencing and farm equipment littered a road surface already pocked and cracked. There was room to get around, but only barely.

Then there was no room at all, as dozens of dark, furtive figures materialized out of the dark to surround him.

Chapter NINETEEN.

THE FIGURES SEEMED to rise out of the earth like wraiths, their insubstantial forms composed of shadows and secrets, their movements quick and furtive. They did not approach in upright fas.h.i.+on, but in a crouched, crab-like scuttle. It was dark enough by now that he couldn't make out their features, hazy enough that it was like peering through smoke. He was not using the AV's headlights, and there was little natural light to provide any other form of illumination. As the figures drew nearer he could tell that they were human in shape, but lean and corded and crooked-limbed. They wore ragged clothing and clutched staffs and clubs rather than automatic weapons. They seemed curious rather than threatening, so he sat quietly and waited for them to reach the AV.

As the first of them did so, tentatively running slender hands over the smooth metal of the hood, the light from the sunset revealed a face and arms covered with patches of dark hair, suggestive of a creature more simian than human.

Spiders, Logan realized.

He hadn't seen any since Chicago, but he knew of them. One or several kinds of mutants, Spiders were humans infected by poisons or chemicals or radiation-depending on whom you believed-and physically altered as a consequence. Some claimed their minds had been altered, as well, but he had never seen any proof of this. Then again, Spiders were shy and reclusive, so it was difficult to know for sure. In Logan's twenty-eight years, he had encountered them no more than a handful of times. He had never spoken to one, or even seen one this close up.

The face peered in at him, features still clearly human within patches of black facial hair that coated everything from forehead to chin. Blue eyes regarded him with a mix of curiosity and hidden intent. Although the face had a feral, animalistic look to it, the eyes revealed intelligence.

He took a chance and lowered the window. He didn't say anything; he just nodded his greeting.

A dozen faces pressed close, and hands reached out to touch his. He did not try to draw away. He let their gnarled, hairy fingers brush against his skin and clothing. He let them peer past him inside the AV. He let them look at everything, giving them time and s.p.a.ce.

At last, the one standing closest asked, "Who are you? Why are you here?"

The words were intelligible, the speaker's voice clear. "My name is Logan," he replied. "I am looking for a way over the mountains."

There was a murmuring among the Spiders that he couldn't follow. The speaker pointed back in the direction from which he had come. "The way over the mountains is behind you."

"I couldn't go that way. The pa.s.s I intended to take is blocked by a slide and I cannot get around it. I was hoping to find another. Do you know of one? Is there another north of here?"

The murmuring resumed, then faded. The speaker leaned in and whispered.

"No one can go into the mountains north. That is sacred ground."