“Metal men?”
There were more rumblings, closer now. They seemed rhythmic. The ground underneath him was shaking in tandem with the rumblings. Axel was too distracted by his own pain and the petulant boy to care.
“The men with no faces.”
Guardians. But Nelly had said the guardians were impervious to low-grade EMPs. Which meant… they could still be around.
“Where did they go, the metal men?” Axel asked.
“The big giants crunched them.” Ryan Junior gnashed his teeth and made a few stabbing motions with his fist. “It was cool,” he said.
“Giants?” Axel asked. “Please tell me what really happened, Ryan Junior.”
“That is what happened.” The boy had a hurt look on his face.
“Did the metal men stop working, maybe after a big bomb went off?” Axel asked.
“No, no, I told you, the giants came. They had a thing that made the hole.”
“It’s important that you tell the truth, Ryan Junior.”
Then the boy’s face contorted. He started to cry. “I’m not lying! You’re mean!”
Axel sighed. He felt so tired. His head pounded. Another wave of nausea hit him. He leaned over, dry heaving. In some small measure of grace, the sight of Axel heaving stopped the boy from whining, if only for a moment.
He looked at the boy, who seemed to shift around. It was as if Axel’s eyes couldn’t quite capture his image. The boy was looking up at something, something behind Axel. Axel couldn’t even lift his head to check. The world was spinning. All he wanted to do was close his eyes. He had to lie down, so he did. He rested his head on the hard pavement in front of him. It was the softest pillow he’d ever felt.
Before he lost consciousness, something enveloped him in a rigid blanket. He felt a rush of air around him, as if his abused body had taken him on a final harrowing Ferris-wheel ride, lifting him to his inexorable fate. Axel wasn’t a religious man, but he had to admit, he felt as if he was having an out-of-body experience—as if some external force was lifting his soul to the heavens. More likely, his body was in shock.
He tried to open his eyes one last time before he lost consciousness. Fighting against his flagging awareness, he forced his eyelids open into a squint. He could have sworn he was flying. Verdant trees bobbed underneath him and the ground trembled to a powerful metronome, all the while winged angels circled him, singing a melodic refrain.
It must have been a hallucination.
SPLINTERING OFF INTO THE WEST
Quenton Bartz had every confidence in their victory, but he also had no desire to be hit with a stray bullet. He decided it would be better to be at the manor for the duration of the conflict.
It was a quaint manor, just north of the downtown mall. It was only nine bedrooms and an acre of land, but it was well taken care of. There was an orchard there, and an immaculately manicured lawn. He would often visit on weekends, or for social events that required a folksier atmosphere than his modern high-rise condo next to the Barnyard.
At the moment he was in his study, staring into the screen of his portable computer at the front window. The freshly painted white porch and his lawn formed a backdrop to his view of the Barnyard conflict.
The spider bots had only replaced two of the Barnyard cameras damaged by the EMP, so his views were limited, but it showed him enough. He witnessed Gail defy him and fire the artillery gun into the high-rise buildings, demolishing his other home in the process. He watched the virtual elimination of the Essentialist forces, and he watched the unfathomable appearance of the beholder.
Quickly he ascertained that victory was no longer assured. Not only that, but he might no longer be safe, even here, away from the main conflict. The Essentialists could regroup and storm the town, or this loathsome beholder might venture north and crush his house. Anything was possible.
He spun his chair around to look at the wall behind him.
He was staring at a map but not to analyze the conflict. The scale was much larger. The map spanned far to the east, all the way to the Atlantic, as well as north, south, and west, well into Essentialist territory. Where could he go? South would be best, he reckoned. Maybe Raleigh, or maybe even as far as Charleston or Jacksonville. Far away from here, so he could rebuild without the shadow of this travesty looming over him.
Next time he would be sure to avoid these idealist preachers and New Founders. He could also do without these meddlesome machines. Today proved to him that, at the very least, Gail couldn’t be trusted—that perhaps she was even incompetent. He would find a way to do it without her. He had always found a way to get it done. This time would be no different.
He overlaid the rail lines on the map in his mind’s eye, splintering off into the west from Spoke lands. Someday, he would lay those tracks. Someday he would finally build what he was destined to build.
“Gail,” he said to his computer, “send me four of the best mules we have, with two bike platforms as well as four enforcers. I don’t care if they are busy with the Barnyard conflict. I need them here.”
“Yes, sir,” the computer said back to him in Gail’s voice. Then Bartz went to pack his things.
After packing, he waited on the porch, watching the flecks of snow melt into the ground. The streets were empty. His neighbors were either hiding indoors or had fled the area some time ago. He could hear loud noises and rumblings to the south. Gunshots were much less frequent now.
He heard a low buzzing sound carried by the northerly breeze.
It was an aerial drone, heading up the street. He waved at it. At some point he would have to rid himself of Gail’s support, but for now she could be useful. When the drone came closer he said, “Please stay here. You can help us scout the area on our way out of town.”
The drone didn’t answer. Instead a small valve opened up on its front, and it ejected a fine mist.
Bartz stepped back, wiping at his face. At first he thought it was broken—that it was leaking fluids from some stray bullet hole.
But no, he’d been betrayed.
His mouth became wet with excess saliva. His throat began to constrict, and his limbs were like jelly. His vision blurred, and his chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself.
Then, no longer able to control his limbs or other bodily functions, he went into convulsions, and the world faded to darkness.
CLOSING THE DOOR
After Monty flattened Rourke Rama, the two guardians bolted in opposite directions into the forest.
The enforcers turned their weapons toward the beholder and fired at it, having about as much effect as one would have firing into the side of a mountain. Monty gathered them up with one stone hand and then sprinkled them among the tops of some tall trees down the road. Their weapons clattered to the ground. One of the men who couldn’t quite hold on to a tree limb hit the ground with a gruesome thud.
Monty turned and scooped up one of the fleeing guardians. The beholder’s hands met and it tore the guardian in two pieces, bisecting it at the waist. It threw the pieces haphazardly hundreds of yards over its back. Monty took several steps and punched avidly down on the ground, presumably to eliminate the other escaping guardian. It then took a step to ascend the hill and began pummeling the ground closer to Monticello. Chorus larks swirled to follow it in melodious arcs.
The beholder had moved beyond Owen’s line of sight. He heard gunfire for a moment, then only pounding and tearing as the beholder went about its business on the hill.
Owen’s attention returned to the scene in front of him. Benjamin stood beside him, a rifle in his hand pointed toward Preston. The weapon must have dropped when the beholder collected the nearby enforcers.